23248	----	THE BLACK FEATHER From "Mackinac And Lake Stories", 1899 By Mary Hartwell Catherwood Over a hundred voyageurs were sorting furs in the American Fur Company's yard, under the supervision of the clerks. And though it was hard labor, lasting from five in the morning until sunset, they thought lightly of it as fatigue duty after their eleven months of toil and privation in the wilderness. Fort Mackinac was glittering white on the heights above them, and half-way up a paved ascent leading to the sally-port sauntered 'Tite Laboise. All the voyageurs saw her; and strict as was the discipline of the yard, they directly expected trouble. The packing, however, went on with vigor. Every beaver, marten, mink, musk-rat, raccoon, lynx, wild-cat, fox, wolverine, otter, badger, or other skin had to be beaten, graded, counted, tallied in the company's book, put into press, and marked for shipment to John Jacob Astor in New York. As there were twelve grades of sable, and eight even of deer, the grading, which fell to the clerks, was no light task. Heads of brigades that had brought these furs from the wilderness stood by to challenge any mistake in the count. It was the height of the fur season, and Mackinac Island was the front of the world to the two or three thousand men gathered in for its brief summer. Axe strokes reverberated from Bois Blanc, on the opposite side of the strait, and passed echoes from island to island to the shutting down of the horizon. Choppers detailed to cut wood were getting boatloads ready for the leachers, who had hulled corn to prepare for winter rations. One pint of lyed corn with from two to four ounces of tallow was the daily allowance of a voyageur, and the endurance which this food gave him passes belief. Étienne St. Martin grumbled at it when he came fresh from Canada and pork eating. "Mange'-du-lard," his companions called him, especially Charle' Charette, who was the giant and the wearer of the black feather in his brigade of a dozen boats. Huge and innocent primitive man was Charle' Charette. He could sleep under snow-drifts like a baby, carry double packs of furs, pull oars all day without tiring, and dance all night after hardships which caused some men to desire to lie down and die. The summer before, at nineteen years of age, this light-haired, light-hearted voyageur had been married to 'Tite Laboise. Their wedding festivities lasted the whole month of the Mackinac season. His was the Wabash and Illinois River outfit, almost the last to leave the island; for the Lake Superior, Upper and Lower Mississippi, Lake of the Woods, and other outfits were obliged to seek Indian hunting-grounds at the earliest breath of autumn. When the Illinois brigade returned, his wife, who had stood weeping in the cheering crowd while his companions made islands ring with the boat-song at departure, refused to see him. He went to the house of her aunt Laboise, where she lived. Mademoiselle Laboise, her half-breed cousin, met him. This educated young lady, daughter of a French father and Chippewa mother, was dignified as a nun in her dress of blue broadcloth embroidered with porcupine quills. She was always called Mademoiselle Laboise, while the French girl was called merely 'Tite. Because 'Tite was married, no one considered her name changed to Madame Charette. To her husband himself she was 'Tite Laboise, the most aggravating, delicious, unaccountable creature in the Northwest. "She says she will not see you, Charle'," said Mademoiselle Laboise, color like sunset vermilion showing in the delicate aboriginal face. "What have I done?" gasped the voyageur. Mademoiselle lifted French shoulders with her father's gesture. She did not know. "Did I expect to be treated this way?" shouted the injured husband. "Who can ever tell what 'Tite will do next?" That was the truth. No one could tell. Yet her flightiest moods were her most alluring moods. If she had not been so pretty and so adroit at dodging whippings when a child, 'Tite Laboise might not have set Mackinac by the ears as often as she did. But her husband could not comfort himself with this thought as he turned to the shop of madame her aunt, who was also a trader. It had surprised the Indian widow, who betrothed her own daughter to the commandant of the fort, that her husband's niece would have nobody but that big voyageur Charle' Charette. Though in those days of the young century a man might become anything; for the West was before him, an empire, and woodcraft was better than learning. Madame Laboise accepted her niece's husband with kindness. Her house was among the most hospitable in Mackinac, and she was chagrined at the reception the young man had met. He sat down on her counter, whirling his cap and caressing the black feather in it. The gentle Chippewa woman could see that his childish pride in this trophy was almost as great as his trouble. What had 'Tite lacked? he wanted to know. Had he not good credit at the stores? Tonnerre!--if madame would pardon him--was not his entire year's wage at the girl's service? Had he spent money on himself, except for tobacco and necessary buckskins? Madame knew a voyageur was allowed to carry scarce twenty pounds of baggage in the boats. Did 'Tite want a better man? Let madame look at the black feather in his cap. The crow did not fly that could furnish a quill he could not take from any man in his brigade. Charle' threw out the arch of his beautiful torso. And he loved her. Madame knew what tears he had shed, what serenades he had played on his fiddle under 'Tite's window, and how he had outdanced her other partners. He dropped his head on his breast and picked at the crow's feather. The widow Laboise pitied him. But who could account for 'Tite's whims? "When she heard the boats were in sight she was frantic with joy. I myself," asserted madame, "saw her clapping her hands when we could catch the song of the returning voyageurs. It was then 'Oh, my Charle'! my Charle'!' But scarce have the men leaped on the dock when off she goes and locks the door of her bedroom. It is 'Tite. I can say no more." "What offended her?" "I know of nothing. You have been as good a husband as a voyageur could be. And Mackinac is so dull in winter she can amuse herself but little. It was hard for her to wait your return. Now she will not look at you. It is very silly." What would Madame Laboise advise him to do? Madame would advise him to wait as if nothing had occurred. The curé would admonish 'Tite if she continued her sulking. In the mean time he must content himself with tenting or lodging among his fellow-voyageurs. Of the two or three thousand voyageurs and clerks, one hundred lived in the agency house, five hundred were accommodated in barracks, but the majority found shelter in tents and in the houses of the villagers. Every night of the fur-trading month there was a ball in Mackinac, given either by the householders or their guests; and it often happened that a man spent in one month all he had earned by his year of tremendous and far-reaching toil. But he had society, and what was to him the cream of existence, while it lasted. He fitted himself out with new shirts and buckskins, sashes, caps, neips, and moccasins, and when he was not on duty showed himself like a hero, knife in sheath, a weather-browned and sinewy figure. To dance, sing, drink, and play the violin, and have the scant dozen white women, the half-breeds, and squaws of Mackinac admire him, was a voyageur's heaven--its brief duration being its charm. For he was a born woodsman and loved his life. Charle' Charette did not care where he lodged. Neither had he any heart to dance, until he looked through the door of the house where festivities began that season and saw 'Tite Laboise footing it with Étienne St. Martin. Parbleu! With Étienne St. Martin, the squab little lard-eater whose brother, Alexis St. Martin, had been put into doctors' books on account of having his stomach partly shot away, and a valve forming over the rent so that his digestion could be watched. It was disgusting. 'Tite would not speak to her own husband, but she would come out before all Mackinac and dance with any other voyageurs who crowded about her. Charle' sprang into the house himself, and without looking at his wife, hilariously led other women to the best places, and danced with every sinuous and graceful curve of his body. 'Tite did not look at him. From the corner of his eye he noted how perfect she was, the fiend! and how well she had dressed herself on his money. All the brigades knew his trouble by that time, and an easy breath was drawn by his entertainers when he left the house with knife still sheathed. In the wilderness the will of a brigade commander was law; but when the voyageur was out of the Fur Company's yard in Mackinac his own will was law. One of the cautious clerks suggested that Charle' and Étienne be separated in their work, since it was likely the husband might quarrel with 'Tite Laboise's dancing partner. "Turn 'em in together, man," chuckled the Scotch agent, Robert Stuart, who had charge of the outside work. "Let 'em fight. Man Gurdon, I havena had any sport with these wild lads since the boats came in." But the combatants he hoped to see worked steadily until afternoon without coming to the grip. They had no brute Anglo-Saxon antagonism, and being occupied with different bales, did not face each other. The triple row of Indian lodges basked on the incurved beach, where a thousand Indians had gathered to celebrate that vivid month. Night and day the thump of their drums and the monotonous chant of their dances could be heard above the rush and whisper of blue water breaking on pebbles. Lake Michigan was a deep sapphire color, and from where she stood below the sally-port 'Tite Laboise could see the mainland's rim of beach and slopes of forest near and distinct in transparent light. And she could hear the farthest shaking of echoes from island to island like a throb of some sublime wind instrument. The whitewashed blockhouse at the west angle of the fort shone a marble turret. There was a low meadow between the Fur Company's yard and pine heights. Though no salt tang came in the wind, it blew sweet, refreshing the men at their dog-day labor. And all the spell of that island, which since it rose from the water it has held, lay around them. Étienne St. Martin picked up a beaver-skin, and in the sight of 'Tite Laboise her husband laid hold of it. "Release that, Mange'-du-lard," he said. "Eh bien!" responded Étienne, knowing that he was challenged and the eyes of the whole yard were on him. "This fine crow he claims all Mackinac because he carries a black feather in his cap. There are black feathers in other brigades." "But you never wore one in any brigade." They dropped the skin and faced each other, feeling the fastenings of their belts. Old Robert Stuart slipped up a window in the office and grinned slyly out at the men surging towards that side of the yard. He would not usually permit a breach of discipline. But the winter had been so long! "Myself I have no need of black feathers." Étienne gave an insolent cast of the eye to the height where 'Tite Laboise stood. Charle', magnificent of inches, scorned his less-developed antagonist. "Eh, man Gurdon," softly called old Robert Stuart from his window, "set them to it, will ye? The lads will be jawing till the morn's morn." This equivocal order had little effect on the ordained course of a voyageur's quarrel. "These St. Martins without stomachs, how is a man to hit them?--pouf!" said Charle', and Etienne felt on his tender spot the cruel allusion to his brother Alexis, whose stomach had been made public property. He began to shed tears of wrath. "I will take your scalp for that! As for the black feather, I trample it under my foot!" "Let me see you trample it. And my head is not so easily scalped as your brother's stomach." All the time they were dancing around each other in graceful and menacing feints. But now they clinched, and Charle' Charette, when the struggle had lasted two or three minutes, took his antagonist like a puppy and flung him revolving to the ground. He hitched his belt and glanced up towards the sally-port as he stood back laughing. Étienne was on foot with a tiger's bound. He had no chance with the wearer of the black feather, as everybody in the yard knew, and usually a beaten antagonist was ready to shake hands after a few trials of strength. But he seized one of the knives used in opening packs and struck at the victor's side. As soon as he had struck and the bloody knife came back in his hand he crouched and rolled his eyes around in apology. No man was afraid of shedding blood in those days, but he felt he had gone too far--that his quarrel was not sufficiently grounded. He heard a woman's scream, and the sharp checking exclamation of his master, and felt himself seized on each side. There was much confusion in his mind and in the yard, but he knew 'Tite Laboise flew through the gate and past him, and he tried to propitiate her by a look. "Pig!" she projected at him like a missile, and he sat down on the ground between the guards who were trying to hold him up and wept copiously. "I didn't want to have trouble with that Charle' Charette and that 'Tite Laboise," explained Étienne. "And I don't want any black feather. It was my brother's stomach. On account of my brother's stomach I have to fight. If they do not let my brother's stomach alone, I will have to kill the whole brigade." But Charle' Charette walked into the Fur Company's building feeling nothing but disdain for the puny stock of St. Martin, as he held out his arm and let the blood drip from a little wound that stained his calico shirt-sleeve. The very neips around his ankles seemed to tingle with desire to kick poor Étienne. It was not necessary to send for the surgeon of the fort. Robert Stuart dressed the wound, salving it with the rebukes which he knew discipline demanded, and making them as strong as his own enjoyment had been. He promised to break the head of every voyageur in the yard with a board if another quarrel occurred. And he pretended not to see the culprit's trembling wife, that little besom whose caprices had set the men by the ears ever since she was old enough to know the figures of a dance, yet for whom he and Mrs. Stuart had a warm corner in their hearts. She had caused the first fracas of the season, moreover. He went out and slammed the office door, ordering the men away from it. "Bring me yon Étienne St. Martin," commanded Mr. Stuart, preparing his arsenal of strong language. "I'll have a word with yon carl for this." The noise of the one-sided conflict could be heard in the office, but 'Tite remained as if she heard nothing, with her head and arms on the desk. Her husband took up the cap with the black feather, which he had thrown off in the presence of his superior. He rested it against his side, his elbow pointing a triangle, and waited aggressively for her to speak. The back of her pretty neck and fine tendrils of curly hair ruffled above it were very moving; but his heart swelled indignantly. "'Tite Laboise, why did you shut the door in my face when I came back to you after a year's absence?" She answered faintly, "Me, I don't know." "And dance with Étienne St. Martin until I am obliged to whip him?" "Me, I don't know." "Yes, you do know. You have concealments," he accused, and she made no defence. "This is the case: you run to the dock to see the boats come in; you are joyful until you watch me step ashore; I look for 'Tite; her back is disappearing at the corner of the street. Eh bien! I say, she would rather meet me in the house. I fly to the house. My wife refuses to see me." 'Tite made no answer. "What have I done?" Charle' spread his hands. "My commandant has no complaint to make of me. It is Charle' Charette who leads on the trail or breaks a road where there is none, and carries the heaviest pack of furs, and pulls men out of the water when they are drowning; it is Charle' Charette who can best endure fasting when the rations run low, and can hunt and bring in meat when other voyageurs lie exhausted about the camp-fire. I am no little lard-eater from Canada, brother to a man with a stomach having no lid. Look at that." Charle' shook the decorated cap at her. "I wear the black feather of my brigade. That means that I am the best man in it." His wife reared her head. She was like the wild sweet-brier roses which crowded alluvial strips of the island, fragrant and pink and bristling. "Yes, monsieur, that black feather--regard it. Me, I am sick of that black feather. You say I have concealments. I have. All winter I go lonely. The ice is massed on the lake; the snow is so deep, the wind is keener than a knife; I weep for my husband away in the wilderness, believing he thinks of me. Eh bien! he comes back to Mackinac. It is as you say: I fly to meet him, my breath chokes me. But my husband, what does he do?" She looked him up and down with wrathful eyes. "He does not see 'Tite. He sees nothing but that black feather in his cap that he must take off and show to Monsieur Ramsay Crooks and Monsieur Stuart--while his wife suffocates." Charle' shrunk from his height, and his mouth opened like a fish's. "But I thought you would be proud of it." "Me, what do I care how many men you have thrown down? You do not like me any better because you have thrown down all the men in your brigade." "She is jealous--jealous of a feather!" Humbled as he was by her tongue, the young voyageur felt delighted at giving his wife so trivial a rival. He settled his belt and approached her and bowed. "Madame, permit me to offer you this black quill, which I have won for your sake, and which I boasted of to my masters that they might know you have not thrown yourself away on the poorest creature in Mackinac. Destroy it, madame. It was only the poor token of my love for you." Graceful and polite as all the voyageurs were, Charle' Charette was the prince of them with his big sweet presence as he bent. 'Tite flew at him and flung her arms around his neck. After the manner of Latin peoples, they instantly shed tears upon each other, and the black feather was crushed between their breasts. 
29057	----	file was produced from scans of public domain works at the University of Michigan\\\'s Making of America collection.) Transcriber's note Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Printer errors have been changed and are listed at the end. All other inconsistencies are as in the original. ADDRESS DELIVERED BY HON. HENRY H. CRAPO, Governor of Michigan, BEFORE THE CENTRAL MICHIGAN AGRICULTURAL SOCIETY, AT THEIR SHEEP-SHEARING EXHIBITION, HELD AT THE AGRICULTURAL COLLEGE FARM, On Thursday, May 24th, 1866. LANSING: JOHN A. KERR & CO., STEAM BOOK AND JOB PRINTERS. 1866. ADDRESS. _Mr. President, and Members of the "Central Mich. Ag'l Society:"_ LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: Remote from the theatre of action in the late rebellion, Michigan has experienced comparatively few of the evils that followed immediately in its path. The usual pursuits of peaceful life, were here scarcely disturbed, and by the permission of a Gracious Providence, the industry of the inhabitants of our State was but little diverted from its legitimate channels. Nevertheless, while so many of her patriot sons were engaged in the deadly strife of Southern battle-fields, and the result of the struggle was in the uncertain future, a sombre cloud could not fail to brood over our daily life, interfering with the full enjoyment of the blessings we retained. Now, however, the roar of cannon and the noise and tumult of war is no longer heard in our land; the scenes of carnage and blood which our once peaceful and happy country has recently witnessed are at an end; the turmoil and strife of armed hosts in deadly conflict have ceased; the public mind is no longer excited, and the hearts of the people are no longer pained, by the fearful news of battles fought, and of the terrible slaughter of kindred and friends. Social order again invites us to renewed efforts in our respective labor and callings; and we are permitted "to beat our swords into plow-shares and our spears into pruning-hooks." Like the calm and quiet repose of peace when it follows the clamor and din of war, so is the delightful, cheering and invigorating approach of spring, as it succeeds the chilling blasts and pelting storms of dreary winter. The truth of this is verified to us on the present occasion. We have come together at this delightful spot, and on this beautiful spring day, not only for the enjoyment of a festive season, but also for the improvement of our minds and the increase of our present stock of knowledge on subjects with which our several interests and our respective tastes are more or less identified. At your request and upon your kind invitation, I am here to contribute my share--small though it be--to the general fund. I should, however, have much preferred the position of a quiet learner to that of an incompetent teacher--to have _listened_ rather than to have _spoken_. But being here, it will be my purpose--by your indulgence--to speak, in general terms, upon such topics as seem to me appropriate to the occasion. I shall not presume to theorize, or to speculate; neither shall I travel through unexplored fields with no other guide than imagination; nor shall I attempt to entertain you with any rhetorical flourishes, or figures of speech; but in a simple manner endeavor to give briefly my own views on the several subjects discussed. The occasion is undoubtedly one affording a wide field for profitable discussion; yet the space which your greatest indulgence can be expected to allow me will render it necessary that I confine myself to a very few topics, and will barely permit a hasty glance at some of those only which may be considered appropriate in this address. You will therefore, I trust, remember that in case I do not refer to subjects which you may deem of importance, it will be from this reason, and not because I may have considered them unimportant. * * * * * In the first place, then, permit me a brief reference to this Association, under whose auspices, and by whose directions--acting in connection with the officers of the Agricultural College--this festival is held. Your Society, I understand, extends over the counties of Ingham, Eaton, Clinton, Livingston and Shiawassee, and has been formed for the purpose of combining and concentrating a wider scope of individual action than could otherwise be attained, with a view to an increased interest in the subject of Agriculture and of Agricultural Fairs; thereby recognizing the principle that "in union there is strength." The effort is not only laudable, but will, I have no doubt, be productive of the most beneficial results. In fact we have in this very effort to bring into notice and give an increased interest to one of our most important branches of husbandry in our State--the growth and production of wool--abundant evidence that such will be the result. By coming together, as on the present occasion, in the spirit of a free, frank and social interchange of ideas, an increased interest cannot fail of being awakened, as well as an extensive inquiry instituted, among farmers generally, not only as to the most desirable breed of sheep, but also as to the best modes of tending and keeping and feeding the different kinds, with a view to the greatest profits. The influence of such a gathering as this is of much value--not only in encouraging a desire for excellence and creating a spirit of competition and of laudable emulation, but as furnishing the means for an active exchange of the more desirable specimens. Those who assemble are enabled to enjoy a season not merely of relaxation from toil, but also for mutual consultation and discussion; and a healthy and growing interest in everything pertaining to Agriculture, in all its varied forms and branches, is thereby induced. In this connection I may be permitted to make a few remarks in relation to the salutary influence which our Agricultural Societies cannot fail to exert upon the farmers of Michigan, and of the _benefits_ which are certain to flow from them. There is no employment which keeps man so isolated as that of Agriculture; and these societies serve, in a very great degree, to counteract the bad effects of this by bringing mind into intercourse with mind. They should receive the united and cordial support of every farmer. Whilst professional men are brought into frequent contact with each other--and the trader is in constant intercourse with his customers--and the mechanic is associated with those employed with him in the shops--the farmer spends most of his time with his family, and with his flocks and herds, and sees comparatively little of others. The Agricultural Fair brings--or should bring--all the farmers together, with their wives and daughters, where a healthy, social intercourse is enjoyed. There a higher standard of excellence in everything is formed. He there learns that what of his own he had been led to believe was the best--whether in flocks or herds, or farm products--may be greatly improved, and his ambition and pride, as well as his interest, are at once excited to make an advance. At the same time the industrious housewife, and the blushing Miss, by an examination of the cloths and flannels--the carpets and quilts--the embroidered skirts and capes--the collars and slippers, discover that these articles are worthy not only of their admiration but of their emulation, and they, too, resolve to copy from a standard of merit higher than their own. Thus is excited among those so brought together a spirit of competition, and a desire in their turn to excel. Another important benefit resulting from Agricultural Fairs, is a more rapid and general diffusion of knowledge among the farmers in regard to the advantages and practical utility of new inventions, for the saving of time and labor in agricultural operations. This is illustrated very clearly by the exhibition of Mr. Parish's "Stump and Grub Extractor," on exhibition here. This machine, I understand, was patented on the first day of the present month, and _now_ all in attendance at this Fair have had an opportunity of witnessing its operations and judging for themselves of its merits. An effective machine of this kind is of incalculable value to the farmer in removing _at once_ from his fields the unsightly stumps that disfigure them, and which adds so much to the labor of cultivating those fields. Of the machine itself, I may be permitted to say, by way of digression, that it surpasses in the effectiveness of its operations anything of the kind which I have yet had an opportunity of witness. But this is not all. The mutual consultation and discussion consequent upon Agricultural Fairs, begets a spirit of inquiry and a desire for information in relation to every subject connected with the farmer's calling, and to gratify which he has recourse to periodicals and other works in which its various branches are discussed and explained. He will there learn what agricultural chemistry has done for him, and the importance and value of the analysis of the different kinds of soil. He will also find the result of the various systems of husbandry practiced by others as well as the effects of experiments made, and thereby secure to himself their benefits without incurring their cost. And although no amount of reading alone can make a man a farmer, yet the knowledge derived from a perusal of agricultural papers devoted to the interests of the tillers of the soil will be of incalculable value to him. SHEEP-HUSBANDRY. It will undoubtedly be expected that "Sheep-Husbandry," not only from the importance of the subject itself, but because of its being the principal feature in this exhibition, should receive at my hands a due share of consideration. I am free to confess, however, that the subject will be approached with no small degree of hesitancy and distrust on my part, not only because of my want of practical knowledge in regard to it, but also because it may be fairly regarded, I think, in many respects at least, as a sort of debatable ground. Different views are undoubtedly entertained by equally intelligent and experienced men, upon this as well as upon other equally important subjects; and the fact I believe is well established that "Doctors" not only _may_ but _do_ very often "disagree," and that, too, sometimes very tenaciously. Should I advance opinions at variance with those entertained by well-informed and practical men who may listen to me, I will simply remark that I am not here to lay down rules and establish principles for the guidance of any one, but to discuss principles and rules of action, as well as practical questions, with a view to lead others the more carefully to inquire into and investigate the same. The subject of Sheep-Husbandry with us is certainly an important one--wool being a great, leading staple product of our State; and very much attention is now being paid to it, which is fully justified by the advantages of our soil and climate for the keeping of sheep. The farmers of Michigan are fully aroused to the importance of this interest, and have labored zealously, and at much expense and cost, to improve their breeds of sheep, and to foster and develop this great interest. They have certainly done much in this direction; but more--very much more, I apprehend--remains yet to be done. It must, however, be remembered that a blind zeal, without that knowledge which is the result of experience, observation and study, will do very little in the right direction. Sheep, like cattle, should be selected for specific purposes, and in reference to affording the greatest profit under existing, and probable future circumstances. The exclusive cultivation of this or that breed--of the fine or coarse, or of the long or short wools--whether kept exclusively for their wool, or both for their wool and the shambles, should never be practiced, unless under special and unusual circumstances. The farmer in this, as in every other agricultural department, must endeavor to see his relation to the merchant, and adopt a practice having in view the chances of ultimately reaching the most certain as well as the most profitable market; for, after all, the connection between the producer and the manufacturer and merchant, is but a partnership for loss and gain. The merchant will call upon the manufacturer for such woolen goods as his market demands, irrespective of the mere opinion which any one may entertain in favor of this or that kind of wool; and the manufacturer, in his turn, will call upon the farmer for just what is wanted. The farmer should therefore, in the selection of his flocks, have in view the market upon which he is to rely for the sale of his wool; the texture and weight of fleece; the health and vigor of body and constitution, as well as the habits and economy of the animal. He should sedulously seek to bring his sheep to a high degree of perfection in every respect. In seeking to obtain quality of fleece it is a self-evident fact that he should not overlook quantity; and that quantity should also be considered in connection with quality. It is a patent fact, of which if we needed evidence it may be found in this exhibition as well as in the numerous county exhibitions of similar character, which have recently been held, where very rarely any other class of sheep are seen, that a strong preference for fine-wooled Merinos is very generally, if not almost exclusively, entertained at the present time among the farmers of this State, and money in the purchase of that class is of but little account. It is well known that very high prices are being paid not only for single specimens but for whole flocks of this breed. This is probably all right, so far as it is necessary for the purpose of attaining excellence in flocks, upon points already spoken of. To such a preference there should be no objection, if it be not carried so far as to superinduce an unprofitable reaction--and provided that the demand for the grade of wool produced by these sheep is to have no limit, and that all which can be grown is sure always to command a remunerative price. But will this probably be so? Let us consider. As I have already intimated, the demand for any particular quality or kind of wool will not depend upon the fact that farmer A or farmer B has such wool to sell, taken from sheep for which he paid very large prices, and of which he has now a very large flock; but rather because that particular kind and quality of wool is called for by the manufacturer simply to fill the orders of the merchant, who in his turn is only desirous to supply the demands of the consumer. From an examination of our imports, it appears that in 1863, of _sixty millions_ of woolen goods, about _forty millions_ were manufactured of the longer worsted wool. This wool is required to make a fabric of lustrous appearance for imitations of Alapaca, and for a supply of which our manufacturers now depend mostly on foreign countries The price of combing wool has been for some time increasing rapidly, in comparison with other wool, in consequence of its consumption gaining upon its growth. And I saw recently that the British farmer had been urged to increase the production of this article to its fullest extent, both from a consideration of duty as well as of interest. The manufacturer of Alapaca cloths--a most beautiful fabric of recent introduction--and their extensive use, has not only led to this increased demand, but has enhanced the price of this kind of wool, which will undoubtedly be maintained, as new fabrics requiring to be made from long wools, especially for the garments of ladies, are now being introduced in great variety, and are becoming daily more popular and of more general use. Another cause for the continued and increasing demand for these wools is the facility with which they can be used for the purpose of making imitations of Lama fabrics and Alapacas; and I have no doubt that factories for the manufacture of these goods will rapidly multiply in New England and elsewhere, and will soon, to a very great extent take the place of those now consuming the fine wools. In support of these views, permit me to give the following extracts from the work of Mr. Randall, the well known and enthusiastic champion of the Merinos. He says: "In the American market there is a much larger demand for medium than fine wools, and the former commands much the best price in proportion to its cost of production." Again he says: "American producers of very fine wool have ever fed an expectation, but never obtained the fruition of their hopes." These are significant admissions, coming as they do from such a quarter. * * * * * The South Downs are a variety of sheep of decided merit; but have never, I think, been fully appreciated by the farmers of Michigan. They are of large size and symmetrically formed, with hardy and robust constitutions, and their wool is fine, short and curled, and destitute of fibrous spires that give to it the felting properties. It is neither a short nor a long staple, but ranks in this country as "middle wool." The shorter staples are made into flannels and light woolen goods; and the longer are extensively used for combing. Their mutton is unsurpassed; its flavor is delicate, and the flesh juicy and well intermixed with fat. They are the most prolific breeders--the proportion of ewes bringing twins being at least fifty per cent. I recently saw a fine flock of South Down ewes in the State of New York of which more than three-fourths of the whole flock had twins. Among the more desirable varieties or families, for the production of long wool, in this climate, are, perhaps, the Cotswolds, noble specimens of which you have had an opportunity of inspecting on this occasion; and have, I trust, with me, been highly gratified at their weight of carcass, combined with their fine forms and apparent hardiness of constitution, as well as the superior fleeces they have now yielded. My purpose, however, is not to advocate the claims of this or that class of sheep at the expense of any other, but to present such views for your consideration as may lead to a more thorough and candid investigation of the whole matter. Let me say in continuation of this subject, that in a comparison between the Cotswold and other long wool varieties, with the fine wool Merinos the _advantage as to weight of fleece_ is decidedly with the former; and especially so when their respective fleeces are thoroughly cleansed and scoured; for whilst the loss of the long wools very rarely reaches _twenty per cent._, that of the Merinos generally much exceed _fifty per cent._, and the fleeces of prize rams often more than _seventy per cent._ Manufacturers are already beginning to make a discrimination between wool that is clean and that which is not so. Suppose they buy the South Down, Cotswold and Leicester wools, and their grades, from which is lost by scouring twenty per cent. only, whilst upon the finest Michigan wool there is lost _fifty_ per cent. and more--making the cost of the latter, at ordinary prices, one-third more per pound than the former, how long will it be before they will study to increase their consumption of long wool when they can make from _thirty_ to _forty_ per cent. more cloth with the same money? They will certainly seek to avoid, in some way, the necessity of buying with their wool so very large a per centage of grease and dirt, as they claim they are now doing in the purchase of fine wools. The South Downs, as I have already stated, as well as the long wool sheep, have a decided advantage in the quantity and value of meat which they yield for the shambles; for no one, I apprehend, will deny the fact they not only yield more wool but very much more flesh to the live weight than do the Merinos. And this is a fact worthy the serious consideration of farmers, and certainly a strong argument in favor of the more general breeding of long wool sheep. The war, and perhaps other causes, have very seriously reduced our supply of meats, the waste of which cannot soon be repaired. Many of our soldiers will not again return to rural life, which will be quite too tame for them after the long, protracted excitement of war. They will seek other occupations, and be consumers rather than producers of meats. In addition to this a tide of foreign immigration is setting in upon our shores, where they will continue to swarm for years to come as never before, hungry for meat; and it has been conclusively demonstrated that the ratio of our ordinary increase of population far exceeds the production of cattle and sheep, which deficiency in beef and mutton must hereafter be supplied in some way. I will again quote from Mr. Randall's work. He says: "I am strongly impressed with the opinion that the production of mutton has been too much disregarded as a concomitant of the production of wool. Near large meat markets mutton is the _prime consideration_, and wool but the accessory." Here, then, is a potent combination of circumstances, which were never before brought together, guaranteeing an abundant remuneration, as I believe, to those who may engage in this particular branch of husbandry; and the field, although now new, will nevertheless, I have little doubt, be very soon successfully occupied. I cannot but hope that our ambitious and enterprising stock breeders will secure to themselves their full share. Perhaps I have already exhausted your patience by dwelling so long upon this subject; but regarding it--as I most certainly do--as a very important one, and this being an appropriate occasion for its discussion, you will, I trust, bear with me a moment longer, whilst I venture to make a few practical suggestions, before taking leave of it. Let me then say, in this matter of Sheep Husbandry, in addition to what has already been said, that you should guard against extreme views of any kind. Merinos are undoubtedly a valuable and a very desirable breed of sheep, as witness the noble specimens exhibited on this occasion; but you do not want them and nothing else, unless they will pay a better profit than any other sheep; nor should you pay an extravagantly high price for them merely to enrich the sheep-breeders of another State; nor because it is fashionable to do so. You should remember that the South Downs, the Leicesters, the Cotswolds, as well as some others perhaps, also have their respective claims to favor and are worthy of your consideration. My own opinion is that a grade of sheep may be produced by a cross between the Cotswolds and some other varieties, which will furnish a staple of fine, long, combing wool of lustrous appearance, that will prove--all things considered--quite as remunerative as fleeces from the choicest Merinos and their grades. You should, also, avoid the too common error of overstocking with sheep when the price of wool is high. Sheep Husbandry has been a very profitable branch of business for the farmers of this State; but like every other business it may be overdone, and is liable to fluctuations and changes. Sheep must be well fed and cared for in order to produce heavy fleeces; and there is certainly a limit to the number which may profitably be kept upon any farm; and it not unfrequently happens that a flock of fifty sheep on a small farm, will yield a larger net profit than would a flock of five hundred if kept upon the same farm. When the price of wool is high, the farmers are too reluctant to sell off their sheep, and thus become liable to an overstock. In fact, this is now the great danger of the wool-growers of Michigan. The best economy, and the most judicious management, will be to keep down the number of your flocks to your means of pasturage and feed; and constantly aim to improve the grade and quality of those you retain by disposing of the less desirable specimens for mutton. Your motto should be to elevate the standard of your flocks, rather than to increase their number beyond your means of feeding. Another evil is also to be guarded against,--that of giving your attention to sheep to the exclusion of cattle. I am aware that in the past there have been--in this State--few advocates for the raising of cattle, and that the sound judgment of any man would at once be brought into question who should attempt to do so. But I think there has been more of prejudice than reason in this. The farmer, as a mere matter of policy, should not confine himself to any one thing, as thereby the fluctuations and changes incident to any branch of business, may very possibly--nay very probably--disappoint his hopes and expectations. If he has only sheep on which to rely, a sudden fall in the price of sheep and wool, or a general prevalence of any of the diseases to which sheep are always liable, would be a serious disaster to him; whereas, if his attention is directed to both sheep and cattle, as well as to horses, swine, &c., his chances of certain and continued success are very greatly multiplied. In fact, cattle are already commanding enormous prices in consequence of a general scarcity everywhere, not only for the shambles, but for the dairy, and this deficiency will not, I apprehend, be very soon supplied. I have recently visited some of the more highly cultivated portions of the State of New York, where I found good fair cows were worth _one hundred dollars_ each and not easily to be had at that. Good sized, first quality working oxen, are now worth here $250 per pair; and a large lot of cattle has recently been sold for beef in Flint, at seven cents per pound, live weight. Horses, too, are scarce, and must continue to be so for a long time, as their destruction by the late war was very great, and years will be required to replace those so destroyed, especially in the rebel and border States, which must be supplied from the North. Swine, also, are now deficient, and principally because, a few years since, for a time the price of pork was very low, and their growth was in consequence, at once almost abandoned. The farmer should take a broader view of things, and pursue a steady, onward course, avoiding all extremes, as well as sudden changes. As a large portion of his farm products are more adapted to the feed of cattle, horses and swine than to sheep, he should, if for no other reason, keep a due proportion of these animals, any excitement in favor of sheep notwithstanding. My own opinion most decidedly is, that the time has come when the best interests of the farmers of Michigan require that a portion of the attention now being devoted to sheep husbandry should be directed to that of other kinds of stock. But, to return again from this digression to the subject of sheep and wool. One of the most serious difficulties with which the farmers have to contend, is the combinations that are too often sought to be made by purchasers to secure their wool at the lowest possible figures. The manufacturers and wool buyers, undoubtedly act in concert,--at least to some considerable extent,--to depress the price, and especially so, before and about the time the new clip is coming in. They are well drilled in this, and many of their operations are systematic and efficient. At such time they pretend not to be in want of wool,--that the demand will be light, &c. Purchases are made very sparingly, and temporary supplies are procured from other sources, even at a higher cost than the farmers ask. This is done upon the ground that an occasional sacrifice of this kind pays well in the end, if thereby they are able to keep down the price of the great bulk of domestic wool. Sometimes fictitious sales are reported, and various other means are employed to this end, with the view that a few holders, at least,--either from necessity or timidity,--may be induced to sell, and thus aid their efforts to establish low prices. It thus becomes the duty of the farmers to act with much consideration, study and wisdom; and purely as a matter of self-defense, to adopt some concert of action among themselves for the protection of their own interests. When the price is low and the market dull at the time of shearing, there should not be too much haste in making sales. In 1861, I think it was, the farmers were over anxious to sell, for no other reason than because at that time the price of wool was very low and the market dull. They then overlooked the well established commercial fact that depressed markets generally advance, rather than retrograde, and that Government disbursements then certain to be made would create funds and a higher market, and that the demand for the staple would increase. They consequently sold for _twenty-five cents_ per pound, fleeces, that in less than three months commanded _forty-five_ to _fifty_ cents. They also, in many instances, offered to sell their fleeces for less than half the sum they would bring in a very few weeks. On the other hand, as is too common, when wool at the time of shearing commands a high price and the market is brisk, the farmers are inclined to hold on for still higher prices. But this is another mistake in the opposite direction. The rule should be,--"_sell_" when the market is quick, and prices are good;--and "_hold on_" when the market is dull and prices are low. Before leaving this subject, permit me to call your attention to another important matter in connection with sheep husbandry in this State. Sufficient care has not heretofore been taken to clean and otherwise properly prepare this great and important staple for market, and the consequence has been that the character and representation of "Michigan wool," I am sorry to discover, has been very seriously lowered in the market, and a great loss to the producers has thereby been sustained. It is a fact, perhaps not generally known, that from this cause alone, "Ohio wool" sells for about _five_ to _ten cents_ per pound more than "Michigan wool." In an interview which I recently had with an extensive eastern manufacturer, who was induced last season for the first time to purchase a lot of "Michigan wool," he expressed his surprise that the Michigan wool growers should be so heedless of their own interests as to overlook this important fact. From his statements I learned that the prejudice of the manufacturers against "Michigan wool" was so great that many of them would not buy it at hardly any price when they could get "Ohio wool." He said a large proportion of our wool was poorly washed, and that this was true of a great proportion of our finest and best lots; and that it was not only sent to market in this condition, but was badly and slovenly put up, with much larger twine than they use in Ohio,--the fleeces, also having a torn and jagged appearance; and many of them, when opened, were found to contain the _unwashed_ tags. He, however, expressed himself highly pleased with the quality of the wool he had purchased, and said it compared favorably in that respect with any he had ever received from Ohio; and he believed if our wool could be sent to market as clean and in as good condition otherwise as the Ohio wool,--and the prejudice which has been created against it, in consequence of this not having been the case heretofore, could once be removed, he doubted not that "Michigan wool" would command in the market the highest prices and the most ready sales. This is certainly a serious matter, and prompt and efficient measures, of some kind, should at once be taken to remedy the evil; and every wool-grower should feel, as he really is, personally interested in the work. I commend this subject, gentlemen, to your serious consideration, and trust some concert of action will be had to prevent a continuance of this great evil, and to place "Michigan wool" where it should most certainly stand, at the head of the list. If this can be done in no other way, I would suggest the formation of a "Wool-Growers Board of Trade," or some other efficient organization for the purpose--if for no other--of tracing out and holding up to scorn every individual who shall aid in inflicting so serious an injury to this great interest, and of doing so great a wrong to his neighbors and fellow-citizens, and that, too, from the base and fraudulent motive of selling dirt and tags as fine wool--for be assured that any imposition of this sort, practiced upon manufacturers, will recoil upon our own heads; and where _one_ cent will thus be saved, thousands, yes, tens of thousands of dollars, will, as a necessary consequence, be indirectly lost to the farmers of Michigan. And the loss they have sustained from this cause during the last three or four years will undoubtedly exceed the enormous sum of two millions of dollars. But I must take leave of this subject. THE STATE AGRICULTURAL COLLEGE. Permit me now to occupy your attention for a brief space whilst I speak of this Institution--the State Agricultural College--upon whose grounds we are now assembled, and where by the kindness and courtesy of its officers, we have been so cordially welcomed and so pleasantly entertained. It is not, I think, inappropriate to the occasion that I should do so. Let me remind you then, in the outset of my remarks on this subject, that this Institution is in its early infancy; and that notwithstanding the beautiful landscape which is spread out before us; with its verdant fields just springing into luxuriance, dotted with the finest specimens of the choicest breeds of sheep and cattle, with the College grounds skillfully laid out and now in process of being tastefully adorned by Art, a few years only have been numbered with the past since not only this spot, but all the surrounding country, as well as almost the entire territory of our young, but noble and now highly prosperous State, was an unbroken wilderness, covered with the primeval forest, the entangled woods giving shelter and concealment to wild and ferocious beasts, as well as to the wandering and savage red man. What a change has thus been wrought in a few short years! the result of the toil and privation of the adventurous pioneers, of whom many have already become intelligent, enterprising and forehanded farmers. And more than this: Michigan, although but recently settled, and one of the youngest in the great sisterhood of States, has been the first to establish a professional school for the agricultural education of her sons, in which is not only taught the sciences and their application to agriculture, but also agriculture as an art, with such experiments as are calculated to impart a more thorough and practical knowledge of the same; and connected with the study of these a department of manual labor; the legitimate effect of all which is to increase the student's desire for knowledge as well as his love of study, and to remove the barrier too often existing between the educated and laboring classes--which can only be done by giving a better education to those who labor, and by removing the prejudices of the educated against labor. But I propose to speak more definitely of the aims and objects of this Institution, as well as its claims to the favor and support of the farmers of Michigan. They need not be told, I think, that its design is to promote their benefit. But have the farmers of this State, as a class, heretofore recognized this fact? And have they in return for the advantages which it proposes to them, given it that countenance and encouragement which it claims at their hands? I fear not. There are, it is true, noble exceptions to this; yet it is also true that a large proportion of their number have looked upon it with suspicion and distrust, as though its purpose was to do them a wrong--to inflict upon them an evil. They have not merely withheld from it their aid and support, but their active influence has too often been exerted to its disadvantage and prejudice. This is certainly wrong--very wrong! Let us look a little into this matter. Is knowledge--a knowledge of those sciences which are intimately connected with agriculture as an art--of no value to the farmer? Is it necessary that he should be a dolt in order to be fitted for his vocation? Will ignorance and bad husbandry increase his crops or enable him to find a better market for his products? Or, will his enjoyment, in his daily round of toil, be any greater because unconscious that he is groping his way along in the dark? No! For however that may have been in the past it is certainly not the case now. And although "ignorance," as it is said, may be "bliss," yet in these days, at least, it must be a sort of negative bliss. Ignorance is certainly not power; nor does it lead to wealth as a means of comfortable support and enjoyment--which is the legitimate end of all labor. Will _ignorance_ give respectability, or sweeten the toil of the husbandman? Will it elevate his thoughts and desires to higher and nobler aims, or inspire him to "look from nature up to nature's God?" Will it lead him instead of a fixed stolid gaze upon the earth over which he walks, to engage in the study of those great and omnipotent laws which regulate all matter, and which so wonderfully, yet certainly control both the animal and vegetable kingdoms? No! It will accomplish none of these desirable ends, but the very reverse of them all. This proposition is so self-evident to intelligent men, that to advance it to such an audience as the one before me--except as the basis of an argument--must be entirely superfluous. But what was the social position of the farmers, let me ask--even in this highly favored country--fifty or sixty years ago? Were they not then regarded as men without knowledge--devoid almost of sensibilities--unfitted for anything except the mere routine of daily labor and toil--and capable only of delving in the soil day by day? And were they not then considered, even by themselves as well as by others, as occupying the very lowest position in the scale of society? Such were the facts. Every person who was regarded as too ignorant and uncultivated for other pursuits, was, by common consent, considered as having a prescriptive right to farming as a vocation. In fact ignorance was regarded as the proper and sufficient diploma for the farmer. And as a consequence he was not only poor and without influence, but too often considered by others as without respectability merely because he was a farmer; and all that was conceded to him--in fact all that he claimed for himself--was a simple subsistence upon the hardest fare, without any of the luxuries, and very often with a scarcity of the necessaries of life. Remember, I am speaking of the farmers, as a class, _fifty_ or _sixty_ years ago--before there were any county fairs, or agricultural colleges, newspapers or magazines, and when agriculture was the result of labor without knowledge, system or calculation. But although the farmers have emerged from this condition very slowly, yet what is their position now? Are they not regarded as being on a level at least with those of other callings in social importance? Do they not occupy positions of confidence and trust in society? Are they not found in our Legislative Halls in fair proportion with men of different pursuits? This is certainly true: and the advance alone is the result of a higher mental culture--of a wider range of thought--and of an increased fund of knowledge, and consequently of an improved system of farming. And if the advance of agriculture and the condition of the farmer have been tardy, as compared with the improvement in other departments of labor--in other avocations of life--it is solely because science and study have not as soon been applied to agriculture--and because also the farmer has not been permitted the advantages resulting from so early a development of facts connected with his calling as have other classes of men. But the great work is now fairly in progress of elevating the farmer to his true position in the social order of society--of teaching him that his vocation, instead of being the dull, unintellectual lot of the ignorant, is the most noble and dignified, as well as the most conducive to men's happiness in which he can be engaged; and nothing is now wanting to secure the steady advancement of this work, but for the farmers to do justice to themselves and to their calling, by laying hold of the means for that end which are placed within their reach. Assuming all this to be undeniably true, where can be found more potent agencies in the work of elevation than Agricultural Colleges? And why, then, should any farmer in this State hold back from giving this Institution his cordial and hearty support? And stranger still--why should he put himself in antagonism to its success? Such an attitude, to my mind, is not merely unwise, but preposterous--yes, suicidal. If the College is not what it should be, the more his self-interest should prompt him to bestow upon it his aid. It is the _Farmers' Institution_--founded for _his_ benefit, at much cost; and if _he_ does not feel an interest in it and labor to make it a success, who will? Who should? But why have a portion of the farmers of Michigan seemed to look with distrust upon this Institution, and in some cases, I regret to say, seemed to regard it as a sort of wrong to themselves; and if they have not actually opposed, have, at least, withheld from it their support? I must confess, that should I give what seemed to me to be the true answer to these questions, it might be regarded by some who have not very carefully looked into the subject, as an assumption on my part unwarranted by facts. Would that it were so; that I were mistaken. But having given the subject some little thought and investigation, you will, I trust, permit me the honest expression of my own views upon this important matter. It is for that purpose and none other, that I am here. But you, Mr. President, as well as all those now present, can certainly take no personal exception to these views, as the very fact of such presence shows that you are not of the class to which I may allude; and I am gratified in being able to say that I believe there are very many others, not present, who are the warm and devoted friends of this Institution; and who, with you, I most certainly hope, constitute the rule and not the exception. But the answer: And in giving which, I will avail myself of the privilege conceded to a certain class of men,--that of answering one question by asking another. Why then do men ever oppose or neglect their own interests? To my mind, only from want of knowledge, from prejudice or self-will--or some other of the same brood of enemies to man's success in laudable undertakings; and of which _ignorance_ is the chief, and may be regarded as the prolific source of all the others. In this case, undoubtedly, as in others, some are opposed from a mere notion of opposition, or from a mere whim; others again, simply to agree with, or differ from, some, who are either in favor or opposed; whilst some must oppose whatever they themselves do not originate;--and, others again, have no doubt been led honestly to entertain a distrust which has finally grown into an opposition, through the influence of misrepresentations, or from a perversion of facts by those whose interests, from some cause, are at variance with its success. But I am quite certain that the whole opposition and indifference to this Institution, so far as it may come from the farmers themselves, is unnatural and fictitious, and will soon pass away as does everything else which is built upon such foundation. It is said by some that "the Institution has been a mistake from the beginning;" that it "was located wrong;" that it "was not started right;" that it "has been badly managed;" and that it "is an expensive concern, and will never pay;" and a great deal more. But it is very easy to say all this, and yet there may be very little reality in it, and still less reason. Let me here say to the objectors and fault-finders,--suppose all this be true? who _then_ is to blame? Is the Institution itself responsible for all these mistakes? Or, are they not rather the consequences of unavoidable and untoward circumstances, magnified and aggravated by _your_ opposition, and over which its friends and managers could have no possible control. I admit the probability that the early success of the College would have been more certainly secured, had an old and highly cultivated farm been purchased for the purpose; but for this the means were wanting. You say, perhaps, that College students should not be required to _clear land and dig stumps_. True; but when the officers and managers of such an Institution are _compelled_ to do this, and to reach the end desired as best they may through such means, they are certainly entitled to all praise, and richly deserve the meed of commendation for even partial success, and which should be all the dearer to us because of being reached under such adverse circumstances. That the facilities which the College now possesses are inadequate to the proper accommodation of those who wish to avail themselves of its advantages, and even to the extent of the limited number of students now belonging to it, is certainly to be regretted. But this is an evil to be overcome by the patient and persistent efforts of its friends, and not by the antagonism and opposition of its enemies; by making the most out of the limited means at command, and not by abandoning the whole because the means are not now all we could desire. That its management may have been a matter of criticism with those who have known but little about it, or who have taken little or no pains to investigate the facts, is not strange; yet, for one, I am clearly of the opinion that--when all the difficulties with which it has had to contend, are duly considered--its management, thus far, has been all that any person could reasonably hope for or expect; and more--that its officers and professors are entitled to great credit and much praise, for securing under so much discouragement, that degree of success which is apparent here even to the casual observer; and claim of us, and are entitled to receive at our hands, a proper and just recognition of their valuable services, and the fidelity with which they have been rendered. * * * * * Farmers of Michigan! Be not led astray by such objections as I have stated, or by any others of a similar import. You have here a noble Institution, in faithful and competent hands--one that will soon be of incalculable value to you--and one, too, that will reflect much credit not only upon you, but upon the whole State. And although it may not now be all you could wish or desire, yet when we consider what it now is in view of the difficulties with which it has had to contend, we have a sure guarantee, that it will yet be a success and will realize all your reasonable expectations. Let me ask of you, in all earnestness and candor, to give it now your warm, your hearty support, so that you may not only assist in securing for yourselves and the public the great end of its establishment, but that you may, by and by, safely, and without the fear of successful contradiction, lay claim to the honor of being among its early friends and upholders. There is something noble and magnanimous in rendering substantial aid and support to a cause in the hour of its weakness and in the time of its need; whilst there is something not only selfish but mean, in stepping forward with proffers of assistance, and with spurious claims of imaginary or intended favor, when such assistance is no longer needed, and when the heat and burden of the day has been borne by others; for, be assured, that the time is coming when no farmer will covet the distinction of having been among the number of the enemies of this Institution. The advantages of our Agricultural College, in connection with an experimental farm, are too obvious to every intelligent mind to require that I should occupy your time in dwelling upon them. And, when I speak of an experimental farm, I do not mean a mere model farm, by which a specimen of good farming only is exhibited; but, like this, a farm embracing a variety of soils--adapted to an extensive range of experiments--and where the value of the different kinds of grain may be tested, as well as the relative advantages of different modes of tillage; the relative effect and value, by actual trial, as well as by analysis, of various manures as fertilizers; and the economy of labor; as well as the comparative value of the different breeds of cattle, sheep, horses, swine, &c., &c., with a view to the introduction and dissemination among the farmers of the State, of such as should prove the most profitable; or of such as could be most successfully used for obtaining the most desirable grades. Such a farm as this, under the efficient and skillful management of its present able and persevering Superintendent, cannot fail to be of very great benefit to the farmers of this State, and should, both as a matter of duty to others and of interest to themselves, receive their united and generous support. And I am firmly of the opinion that when they shall afford this Institution such aid, it will soon become one of the first among our noble institutions of learning, and will be a just cause of pride, not merely to the farmers themselves, but to every intelligent person throughout the whole extent of our noble State. And now let me invoke, for the future prosperity and success of this College, not merely the liberality of the farmers--or what they may regard as such--in the payment of a trifling tax for its maintenance, but what is of equal importance, and which it has a right to demand in justice to itself--their earnest advocacy of its claims. AGRICULTURAL COLLEGE STUDENTS. But I have already, I fear, trespassed quite too far upon your patience, and should, perhaps, before this, have relieved you from further infliction. Yet seeing before me, many--if not all--of the students of this College, I must beg your indulgence for a moment longer, whilst I address to them a very few remarks. Let me say, then, to you, young gentlemen, that you are now in the enjoyment of privileges for the acquisition of that knowledge so essential to success in after life, which were denied to me--and the absence of which I have felt as a great and serious loss through the whole period of my existence. See to it that you place a just value upon these privileges, and that you do not abuse them. Whilst most of you, I trust, are fitting yourselves for the employment of farming as an avocation, some, perhaps, may be looking forward to other professions and pursuits. I, however, on this occasion, must confine my remarks to those of the former class. And to such I would briefly remark, that the value and importance of an agricultural education to the youth whose lives are to be devoted to the highly reputable occupation of farming, begin now to be admitted, and happy will it be for our common country, when such education shall be regarded as a necessity. Labor is no longer degrading, but is creditable and dignified; and agricultural pursuits are no longer regarded as disgraceful or ignoble by any except the fop and the coxcomb, but are of all employments the most honorable in which men can be engaged. Nor is it, as has been too often supposed, a cheerless life of toil and fatigue, but has many substantial and endearing charms. It is also the fountain-head for the supply of all our wants; and when contrasted with other employments, its advantages cannot fail to be appreciated. Whilst those who seek a profession must be content to spend many weary years of wasting study--of constant struggle--before they can begin to live, the farmer has at once before him, health and quiet, ease and contentment, as well as the enjoyment of sober pleasures which do not cloy, and whilst the chances of those who engage in commercial pursuits are, that about _ninety-five_ out of every _one hundred_ are destined to failure, the farmer is exempt from such a hazard, for the chances of failure with him are found to be only about _four_ in every _one hundred_. I do not, of course, in this comparison, include those who, having no land of their own, are obliged to toil for others as laborers, and who cannot therefore be ranked as farmers. To the farmer, if each day does bring its labors, it also brings its pleasures; and even as he toils in his dusty fields, he can derive unalloyed pleasures, not only from the study and care of his bleating flocks and lowing herds, but from the prospect of an abundant harvest as he looks over his fields of waving grain or contemplates his orchards of rich and luscious fruits. And each day renews to him these pure and substantial pleasures, which afford not only gratification, but health. With the farmer there are no all-absorbing cares, no corroding anxieties, no vitiating excitement. He is measurably freed from the seductions of enervating pleasures. From the green fields and fresh air he drinks constant draughts of inspiration. His great study is, or should be, Nature and Nature's God. To him each season has its profits and its pleasures; for he knows that while he rests or sleeps his fields are working for him. He is also freed, in a great measure, from the baleful influences which attend that false ambition so often excited by other pursuits. My young friends, when you leave your "Alma Mater" and fix upon your route for life's journey, let your choice of a profession be carefully and wisely made; and then, with undeviating course, pursue it steadily and persistently to the end, for in this only will be found your reasonable chances of ultimate success. * * * * * Mr. President, I have already detained you and this audience quite too long; and with many thanks for your kind and patient attention, I will now bring my remarks to a close. * * * * * Transcriber's note The following changes have been made to the text: Page 11: "recently visted" changed to "recently visited". Page 12: "not generally kown" changed to "not generally known". Page 19: "knowlege so essential" changed to "knowledge so essential". 
33648	----	NUMBER 86 JUNE 24, 1920 OCCASIONAL PAPERS OF THE MUSEUM OF ZOOLOGY UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN ANN ARBOR, MICHIGAN PUBLISHED BY THE UNIVERSITY THE MAMMALS OF WARREN WOODS, BERRIEN COUNTY, MICHIGAN BY LEE RAYMOND DICE Few detailed studies of the mammal associations of the forests of the United States have been made. But if we are ever to know, for our different species of mammals, the natural environments under which their evolution and differentiation occurred, we must study and describe their habitats and habitat limitations before all the native areas in the country have been altered by the activities of mankind. As a contribution to this subject the following paper is presented. The Warren Woods are a state preserve under the Edward K. Warren Foundation. They are located in Berrien County, Michigan, about three miles north of Three Oaks. The preserve consists of about two hundred acres, of which somewhat less than half is in clearing and the remainder mostly covered by forest, much of it still nearly in its primitive condition. [Illustration: FIG. 1.--Sketch map of Warren Woods Preserve. The distribution of the various mammal habitats is indicated.] The topography is nearly level, though the area is cut by a number of ravines draining to the Galien River, which flows through the preserve. Along the river and in its bends there are moderate-sized flood-plains. On the flood-plains a few small buttonbush swamps occur; and along the margins of the river a few freshly formed mud bars have not yet become forested; but most of the flood-plains are covered by heavy forest. The higher ground, except that in the clearing, is covered by heavy beech-maple forest. Several types of habitats are represented in the clearing: in a few of the cleared ravines a thick growth of sedges and iris occurs; on the higher ground small areas are dominated by rushes, other areas by sedges, while the greater part is covered by grass. In parts of the clearing blackberries and other shrubs have grown up to form thickets, and in many places, especially along the edges of ravines, second-growth trees of oak, maple, or beech grow in the thickets or form small groves. The mammal habitats found on the preserve may be listed as follows: _Natural habitats_ Aquatic habitat Buttonbush-swamp habitat Shore habitat Mud-bar herbage habitat Flood-plain forest habitat Beech-maple forest habitat Aerial habitat _Modified and artificial habitats_ Second-growth, forest and scrub habitat Cleared-ravine sedge habitat Cleared-upland rush habitat Cleared-upland sedge habitat Cleared-upland blue-grass habitat Cultivated field habitat Orchard habitat Edificarian habitat It is unfortunate that all of the area in clearing and about half of the forested area on the preserve has been and is being heavily pastured by cattle and horses. The presence of stock has changed the native conditions so much that, so far as interpreting the primitive mammal associations is concerned, little dependence can be placed on studies made in that portion of the preserve. The grass and herbage is extensively eaten off, and many of the shrubs and young trees eaten or badly mutilated. Under the pastured forest little underbrush or herbage remains, and the conditions are very poor for small mammals. In all the forest, in the unpastured as well as in the pastured part, a number of trees have been cut out in former years, and although no trees are now being cut down, all the trees and branches which fall are being cut up for firewood. This results in there being few logs and little dead brush on the ground, and removes a favorite place for small mammal nests and runways, as well as largely eliminating as mammal food the insects and larvae which are dependent on decaying wood. However, with the exception of the removal of the logs and of a few trees, that part of the forest to the north of the river is still in practically its native condition, and it shows no evidence of ever having been pastured. It is thus a splendid place for the study of the native faunal conditions. Although the whole area in the preserve is small there are other areas of adjoining forest along the Galien River, so that, for the smaller mammals at least, the results of the study and trapping should indicate the primitive habitat distribution. The relative abundance of the different species, however, is probably much changed by the decrease throughout the whole region of the carnivores, which have been much hunted and trapped by man. The mammals of Warren Woods were intensively studied by the author from July 3 to September 3 in the summer of 1919. A camp was maintained near the edge of the Woods, and by trapping and hunting every effort was made to determine the mammal fauna of the preserve. From one hundred to two hundred traps for small mammals and about twenty traps for the larger species were kept constantly in operation. A small amount of trapping was done in the fields and along the roadsides immediately adjoining the Woods and a few records were secured from the camp house. The work was supported by the Michigan Geological and Biological Survey. Dr. Alexander G. Ruthven directed the work and gave much assistance in securing the needed collecting equipment. Much help was given by George R. Fox, Director of the Warren Foundation, not only in getting to and from the camp at the Woods and in numerous other courtesies, but also in information about the Woods and about the mammals there. The plant identifications were made by Mr. C. Billington. The figures following the specific names in the lists of mammals from each habitat indicate the number of individuals trapped, shot, or seen and positively identified in that habitat. NATURAL HABITATS _Aquatic habitat_: _Mustela vison mink._ Mink. Reported. _Fiber zibethicus zibethicus._ Muskrat. Reported. Mink and muskrat are reported by residents to occur in the Galien River in and near Warren Woods, but I was unable to secure any specimens though traps were set for them; neither did I see any signs of their presence. _Buttonbush-swamp habitat_: _Peromyscus leucopus noveboracensis._ Northern white-footed mouse. 8. _Mus musculus musculus._ House mouse. 2. A large buttonbush swamp occurs in the preserve just south of the Galien River, but around this the native trees have been cut away and over its accessible edges it has been heavily pastured, so that it is not at all in its natural conditions, and it was not trapped. In the unpastured flood-plain north of the river there is another buttonbush swamp of several hundred yards extent. This latter area was the one selected for study. In this typical swamp the buttonbush, _Cephalanthus occidentalis_, is practically the only plant present. It thickly covers the area with its tangled branches, which grow to heights of four to ten feet. The water had drained away in August, leaving the ground bare, though still wet and soft. Under the cover of the buttonbush there is no herbage whatever, and upon the ground there are only a few decaying logs and a few small sticks, which often carry a light growth of moss. Around the edges of this swamp there is a narrow belt of thick herbage, closely encroached upon by the typical forest of the flood-plain. Fifty mouse traps set in this habitat took eight northern white-footed mice and two house mice the first night, August 5. _Shore habitat_: _Procyon lotor lotor._ Raccoon. Tracks. _Peromyscus leucopus noveboracensis._ Northern white-footed mouse. 1. Along the shores of the Galien River a narrow strip of bare ground was exposed in July and August. The ground of this strip is mostly mud, but in a few places it is sand or gravel. Usually the habitat is narrow, but in some places it is five to ten feet wide. Tracks of raccoon were frequent on the shore along the river. From a few mouse traps set on the bare mud shore one northern white-footed mouse was taken August 4 beside a drift log. _Mud-bar herbage habitat_: _Peromyscus leucopus noveboracensis._ Northern white-footed mouse. 4. A few small recently formed mud bars occur along the Galien River in its outer bends. These bars have not yet had time to become forested, and on their outer edges nearest the river there is usually no vegetation, this part being included in the shore habitat. On their older portions next the forest of the flood-plains occurs a thick growth of herbs, several annual grasses, and rarely a willow, _Salix_ sp., or a seedling tree of white elm, _Ulmus americana_, cottonwood, _Populus deltoides_, maple, _Acer rubrum_ or _saccharinum_, and others of the typical flood-plain species. The vegetation during August is very thick, and reaches a height of four to six feet. The soil is either mud or in a few places fine sand, and the ground is quite moist. In this habitat four northern white-footed mice were trapped August 3-4. _Flood-plain forest habitat_: _Scalopus aquaticus machrinus._ Prairie mole. Ridges. _Blarina brevicauda talpoides._ Short-tailed shrew. 4. _Procyon lotor lotor._ Raccoon. 1. _Mustela noveboracensis noveboracensis._ New York weasel. 1. _Peromyscus leucopus noveboracensis._ Northern white-footed mouse. 52. _Microtus pinetorum scalopsoides._ Northern pine vole. 5. _Mus musculus musculus._ House mouse. 2. _Zapus hudsonius hudsonius._ Hudson Bay jumping mouse. 1. _Erethizon dorsatum dorsatum._ Canada porcupine. Tooth marks. _Marmota monax monax._ Southern woodchuck. 4. _Sciurus hudsonicus loquax._ Southern red squirrel. 4. _Sylvilagus floridanus mearnsii._ Mearns cottontail. 1. There are considerable areas of flood-plain along the Galien River, and except for the recently formed mud bars the flood-plains are heavily covered with a mixed forest in which the linden, _Tilia americana_, white elm, _Ulmus americana_, and sycamore, _Platanus occidentalis_, are conspicuous species. Under this forest there are a few small trees, but there is very little underbrush. The herbage also is sparse and, though in a few places there is a considerable growth of ferns, grasses, and sedges, and of other herbs, there are also many bare areas. One of the significant features of the flood-plains, so far as the mammals are concerned, is the flooding to which these areas are subjected during the spring high-water. At that time the flood-plain for a number of days or weeks may be covered with several feet of water. During the period between July 29 and August 28 a total of one hundred and seventy mouse traps set in the flood-plain forests along the Galien River took for the first nights' trapping, twenty-two northern white-footed mice and one house mouse. Short-tailed shrews, more white-footed mice, pine voles, and a jumping mouse were secured on nights after the first. Larger traps took during the whole period one raccoon, one New York weasel, and two woodchucks. Several other woodchucks and a number of red squirrels were seen. Ridges of moles were numerous, but no specimens were secured. Tooth marks on an old, partly fallen linden were probably made, perhaps a number of years ago, by a porcupine. Throughout the woods there are a number of small ravines. These ravines are forested with trees mostly of the flood-plain type, and there is evidence in many of the ravines, at least in their lower parts, that flooding occurs in the ravine bottom during the spring. Fifty mouse traps set August 26 in a large ravine north of the county road took on the first day five northern white-footed mice and one house mouse. Short-tailed shrews, more white-footed mice, and pine voles were trapped on following days. Here also red squirrels and a cottontail were seen, and tracks of raccoon noted. Evidently the fauna is the same as that of the flood-plain, with which it is here included. _Beech-maple forest habitat_: _Blarina brevicauda talpoides._ Short-tailed shrew. 7. _Procyon lotor lotor._ Raccoon. Tracks. _Peromyscus leucopus noveboracensis._ Northern white-footed mouse. 86. _Microtus pinetorum scalopsoides._ Northern pine vole. 5. _Zapus hudsonius hudsonius._ Hudson Bay jumping mouse. 1. _Marmota monax monax._ Southern woodchuck. Burrows. _Tamias striatus lysteri._ Northeastern chipmunk. 1. _Sciurus hudsonicus loquax._ Southern red squirrel. 10. _Sciurus niger rufiventer._ Fox squirrel. 7. _Sylvilagus floridanus mearnsii._ Mearns cottontail. 1. The climax forest of the region is dominated by the beech, _Fagus grandiflora_, and the sugar maple, _Acer saccharum_. The trees in this forest are very large, so that the forest crown is high and the shade dense. Only a few small trees occur and these are mostly young beeches and young sugar maples. The underbrush varies much in height and denseness; mostly it is quite open, so that one can easily walk through the forest, but in a few places the growth is more dense. Common members of the underbrush on the higher ground are the small beeches, sugar maples, and the spice-bush, _Benzoin aestivale_; while on the lower benches along the river seedlings of the paw-paw dominate the undergrowth. The ground is heavily covered by decaying leaves and a little dead brush and fallen branches, but nearly all the logs have been removed. Early in the spring a thick growth of herbs covers the ground, but by July the herbs are mostly gone, only a few remaining, and there are many small bare areas covered only by leaves. The soil under this forest seems to be mainly clay; in spring or after heavy rains pools of water are formed, and these remain for a long time. Between July 21 and August 27 a total of two hundred and eighty-five mouse traps set in the upland forest took on the first nights one short-tailed shrew and thirty northern white-footed mice. In addition to these species pine voles and a jumping mouse were trapped on days after the first. One shrew was caught alive August 30, as he was running about on the forest floor at 7:30 A.M. A few tracks of raccoon were seen from time to time on the road leading through the woods. A few fresh burrows of woodchucks were noted at the edges of benches and of ravines. A few red squirrels were seen at different times and two collected. Fox squirrels were rare, being noted only a few times; Mr. Norman A. Wood also saw these squirrels on two occasions in May. One cottontail was shot, in the climax forest. Mr. Wood collected a chipmunk in the climax forest on May 15, 1918, and saw another in the same habitat in May, 1919. _Aerial habitat_: Bats were seen on a few evenings, flying about over the climax forest, and over the adjacent region, but they were extremely rare, and efforts to shoot a specimen failed. MODIFIED AND ARTIFICIAL HABITATS _Second-growth forest and scrub habitat_: _Mustela noveboracensis noveboracensis._ New York weasel. 1. _Mephitis nigra._ Eastern skunk. 1. _Peromyscus leucopus noveboracensis._ Northern white-footed mouse. 5. _Microtus pennsylvanicus pennsylvanicus._ Pennsylvania vole. 4. _Mus musculus musculus._ House mouse. 1. _Marmota monax monax._ Southern woodchuck. 1. _Sciurus hudsonicus loquax._ Southern red squirrel. 1. _Sylvilagus floridanus mearnsii._ Mearns cottontail. 5. Small trees and brush have grown up along the edges of many of the ravines in the cleared fields in and surrounding the preserve. Many of the trees are oaks, but beech and hard maple also occur, a few of them being relics from the original forest. Considerable brush is present, formed by a large variety of species. A few other small patches, especially in ravine bottoms and on flood-plains have been allowed to grow up to brush and small trees. In nearly every case these areas are heavily pastured. The conditions here included in the second-growth forest and scrub habitat are not homogeneous, but differ in each different location where the habitat is found, tree and shrub species abundant in one situation not being present in another. The habitat is usually narrow in extent, being often confined to the width of the steep ravine wall. Owing to its poor development and uncertain characteristics no intensive trapping was done in this type of habitat. A weasel was trapped in open beech-maple-oak forest at the edge of a cleared ravine, and a woodchuck was shot in the same type of habitat. Another woodchuck and a skunk were trapped at different times in low willow brush on the banks of the river just north of the woods. Northern white-footed mice, Pennsylvania voles, and a house mouse were trapped in thick oak brush and trees alongside a road north of the woods. A red squirrel was shot in second-growth oak and aspen woods in the north part of the preserve, and they were seen in open woods along ravines. Cottontails were noted a few times in blackberry thickets, in brush in ravines, in clearings along the river, and in beech-maple-oak forest along ravines. _Cleared-ravine sedge habitat_: _Blarina brevicauda talpoides._ Short-tailed shrew. 1. _Peromyscus leucopus noveboracensis._ Northern white-footed mouse. 3. _Microtus pennsylvanicus pennsylvanicus._ Pennsylvania vole. 5. A large ravine south of the river had been cleared of trees evidently several years previously, and it has now grown up mostly to sedges, grass, and iris in its more moist parts. Along the little brook which flows through the ravine there is a fringe of willows, and among the sedges a number of shrubs and small trees occur, mostly thorns and a few young sycamores and black walnuts. Fifty mouse traps set in this habitat took on the first day, August 16, three northern white-footed mice and three Pennsylvania voles. More voles and a short-tailed shrew were taken on later days. _Cleared-upland rush habitat_: _Mephitis nigra._ Eastern skunk. Den. _Peromyscus maniculatus bairdii._ Prairie white-footed mouse. 1. _Synaptomys cooperi._ Cooper lemming-vole. 1. _Microtus pennsylvanicus pennsylvanicus._ Pennsylvania vole. 7. _Microtus ochrogaster._ Prairie vole. 1. _Citellus tridecemlineatus tridecemlineatus._ Thirteen-striped ground squirrel. 2. In the shallow, poorly drained depressions of the cleared upland the vegetation is dominated by rushes, which grow in clumps and form a thick growth, reaching a height of about one meter as a maximum. At the edges of the habitat and in places not thickly covered by the rushes a growth of sedges, grasses, and moss covers the ground; but under the thickest growth of rushes the ground is bare and is evidently covered by water during a part of the year. On this upland one small pond surrounded by rushes did not dry up until late in August. In a few places small blackberry thickets occur in the areas of rushes and dominate all other plants. Fifty traps set in this habitat, on August 8, took on the first night one prairie white-footed mouse and one Pennsylvania vole; the prairie white-footed mouse was taken just at the edge of the growth of rushes. Other Pennsylvania voles as well as a lemming-vole, a prairie vole, and several young ground squirrels were secured on later nights by the same trap-line. A skunk den was situated in a blackberry thicket in the midst of the largest patch of rushes. _Cleared-upland sedge habitat_: _Peromyscus maniculatus bairdii._ Prairie white-footed mouse. 3. _Microtus pennsylvanicus pennsylvanicus._ Pennsylvania vole. 1. _Microtus ochrogaster._ Prairie vole. 9. _Mus musculus musculus._ House mouse. 1. _Citellus tridecemlineatus tridecemlineatus._ Thirteen-striped ground squirrel. Burrows. Sedges are dominant over a part of the cleared upland, occurring on the moist gentle slopes which are too well drained for rushes, but not in any numbers on the drier and higher parts of the upland. With the sedges there are a few grasses, and the ground is sometimes covered by a moss, but the sedges are by far the most abundant plant. Fifty mouse traps set in this habitat took on the first night, August 15, one prairie white-footed mouse and one prairie vole. Other prairie voles and white-footed mice were taken on later nights, as well as one Pennsylvania vole and one house mouse. Burrows of the thirteen-striped ground squirrel were numerous in the sedges. _Cleared-upland blue-grass habitat_: _Peromyscus maniculatus bairdii._ Prairie white-footed mouse. 12. _Mus musculus musculus._ House mouse. 1. _Citellus tridecemlineatus tridecemlineatus._ Thirteen-striped ground squirrel. 23. The most widespread habitat of the cleared upland on the south part of the preserve is the blue-grass habitat. In this habitat the blue-grass, _Poa_, is the dominant plant, growing to a height of usually not over 0.5 meter. With the blue-grass are associated a few thistles, yarrow, and several other herbs. During the whole period of my stay in the region, July and August, the habitat was very dry, and the grass and herbs had mostly dried up. This habitat and all the other habitats of the clearing were being heavily pastured by stock. Trap-lines totaling one hundred mouse traps, set on August 6 and August 18, took on the first nights two prairie white-footed mice, one house mouse, and one young thirteen-striped ground squirrel. More white-footed mice were taken on later nights. Many ground squirrels were taken in larger traps at the mouths of their burrows; most of these were young of the year, and all of them were very fat in preparation for their approaching hibernation. _Cultivated field habitat_: _Scalopus aquaticus machrinus._ Prairie mole. 1. _Peromyscus maniculatus bairdii._ Prairie white-footed mouse. 23. _Microtus ochrogaster._ Prairie vole. 1. _Mus musculus musculus._ House mouse. 2. _Sylvilagus floridanus mearnsii._ Mearns cottontail. 2. Cultivated fields occur throughout the region about the woods, but the only ones in which trapping was done were wheat stubble-fields. After the wheat was cut off these stubble-fields grew up rather thickly to weeds. On the ground there were a number of fallen heads of wheat and some shelled-out grain, furnishing abundant food for mice. Seventy mouse traps set in a wheat stubble-field just north of Warren Woods, caught on the first nights, August 13 and August 29, sixteen prairie white-footed mice. Other white-footed mice and two house mice were taken on later nights. Several cottontails were seen in this field, and a few mole ridges were noted. A prairie mole was taken by Clifford Reid in a grassy patch at the edge of a garden. In another wheat field the Helming boys picked up a prairie vole. _Orchard habitat_: _Peromyscus leucopus noveboracensis._ Northern white-footed mouse. 1. _Microtus pennsylvanicus pennsylvanicus._ Pennsylvania vole. 2. No especial study of the mammal life of the orchard was made, and no intensive trapping was done in the habitat. However, the orchard cannot be included in any of the other habitats recognized in the region. A northern white-footed mouse was caught alive by the Helming boys in an orchard on July 16. A vole was seen to cross a road in a small orchard on July 15; a trap was set and two Pennsylvania voles secured, one a young of the year. _Edificarian habitat_:[1] _Blarina brevicauda talpoides._ Short-tailed shrew. 1. _Peromyscus leucopus noveboracensis._ Northern white-footed mouse. 2. _Rattus norvegicus._ Norway rat. 4. _Mus musculus musculus._ House mouse. 22. _Sylvilagus floridanus mearnsii._ Mearns cottontail. 2. From time to time a few traps were set in the old farmhouse and in the barn and other outbuildings of our camp. In these buildings northern white-footed mice, Norway rats, and house mice were taken. Several cottontails were seen in and under the old barn. The Helming boys trapped a short-tailed shrew and also house mice and a white-footed mouse in the basement of their house. RECORDS OF THE NUMBER OF EMBRYOS All the females taken were examined for embryos, and the results are here tabulated by species and dates. The term _subadult_ is used to indicate an individual which has reached adult size, but which is still immature as shown by the pelage, unworn condition of the teeth, and weakness of the skull sutures. For each individual the age is first stated, next the number of embryos if any, and last the length of the embryos in millimeters measured as they lie rolled in the fetal membranes. For embryos too small to measure with field equipment the term _small_ is applied. These records indicate the breeding period of the different species and the number of young. _Mephitis nigra._ Eastern skunk August 19: subadult, 0 embryos. _Peromyscus leucopus noveboracensis._ Northern white-footed mouse July 16: adult, 3 embryos, size small. July 21: adult, 0; adult, 0. July 22: adult, 5, 10 5 mm.; subadult, 0. July 23: subadult, 0. July 25: juvenile, 0, juvenile, 0; juvenile 0; subadult, 3, small. July 30: adult, 0; adult, 0; adult, 0; subadult, 0. August 2: adult, 0; subadult, 2, small; subadult, 0; subadult, 0. August 5: adult, 5, small; subadult, 0. August 23: subadult, 0; adult, 5, 10 mm. August 24: adult, 5, 8 mm.; adult, 0; adult, 0; adult, 3, small. August 25: adult, 5, 23 mm.; adult, 0; adult, 4, small; adult, 3, small. August 26: subadult, 4, 8 mm.; adult, 0. August 29: adult, 4, 17 mm. _Peromyscus maniculatus bairdii._ Prairie white-footed mouse August 7: subadult, 0. August 10: adult, 5, 8 mm. August 13: adult, 3, 8 mm.; adult, 0. August 20: adult, 5, small. August 28: adult, 4, 17 mm.; adult, 4, 13 mm. August 29: adult, 5, 17 mm. August 30: adult, 0; adult, 4, 11 mm. _Synaptomys cooperi._ Cooper lemming-vole August 11: adult, 2, 10 mm. _Microtus pennsylvanicus pennsylvanicus._ Pennsylvania vole July 15: adult, 4, not measured, juvenile, 0. August 9: subadult, 0. August 10: subadult, 0; subadult, 0. August 13: subadult, 0. August 16: adult, 0. August 24: adult, 4, 11 mm. _Microtus ochrogaster._ Prairie vole July 25: juvenile, 0. August 15: adult, 4, small. _Microtus pinetorum scalopsoides._ Northern pine vole July 22: juvenile, 0. July 25: juvenile, 0. July 31: adult, 0. _Rattus norvegicus._ Norway rat July 11: adult, 7, 37 mm. July 12: adult, 9, 26 mm. July 14: juvenile, 0. _Mus musculus musculus._ House mouse July 9: subadult, 0. July 10: juvenile, 0; subadult, 0. July 11: adult, 0 (was nursing 3 or more half-grown young). July 17: adult, 11, 6 mm. July 22: adult, 7, 3.5 mm. _Zapus hudsonius hudsonius._ Hudson Bay jumping mouse July 27: subadult, 0. _Marmota monax monax._ Southern woodchuck July 11: adult, 0. July 28: juvenile, 0. August 3: adult, 0. August 22: juvenile, 0. _Citellus tridecemlineatus tridecemlineatus._ Thirteen-striped ground squirrel August 14: adult, 0. _Sciurus hudsonicus loquax._ Southern red squirrel July 24: adult, 0. July 27: juvenile, 0. _Sciurus niger rufiventer._ Fox squirrel August 11: subadult, 0. _Sylvilagus floridanus mearnsii._ Mearns cottontail July 21: adult, 4, 70 mm. NEW STATE RECORD OF THE PRAIRIE VOLE The specimens of prairie vole, _Microtus ochrogaster_, listed above from the sedges and rushes of cleared upland in the Warren Woods preserve and from a nearby wheat field constitute the first authentic record of the species from Michigan. The prairie vole had previously been erroneously reported to be abundant in Washtenaw County by Covert[2], who evidently mistook the Pennsylvania vole for this species. OTHER MAMMALS OF THIS REGION The following notes on mammals formerly or at present living in the region but not found by me in Warren Woods are based mostly on information furnished by George R. Fox, Director of the Edward K. Warren Foundation, and by William Schmidt, a trapper and hunter. _Didelphis virginiana virginiana._ Virginia opossum. Three were seen and one captured in Three Oaks in the winter of 1919-20, and another was found in a granary on the outskirts of the town. The previous winter one was shot just southwest of town, and another was seen in a ravine north of Harbert. One was killed in Warren Woods some time ago. _Condylura cristata._ Star-nosed mole. Mr. Hans captured one four miles south of Three Oaks, near the Indiana line in 1919, and brought the skin to Mr. Fox. One was taken by Dr. Parker at Lakeside in June, 1919. _Ursus americanus americanus._ Eastern black bear. Formerly occurred in the region. _Canis lycaon._ Timber wolf. About eleven years ago three were killed from a pack of nine wolves at Lakeside. About 1910 a pack of eight were seen at various times during the winter on the marsh between Three Oaks and Galien. The following winter the same pack, or another of the same number, was seen southwest of Three Oaks, and four of the pack were killed just over the Indiana line. _Vulpes fulva._ Eastern red fox. Common in the region. One was killed in December, 1919, after having been chased from the Warren Woods by dogs. Another was seen in January, 1920, half a mile north of Three Oaks. In preceding winters a number have been killed south of Sawyer where they evidently come from the sand dunes. _Lutra canadensis canadensis._ Canada otter. Formerly occurred along the streams, but are now apparently all gone. _Felis couguar._ Cougar. One was killed a few miles northeast of Three Oaks many years ago. Another was killed near New Buffalo in the early days. _Lynx ruffus ruffus._ Bobcat. One was killed a few years ago near the Galien River a few miles northeast of Three Oaks. _Erethizon dorsatum dorsatum._ Canada porcupine. Found here in the early days. _Sciurus carolinensis leucotis._ Northeastern gray squirrel. Black squirrels were found in numbers in the early days. _Glaucomys volans volans._ Eastern flying squirrel. Said to be common. A large number were seen by Mr. Schmidt on one old stub in Warren Woods some years ago. Several were seen in 1918 by Mr. Fox in second-growth oak woods in a little ravine about one and one-fourth mile west of Warren Woods. One was caught in Three Oaks in the fall of 1919. _Cervus canadensis canadensis._ American elk. One horn from a large swamp in Berrien County is in the Chamberlain Memorial Museum of Three Oaks. _Odocoileus virginianus borealis._ Northern white-tailed deer. Formerly abundant in the region. Several molars were picked up in Warren Woods. FOSSIL MAMMALS OF BERRIEN COUNTY The records of fossil mammals from Berrien County here published have been collected by George R. Fox, who has also kindly loaned from the collections under his care several specimens for identification. Dr. E. C. Case assisted with the identification of the mammoth teeth. _Mammut americanum._ Mastodon. (1) About 1897 the teeth of a mastodon were dug up by a dredge within the village limits of Eau Claire. Their disposition is unknown. (2) At Snow, in section 36, Lake Township, a tooth was found. This came into the possession of Frank Striker of Buchanan. (3) A portion of a tusk and part of a skull were found on the Beebe Farm near Baroda. These were sent to Washington, D.C. (4) In the excavation of a ditch through a small marsh lying near Bakerstown in Section 3, of Bertrand Township, the dredge uncovered in the distance of between two and three miles bones, teeth, and other evidences of six mastodons. Of these remains the most important was a nearly complete skull with teeth in place and disintegrated parts of the tusks. The skull was secured by Dr. E. H. Crane, who restored parts, the tusks he did not attempt to restore. This skull is now on exhibition at the Ward Museum, Rochester, New York. The skull lay about seven feet deep. It was under a bed of matted oak brush on top of which lay a huge stone slab, estimated to weigh two or three tons. Above was a layer of silt, then gravelly clay; above were more silt beds, three in number. W. Hillis Smith, who helped Dr. Crane secure the skull, furnished the above information. (5) On the Avery marsh, two miles east of Three Oaks, a badly decayed mastodon skull and several teeth were excavated in 1884. Dr. Bonine, Sr., of Niles, assisted at the excavation. The bones and teeth were in the muck about twenty inches below the surface. Other teeth, making seven in all, were found near the same place. Some of the teeth from this locality are on exhibition at the Chamberlain Memorial Museum of Three Oaks. In addition to the above there are several indefinite records of mastodon remains from the county. _Elephas columbi._ Columbian mammoth. (1) One-half of the tooth of a mammoth was found in the spring of 1917 on the Beeson and Holden farm in Section 6, NE. 1/4, Township of Galien, by D. H. Beeson while cultivating corn. Two weeks later the other half of the tooth was found. The specimen is now in the Chamberlain Memorial Museum of Three Oaks. The specimen is a well-worn lower third molar having twenty ridge-plates, but some of the ridge-plates have been worn out and lost. Seven and a half ridge-plates are included in a 100 mm. line. The greatest length of the tooth is 280 mm. and its greatest breadth 95 mm. (2) A complete set of mammoth teeth with some portions of the bones was found about the year 1900 on a farm two miles southeast of Three Oaks owned by E. K. Warren. They were discovered while digging post holes. The specimens are on exhibition in the Chamberlain Memorial Museum. One of the teeth sent us for identification proves to be a partly worn lower third molar having twenty-four ridge-plates. There are seven and a half ridge-plates in 100 mm. The greatest length of the tooth is 350 mm. and its greatest breadth 95 mm. (3) There is another record of a mammoth tooth which was found at an unknown location in Berrien County. It was at one time owned by Mr. Smith, who gave it to Dr. Crane. Its present whereabouts is unknown. PLATE I A mud bar beside the Galien River in Warren Woods. A growth of mud-bar herbs adjoins the flood-plain forest on the left. August 29, 1919. Flood-plain forest in Warren Woods. There are few shrubs, but a considerable amount of herbage is present. August 29, 1919. [Illustration] [Illustration] PLATE II Buttonbush swamp in Warren Woods. The swamp is surrounded by flood-plain forest. August 29, 1919. Climax beech-maple forest on the higher ground in Warren Woods. August 29, 1919. [Illustration] [Illustration] Footnotes: [Footnote 1: L. R. Dice, _Occasional Papers, Mus. Zool._, No. 65.] [Footnote 2: Adolphe B. Covert, _Natural History--History of Washtenaw County_, p. 194. 1881.] Transcriber's Note: *The footnotes have been moved to the end of the publication. 
37753	----	NUMBER 109 FEBRUARY 25, 1922 OCCASIONAL PAPERS OF THE MUSEUM OF ZOOLOGY UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN ANN ARBOR, MICHIGAN PUBLISHED BY THE UNIVERSITY NOTES ON THE MAMMALS OF GOGEBIC AND ONTONAGON COUNTIES, MICHIGAN, 1920 BY L. R. DICE AND H. B. SHERMAN The authors of this paper spent the summer of 1920 in western Michigan studying the mammals of the region for the Michigan Geological and Biological Survey. From June 25 to August 4 was spent in the Cisco Lake Region with headquarters on Lindsley Lake; August 6 to August 20 a camp was maintained in the woods four miles southeast of Little Girl's Point; and from August 20 to September 6 was spent working from a camp on the western shore of Lake Gogebic, about three miles south of Lake Gogebic Station. The first two camps were in Gogebic County, the third in Ontonagon County. The field work was performed jointly by the two authors, under the direction of the senior author, who is responsible for the identification of the species, the descriptions of the general areas and of the habitats, and is jointly concerned in writing the annotated list. In addition to our own records, we have secured many valuable notes on the distribution of the larger species from J. E. Fischer, of Merriweather, Ontonagon County, a trapper of many years' experience; and from Benjamin J. Twombley, of Bent's Resort, Wisconsin, who has made many observations on the mammals of the Cisco Lake Region. We have also added a number of records from J. E. Marshall, who trapped for many years, beginning 1884, in Ontonagon and Gogebic counties, and from Ole Petersen, at one time a trapper at Gogebic Lake. The habitats in which records of occurrence have been obtained for the region under consideration are listed under each species; and the number of individuals taken, or seen and positively identified, in each habitat are given. From the figures a rough estimate of the relative abundance of the various species in the different habitats can be obtained, but the various habitats were not trapped or studied equally intensively, and for the larger and the rarer forms the numbers give little dependable data on relative abundance. DESCRIPTIONS OF THE REGIONS STUDIED _Cisco Lake Region._ In the Cisco Lake Region there are many lakes, mostly small, but several of a length of one to three miles. The water-level in the Cisco Lake chain has been raised six or ten feet by a dam across the outlet, and this change in water-level has killed the trees along the lake borders, so that the lakes are fringed by a narrow line of dead trees. The habitats of emerging vegetation and of aquatic vegetation have been much altered by the change in water-level, and these habitats cannot be well studied in these lakes. However, the neighboring lakes in which the water-level has not been changed show that the forests of the region originally came down to the water's edge, and that there was little normal development of marsh or swamp. The ridges between the lakes rise in general to heights of twenty-five feet or more, though bluffs are not formed. These ridges are mostly covered by mixed hardwood forest in which the hard maple, yellow birch, hemlock, and linden are the dominant trees. There are numerous small wet depressions, some of them containing small black spruce bogs, while others include a few arbor-vitae mixed with linden and other typical trees of the wet hardwood forest. Small areas of nearly pure hemlock occur on some slopes near the lake shores. A few large tamarack bogs are present. Though the pines formerly occurring have been taken out, the region otherwise is in nearly its native condition. A few former clearings along the lake shores have grown up to brush or to white birch saplings or small trees. _Little Girl's Point Region._ Much of the region in the near vicinity of Little Girl's Point has been cleared or burned, but a few miles to the east and southeast there are still considerable areas of native forest. The high ridge running through the region bears a splendid forest of maple, yellow birch, and linden, with little if any hemlock. However, on the steeper lower slopes hemlock occurs in nearly a pure stand. At one place was found a nice grove of large white pines, mixed, on the lower edge of the slope, with a few hemlocks. Black spruce-tamarack bogs are extensive and arbor-vitae swamps occur commonly. The extensive burned areas south of the point have grown up to a thicket of aspen, birch, and various shrubs and saplings. A few small areas are under cultivation. _Region at the north end of Gogebic Lake._ Most of the region about the north end of Gogebic Lake is low and wet. A number of small black ash swamps occur near the lake, and further back there are extensive black spruce bogs. The main forest is of a much mixed wet hardwood type, sugar maple, linden, yellow birch, elm, and hemlock, being the dominant species. The forest in most places reaches the edge of the lake, though a few sandy beaches occur. However, the level of the water in the lake has been raised a few feet by a dam across the outlet, and beaches were probably more abundant before this occurred. The lake is so large, about 13 miles long by 1 to 2 miles broad, that wave action is quite pronounced. One beaver meadow was studied, this meadow including areas of grasses and of sedges, traversed by ditches, small mud-flats covered with low rushes, and alder thickets. Just north of Lake Gogebic Station there are some high hills having bluffs on the southern exposures. These hills were visited, but they had been extensively logged and burned over and no attempt was made to trap for mammals on them. Some large burned areas have grown up to sapling forests of aspens. Near the towns of Lake Gogebic and Merriweather nearly all the forests have been cleared away, but farther south on the sides of the lake the woods are still in their natural condition. HABITATS The habitats studied in Gogebic and Ontonagon counties may be listed as follows: Exposed shores: Open-water Beach Dirt-bluff Forest--shore Protected shores: Water lily Pondweed Rush Submerged-sedge Cat-tail Willow-thicket Mud-flat Meadow: Ditch-border Tall-sedge Grassy-meadow Alder-thicket Swamps: Black ash swamp Arbor-vitae swamp Bogs: Leather leaf bog Sphagnum bog Black spruce--tamarack bog Forests: Hemlock forest White pine forest Wet hardwood forest Dry hardwood forest Mountains: Rock-bluff Mountain-heath Air: Aerial Burns and clearings: Herbaceous stage Shrub stage Paper birch--aspen stage Young hardwood forest stage Artificial conditions: Overflow swamp Cultivated-field Edificarian This list of habitats is admittedly not complete for the regions visited, but is intended to include those which we studied. We had no opportunity of studying either the shores of a large river or jack pine ridges, both of which situations will undoubtedly have habitats not here recognized. The habitats studied in Gogebic and Ontonagon counties but every habitat has been listed which seems to form a distinct type of mammal environment. We are firmly convinced that it is better to describe a great number of habitats rather than to lump different kinds of environments together. It is infinitely easier for a later worker to combine several habitats, which have been split too finely, than it is to separate the component habitats which may have been lumped together under one name. No attempt is made to give complete lists of the plants found in each habitat, but only the more conspicuous plants or those of special importance to the mammals are mentioned. The plant names used are mostly taken from Darlington's list of Gogebic County plants.[1] _Exposed Shores_ _Open-water habitat:_ This habitat includes the areas of open water with no rooted vegetation in the deeper parts of the lakes and rivers. On Lake Superior at Little Girl's Point this habitat comes directly to the beach, for the wave action on this exposed point is sufficient to prevent the growth of plants along the shore. In Gogebic Lake and in the smaller lakes of the Cisco Lake Region there are also many parts where there is no rooted vegetation along shore. This habitat, therefore, covers by far the larger part of the aquatic conditions of northwestern Michigan. We secured no records of mammals for this habitat, and, though some aquatic species must occasionally occur in the open water along lake shores, they are rare there, and are practically absent from the areas of open water farther out in the lakes. _Beach habitat:_ The shore of Lake Superior at Little Girl's Point is subjected to heavy pounding by the lake waves, leading to the formation of a well-developed beach. To the east of the point the beach for some distance is five to ten yards wide, mostly of small gravel, with sand on the upper part; it ends abruptly against a steep dirt bluff. On the beach no vegetation grows and only a few scattered drift logs occur. To the west of Little Girl's Point undetached masses of solid rock are more prominent, though small patches of gravel occur in partially protected places. The beach here in general is narrow and rises steeply, so that the different beach zones, lower, middle, and upper, are not well marked. On the shores of Lake Gogebic are a few small sand beaches; but around this lake, as well as around the smaller lakes of the region, the forest comes, in general, directly to the edge of the water. There was no opportunity to trap for mammals on a beach, and no records for the habitat were obtained. _Dirt-bluff habitat:_ To the east of Little Girl's Point the beach of Lake Superior runs along the base of a dirt bluff about 35 feet high. The storm waves of winter evidently wash against this bluff, eroding it away and destroying the forest, which is of the hemlock type, growing on the level above. The bluff is quite steep, and along with small exposures of bare clay bears a number of scattered herbs and a few shrubs and small trees, such as alder, willow, arbor-vitae, yellow birch, paper birch, and red maple. No collecting was done in this habitat and no records of mammals were obtained from it. _Forest--shore habitat:_ Along all the lakes of the region, except Lake Superior, the forests in general come down to the water's edge. The marginal forests are frequently dominated by hemlock, though often a wet hardwood forest occurs along the shores, and in a number of places along Gogebic Lake black ash swamps border the water. Red maple (_Acer rubrum_) and mountain ash (_Sorbus americana_) frequently occur along the exposed shores of Gogebic Lake. Frequently young forests of paper birch or quaking aspen have replaced the original forests in the clearings and burned areas along the lake borders. The shore beside a forest commonly rises abruptly a few inches to a foot or more in a firm bank, and in most cases the trees overhang the water to some extent. These shores are the favorite promenade of the porcupine; and the mink, muskrat, and otter are typical of the habitat. _Protected Shores_ _Water lily habitat:_ In shallow, protected parts of the lakes and channels of the Cisco Lake chain there are extensive growths of white and yellow water lilies (_Castalia tuberosa_ and _Nymphaea advena_). Water lilies also occur in many places as a narrow border at the edge of deep water. Muskrats were the only mammals noted in this habitat, but mink and otter probably occur also. _Pondweed habitat:_ A thick growth of pondweeds (Potamogeton spp.) occurs in protected places along the shores in many parts of the lakes of the Cisco Lake chain. Muskrats were noted in this habitat. In Gogebic Lake the exposure to wave action is in most places too great for a good development of pondweeds, though in the northern end of the lake there are a number of widely scattered plants of this type, but not forming a very well marked habitat. _Rush habitat:_ On somewhat protected shoals, both in the lakes of the Cisco Lake Region and in Gogebic Lake, there is sometimes a growth of rushes (Juncus sp.). Along the lower course of the Merriweather River, just before it enters Gogebic Lake, rushes thickly cover numerous small areas. The plants in both cases grow partly submerged in the water. No records for mammals were obtained from this type of habitat, though doubtless some of the amphibious forms frequently occur here. _Submerged-sedge habitat:_ Sedges in general do not occur as a definite belt about the margins of the lakes in the region studied. The only place where any considerable growth of sedges was noted at the edge of the water was along the lower course of Merriweather River, just before it enters Gogebic Lake. Here there are considerable areas of sedges partially submerged by the water. No records of mammals were obtained from this habitat. _Cat-tail habitat:_ Under native conditions cat-tails (_Typha latifolia_) apparently do not often form extensive habitats in the region. Along the marshy borders of the lower Merriweather River at Gogebic Lake a few small patches were seen. Small patches were seen in other places along railroad tracks where embankments had produced small areas of marshy ground. In the Cisco Lake Region a few of the areas of timber killed by the raising of the water-level have grown up to cat-tail swamps. In these swamps there are many standing dead trees and fallen logs as well as some areas of open water. The cat-tails seem to occur mostly in those swamps having only a small connection with the main body of the lake. In these places the cat-tail is dominant, though numerous sedges occur, and there is some sphagnum growing on the fallen logs and along the shore. A few small black spruces are starting. Along the edge of such a swamp a few deer-mice were taken, but these were evidently stragglers from the adjacent forest. _Willow-thicket habitat:_ Willows do not occur commonly along the water margins of the lakes of the region. The only place, except in clearings, where willows were noted as a definite growth is along the lower course of the Merriweather River at Gogebic Lake. Along this part of the river there are extensive growths of shrubby willows, growing (in early September) in a foot or more of water. The indications were that earlier in the summer the water about these plants must have been at least a foot higher. Signs of muskrat were noted at the edge of these willows. _Mud-flat habitat:_ Around the margin of a pond formed by an old deserted beaver dam near Gogebic Lake, two miles southwest of Merriweather, is a narrow strip of mud, very wet and sparsely covered with a growth of low rushes. The strip of muddy ground varies from about 1 to 4 meters in width and extends a short distance up along the edge of the small ditch draining into the pond. At the upper border of the strip of muddy shore is a thick growth of sedges, meeting the muddy shore at a fairly sharp line. In this habitat meadow mice are common and four jumping mice (_Zapus hudsonius_) were taken. _Meadows_ _Ditch-border habitat:_ A number of small ditches run through an old beaver meadow of considerable size near Gogebic Lake, about two miles southwest of Merriweather. The borders of the ditches are muddy and the banks are from 6 to 18 inches high; in places the ditch borders are closely encroached upon by the tall sedges of the adjacent meadow. A small amount of water was present (in early September) in most of the ditches. In mouse traps set at the edges of these ditches, partly in the water, star-nosed moles and navigator shrews were taken. In a larger trap a skunk was taken. _Tall-sedge habitat:_ In the beaver meadow studied near Gogebic Lake, an area about 200 meters by 100 meters or more is occupied by a heavy growth of high, coarse sedges, reaching a height of about .75 to 1.00 meter. A few grasses and some low herbs occur sparingly among the sedges. The habitat had not been burned over and the ground is covered with a thick mat of the decaying leaves and stems of the sedges and grasses. In most places the ground is quite wet, sometimes soggy to walk upon, and in a few places low hummocks are numerous. A similar habitat was found in rather a narrow strip at the edge of Mud Lake, one-fourth mile southwest of Thousand Island Lake, Gogebic County. Here a small area of meadow occurs along the inlet of a tiny stream. This area apparently had been artificially cleared of its forest, but the level of the lake had not been raised. The habitat differs from the submerged-sedge habitat of protected lake shores in being higher above the water and in not being covered with water from July to September; probably water does not stand to any depth on it at any time. The Richardson shrew is apparently a characteristic mammal of this habitat, though other shrews and mice were taken here also. _Grassy-meadow habitat:_ Part of the beaver meadow studied near Gogebic Lake is covered by a thick growth of grasses and sedges of a number of species. The ground of the habitat was rather dry and had been burned over the previous year. Grasses are also dominant over a few small areas near Mud Lake in Gogebic County. On a small area of the clearing near this lake a thick stand of bluegrass (Poa) is almost the only plant present. This occurs on an area of fairly moist mud. On the drier slope near the forest Poa also is abundant, forming the dominant species over a strip about 5 to 10 meters wide. Jumping mice are common in this habitat. _Alder-thicket habitat:_ On very wet ground just below an old beaver dam near Gogebic Lake there is a heavy growth of alder (_Alnus incana_) about 20 feet high. No other shrubs were noted in the thicket. The ground under the alders is mostly bare, there being only a few ferns, grasses, and other herbs. On the ground are many dead sticks fallen from the alders. This situation contained few mammals, only one Blarina being taken in four days' trapping with 25 traps. At the south end of the beaver meadow willows and alders are invading the sedges in very wet ground. No trapping was done in this situation. _Swamps_ _Black ash swamp habitat:_ A number of black ash swamps occur along the shores of Gogebic Lake, being apparently partially flooded during periods of heavy rains and during stages of high water. In a swamp of this type near the north end of Gogebic Lake on the west side, black ash (_Fraxinus nigra_) is the dominant tree, the trunks reaching diameters up to 2 feet. Elms (_Ulmus americana_) sometimes reaching a trunk diameter of 3 feet are common, and yellow birches and hard maples are common also. Black maples are rare, and lindens are few. The trees are high and the forest crown nearly closed. Underbrush is common in the more open places, this being mostly mountain maple (_Acer spicatum_) with a few young firs, young arbor-vitae, and Virginia creepers (_Parthenocissus quinquefolia_). There are numerous ferns, and herbs are abundant. Under the more closed parts of the forest canopy the ground is mostly bare, underbrush and herbs being scanty. Smaller black ash swamps occur in the Cisco Lake Region, and in the vicinity of Little Girl's Point a number of small black ashes were noted in a swamp of mixed arbor-vitae and black spruce. _Arbor-vitae swamp habitat:_ In the Cisco Lake Region arbor-vitae (_Thuja occidentalis_) occurs commonly near the edges of the lakes and in the wet depressions in the forest. Near Gogebic Lake also the arbor-vitae grows commonly near the shores of the lake and in wet places in the woods, especially at the edges of swamps. But the trees in both these areas, so far as seen, were small, and the arbor-vitae did not form a dominant species, but occurred in a small percentage mixed with the other types of forest. However, in part of the region near Gogebic Lake extensive arbor-vitae swamps are reported to occur. In the vicinity of Little Girl's Point arbor-vitae swamps are common, occupying the wet lower northern slopes of the high ridge. In a swamp of this type three miles southeast of the point arbor-vitae is the dominant tree, reaching trunk diameters of two feet and more. Under the dense shade of the high forest crown there are many young trees of the same species, and the forest has evidently reached a temporary climax. Of other trees, a few small yellow birch, a few young firs and hemlocks, and one fallen white spruce (_Picea canadensis_) were noted. The ground is very wet and there are numerous tiny streams, which frequently disappear under the ground. Fallen trees and decaying logs on the ground make a thick tangle, very difficult to penetrate. The underbrush is scanty; mountain maple is rather common, and there are a few young black ashes. Much moss grows on the ground and on the decaying logs. In a depression two miles south of Little Girl's Point is a mixed growth of arbor-vitae, black spruce, with a few black ashes. The trees are mostly small, none of them exceeding about eight inches in trunk diameter. In August the ground was very wet, there being standing water in some places, and the ground was heavily covered with sphagnum. This situation may be considered transitional between the black spruce bog and the arbor-vitae swamp. No traps for mammals were set in this situation. _Bogs_ _Leather leaf bog habitat:_ In the northwestern corner of Fish-hawk Lake and at several places along the channel connecting Lindsley and Cisco lakes a heavy growth of leather leaf (_Chamaedaphne calyculata_) adjoins and overhangs the water, a considerable portion of the growth actually floating on the water. With the leather leaf is associated much sweet gale (_Myrica gale_) and alders, and these plants form almost the entire mat in some of the wetter areas. At other places sphagnum becomes abundant and the conditions approach those of a sphagnum bog. Other plants commonly found in the leather leaf bog in the Cisco Lake Region are the Labrador tea (_Ledum groenlandicum_), swamp laurel (_Kalmia potifolia_), wild rosemary (_Andromeda glaucophylla_), small cranberry (_Oxycoccus oxycoccus_), pitcher-plant (_Sarracenia purpurea_), and small trees of black spruce and tamarack. In a typical leather leaf bog on the Ontonagon River near the outlet from Thousand Island Lake a large beaver house is located. _Sphagnum bog habitat:_ In a restricted sense the name is here applied to the part of a bog which is free from trees. It differs from the leather leaf bog in having a greater amount of sphagnum, for while the leather leaf bog when first developed over the water has little or no sphagnum, the sphagnum bog, as here considered, is almost entirely covered by sphagnum. The shrubs found in the two situations are apparently identical, except that the leather leaf is less abundant. A small bog of this type borders the edge of Mud Lake in the Cisco Lake Region, and small parts of many bogs are free from trees. So far as was determined, the mammal fauna is the same as that for the black spruce--tamarack bog, from which the only difference is the absence of trees. _Black Spruce--Tamarack Bog habitat:_ The dominant bog tree in this region is the black spruce (_Picea mariana_), which is usually small and stunted. With the black spruces are a lesser number of small tamaracks (_Larix larcina_), which in places may be dominant. The ground is heavily covered with sphagnum, which is normally soaked with water. Shrubs are abundant, though usually not forming a closed mat. Of the shrubs the leather leaf is the most abundant, though Kalmia, Andromeda, Ledum, and blueberries are common. A few young white pines and red maples were noted. Sedges occur frequently, and the pitcher plant is very characteristic. _Forests_ _Hemlock forest habitat:_ In the Cisco Lake Region groves of hemlock (_Tsuga canadensis_) frequently occupy the lower parts of steep slopes adjoining the lakes. One such area studied is made up of practically a pure stand of hemlocks, the trunks being from about 6 to 18 inches in diameter. A few very old yellow birches are present, and also a few young sugar maples and arbor-vitae, the latter chiefly near the water's edge. Shrubs and herbs are nearly absent, and the forest floor is covered by a thick carpet of dead needles. There are many decaying logs, usually covered by a thin coat of moss. In the Little Girl's Point Region nearly pure stands of large hemlocks cover many of the lower parts of steep slopes and also occur commonly on well-drained soil elsewhere. In the vicinity of the north end of Gogebic Lake a few small groves of hemlocks were noted, but the ground in general is so low and swampy that the species mostly occurs as a part of the mixed forest of the region. Animals are rare in the habitat. _White pine forest habitat:_ White pine (_Pinus strobus_), which formerly was a common forest tree in northern Michigan, has now been mostly removed for lumber. Near Little Girl's Point a small natural grove of this species was studied, occupying a moderate southerly slope above a black spruce bog. The area is about 50 by 150 meters in size. White pines are by far the most numerous and dominant tree, the trunks measuring up to about five feet in diameter. In the grove yellow birch, some of large size, are common; toward the bottom of the slope hemlocks are also common; and near the edge of the bog there are a few arbor-vitae. Shrubs are almost absent, there being merely a few small seedlings of arbor-vitae, hemlock, and fir, mostly toward the bottom of the slope. A few scattered clumps of grass appear, but the forest floor is mostly covered only by a thick carpet of dry pine needles. Numerous dead limbs and sticks have fallen from the pines. _Wet hardwood forest habitat:_ The land adjoining much of Gogebic Lake is low and poorly drained. Here is found a mixed forest dominated by sugar maple (_Acer saccharum_), black maple, hemlock, yellow birch (_Betula lutea_), linden, elm (_Ulmus americana_), ash (not black ash), and ironwood (_Ostrya virginiana_). The hardwoods are decidedly dominant over the conifers. The forest crown is high and closed, and the trees are large. The underbrush in general is scanty, though in some places there is a thick growth of mountain maple (_Acer spicatum_) and of sugar maple seedlings. Leatherwood (_Dirca palustris_), hazel, ferns, and a few young firs (_Abies balsamea_) also occur. Some of the lower forests in the Cisco Lake Region approach the wet hardwood forest type, though none are extensive in area, and they are usually surrounded and dominated by the dry forest condition. _Dry hardwood forest habitat:_ The highest development of the dry hardwood type of forest was found on the upper parts of the moderately high ridge near Little Girl's Point. The slopes in general are very gentle, but well drained. The forest here is dominated by the sugar maple (_Acer saccharum_), yellow birch (_Betula lutea_), and linden (_Tilia americana_). Hemlocks are rare, and only one elm was seen. The trees are large, the trunks frequently reaching diameters of two feet or more. The forest crown is high and heavy. Underbrush is scanty and low, being mostly young seedlings of sugar maple, though seedlings of linden are numerous. Other shrubs and herbs noted were the leatherwood (_Dirca palustris_), hazel (_Corylus rostrata_), yew (_Taxus canadensis_), gooseberry, ferns, false Solomon's seal, and grass. On the ground are many decaying leaves, these usually forming a heavy carpet; decaying logs and freshly fallen sticks are common. In the Cisco Lake Region the drainage is not so good as in the vicinity of Little Girl's Point, and the forests of that district are of a type somewhat intermediate between the wet hardwood forest and the dry hardwood forest. In the Cisco Lake Region the topography is much broken, there being many small hills and ridges, and many small depressions, often poorly drained. In the damp depressions, if not wet enough for a bog, arbor-vitae and hemlock are common, while on the ridges sugar maple and linden are characteristic, though hemlock occurs here sparingly also. There is accordingly much local variation in tree forms, but the whole forest is decidedly of a hardwood type. The dry hardwood forests of the Little Girl's Point Region are inhabited by many deer-mice, while only a few of this species are found in the wet hardwood forests near Gogebic Lake, bob-tailed shrews being there the most abundant mammal and red-backed voles being common, both of which are rare in the other districts. In the dry hardwood forest near Little Girl's Point four woodland jumping mice (Napaeozapus) were taken, while in the Cisco Lake Region only two were taken in a period twice as long, and at Gogebic Lake none were secured. These observations indicate that moisture conditions in hardwood forests have an important influence on the mammal fauna. _Mountains_ _Rock-bluff habitat:_ Rock exposures are rare in the region studied. However there are several high hills with steep exposures of rock a short distance north of Ironwood and Bessemer. These hills could not be studied in the time available, and the only cliff examined was on a small range of hills northeast of the station of Lake Gogebic. On one of these hills is a nearly perpendicular rock cliff about 200 feet high and facing to the southward. The small talus slope at the bottom is overgrown with shrubs and trees, and on the small ledges and gullies of the face of the cliff a few small trees, shrubs, and herbs are also growing. The most conspicuous plants of the rock habitat are scrub oaks, aspens, and heaths. No trapping was done in the habitat, and no notes on mammals were secured. Probably the mammal fauna is not very large. _Mountain-heath habitat:_ A narrow, poorly developed belt of heath fringes the upper edge of the rock cliff examined north of Lake Gogebic. Characteristic plants are the blueberry and bearberry, mixed with creeping juniper and a few scattered grasses. The habitat is very narrow and is closely encroached upon by shrubs and trees, such as sumac, cherry, white pine, jack pine, oaks, aspens, and paper birch. Signs of fox were noted at the edge of the cliff, but no trapping was carried on here. _Air_ _Aerial habitat:_ The only aerial mammals are the bats, of which four species were taken during the summer. The flying squirrel is not considered to be a true aerial form. _Burns and Clearings_ Fires have been numerous throughout northern Michigan and a large part of the region is covered by various stages in the succession following fires or clearings. The areas studied were selected as representative of the natural conditions of the peninsula, but even in these districts there are many burned areas. Many large areas have been heavily logged over, sometimes followed by fire, with a result similar to that of a fire. In the region studied there are numerous small clearings, some of which are in use as the residences of settlers, but most have been allowed to revert to a wild condition. The stages in succession on an abandoned clearing seem to be similar to those following a fire, and they are here considered together. _Herbaceous stage:_ After a fire in a forest in this region the first vegetation to spring up seems to be the herbs, of which the fireweed (_Chamaenerion angustifolium_) is most prominent. A number of areas dominated by this type of vegetation were seen, but the type seems to be short-lived, and is probably quickly replaced by shrubs and tree seedlings. The stages in succession following a fire in swampy areas may be somewhat different from that in a hardwood region, but no data was obtained. No opportunity presented itself to study the mammals of the herbaceous stage, and I have no records for the species found there. _Shrub stage:_ Following a fire or clearing in a hardwood area the herbaceous stage is apparently quickly followed by a thick growth of shrubs and young trees. The characters of the shrub growth vary considerably with the texture of the soil, amount of soil moisture, slope, and completeness of burning. The growth is usually quite thick, though in some clearings where the growth has been kept down for some time there may be open grassy patches. In small clearings near Fish-hawk Lake the raspberry (_Rubus strigosus_) is a characteristic species, but near Little Girl's Point it is much less common. A large area of shrub studied near Little Girl's Point is on a rather steep slope facing to the north, though part is at the bottom of the hill on a very gentle slope. There are no large trees, but saplings up to 2-1/2-inch trunks occur; most, however, are smaller. The quaking and large-toothed aspens (_Populus tremuloides_ and _P. grandidentata_), paper and yellow birches (_Betula papyrifera_ and _B. lutea_), sugar maple, and linden are common seedlings. Shrubs, such as the sumac (_Rhus hirta_), wild cherry (_Prunus pennsylvanica_), raspberry, willows (Salix spp.), mountain maple, red-berried elder (_Sambucus racemosa_), and hazel are common. A few herbs, like the fireweed, golden-rod, and pearly everlasting, occur in open places. A number of mammals are found in the shrub stage, but they are far less abundant than in mature hardwood forest. _Paper birch--aspen stage:_ The continued growth of the young trees in the shrub stage leads to the production of a sapling forest of the more quickly growing species, the paper birches and aspens. Often one or other of these species becomes dominant to the practical exclusion of the other, but sometimes both occur together. On the slopes near the lakes of the Cisco Lake chain aspens are rare, and the sapling forests on the clearings and burns are almost a pure stand of paper birch. Near Watersmeet, however, the aspen seems to be the dominant form, and few paper birches were seen. Near Gogebic Lake, also, the quaking aspen is the dominant form, though paper birches are common in the sapling forests. The growth in these sapling forests is very thick, and the ground is nearly bare of vegetation, though it is heavily covered with dead sticks and small logs. In a thick growth of quaking aspens, on wet ground studied near Gogebic Lake, a number of alders and paper birches, a few young trees of sugar maple and arbor-vitae, and a rare elm occur. A scanty undergrowth of mountain maple and numerous sugar maple seedlings is present. Few mammals are found in this stage of the forest. On the western slope of Birch Point on Cisco Lake there is a good stand of paper birches, growing in an open stand with much grass in the spaces between the trees. This place has been much used for camping and it may be that the development of the grass is the result of opening the forest by clearing out some of the trees. Among the birches are numerous young firs and white pines, with a few young sugar maples, and a rare arbor-vitae. The birches show many signs of age, and would evidently, if undisturbed, soon give way to a forest dominated by the pines and firs. In the grass among these trees deer-mice, red-backed voles, and jumping mice (Zapus) were taken. Signs of snowshoe hare were seen. _Young hardwood forest stage:_ On the eastern slope of a low ridge at Birch Point, Cisco Lake, a young hardwood forest is rapidly replacing a former growth of paper birches which has followed a fire. In this growth numerous old paper birches still persist, but they are being strongly crowded by a thick growth of vigorous young sugar maples, some of which have trunk diameters up to about eight inches, and which form a dense shade. Among the maples are numerous young firs and a few young hemlocks and arbor-vitae. The ground is mostly bare, being scantily covered by leaves. The soil is moist, but there is no grass and little brush. In this habitat deer-mice were taken, and one red squirrel was seen. _Artificial Conditions_ _Overflow swamp habitat:_ Due to the rise in water-level of the lakes of the Cisco Lake chain many low areas of forest have been flooded and killed. Many of the dead trunks of these trees still remain standing, mixed with fallen and decaying logs in the water. Locally these habitats are called "overflow swamps," a name here adopted for the habitat. There is little living vegetation in these swamps, an occasional water lily being almost the only plant present. Porcupines commonly walk out on the logs of the swamp to secure the water lily leaves, and probably the mink occasionally runs over the logs in its movements along the waterways. _Cultivated-field habitat:_ Cleared fields occur only sparingly in the regions visited, and these fields are small in size. No study of their inhabitants was made, though silver-haired bats were collected while they were flying over a small clearing in the Little Girl's Point Region. _Edificarian habitat:_ Towns and buildings are not very common in northern Michigan. In and around a cabin on Lindsley Lake a number of deer-mice were trapped, and signs that porcupines had invaded the cabin were noted. ANNOTATED LIST OF MAMMALS _Condylura cristata._ Star-nosed Mole. Tall-sedge, 2. Two were trapped September 3 and 5, 1920, in a short, open runway in very moist soil at the edge of a small ditch running through tall sedges in a beaver meadow near Gogebic Lake, Ontonagon County. _Sorex personatus personatus._ Masked Shrew. Grassy-meadow, 2. Black spruce--tamarack bog, 2. Wet hardwood forest, 3. Dry hardwood forest, 3. Shrub stage, 2. In the Cisco Lake Region in July, one was taken in a small black spruce bog, two in a narrow tongue of grass between tall sedges and sphagnum bordering Mud Lake, three in the wetter parts of the hardwood forest, and three in the upland, well-drained hardwood forest. Near Little Girl's Point in August, two were taken in a growth of shrubs in a burn. Near Gogebic Lake, Ontonagon County, one was taken September 4 in a black spruce bog. _Sorex richardsonii._ Richardson Shrew. Tall-sedge, 15. Grassy-meadow, 1. Sphagnum bog, 1. This species was found only in or near tall sedges growing in moist or marshy situations. In the Cisco Lake Region six were taken near Mud Lake in July. Four of these were taken in tall sedges, one in grass alongside the sedges, and one in sphagnum between the sedges and the lake. August 30 to September 5, eleven were taken in tall sedges in a beaver meadow near Gogebic Lake, Ontonagon County. An adult female trapped at Mud Lake, July 30, contained five large embryos. There were two pairs of inguinal and one pair of abdominal mammae. Another adult female trapped in the same place, July 22, had two pairs of inguinal mammae, but no abdominal mammae were found. The latter individual was moulting, patches of new fur having replaced the old on the top of the head midway between the ears and eyes, between the shoulders, and on the rump. The other female mentioned above, taken July 30, had nearly completed her moult. Only two specimens have been previously recorded from Michigan, one from Alger County and the other from Chippewa County.[2] _Neosorex palustris palustris._ Marsh Shrew, Water Shrew. Tall-sedge, 1. Ditch-border, 3. September 1 a marsh shrew was trapped in the tall sedges of a beaver meadow near Gogebic Lake, Ontonagon County. Most of the body had been eaten by some carnivore. Other specimens were taken on each of the two succeeding days, and a fourth on September 5. The first specimen taken was trapped eight feet from a tiny stream which flowed through the marshy sedges. Two of the others were taken on the muddy bank of the stream near the water's edge, and the fourth about 35 feet from the water. All were secured within a radius of 35 feet. This species has been recorded but once previously from Michigan, from Chippewa County.[3] _Microsorex hoyi._ Hoy Shrew. Black spruce-tamarack bog, 1. Wet hardwood forest, 1. One specimen was taken July 17 at Fish-hawk Lake in a moderately wet part of the hardwood forest. Another was taken July 29 at the edge of a small black spruce bog. _Blarina brevicauda talpoides._ Bob-tailed Shrew. Tall-sedge, 8. Grassy-meadow, 6. Alder-thicket, 1. Black ash swamp, 6. Arbor-vitae swamp, 4. Black spruce--tamarack bog, 1. Wet hardwood forest, 32. Dry hardwood forest, 8. Shrub stage, 1. Paper birch--aspen stage, 6. The species is rather generally distributed, but is by far the most common in moist woods. In the Cisco Lake Region 11 were secured; in the Little Girl's Point district, 10; and near Gogebic Lake in Ontonagon County, 52. In the latter district it was the most abundant mammal species, even exceeding Peromyscus in numbers; indeed, Peromyscus was relatively uncommon in the partly swampy woods of the region, and it might be that the abundance of the bob-tailed shrews accounts for the scarcity of the deer-mice, for the shrews undoubtedly at times prey upon the mice. The specimen recorded above from the black spruce-tamarack bog was taken near Gogebic Lake in a boggy swamp, which, while dominated by black spruces, yet contained a considerable number of arbor-vitae and hemlocks. In the wet hardwood forest near Gogebic Lake Blarina runways are exceedingly abundant, usually running along or under sticks or logs. Commonly they are just under the leaves, but sometimes for a short distance are without covering. One old log examined was found to be honey-combed with these tunnels. The deeper runways nearly always follow down just under a tree root. The uterus of a female taken July 10, at Fish-hawk Lake, showed a few small swellings which were identified in the field as embryos. Unfortunately, the uterus was not preserved. No embryos were found in 26 other females taken between July 15 and September 4. In the latter part of the season fewer immature specimens were taken than earlier in the summer. These facts show that in this region the species breeds in the spring or early summer and does not usually breed again during July and August. _Myotis lucifugus lucifugus._ Little Brown Bat. Aerial, 15. Nine individuals were shot while they were flying over the lakes in the Cisco Lake Region. These were taken between 8:00 and 9:00 p. m. from July 1 to August 2; but on moonlight nights bats, believed to be of this species, were seen flying as late as 10:00 p. m. At the camp near Little Girl's Point one was shot at 7:55 p. m., August 11, as it flew about over the road through the dry hardwood forest. Five others were shot at the Gogebic Lake camp as they flitted through an opening in the wet hardwood forest. These were taken between 7:30 and 7:55 p. m., August 23 to September 2; but bats almost certainly of this species appeared regularly in the evenings about 7:10 p. m. _Lasionycteris noctivagans._ Silver-haired Bat. Aerial, 3. Near the Little Girl's Point camp one was shot at 7:50 p. m., August 9, and two more in the same region about 7:45 p. m., August 17. One was flying along a road through the dry hardwood forest at a height about equal to that of the tree-tops, and the others were taken in a small clearing in the same forest. _Nycteris borealis borealis._ Red Bat. Aerial, 2. Two were secured near the Little Girl's Point camp at about 7:45 p. m., one August 9 and the other August 14, as they flew about over the road through the dry hardwood forest. _Nycteris cinerea._ Hoary Bat. Aerial, 1. The only specimen secured was shot at 7:55 p. m., August 9, while it was flying over the road through the dry hardwood forest near Little Girl's Point. _Ursus americanus americanus._ Black Bear. Wet hardwood forest, 1. Dry hardwood forest, 1. Reported by residents as being rather common. July 10 a large black bear was seen to cross the railroad track and enter the hardwood forest not over a quarter-mile from Cisco Lake Station. Tracks of a large individual were seen in the mud bordering a small brook in maple-birch-hemlock forest about three miles southeast of the station July 17 and August 15. At dusk, August 28, while Mr. Sherman was setting up a camera and flashgun along a deer trail about 100 yards from the camp on Gogebic Lake, a small bear passed within twenty-five paces of him, apparently but little concerned with his presence or that of the nearby camp and fire, except that it sniffed the air occasionally. _Canis lycaon._ Timber Wolf. Mud-flat, signs. Tall-sedge, tracks. Dry hardwood forest, reported. Residents reported it common in all the districts visited by us. We saw signs and tracks in several habitats; and residents saw a wolf in the dry hardwood forest near our camp in the Little Girl's Point district. _Canis latrans._ Coyote. J. E. Fischer reported in 1920 that coyotes had appeared and become numerous in the region at the north end of Lake Gogebic within the last few years. We have secured several skulls and skeletons taken by him in 1920-21. _Vulpes fulva._ Red Fox. Mountain-heath, signs. Signs of fox were found in late August in a narrow growth of heath at the top of a cliff about a mile north of Lake Gogebic Station. J. E. Fischer has sent us a fox taken in January, 1921, in Gogebic County near Gogebic Lake. Benjamin J. Twombley reports that a few occur in the Cisco Lake Region. J. E. Marshall, in 1911, reported that a few occurred around Gogebic Lake. _Urocyon cinereoargenteus._ Gray Fox. J. E. Marshall reported in 1911 that it was rare, but that he had trapped two near Gogebic Lake. _Martes americanus americanus._ Marten. J. E. Marshall reported in 1911 that it was getting scarce in Gogebic and Ontonagon counties. He trapped a number near Gogebic Lake in the winter of 1884-1885, and took 15 in the winter of 1889-90. In 1920 J. E. Fischer reported marten rare near Gogebic Lake. _Martes pennantii pennantii._ Fisher. In 1911 J. E. Marshall reported that it was getting scarce near Gogebic Lake; he trapped four in the winter of 1889-90 and two in 1890-91. J. E. Fischer took one in Ontonagon County near Gogebic Lake in the winter of 1919-20. Ole Petersen in 1911 reported it rare near Gogebic Lake. _Mustela cicognanii cicognanii._ Bonaparte Weasel. Black spruce--tamarack bog, 1. Dry hardwood forest, 4. Trappers report it common throughout the areas visited. We took five specimens near Little Girl's Point. Several specimens taken in the Cisco Lake Region during the winter of 1920-21 were presented to us by Benjamin J. Twombley, and J. E. Fischer sent us a specimen taken in December, 1920, near Gogebic Lake. _Mustela vison letifera._ Mink. Forest--shore, 6. Wet hardwood forest, den. Reported by trappers as common throughout the area studied. In the Cisco Lake Region two were trapped at the water's edge beside a growth of paper birch saplings; and another was shot as it was running along the bank of the Ontonagon River at the edge of a stand of hemlocks. Three others were seen swimming near the latter locality July 29. Upon the approach of the canoe they swam rapidly to an old hollow log in wet hardwood forest on shore. Around and through the log well-worn runways showed evidence of the presence of a den. _Mephitis hudsonica._ Skunk. Ditch-border, 1. Dry hardwood forest, 5. Four skunks were taken in the dry hardwood forest of the Cisco Lake Region, one in the same type of habitat near the Little Girl's Point camp, and another in a trap set in the bottom of a muddy ditch in the beaver meadow near Gogebic Lake. An adult male, trapped July 14 in the Cisco Lake Region, was badly infested with tapeworms in the middle part of the small intestine. An adult female, taken July 19, was found to have many tapeworms in the intestine, many nematodes in the lung tissue, an infested liver, and a large number of nematodes in a cavity in the top of the skull. While we were photographing a captive juvenile August 2 at Lindsley Lake a horsefly (identified as _Tabanus atratus_ by J. S. Rogers) burrowed into the fur on the rump of the skunk and began sucking blood. _Taxidea taxus taxus._ Badger. J. E. Marshall reports that he trapped one in the winter of 1889-90 between Gogebic Lake and Lake Superior. _Lutra canadensis canadensis._ Otter. In 1911 J. E. Marshall reported that quite a few remained around Gogebic Lake; he took quite a number in the winter of 1884 and several in the winters of 1889 to 1891. J. E. Fischer took two in Ontonagon County in January, 1921. _Lynx canadensis._ Canada Lynx. J. E. Marshall reports that it was not very plentiful near Gogebic Lake in 1884. He took one in the winter of 1890-91; in 1911 it had almost or entirely disappeared. _Lynx ruffus ruffus._ Bob-cat. J. E. Marshall reports that he took three or four near Gogebic Lake in the winter of 1890-91; in 1891-92 it had become quite numerous; and it continued to increase until 1911 at least. In 1920 residents reported that a few occurred in all the regions visited by us. _Peromyscus maniculatus gracilis._ Deer-mouse. Tall-sedge, 4. Black ash swamp, 5. Arbor-vitae swamp, 11. Black spruce--tamarack bog, 4. Hemlock forest, 16. White pine forest, 5. Wet hardwood forest, 78. Dry hardwood forest, 143. Shrub stage, 19. Paper birch--aspen, 15. Young hardwood forest stage, 2. Edificarian, 6. In the Cisco Lake Region and in the vicinity of Little Girl's Point this species is the most abundant mammal, but in the wet woods at the Gogebic Lake camp it is much less abundant, being exceeded in numbers by the bob-tailed shrew. A total of 308 deer-mice were taken during the summer. It was found in a variety of forest habitats, but it is most abundant in the dry upland woods of the Little Girl's Point Region. The individuals taken in the tall sedges at Mud Lake were probably stragglers from the nearby shrubs and forest, for no deer-mice were taken in the extensive sedges of the large beaver meadow studied near Gogebic Lake. Probably most of those taken in the black spruce bogs were stragglers also, though one individual taken in a large black spruce bog was 50 yards from the nearest deciduous woods. When we arrived in the Cisco Lake Region in late June young and subadults were abundant, many of the female subadults, as well as the adults, carrying embryos. Embryos were found throughout the summer up to August 25. Of females containing embryos, five had 4 embryos each, ten females 5 embryos each, nine females 6 embryos each, and one female 8 embryos. _Synaptomys cooperi fatuus._ Lemming-vole. Tall-sedge, 1. Black spruce--tamarack bog, 2. Wet hardwood forest, 1. Dry hardwood forest, 1. In the Cisco Lake Region an adult female was taken in dry hardwood forest near Fish-hawk Lake June 28, 1920. It contained 6 embryos each 21 mm. long. A juvenile was trapped July 26 on top a log in the tall sedges at Mud Lake. The log bridged over a particularly wet part of the marshy sedges and was at the edge of the hardwood forest. Two other juveniles were taken the next day, one in a small black spruce log, and the other in wet hardwood forest at the edge of the same bog. In Ontonagon County near Gogebic Lake a subadult male was taken September 5 in a large black spruce bog. _Evotomys gapperi gapperi._ Red-backed vole. Black ash swamp, 2. Black spruce--tamarack bog, 6. Arbor-vitae swamp, 2. Hemlock forest, 5. White pine forest, 2. Wet hardwood forest, 18. Dry hardwood forest, 17. Shrub stage, 5. Paper birch--aspen stage, 3. Thirty were taken in the Cisco Lake Region, 10 at the Little Girl's Point camp, and 20 near Gogebic Lake in Ontonagon County. It was most common in the forests. Two individuals recorded from the arbor-vitae swamp were taken in a mixed swamp of small arbor-vitae, black spruce, and hemlock with many alders, this situation probably forming a stage in the succession following a beaver meadow. Also, one of the specimens recorded from the paper birch--aspen stage was taken in an open stand of old paper birches with a forest floor of grass, conditions not typical of the stage. Of 13 females examined from June to August, two contained 4 embryos each, two 5 embryos each, and two 6 embryos each. August 14, at Little Girl's Point, was the last date on which embryos were found. The species is somewhat diurnal. Several times one was seen in daylight about the camp in the Cisco Lake Region, and several were trapped during daylight hours. A captive was fond of tender grass blades, but refused the harder stems. In eating he sat up on the hind feet and handled the food with the fore feet. An immature male taken August 8 near Little Girl's Point had a considerable infestation of seed ticks on the posterior lobes of both ears. _Microtus pennsylvanicus pennsylvanicus._ Meadow vole. Mud-flat, 6. Tall-sedge, 28. Grassy-meadow, 6. Black ash swamp, 1. Arbor-vitae swamp, 1. Leather leaf bog, 15. Sphagnum bog, 9. Black spruce--tamarack bog, 1. Shrub stage, 17. Sixty-five were taken in the Cisco Lake Region and 19 in Ontonagon County, near Gogebic Lake. It is most abundant in grassy and sedgy meadows and in open bogs, though it is found rarely in swamps and tree-covered bogs. The individual listed from the arbor-vitae swamp was taken in a young growth of arbor-vitae, black spruce, hemlock, and many alders, and not in typical arbor-vitae swamp habitat. Of the 17 listed from the shrub stage, one was taken in a wet, sedgy part of a shrub-covered burn at Poor Lake, and the others were secured in the shrub and grass clearing around the camp house on Lindsley Lake. Of ten females examined, July 10 to September 5, one contained 3 embryos, one 4 embryos, and two 5 embryos each. September 5 was the last date on which embryos were found. The three embryos found on the last date were each 23 mm. in length and together they weighed 8.5 grams, which was 26 per cent of the weight of the mother with the embryos removed. Both adults and immature young were seen moving about, and were also trapped in broad daylight, but it is more active in the evening just before sunset. A captive juvenile was placed July 19 in a large tub with an adult female, which might have been its mother, for both were taken on succeeding days in the same trap. The young one immediately tried to nurse, but was severely bitten and driven away, though it made numerous unsuccessful attempts later. When approaching the old female the baby frequently gave a high-pitched squeak, and the old female replied by a hoarse squeak, evidently of warning, for the young one was bitten when it approached in defiance of the warning note and threatening attitude of the adult. The baby evidently had been weaned, and the old female was found to contain five large embryos. _Ondatra zibethica zibethica._ Muskrat. Forest--shore, 5. Water lily, 1. Pondweed, 2. Willow-thicket, signs. Muskrats are numerous in the Cisco Lake Region, and five specimens were taken. Near Little Girl's Point one was seen swimming in a small stream. At the mouth of Merriweather Creek on Gogebic Lake signs were noted in a willow thicket, and muskrats were reported numerous in the region. An adult female trapped July 6 at Fish-hawk Lake contained six large embryos; another female taken July 10 contained no embryos, but the mammae were filled with milk; and two females taken July 26 contained no embryos. In the Cisco Lake Region broken mussel shells were abundant in the muskrat runways along the shores. Remains of pondweeds were also frequently found in the runways, and a quantity of leaves with a few heads containing flowers and seeds collected July 8 were identified by E. A. Bessey as _Potamogeton richardsonii_. _Zapus hudsonius hudsonius._ Jumping-mouse. Mud-flat, 4. Tall-sedge, 12. Grassy-meadow, 8, Arbor-vitae swamp, 1. Sphagnum bog, 1. Black spruce--tamarack bog, 1. Wet hardwood forest, 2. Dry hardwood forest, 1. Shrub stage, 10. Paper birch--aspen stage, 2. Numerous in suitable habitats in the Cisco Lake Region, at Little Girl's Point, and at Gogebic Lake. Most common in open grasses and sedges. Five of those recorded above from the shrub stage were taken in open shrubs and grass in the clearing around the camp house on Lindsley Lake; and the two recorded from the paper birch--aspen stage were taken at Cisco Lake in an open stand of old paper birch with a forest floor of grass. Juveniles were taken throughout the summer, but no one of seven adult or nearly adult females examined between July 7 and September 4 contained embryos. A captive taken July 18, after feeding ravenously on a cooky, retired to a corner and went to sleep. The position taken in this case was a sitting one, the animal resting on the widely spread feet as far as the heels, and on the tail. The head was bent far over, the nose extending between the hind legs. The long tail was curled around the body, it resting on the ground for its whole length. The operation of cleaning the tail was observed two days later. The animal worked from the base of the tail toward the tip, using the fore feet to present the tail to the mouth, where it was licked off. During the process the head was held over on one side, nearly touching the ground. _Napaeozapus insignis fructectanus._ Woodland Jumping Mouse. Wet hardwood forest, 1. Dry hardwood forest, 6. Three were taken in the Cisco Lake Region and four in the Little Girl's Point Region, all in heavy forest. Neither of two adult females taken August 8 and 10 contained embryos. _Erethizon dorsatum dorsatum._ Porcupine. Forest--shore, 13. Wet hardwood forest, 10. Dry hardwood forest, 17. Shrub stage, 5. Paper birch--aspen stage, 10. Overflow swamp, 5. Edificarian, 1. Common at all camps. Many were taken in traps set for carnivores. Well-marked trails at the edges of lakes and streams through the forests are evidently made mostly by these animals. It is detested by the inhabitants of the region, chiefly for the damage done to any woodwork which contains the least amount of salt. Porcupines spend a considerable amount of time inside hollow linden, yellow birch, and hemlock trees, as shown by the large piles of droppings noted at the lower openings of numerous such hollow trees. June 30, and again on July 2, young individuals were closely observed while feeding on the leaves of the yellow water lily. These individuals were on the logs in an overflow swamp, and they reached down with a fore foot into the water to secure the food, which was then presented to the mouth with the same foot. One of these porcupines seemed to be very disinclined to wet his feet, except the fore feet in reaching for food; the other individual waded out on a log which was submerged several inches, but he showed a ludicrous determination to hold the tail up out of the water. A juvenile weighing only 914 grams was taken as late as July 21 at Fish-hawk Lake, but no embryos were found in the period between June 29 and September 3. It is often active throughout the day as well as in the night. A young individual taken in a trap July 3 was found surrounded by a swarm of mosquitoes, which seemed to annoy him considerably, for he shook his skin frequently to dislodge them. One mosquito settled on a lower eyelid as we watched, and others kept alighting on his nose. When he raised his quills on our approach many mosquitoes attacked the skin exposed on the back. _Marmota monax canadensis._ Canada Woodchuck. Hemlock forest, 5. Shrub stage, 9. A few occur in the Cisco Lake Region, where they are most common in the shrubby clearings. Several adults fed commonly on the refuse from the camp. The stomach of a captured individual contained a considerable quantity of cooked corn, spaghetti, and boiled ham. Three woodchucks were noted at different times in hemlock forest along the lake shores. A half-grown juvenile was seen to swim the Ontonagon River near its entrance to Cisco Lake. This was on July 10, near noon, with bright sunshine. The river here is at least 75 yards in width, but has no perceptible current. Juveniles taken in traps were observed to extrude scent glands from the anus when approached. These glands are three in number, one on each side of the anus and one beneath. They are small, whitish, and cup-shaped. Normally they lie just inside the anus, but on excitement they are everted and the fold of skin forming the edge of the anus is rolled outward so that the glands lie outside. We detected a faint musky odor which might have come from these glands. In the Little Girl's Point district several inhabited a woodpile in hemlock forest at the edge of a wide road. None were found near Gogebic Lake. _Eutamias borealis neglectus._ Lake Superior Chipmunk. Tall-sedge, 1. Grassy-meadow, 3. Black spruce--tamarack bog, 1. Hemlock forest, 1. Wet hardwood forest, 1. Shrub stage, 20. Paper birch--aspen stage, 2. Common in shrubby clearings and burns in the Cisco Lake and Little Girl's Point regions. A few were taken in tall sedges and grass not far from shrubs; one was taken in a small black spruce bog, about five yards from the surrounding wet hardwood forest; one was taken in hemlock forest near the lake shore; and one was seen in wet hardwood forest near the lake shore. Not seen near Gogebic Lake. These chipmunks were several times observed feeding on ripe raspberries. August 5, near Watersmeet, one was seen sitting on a rail fence beside a pasture, eating a grasshopper, the remains of which have been identified by T. H. Hubbell as _Melanoplus_ sp. probably _bivittatus_. _Tamias striatus griseus._ Gray Chipmunk. Black ash swamp, 1. Hemlock forest, 1. Wet hardwood forest, 10. Dry hardwood forest, 8. Shrub stage, 2. Five records were obtained in the Cisco Lake Region; 9 near Little Girl's Point, and 8 near Gogebic Lake. It is most numerous in hardwood forest. An adult male taken July 5 had in its cheek-pouches numerous seeds of Carex and a fruit capsule of Viola, the identification being by E. A. Bessey. Of eight adult or nearly adult females examined between July 5 and September 1, one taken July 15 in the Cisco Lake Region contained eight large embryos. _Sciurus hudsonicus loquax._ Southeastern Red-squirrel. Black ash swamp, 1. Arbor-vitae swamp, 3. Black spruce--tamarack bog, 2. Hemlock forest, 1. White pine forest, 1. Wet hardwood forest, 9. Dry hardwood forest, 7. Shrub stage, 1. Paper birch--aspen stage, 3. Early hardwood forest stage, 1. Edificarian, 1. Seventeen records from the Cisco Lake Region; 6 from Little Girl's Point; and 7 from Gogebic Lake. None were noted more than a few yards from the protection of a forest. In a grove of white pines near Little Girl's Point cut pine scales were numerous August 13 on the ground and on logs, and one red-squirrel taken had much pitch on the fur around the mouth. August 24, cut-open fir cones were numerous around the small fir trees in a paper birch--aspen growth near Gogebic Lake, and were certainly the work of this species. July 2 a young red-squirrel which had frequently been seen around the camp in the Cisco Lake Region was found ravenously feeding on the kidney of a recently skinned woodchuck. After feeding it showed no fear, and allowed itself to be picked up; it seemed very sleepy and slept for about a half-hour before running away. This individual was badly infested with fleas. Another juvenile taken July 1 in the same region was infested with small patches of red seed ticks around the anus, anterior to the genital opening, on the belly, on the thigh, and at the base of one ear. Six small embryos were found in an adult female taken in the Cisco Lake Region July 16. _Sciurus carolinensis leucotis._ Gray-squirrel. In 1911, J. E. Marshall reported that a few occurred near Gogebic Lake. _Glaucomys sabrinus macrotis._ Mearns Flying-squirrel. Black ash swamp, 1. Hemlock forest, 1. Wet hardwood forest, 2. Dry hardwood forest, 1. Two were taken in the Cisco Lake Region and three near Gogebic Lake in Ontonagon County. A female taken July 4 near Fish-hawk Lake was still suckling young, and contained no embryos, but a female taken July 6 in the same region contained five small embryos. An immature female taken August 27 near Gogebic Lake was without embryos. _Castor canadensis michiganensis._ Woods Beaver. Leather leaf bog, house. Two houses were found in the Cisco Lake Region, both being in leather leaf bogs near deep water. Around the house studied there was an incomplete moat connected with a channel leading to deep water, and canals and tunnels radiated out through the bog. No beavers were observed nor secured, but fresh cuttings were noted at the edges of some of the "forms" in the bog. A few beaver are reported to occur near Little Girl's Point and near Gogebic Lake. E. E. Brewster in 1895 wrote Dr. Gibbs that it was not uncommon in Gogebic County and in probably all the counties of the Upper Peninsula where trapping and lumbering had been discontinued; he stated that beaver were appearing again even in localities where formerly most sought. In 1911, J. E. Marshall reported it scarce near Gogebic Lake. _Lepus americanus phæonotus._ Snowshoe Hare. Forest--shore, 1. Arbor-vitae swamp, signs. Leather leaf bog, signs. Black spruce--tamarack bog, 1. Wet hardwood forest, signs. Dry hardwood forest, 1. Shrub stage, 7. Paper birch--aspen stage, 1. Cultivated-field, 1. Edificarian, 1. Rare during the season of 1920 in the areas visited. In the Cisco Lake Region an adult female was taken in a trap set for muskrat under water on a brushy point. Other hares were occasionally seen in the evenings in the shrubby clearing around the camp house; and one was even seen on the porch. Droppings were found in a leather leaf bog, and a hare was seen at the edge of a black spruce--tamarack bog. Near Little Girl's Point a juvenile was taken August 13 in the upland hardwood forest, but was partly eaten in the trap by some carnivore; several were seen in shrubby clearings; and a young one was reported captured in an oat field by a farmer. Droppings were found in an arbor-vitae swamp. Near Gogebic Lake in Ontonagon County droppings were found in wet hardwood forest, in a thick growth of aspen and white birch saplings, and in an extensive tamarack bog. An adult female taken July 4 at Fish-hawk Lake had much milk in the mammae. At the camp on Lindsley Lake June 27 one was seen to eat some wood ashes; and June 30 one was seen to feed on the blades of quack grass (_Agropyron repens_), which was identified by E. A. Bessey. _Odocoileus virginianus borealis._ Northern White-tailed Deer. Forest--shore, 1. Mud-flat, signs. Tall-sedge, 1. Grassy-meadow, 1. Alder-thicket, signs. Black ash swamp, signs. Arbor-vitae swamp, signs. Black spruce--tamarack bog, signs. Hemlock forest, signs. Wet hardwood forest, 10. Dry hardwood forest, 7. Shrub stage, 8. Paper birch--aspen stage, 1. Deer are abundant in the Cisco Lake Region; they are less common near Lake Gogebic; and only a few were seen near Little Girl's Point. Most of those seen were in the hardwood forest and in the brushy clearings, but trails and signs were common in many habitats. Wolves were reported to prey extensively on deer in the region, and wolf dung examined August 7 near Little Girl's Point contained much deer hair and some deer bones. _Alces americanus._ Moose. J. E. Marshall reports that a moose was seen near Gogebic Lake in the winter of 1885, and an individual, perhaps the same one, was killed on Flambeau Reservation that year. NORTHERN MICHIGAN MAMMALS PLATE I [Illustration: Fig. 1. Beach of Lake Superior just east of Little Girl's Point. A dirt bluff at the right of the picture. August 10, 1920.] [Illustration: Fig. 2. Tall-sedge habitat in a beaver meadow on the west side of Gogebic Lake, Ontonagon County. September 1, 1920.] NORTHERN MICHIGAN MAMMALS PLATE II [Illustration: Fig. 1. Leather leaf bog invaded by tamaracks, Ontonagon River near Cisco Lake. August 3, 1920.] [Illustration: Fig. 2. Arbor-vitae swamp four miles southeast of Little Girl's Point. The ground is very moist. August 16, 1920.] NORTHERN MICHIGAN MAMMALS PLATE III [Illustration: Fig. 1. Dry hardwood on a ridge four miles southeast of Little Girl's Point. Sugar maple, yellow birch, and linden are dominant. Undergrowth low. August 16, 1920.] [Illustration: Fig. 2. Virgin white pine grove, Gogebic County. Trunks up to four feet in diameter. Little undergrowth. August 17, 1920.] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: H. T. Darlington, _Mich. Acad. Sci._, 22nd Ann. Rept., 1921.] [Footnote 2: 1914. N. A. Wood, Occ. Pap. Mus. Zool., No. 6.] [Footnote 3: N. A. Wood, _op. cit._] * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Page 35: Changed "porcppines" to "porcupines". Originally: One of these porcppines seemed to be very disinclined Pages 42-47: Combined figure captions and images. Originally: Images were on pages following their captions. 
33679	----	BULLETIN 260 MARCH, 1910 MICHIGAN STATE AGRICULTURAL COLLEGE EXPERIMENT STATION DIVISION OF BOTANY SEEDS OF MICHIGAN WEEDS BY W. J. BEAL EAST LANSING, MICHIGAN 1910 _The Bulletins of this Station are sent free to all newspapers in the State and to such individuals interested in farming as may request them. Address all applications to the Director, East Lansing, Michigan._ MICHIGAN AGRICULTURAL EXPERIMENT STATION Postoffice and Telegraph address, East Lansing, Mich. Railroad and Express address, Lansing, Mich. A DEPARTMENT OF THE STATE AGRICULTURAL COLLEGE, AND, WITH IT, CONTROLLED BY THE INCORPORATED STATE BOARD OF AGRICULTURE HON. ROBERT D. GRAHAM, Grand Rapids, Chairman of the Board, Term expires 1914 HON. WM. J. OBERDORFFER, Stephenson, Term expires 1912 HON. Wm. L. CARPENTER, Detroit, Term expires 1912 HON. ALFRED J. DOHERTY, Clare, Term expires 1914 HON. I. R. WATERBURY, Detroit, Term expires 1916 HON. WILLIAM H. WALLACE, Bay Port, Term expires 1916 HON. FRED M. WARNER, Governor of the State, _Ex officio_ JONATHAN L. SNYDER, A. M., LL. D., President of the College, _Ex officio_ HON. L. L. WRIGHT, Ironwood, _Ex officio_ ADDISON M. BROWN, A. B., Secretary. STATION COUNCIL JONATHAN L. SNYDER, A. M., LL. D., Pres., _Ex officio_ ROBERT S. SHAW, B. S. A., Director CHARLES E. MARSHALL, Ph. D., Scientific and Vice Director and Bacteriologist R. H. PETTIT, B. S. A., Entomologist A. J. PATTEN, B. S., Chemist H. J. EUSTACE, B. S., Horticulturist J. A. JEFFERY, B. S. A., Soil Physicist W. J. BEAL, Ph. D., Botanist V. M. SHOESMITH, B. S., Farm Crops ADDISON M. BROWN, A. B., Secretary and Treasurer ADVISORY AND ASSISTANT STAFF. C. P. HALLIGAN, B. S., Asst. Horticulturist O. RAHN, Ph. D., Asst. Bacteriologist A. C. ANDERSON, B. S., Asst. Dairy Husbandryman J. B. DANDENO, Ph. D., Assist. Botanist G. D. SHAFER, Ph. D., Research Asst. in Entomology M. A. YOTHERS, B. S., Asst. in Entomology W. GILTNER, D. V. M. M. S., Research Asst. in Bacteriology C. W. BROWN, B. S., Research Asst. in Bacteriology F. A. SPRAGG, M. S., Research Asst. in Crops (Plant Breeding) C. S. ROBINSON, M. S. Research Asst. in Chemistry MISS Z. NORTHROP, B. S., Asst. in Bacteriology MISS L. M. SMITH, Ph. B., Asst. in Bacteriology O. B. WINTER, A. B., Asst. in Chemistry MRS. L. E. LANDON, Librarian SUB-STATIONS. Chatham, Alger County, 160 acres deeded--Leo M. Geismar in charge. Grayling, Crawford County, 80 acres deeded. South Haven, Van Buren County, 10 acres rented; 5 acres deeded--Frank A. Wilkin in charge. The designer of this bulletin first had in mind something of the sort for the use of his students, not only the undergraduates, but others living on farms, or teaching in Michigan and elsewhere. Whoever grows seeds to sell, or buys seeds to sow, should be benefited by consulting the illustrations which are unsurpassed for accuracy by anything in this country. They were all made by Mr. F. H. Hillman. A hand lens costing from twenty cents to a dollar is almost indispensable in examining our seeds. The brief descriptions are necessarily made by using definite scientific terms, which are explained in a glossary at the close of the work. A few weeds are not illustrated, for the reason that the plants have ceased to produce seeds, such as the horse radish, and some of them are not conspicuously bad. Not far from half the illustrations are made from small seed-like fruits, likely to be mistaken for seeds, such as are produced by dandelions, burdocks, narrow-leaved dock, all grasses. Cuts of seeds of several clovers are inserted that students may learn to distinguished them from weeds too often mixed with them. No apology is offered for making use of the decimal scale instead of the cumbersome antiquated English scale, which fortunately is gradually growing out of use. In the back part of the bulletin are duplicate copies of the decimal scale that any one can cut out and use for measuring. For copies of the following figures some time ago prepared by Mr. Hillman, we are indebted to the authorities of the Agricultural College, of Reno, Nevada: 7, 11, 12, 16, 17, 23, 24, 31, 32, 34, 35, 36, 37, 39, 40, 41, 42, 44, 46, 55, 56, 58, 63, 68, 69, 71, 74, 75, 84, 86, 87, 91, 92, 95, 97, 98, 99, 108, 110, 116, 125, 130, 135, 138, 140, 144, 146, 152, 153, 158, 159, 172, 173, 174, 175, 178, 179, 181, 182, 185, 187, 189, 190, 191, 199, 203, 205, 212, 214, 215. "A weed is any useless or troublesome plant." "A plant out of place or growing where it is not wanted." "Tobacco." "A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered."--Emerson. Weeds everywhere; they thrive in the cornfield, they choke wheat in the field, they annoy the gardner, they thrive in the meadow, they spring up by the roadside, they encroach on the swamp, they damage the fleeces of sheep. The rapid increase in the number and variety of weeds should cause alarm. DISADVANTAGES OF WEEDS. 1. They rob cultivated plants of nutriment. 2. They injure crops by crowding and shading. 3. They retard the work of harvesting grain by increasing the draft and by extra wear of machinery. (Bindweed, thistles, red root.) 4. They retard the drying of grain and hay. 5. They increase the labor of threshing, and make cleaning of seed difficult. 6. They damage the quality of flour, sometimes making it nearly worthless. (Allium vineale L.) 7. Most of them are of little value as food for domestic animals. 8. Some weeds injure stock by means of barbed awns. (Squirrel tail grass, wild oats, porcupine grass.) 9. Some of them injure wool and disfigure the tails of cattle, the manes and tails of horses. (Burdock, cocklebur, houndstongue.) 10. A few make "Hair balls" in the stomachs of horses. (Rabbit-foot clover, crimson clover.) 11. Some injure the quality of dairy products. (Leeks, wild onions.) 12. Penny cress, and probably others, when eaten by animals, injure the taste of meat. 13. Poison hemlock, spotted cowbane and Jamestown weed are very poisonous. 14. Many weeds interfere with a rotation of crops. 15. All weeds damage the appearance of a farm and render it less valuable. (Quack-grass, Canada thistle, plantains.) SOME SMALL BENEFITS. 1. They are of some use in the world to induce more frequent and more thorough cultivation, which benefits crops. 2. The new arrival of a weed of first rank stimulates watchfulness. (Russian thistle.) 3. In occupying the soil after a crop has been removed they prevent the loss of fertility by shading the ground. 4. Weeds plowed under add some humus and fertility to the soil, though in a very much less degree than clover or cow peas. 5. Some of them furnish food for birds in winter. WHAT ENABLES A PLANT TO BECOME A WEED. 1. Sometimes by producing an enormous number of weeds. (A large plant of purslane, 1,250,000 seeds; a patch of daisy fleabane, 3,000 to a square inch.) 2. In other cases by the great vitality of their seeds. Shepherd's purse, mustard, purslane, pigeon-grass, pigweeds, pepper-grass, May weed, evening primrose, smart weed, narrow-leaved dock, two chick-weeds survive when buried in the soil thirty years at least, as I have found by actual test. 3. In each prickly fruit of a cocklebur there are two seeds, only one of which grows the first year, the other surviving to grow the second year. 4. Some are very succulent, and ripen seeds even when pulled. (Purslane.) 5. Often by ripening and scattering seeds before the cultivated crop is mature. (Red root, fleabane.) 6. Sometimes by ripening seeds at the time of harvesting a crop, when all are harvested together. (Chess, cockle.) 7. Some seeds are difficult to separate from seeds of the crop cultivated. (Sorrel, mustard, narrow-leaved plantain in seeds of red clover and alfalfa.) 8. Some are very small and escape notice. (Mullein, fleabane.) 9. Some plants go to seed long before suspected, as no showy flowers announce the time of bloom. (Pigweeds.) 10. In a few cases the plants break loose from the soil when mature and become tumble-weeds. (Some pigweeds, Russian thistle.) 11. Some seeds and seed-like fruits are furnished each with a balloon, or a sail, or with grappling hooks. (Dandelion, sticktights, burdock.) 12. Some remain with the dead plant long into winter, and when torn off by the wind or by birds, drift for long distances on the snow, often from one farm to another. (Pigweeds.) 13. Some have creeping root-stocks or tubers. (Quack-grass, nut-grass.) 14. Some defend themselves with forks and bayonets. (Thistles.) 15. Most of them are disagreeable in taste or odor, so that domestic animals leave them to occupy the ground and multiply. (Jamestown weed, stink grass, milk weed.) 16. Plants with stout roots are sometimes passed over by the harrow or cultivator. HOW ARE WEEDS INTRODUCED AND HOW ARE THEY SPREAD? 1. By live stock, carried in the hair or fleece or carried by the feet; in some instances passing alive with the excrement. 2. By unground feed-stuff purchased. 3. By adhering to the insides of sacks where they were placed with grain. 4. In barnyard manure drawn from town. 5. In the packing of trees, crockery, baled hay and straw. 6. By wagons, sleighs, threshing machines. 7. Sometimes by plows, cultivators and harrows. 8. By railway trains passing through or near a farm. 9. By ballast of boats at wharves. 10. By wool-waste at factories. 11. By birds, squirrels, and mice. 12. By water of brooks, rivers, by washing rains and by irrigating ditches. 13. By the wind aided by little wings or down, or by drifting on the snow. 14. By dropping seeds to the ground from extending branches and repeating the process. 15. By creeping root-stocks, as June grass, quack-grass and toad-flax. 16. By piercing potatoes, carrots, etc., quack-grass, June grass, Bermuda grass are sometimes carried to other fields or farms where the tubers and roots are planted. 17. A farmer buys clover seeds or grass seeds that were grown in some state that never before grew seeds that went onto his farm and thus he may get some new weeds. Seeds of alfalfa or some other crop bring new kinds of weeds, especially those of dodder. As every kind of weed goes onto a farm to stay there it follows that as a country becomes older the greater the number of kinds of weeds. As a rule each farm is annually getting more sorts of weeds, and as each farmer is cultivating weeds, they are more freely distributed in every field and along every roadside and by exchanging they are carried to neighboring and distant farms. A great many farmers buy and sow whatever the merchant offers them under the name mentioned. For example, the college has a sample of something called clover seed, sold by a dealer in this state. It contains about 40 per cent of narrow-leaved plantain. WHERE CERTAIN WEEDS ARE TROUBLESOME. To begin with, years and years ago no new farm in the wilderness of Michigan contained more than twenty to thirty-five kinds of weeds, as there were not more than thirty-five sorts in the entire state, while at present there are not far from 250 kinds. A large majority of weeds hail from older countries, more especially from Europe. There are a few weeds, like Canada thistle and quack-grass, that may infest any crop of farm or garden, but in most cases, whether to call a weed very bad depends on the nature of the crop grown, the size of the weed-seeds and their time of ripening. Some weeds have a very wide distribution, thriving all around the world in temperate climates, while others are more limited in range; some thrive only in dry, thin, sandy soil and others in wet soils. To some extent the presence of a few weed-seeds is almost as objectionable when once on the farm, as though there were more, because these few may thrive and seed freely. In many respects the lists of weeds for New Jersey is different from the list in Michigan, while half the weeds of Nevada or Oregon are not known in our state. Chess, cockle, red root and rye are liable to be troublesome in fields of winter wheat, because the seeds are more or less difficult to separate from this grain and for the reason that they require a portion of two years to come to maturity. Meadows and pastures, especially where the land is not fertile, abound in weeds that require two years or more to produce seeds, such as narrow-leaved dock, bitter dock, bull thistle, carrot, teasel, two kinds of mulleins, night-flowering catchfly, evening primrose, several kinds of fleabane, ox-eye daisy, orange hawkweed, two or three kinds of plantain, Canada thistle, hound's tongue, stick seed, sow thistle, horse nettle, buttercups, toad flax, silvery cinquefoil, and many more, not excluding some annuals, like crab-grass, tickle grass, pigeon grasses. As crops of corn, potatoes, beans, turnips, beets and squashes are ready to harvest at the close of one growing season they are molested more or less by pigeon grasses, several pigweeds, purslane, crab-grass, barnyard grass, tickle grass and a number of others. In 1897 some seventy-five lots of timothy seeds were examined and the following list of twenty-four species of weeds were found. Doubtless other weeds may still be found in other lots of timothy seed. No sample was entirely free from weeds. Pepper grass was most common, next followed tumble weed and then shepherd's purse: Amaranthus graecizans, Tumble weed. Amaranthus retroflexus, Rough pigweed. Anthemis Cotula, May weed. Brassica arvensis, Charlock. Brassica nigra, Black mustard. Bursa Bursa-pastoris, Shepherd's purse. Carduus arvensis, Canada thistle. Carex straminea. A kind of sedge. Chenopodium album, Pigweed. Chenopodium filicifolium, Another kind of pigweed. Lactuca Canadensis, Wild Lettuce. Lepidium Virginicum, Wild Pepper-grass. Onagra biennis, Evening primrose. Panicum capillare, Hair grass, tickle grass. Plantago lanceolata, Narrow-leaved plantain. Plantago Rugelii, Rugel's Plantain, one of the broad-leaved plantains. Poa compressa, Flat-stemmed poa, wire grass. Potentilla Monspeliensis, Rough cinquefoil. Prunella vulgaris, Self-heal. Rumex Acetocella, Field or sheep sorrel. Sisymbrium officinale, Hedge mustard. Verbena angustifolia, Narrow-leaved vervain. Verbena hastata, Blue vervain. Verbena urticifolia, White vervain. In examining some 130 lots of clover seeds as found in the market during 1897, thirty-two kinds of weed seeds were found. Sheep sorrel was most common, next to this yellow or bitter dock and green foxtail. Only three samples of clover seed was free from weeds, but possibly some weeds might have been seen if larger quantities had been looked over. During the year 1908, eleven years later, 47 kinds of weed seeds were found in 122 lots of seed of red clover, a gain of nearly 50 per cent. During three months from January 1, 1910, in examining 450 lots of seeds of grasses, clovers and alfalfas, besides large numbers of common weeds that we know, were 74 kinds not known to the writer. Of these 74 kinds, probably some will never become weeds of any account. Some of these came with alfalfa from Montana and some were importations from Europe and elsewhere. Parasitic fungi rank as weeds; such as rusts and smuts of wheat, oats, corn; apple scab, black knot of plum, brown rot of cherry, anthracnose of beans. SOME MEANS FOR PREVENTING THE INTRODUCTION OF WEEDS AND A FEW RULES FOR THEIR EXTERMINATION. 1. The right kind of a man, who will carefully observe and study the kinds of weeds and their habits, fighting each to the best advantage, i. e. with method. 2. See that all seeds purchased or grown at home for seed are free from seeds of weeds. Although often heard, these words are too little heeded. 3. See that threshing machines, hay racks, grain bags from other farms are well cleaned before used on the farm. 4. Cook or grind screenings and burn chaff when certain weeds are suspected. 5. Send seeds to the Agricultural College, East Lansing, for identification, unless they are known to be harmless. 6. Strive to prevent weeds from ripening seeds. This is especially important late in the season in case of all pigweeds, purslane and others where the flowers are very small and are liable to be overlooked and the seeds ripen before their presence is suspected. 7. For meadow or pasture make the soil very fertile, as most weeds will then be killed or crowded by the better grass and become of little account. 8. Modify the rotation of crops with reference to killing the weeds. 9. Make a specialty of hoed or cultivated crops. 10. Make soiling crops a prominent feature in certain fields. 11. Smother weeds with quick growing and thickly seeded crops, like red clover or rye or buckwheat. 12. Keep some crops growing on the land from early spring till late autumn,--double cropping, i. e., two cultivated crops in one year for barn and cellar instead of one for use and one of weeds. 13. Cultivate thoroughly after a crop is removed. 14. Clean up and avoid leaving any vacant or out of the way places for breeding ground. 15. Where practicable, remove fences and cultivate to the gutters of the highway. 16. Keep some sheep. 17. When once begun, continue the work thoroughly from year to year, giving no quarter to weeds. This is the easiest in the long run and the royal way. 18. Where hand labor is employed, it is far less expensive and much easier to keep weeds down by raking or hoeing once a week than by going over the ground much less frequently. The habits of a weed determine to a great extent the best mode of fighting it. Certain remedies suggest themselves for creeping perennials, like quack grass and toad flax, while different treatment is best for narrow-leaved dock; and still a different mode of attack may be adopted for crab grass and purslane. Weeds are annuals, as pigweeds, crab grass, purslane; biennials as bull thistle and mulleins; perennials, like quack grass, Canada thistle, ox-eye Daisy. Will it pay? The annual cost of successfully fighting a weedy farm of 100 acres in Ontario has been found to be about $75. Good cultivation in the long run pays a greater profit than slipshod culture. It not only kills the weeds, but keeps the soil in condition for securing good crops. It conserves moisture. Perennial plants cannot gain any if the green leaves are not allowed to appear. The nourishment stored in the root stocks underground will aid the plant to send up slender leaves and if these remain, the plants gain and recruit, but if the leaves start underground and are cut off before coming to the light, these root stocks are drawn on again to furnish food to start more leaves and thus, in time become exhausted. SEEDS OF MICHIGAN WEEDS. ASCOMYCETES. [Illustration: Fig. 1.] =Ergot.= _Claviceps purpurea._ This is a poisonous fungus, not a seed, mentioned here because it is frequently found as an outgrowth of the grain of many grasses, such as rye, timothy, red top. To mature spores, it must pass to another stage requiring six months or more. GRASS FAMILY. GRAMINEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 2.] =Quack-Grass. Couch-Grass.= _Agropyron repens_ (L.) Beauv. Florets about 1 cm. long, 5-nerved at the short-awned apex: grain seldom produced and still less frequently found apart from the floral glume and palea, linear, about 4 mm. long, base abruptly acute, apex rounded, rounded on the back or outside, inside concave. Our worst weed. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 3.] =Wild Oat.= _Avena fauta_ L. Freed from chaff the floral glume is firm, rough, brown, thinly hairy, about 15 mm. long, awn from near the middle 2-4 cm. long with several firm twists, abruptly bent near the middle, the true grain seldom separated from the firmer floral glume. A bad weed in Oregon and California, seldom seen in Michigan. [Illustration: Fig. 4.] =Field Chess.= _Bromus arvensis_ (L.) Not often seen in this country; floral glume 6-7 mm. long bearing an awn rather longer; grain much like that of _B. secalinus_ which see. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 5.] =Soft Chess.= _Bromus hordeaceus_ L. (_Bromus mollis_). Floral glume extending beyond the grain, 5-7 nerved, 6-9 mm. long, grain rounded on the back, shape of a shallow boat, 6.5 mm. long, palea thin with comb-like teeth on the margins. Waste places, thin meadows. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 6.] =Smooth Brome-grass.= _Bromus racemosus_ L. Florets about 9 mm. long, awn 6-10 mm. long; longer, softer, thinner, with longer awn than found in florets of _B. secalinus_ which see. Not often seen in this country. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 7.] =Chess Cheat.= _Bromus secalinus_ L. Florets swollen a little above the middle, the floral glume rounded on the back, obscurely 7-nerved, 6-7 mm. long, an awn 3-4 mm. long, more or less; palea covering the concave side, each edge bearing a single row of stiff hairs; glume and palea closely adhering to the grain. Introduced from Europe. A weed in wheat fields. [Illustration: Fig. 8.] =Barren Brome Grass.= _Bromus sterilis_ L. Floral glume minutely roughened, adhering to the grain; 5-7 nerved; 11-15 mm. long; compressed; concave in section. Introduced from Europe, becoming common in the state. [Illustration: Fig. 9.] =Sand-Bur. Bur-Grass.= _Cenchrus tribuloides_ L. Spikelets consisting of the grain and its coverings, broad oval, somewhat flattened, about 7 mm. long, thinly covered by stiff, straight, barbed, prickles, 2-5 mm. long, making a disagreeable and formidable bur, often common on sandy land. Native of this country. [Illustration: Fig. 10.] =Bermuda Grass.= _Cynodon Dactylon_ L., Pers., (Capriola Dactylon (L.) Kuntze). Floral glume enclosing the grain, smooth, light colored, oval to half-oval, 1.5 to 2 mm. long, in cross section with two long sides and a short side half as long; grain light brown, obovate to oval, a small nipple at the larger end. The plant seeds in hot countries but not in cool, temperate regions; spreading chiefly by coarse, hard rootstocks. Introduced. [Illustration: Fig. 11.] =Small Crab-Grass.= _Digitaria humifusa_ Pers. _Panicum lineare_ Kroach. _Syntherisma linearis_ (Kroch.) Nash. Spikelets in the rough, before severe rubbing, ovoid or oblong, flattened, 2 mm. long, first glume minute, second and third as long as the spikelet, soft with very short hairs, one of them 3-nerved, the other 5-nerved; floret after severe rubbing, brown to black, smooth, floral glume of the rounded side curving over the edges below covering with their edges about two-thirds of the palea. Introduced from Europe; becoming troublesome on thin lawns. [Illustration: Fig. 12.] =Large Crab-Grass. Finger Grass.= _Digitaria sanguinalis_ (L.) Scop. _Panicum sanguinale L. Syntherisma_ (L.) Nash. Spikelets before severe rubbing, oblong, acute, 2.5-3.5 mm. long, first glume on flattened side minute, second on rounded side about half as long as the spikelet, pubescent or nearly smooth, third glume more or less pubescent, 5-7-nerved; floret, after severe rubbing, smooth, edges of floral glume thin. Introduced from Europe. Roots very tough and coming from the lower joints. [Illustration: Fig. 13.] =Barnyard Grass.= _Echinochloa Crus-galli_ (L.) Beauv. _Panicum Crus-galli_ L. Florets oval, white, yellowish gray or brown, 2.4-3 mm. long, plano-convex, glume on the convex side, highly polished, three obscure longitudinal nerves. Native of this country. [Illustration: Fig. 14.] =Yard-Grass. Wire-Grass.= _Eleusine Indica_ (L.) Gaertn. Florets light lead color or brown before threshing or much rubbing; grain dark, reddish brown, 1.2-1.4 mm., ovoid with the base abruptly pointed, 3 sided, the corners rounded, a vertical groove along one side; seen from the back with the groove side down and base toward the observer, starting from an oval spot near the base, 10-15 ridges on each side, extend downward and forward. Introduced from some warmer region of the Old World. [Illustration: Fig. 15.] =Stink-Grass.= _Eragrostis megastachya_ (Koeler) Link. _Eragrostis major_ Host. Grain orange red or wine color .4-.6 mm. long. Broad oval to nearly circular, very slightly flattened, extremities slightly pointed, embryo within one edge near the base, a fine network of dark lines evident under a good lens. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 16.] =Squirrel-tail Grass.= _Hordeum jubatum_ L. Spikelets in clusters of three, central one only fertile, 5 mm. long, containing a grain adhering to the floral glume and palea, the other two abortive, seven awns in these three spikelets, 4-6 cm. long, four others less than 1 cm. long; awns and fragment of rachis holding the cluster of spikelets together, all barbed upward, making them troublesome for fleeces of sheep and the mouths of animals eating them. Native of this country and widely distributed. [Illustration: Fig. 17.] =Old Witch Grass. Tickle Grass. A Tumble-Weed.= _Panicum capillare_ L. Florets flattened, elliptical, apex abruptly pointed, about 1.5 mm. long, highly polished, leaden gray, lighter at the extremities and along the edges of the glume, five slender light colored nerves join the extremities passing vertically over the glume, two light nerves on the palea. Native to this country. [Illustration: Fig. 18.] =Tall Smooth Panicum. Switch Grass.= _Panicum virgatum_ L. Achene surrounded by two persistent shining pieces, the floret; floral glume hard, light brown, oval or ovate-lanceolate 2.5-3.1 mm. long. Apex obtusely pointed. Seldom troublesome, widely distributed. [Illustration: Fig. 19.] =Low Spear-Grass.= _Poa annua_ L. Florets straw-colored, 2.8-3.1 mm. long, apex smooth, lower half of keel and the base of lateral nerves, having numerous soft hairs. A low annual grass, introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 20.] =Flat stemmed Poa. Wire Grass. Canadian Blue Grass.= _Poa compressa_ L. Florets lance-obovate, 2-2.5 mm. long, closely resembling those of Poa pratensis, which see. Palea abruptly acute. If well rubbed after threshing, the floret is nearly smooth, otherwise it contains on the lower half numerous webby hairs. Grain reddish brown, both ends pointed, 1-1.4 mm. long. Seldom sown purposely. Sometimes used to adulterate Poa pratensis. In early days this grass was called blue grass by people of New England and New York State. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 21.] =June Grass. Kentucky Blue Grass.= _Poa pratensis_ L. Florets ovate-lanceolate, acute 3-4 mm. long, with three equal sides when seen in transverse section, nearly smooth, if severely rubbed in threshing, otherwise the floral glume is thickly webbed at the base; palea acuminate, grain light brown, elliptical, both ends usually pointed 1.2-1.4 mm. long, in cross sections with three equal sides, one of which has a shallow vertical groove. Compare with Poa compressa. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 22.] =Rye.= _Secale cereale_ L. Grain light brown, 6-8 mm. long, elliptical, base acute, apex obtuse and rounded, in cross section the back somewhat acutely rounded, the opposite side with a narrow vertical groove, surface more or less irregularly wrinkled. Introduced from Europe. A bad weed in wheat fields. [Illustration: Fig. 23.] =Pigeon-Grass. Yellow Foxtail.= _Setaria glauca_ (L.) Beauv. _Chaetochloa glauca_ (L.) Scrib. Spikelets light to dark brown, 2.5-3 mm. long; after threshing or much rubbing consisting of each a grain and two firm coverings, known as a floral glume which covers the sides of the somewhat depressed palea, oval, apex slightly 3-toothed, rounded side strongly arched, somewhat V-shaped, roughened crosswise by prominent fine more or less branching ridges; ridges of palea on concave side less prominent. Introduced from Europe. Very common in hoed annual crops. [Illustration: Fig. 24.] =Green Foxtail. Green Pigeon Grass.= _Setaria viridis_ (L.) Beauv. _Chaetochloa viridis_ (L.) Nash. Spikelets, light to dark brown mottled, 2-2.3 mm. long, after threshing or much rubbing consisting of the grain and two firm coverings, the rounded one known as a floral glume which covers the edges of the flattened side, oval, the surface granular and very faintly striate, lengthwise and ridged crosswise. Much resembling Hungarian grass. Introduced from Europe. Found with yellow foxtail. [Illustration: Fig. 25.] =Porcupine Grass.= _Stipa spartea_ Trin. Grain inclosed in the floral glume, light brown, 18 mm. long, clothed on the lower half with short brown hairs slanting upward, bearing at the base a sharp, hard, curved beak, when dry the attached awn is twisted for 6 cm. and straight and bent at right angles about 6 cm. When moistened, the awn untwists more or less; twisting and untwisting the beards hold what the beak pierces, thus making it a formidable weapon to enter the skins of sheep, goats and dogs. Fortunately it is seldom abundant. Sandy land Michigan and westward. SEDGE FAMILY. CYPERACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 26.] =Yellow Nut-Grass.= _Cyperus esculentus_ L. This is a species of sedge, and so far as I have examined, produces no seeds, perhaps having lost that method of reproduction, as it acquired the habit of spreading by tubers here illustrated. In moist soil, sometimes a troublesome weed. [Illustration: Fig. 27.] =Ovoid Spike-rush.= _Eleocharis ovata_ (Roth.) R. & S. Spike ovoid, 4-10 mm. long, achene pale to chestnut brown, shining, obovate-oblong, compressed, about 1 mm. long, bearing a triangular tubercle at the apex, and six to eight barbed bristles, 1.3-1.7 mm. long, very variable. Not troublesome except in low land. RUSH FAMILY. JUNACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 28.] =Slender Rush.= _Juncus tenuis_ Willd. Seeds light brown to amber color, translucent, flattened, oval, half oval, oblong, ovoid, the acute apex curved to one side, about 0.3 mm. long. Dry to moist soil, almost throughout North America, now migrating to all parts of the world. A very common, grass-like rush in this state, seldom recognized by any one under any name, except by a first-rate botanist. LILY FAMILY. LILACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 29.] =Field Garlic. Wild Garlic.= _Allium vineale_ L. Seeds not seen, apparently seldom produced; bulblets (b) light yellow or almost white, obovoid to elliptical, 7-8 mm. long, when dry. Introduced from Europe. Troublesome in pastures and tainting the flavor of butter; in wheat it taints the flavor of flour. Persistent when introduced. The illustration of grains of wheat (a) are given for comparison. NETTLE FAMILY. URTICACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 30.] =Slender Nettle.= _Urtica gracilis_ Ait. Achenes compressed, lens-shaped, ovate, rarely oval, faces similar, smooth, dull and grayish brown, .9-1.1 mm. long. Native of this country. Compared with U. dioica, this achene is thinner and shorter. Prominent in low pastures. BUCKWHEAT FAMILY. POLYGONACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 31.] =Knot-Grass.= _Polygonum aviculare_ L. This door-yard weed is in no sense a grass. Achenes unequally 3-sided, ovoid, acute, angles obtuse, surface, dull, light to dark reddish brown, finely granular and striate lengthwise. 1.8-2.2 mm. long, usually with the remains of calyx attached. Native of this country. Common about door-yards. [Illustration: Fig. 32.] =Wild Buckwheat.= _Polygonum Convolvulus_ L. Achenes dull, jet-black, equally 3-sided, elliptical to obovoid, minutely granular often with faint longitudinal striation, the faces often more or less concave, the angles rounded, 2.5-3.5 mm. long, sometimes with the remains of calyx attached. Introduced from Europe. Often climbing up corn stalks. [Illustration: Fig. 33.] =Erect Knotweed.= _Polygonum erectum_ L. Achenes dull, light to dark brown, unequally 3-sided, ovoid or rhombic, finely granular and striate lengthwise, the faces sometimes concave, the angles rounded, 2.5-3 mm. long, sometimes with the remains of calyx attached. Native to this country. Of little account. [Illustration: Fig. 34.] =Smart-weed.= _Polygonum Hydropiper_ L. Achene dull, granular, light to dark reddish brown, lenticular, acutely and narrowly or broadly elliptical, or 3-sided, apex acute, concave on the sides, angles obtuse, 2-3 mm. long, sometimes with the remains of the dotted calyx attached. Introduced from Europe. Wet land. [Illustration: Fig. 35.] =Dock-leaved or Pale Persicaria.= _Polygonum lapathifolium_ L. Achene shining, dark to chestnut brown, 2-2.2 mm. long, flattened, circular to broadly ovate with abruptly pointed apex, the base obtuse or bearing the remains of the thin calyx. Introduced from Europe. Low wet places. =Shore Knotweed.= _Polygonum littorale_ Link. So far as the achenes are concerned, they are identical with those of P. aviculare above described. Native of this country. On hard or thin places, especially when newly graded. [Illustration: Fig. 36.] =Pennsylvania Persicaria=, _Polygonum Pennsylvanicum_ L. Achene shining, jet-black, flattened, surface very slightly uneven and granular nearly circular with a short abrupt apex, edge rounded, 2.5-3 mm. long, often bearing the remains of the calyx. Native to this country. Occasional in annual crops. [Illustration: Fig. 37.] =Lady's Thumb.= _Polygonum Persicaria_ L. Achene shining, jet-black, surface finely uneven, much flattened with rounded edges or with 3 nearly equal concave faces, the edges faintly angled along the center, broadly ovate, base obtuse or bearing a portion of the calyx, apex abruptly pointed, 2-2.3 long. Introduced from Europe. Waste places and stubble ground. [Illustration: Fig. 38.] =Climbing False Buckwheat.= _Polygonum scandens_ L. Achene black, shining, in cross-section sides flat or concave, corners rounded, obovate, in vertical outline sides rounded to an obtuse apex, from rounded sides to base slightly concave, base acute, 3.5-4 mm. long when freed from the persistent base of the calyx. Woods and shady places. Not prominent as a weed. [Illustration: Fig. 39.] =Sorrel. Sour Dock.= _Rumex Acetosa_ L. Calyx-wings broadly ovate or orbicular, heart-shaped 3.5-4.5 mm. long, achene shining, with 3 equal sides, broadly oval, both ends abruptly pointed, the thin edges usually lighter colored than the dark brown or black convex faces, 1.5-2 mm. long. Introduced from Europe. Not common. [Illustration: Fig. 40.] =Sheep Sorrel.= _Rumex Acetosella_ L. Achenes usually closely covered by dull reddish brown, finally roughened calyx, which is removed with difficulty; achenes shining with 3 equal sides, broadly oval, the base rounded, the apex abruptly pointed, sides convex, reddish brown or amber color, corners obtuse, darker colored. Native of this country, though in large part introduced from Europe. Very common in thin sandy meadows. [Illustration: Fig. 41.] =Narrow-leaved or Curled Dock.= _Rumex crispus_ L. Achene covered by 3 brown heart-shaped calyx-wings, which are 2.5-3.5 mm. long, each bearing an ovoid, acute tubercle; one of them is 1.5 mm. long, the other two smaller. Achene ovoid, 3-angled, shining, rich reddish-brown, 1.3-1.8 mm. long, .7-1.4 mm. wide, in transverse section the angles prominent, convex sides and angles concave near the base; base abruptly acute; when viewed vertically sides and angles concave near the apex; apex abruptly acute, compare these notes with those concerning R. obtusifolius. Introduced from Europe. Very common on low land and in meadows. [Illustration: Fig. 42.] =Broad-leaved or Bitter Dock.= _Rumex obtusifolius_ L. Achene covered by three brown, hastate-deltoid calyx-wings, which are about 4 mm. long, each bearing an ovoid-elliptical tubercle, one of them 1.5 mm. long, the other two very narrow, rudimentary. Achenes ovoid, 3-angled, less polished than those of R. crispus, light brown, 2-2.4 mm. long, 1-1.4 mm. wide, angles in transverse section slight, sides convex, usually in a greater degree than in the specie just named, vertically sides and angles very slightly concave or straight near the base which is abruptly acute; sides and angles near the apex scarcely concave or straight; apex acute. Introduced from Europe. Not very common. [Illustration: Fig. 43.] =Patience Dock.= _Rumex Patientia_ L. Calyx-wings circular-heart shaped, 4-6 mm. long, one of them bearing a prominent ovoid tubercle; achene ovoid-elliptical, 3-angled, somewhat polished, shining, light-brown, 2.5-3.5 mm. long, 1.7-2 mm. wide, angles prominent, sides straight, in transverse section, not counting the angles, base rounded, not counting the abrupt point, when seen vertically, the sides near the apex are straight or slightly concave. Introduced from Europe. Not common. [Illustration: Fig. 44.] =Willow-leaved Dock.= _Rumex Mexicanus_ Meisn. _Rumex salicifolius_ Weinm. Calyx-wings triangular-ovate, about 3 mm. long, each bearing a large tubercle; achene dark reddish brown, smooth, shining, 1.8-2.2 mm. long, ovoid, angles prominent, the sides viewed transversely rounded, the sides of the base as viewed vertically, rounded, straight or slightly concave, near the apex straight or concave. A native of Northeastern North America. Not common. GOOSEFOOT OR PIGWEED FAMILY. CHENOPODIACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 45.] =Spreading Orache.= _Atriplex patula_ L. Seeds are likely to occur in either of three different guises, depending upon the degree of their ripeness or the amount of threshing to which they have been subjected. Achenes thin, dull, granular, gray, closely fitting the seed; seed jet-black, shining, flattened, nearly circular, edge bluntly rounded, and notched in one place, a groove leading from one side of a margined protuberance part way to the center of the face, 1.5-1.8 mm. in diameter. Introduced from Europe. Seldom troublesome. [Illustration: Fig. 46.] =Pigweed. Lamb's Quarters.= _Chenopodium album_ L. Seeds are likely to occur in either of three different guises dependent upon the degree of their ripeness or the amount of threshing to which they have been subjected. The figure shows these conditions admirably. Seeds black, dull or somewhat glistening, gray if not pretty clean; nearly circular; somewhat lens-shaped, one side usually more nearly flattened than the other 1-1.4 mm. in diameter, the edge bluntly rounded, the more convex side bearing a curved groove leading from one side of the marginal protuberance to near the center of the face, surface finely uneven, often with a faintly evident radiating striation. Introduced from Europe. Very common in annual crops. [Illustration: Fig. 47.] =Mexican Tea.= _Chenopodium ambrosioides_ L. Note remarks under last preceding description concerning different stages of cleaning. Seeds smooth, shining, reddish brown, to black, thickly double convex with scarcely a trace of a hem-like margin, circular, short kidney-shaped or ovate with a notch on the edge, .6-.8 mm. long. Introduced from tropical America. Not prominent. [Illustration: Fig. 48.] =Jerusalem Oak.= _Chenopodium Botrys_ L. Concerning different states of cleaning, note remarks above under C. album. Seeds perfectly cleaned with great difficulty, brown to black or gray, when imperfectly cleaned, slightly flatted on two sides, circular or round, kidney-shaped, sometimes with a hem-like margin, on one side a faint groove from the margin to near the center of the face, .6-.8 mm. in diameter. Introduced from Europe. Not prominent. [Illustration: Fig. 49.] =Oak-leaved Goosefoot.= _Chenopodium glaucum_ L. Concerning the different stages of cleaning note remarks above under C. album. Seeds brown to black, more or less slightly granular, shining, flattened on two sides, circular edge bluntly rounded, with a single notch from which on one side extends a slight depression toward the center of the face, .5-.8 mm. in diameter. Introduced from Europe. Occasional on moist soil. [Illustration: Fig. 50.] =Maple-leaved Goosefoot.= _Chenopodium hybridum_ L. Concerning the different stages of cleaning, note remarks above under C. album. Seeds black, shining, greenish gray if not fully cleaned, nearly circular, lens-shaped, equally convex, 1.2-1.8 mm. in diameter, with a notch on the edge, from which on one side a groove leads to near the center of the face, surface finely uneven, often with a faintly evident radiating striation. Native of this country. Of little importance. [Illustration: Fig. 51.] =Many-seeded Goosefoot.= _Chenopodium polyspermum_ L. Concerning different stages of cleaning, note remarks above under C. album. Seeds finely glandular, shining, jet-black, greenish gray, when not fully cleaned, nearly circular or broadly kidney-shaped, sides equally convex, .6-1.1 mm. in diameter, with a notch on the edge from which on one side, a groove leads to near the center of the face. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 52.] =Winged Pigweed.= _Cycloloma atriplicifolium_ (Spreng.) Coulter. Seeds are likely to occur in either of three different guises depending upon the degree their ripeness or the amount of threshing to which they have been subjected. See the figure of this species. Seeds granular, circular, dull, jet-black, or gray in case the thin ovary remains, 1.3-1.7 mm. in diameter, lower face convex, the upper slightly convex if mature, with a slight notch on the rounded edge, the lower face bearing a slight curved groove, leading from the notch to near the center, the upper face with a light spot at the center. Introduced from western United States. A tumble weed, not common. [Illustration: Fig. 53.] =Russian Thistle.= _Salsola Kali tenuifolia_ G. F. W. Mey. This is not a thistle nor a cactus, but a pigweed. Concerning different stages of cleaning, note remarks above under Chenopodium album (see the figures). Seeds conical, the apex flattened or concave, both sides showing the long coiled embryo, light gray in color, about 2 mm. in diameter. Introduced from northern Europe into the north west and from there into Michigan. Well advertised, though not of high rank as a weed in this state. A tumble weed. AMARANTH FAMILY. AMARANTHACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 54.] =Western Water Hemp.= _Acnida tuberculata Moq._ Seeds smooth, highly polished, brown to jet-black, double convex, nearly circular, with a slight notch at one edge, .6-.8 mm. in diameter, smaller, lighter colored, and thin margins less conspicuous than those found on the seeds of _Amaranthus circaezans_. There are three varieties with seeds much the same as these. Native of low ground in central and southern Michigan. [Illustration: Fig. 55.] =Prostrate Amaranth.= _Amaranthus blitoides_ S. Wats. Seeds smooth, highly polished, jet-black, double convex, nearly circular, with a slight notch at one edge, 1.4-1.5 mm. in diameter. Introduced from west of the Rocky Mountains. It thrives on sandy and gravelly banks. Margin of this seed is less pronounced than in either of the other three noticed above. Found almost everywhere in fields of Michigan. Introduced from tropical America. Very common in annual hoed crops. [Illustration: Fig. 56.] =Tumble weed.= _Amaranthus graecizans_ L. Seeds smooth, highly polished, jet-black, double convex, nearly circular with a slight notch at one edge, .7-1 mm. in diameter. Compare with _Acnida_. Introduced from tropical America. It needs sand or gravel. [Illustration: Fig. 57.] =Slender Pigweed.= _Amaranthus hybridus_ L. (_A. chlorostachys_). Seeds smooth, highly polished, jet-black, double convex, broadly ovate, with a slight notch at the narrow extremity, 1.1-1.4 mm. long. Distinguished from the preceding species by having a seed ovate instead of circular. Introduced from tropical America. Not abundant. [Illustration: Fig. 58.] =Rough Pigweeds.= _Amaranthus retroflexus_ L. Sometimes incorrectly called red-root. Seeds smooth, highly polished, jet-black, double convex, broadly ovate, with a slight notch at the narrow end, .9-1.2 mm. long. The seeds of this and the next preceding are ovate, while those of the first two are very nearly circular. When seen edgewise, the hem-like margin of this seed is less prominent then in either of the preceding three noticed above. Found almost everywhere in annual crops. Introduced from tropical America. KNOTWEED FAMILY. ILLECEBRACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 59.] =Knawel.= _Scleranthus annuus_ L. As the seed is single for each flower, it is unnecessary for the ovary to open; the small, hardened, ten-angled calyx with its five thick lobes aid in protecting and distributing the seed within. The seed is seldom seen. Calyx straw colored, obovoid, 2 mm. long besides the five spreading, membranaceous lobes, which are nearly as long. A low spreading plant, resembling some kinds of chickweed. AIZOACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 60.] =Carpet-Weed.= _Mollugo verticillata_ L. Seeds orange-red, shining, flattened, kidney-shaped or ovoid, .4-.6 mm. long, concave on the thinner edge from which protrudes a nipple-like point, a low central ridge passing over the rounded edge. Native of warmer America. Needing sand. PINK FAMILY. CARYOPHYLLACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 61.] =Cockle.= _Agrostemma Githago_ L. Flowers rose-colored; pod erect, ovoid, about 16 mm. long; seeds dark brown to black, wedge-shaped-triangular, appearing as though the two extremities were bent together; surface covered with curved rows of conspicuous teeth, one side 3-3.5 mm. long. Introduced from Europe. In no sense a weed except in wheat fields. [Illustration: Fig. 62.] =Thyme-leaved Sandwort.= _Arenaria serpyllifolia_ L. Flowers white; seeds reddish brown to lead color, slightly flattened, circular to short-kidney-shaped. Each side covered with 4-5 curved rows of smooth, oval tubercles, giving the appearance of having two extremities bent together, about 5 mm. in diameter. Naturalized from Europe, delighting in light, poor soil. When well grown it becomes a tumbleweed. [Illustration: Fig. 63.] =Larger Mouse-ear Chickweed.= _Cerastium vulgatum_ L. Flowers white; pods cylindrical; seeds light-reddish yellow to dark reddish brown; slightly flattened, 4-sided, 2 of them straight, converging, one rounded, the other narrow and notched. Some of them ovoid, others nearly circular, covered with a few irregularly curved rows of tubercles, .4-.8 mm. in diameter. In large part introduced from Europe, though a native of this continent. [Illustration: Fig. 64.] =Bouncing Bet. Soapwort.= _Saponaria officinalis_ L. Flowers white; seeds dark lead-color, flattened, short-kidney-shaped to circular with notch on one side, 2 mm. across, more or less, with 6-7 curved rows of short, shiny tubercles. Naturalized from Europe, delighting in sandy soil. [Illustration: Fig. 65.] =Cow-herb.= _Saponaria Vaccaria_ L. Seed dull, jet-black, slightly roughened by great numbers of minute points, nearly spherical, 2.3 mm. in diameter. An annual very troublesome in spring wheat. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 66.] =Sleepy Catch-Fly.= _Silene antirrhina_ L. Flowers pink; seeds lead-color, slightly flattened, circular to short-kidney-shaped, each side covered with 5-6 curved rows of pointed tubercles giving the appearance of having two blunt extremities bent together, .5-.7 mm. across. Compare seeds with those of _Arenaria_ above described. When in flower, two of the upper internodes are glutinous. Only found on thin soil. [Illustration: Fig. 67.] =Forked Catch-fly.= _Silene dichotoma_ Ehrh. Seeds reddish-brown, flattened, the three sides and the corners rounded, thickest at one corner narrowing to the side opposite; seed scar in the middle of the narrow side, four curved rows of tubercles on either side of the seed extending to the scar, diameter 1.3 mm., the thick edge concave, containing 6-7 rows of tubercles. [Illustration: Fig. 68.] =Bladder Campion.= _Silene latifolia_ (Mill.) Britton & Randle. _Silene_ (Moench) Garcke. Flowers white; pod covered by an inflated calyx, seeds dull grayish brown, flattened, wedge-shaped, oval or 3-sided, 1-1.7 mm. across, 5-7 curved rows or tubercles on each side. Naturalized from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 69.] =Night-flowering Catch-Fly.= _Silene noctiflora_ L. Flowers white; seeds dull grayish brown, very slightly flattened, oval or short kidney-shaped, nearly 1.5 mm. across, with 8-10 curved rows of tubercles on each side. Naturalized from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 70.] =Spurry.= _Spergula arvensis_ L. Flowers white; seeds jet-black, except a narrowly winged, light-colored margin, slightly flattened, circular in outline 1-1.5 mm. across, with a slight notch on one side, surface often sprinkled with delicate, fragile, light-colored prickles. Introduced from Europe. Thriving on poor, sandy land. [Illustration: Fig. 71.] =Common Chickweed.= _Stellaria media_ (L.) Cyrill. _Alsine media_ L. Flowers white; seeds reddish yellow to dark brown, somewhat flattened, nearly circular, each side covered with 5-6 curved rows of tubercles, giving the appearance of having the two extremities bent together, about 1 mm. in diameter. Introduced from Europe, thriving in cool weather in shade. PURSLANE FAMILY. PORTULACACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 72.] =Purslane. Pussley.= _Portulaca oleracea_ L. Flowers yellow, seeds jet-black, shining, flattened, wedge-shaped, having three rounded nearly equal sides, broadly oval or almost circular, often having a curved tooth or point on one side, with 3-4 curved rows of minute tubercles. Seed .5-.8 mm. in diameter. Naturalized from the southwest. Every gardener knows how difficult it is to exterminate this weed. CROWFOOT FAMILY. RANUNCULACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 73.] =Small-flowered Crowfoot.= _Ranunculus abortivus_ L. Achene light brown to straw colored, 0.8-1.2 mm. in diameter, oblong, 0.3 mm. thick, when seen in cross sections, surface uneven with minute wrinkles, pits and dots flattened, broad oval to circular, three-sided, bearing the remains of a short curved style. Rich, low woods, not a common weed. [Illustration: Fig. 74.] =Bitter or Tall Buttercup.= _Ranunculus acris_ L. Achenes dull, dark brown, two-beaked, somewhat lens-shaped, 3-4 mm. long, one edge very slightly convex, the other prominently so, or somewhat semicircular in outline, hem-like margin, obscure. Introduced from Europe. Low land. [Illustration: Fig. 75.] =Bulbous Buttercup.= _Ranunculus bulbosus_ L. Achenes dull brown, nearly circular, diameter 3-4 mm.; beak short, turned to one side, surrounded by a narrow, hem-like margin. In June, many meadows of New England and New York are yellow with great numbers of flowers. Introduced from Europe. Upland; fortunately not yet common in this state. [Illustration: Fig. 76.] =Creeping Buttercup.= _Ranunculus repens_ L. Achenes plump, dull, light-brown, nearly circular, diameter 3-4 or more mm.; beak more or less hooked, hem-like margin conspicuous. This species usually seeds very sparingly, but when once introduced, it looses no time in spreading by creeping stems. Introduced from Europe. Moist land; a rapid spreader by runners. POPPY FAMILY. PAPAVERACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 77.] =Celandine.= _Chelidonium majus_ L. Yellow sap, yellow flowers; seeds dark brown to almost black, ovoid, 1.2-1.5 mm. long, with 10-12 curved vertical rows of small square depressions on each side; projecting from one side a prominent white or cream-colored ridge, irregularly wrinkled when dry. Introduced from Europe. Persistent. MUSTARD FAMILY. CRUCIFERAE. [Illustration: Fig. 78.] =Yellow or Small Alyssum.= _Alyssum alyssoides_ L. Flowers yellow; fruit nearly circular; seeds rich yellowish brown, about 1.5 mm. long, nearly straight on one edge, flattened slightly, convex on each side or one side flat, surrounded by a thin wing. Cotyledons accumbent. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 79.] =Yellow Rocket. Winter Cress.= _Barbarea vulgaris_ R. Br. (_Barbarea Barbarea_ L. Mac. M.) Seeds roughened, dull, light brown, irregularly flattened, broad oval, circular-oval, circular-oblong, cotyledons accumbent. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 80.] =Hoary Alyssum.= _Berteroa incana_ (L.) D. C. Flowers white; pods oval, flattened; seeds reddish brown, circular, broad oval, or rhombic in outline, about 1.5 mm. in diameter, flat on one side showing a slight groove, the other side convex, irregular owing to pressure in the pod. Cotyledons accumbent. Introduced from Europe. A thrifty weed of the mustard family. [Illustration: Fig. 81.] =Charlock.= _Brassica arvensis_ (L.) B. S. P. Pods tipped with a flattened elongated-conic, often 1-seeded beak. See also cuts of rutabaga and black mustard. Introduced from Europe. See statements last above. [Illustration: Fig. 82.] =Rutabaga.= _Brassica campestris_ L. Seed dull, light or dark reddish brown, roughened by an indistinct net work of ridges, very nearly spherical, 1.4-1.8 mm. in diameter. Much cultivated, inclined to escape. Included here for comparison with other species. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 83.] =Indian Mustard.= _Brassica juncea_ (L.) Cossos. See also cuts of turnip and black mustard. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 84.] =Black Mustard.= _Brassica nigra_ (L.) Koch. Seeds dark brown to reddish brown, 1-1.7 mm., spherical, or broadly oblong, not flattened. The surface of well developed specimens presents a delicate but evident net work of fine ridges which appear under the lens as dark lines. The scar (hilum) is a whitish, elevated spot, at one extremity of the oblong seeds. See cuts of seeds of turnip. Introduced from Europe. A vigorous persistent weed. [Illustration: Fig. 85.] =Small Fruited False-Flax.= _Camelina microcarpa_ Andrz. Flowers small, yellow; pods pear-shaped, flattened, about 6 mm. long, surrounded by a vertical ridge; seeds reddish brown, granular, usually broad-oval, about 1 mm. long, slightly flattened, the vertical ridge much less prominent than in C. sativa. When wet the seed is soon covered with mucilage. Not yet very common. Naturalized from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 86.] =False Flax.= _Camelina saliva_ (L.) Crantz. The common name is derived from the fact that it is a weed of flax fields in Europe. Flowers small, yellowish; pods pear-shaped, slightly flattened, 8-10 mm. long, surrounded by a vertical ridge. Seeds reddish yellow, granular, usually oval, 2-3 mm. long, one side flat or roundish, the other furnished with a prominent vertical or oblique ridge. Seed incumbent. When wet the seed is soon covered with mucilage. Naturalized from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 87.] =Shepherd's Purse.= _Capsella Bursa-pastoris_ (L.) Medic. _Bursa Bursa-pastoris_ (L.) Britton. Flowers small, white; pods flat, nearly triangular, about 4 mm. long. Seeds reddish yellow, granular, oblong, slightly flattened, 1 mm. or less long. Each side usually bearing two longitudinal grooves, separating the surface into three nearly equal parts, these grooves indicating the position of the parts of the embryo. When placed in water, a copious coat of transparent mucilage appears on the surface. In Nevada and Colorado a great pest in fields of Alfalfa. [Illustration: Fig. 88.] =Hare's Ear.= _Conringia orientalis_ (L.) Dumort. Seeds brown, surface checked off into minute irregular pits or patches; broad oval, 2-2.5 mm. long, in section nearly circular, except two opposite slight grooves near one side. Cotyledons incumbent. Introduced, not common. [Illustration: Fig. 89.] =Sand Rocket.= _Diplotaxis muralis_ (L.) DC. Flowers yellow, seeds reddish yellow or reddish brown, broad oval, somewhat flattened. Mucilaginous when wet. Introduced from Europe. A vigorous weed. [Illustration: Fig. 90.] =Worm-seed or Treacle Mustard.= _Erysimum cheiranthoides_ L. Flowers yellow; seeds reddish yellow, smooth, dull, about 1.2 mm. long, ovoid or oval, more or less flattened, varying much in shape; some of them acute, rhombic or triangular, becoming mucilaginous when wet. Probably introduced from Europe. If not already in some portions of the state, we may at any time expect to find three other species of Erysimum. A vigorous and prominent weed. [Illustration: Fig. 91.] =Apetalous Pepper-Grass.= _Lepidium apetalum_ Willd. Petals usually wanting, sometimes 2 and minute; pods flat, nearly circular; seeds reddish yellow, flattened, ovate, 1.5-1.8 mm. long, or more exactly, nearly straight on one side and roundish on the other. Mucilaginous when wet. Cotyledons incumbent. When well developed in open places it becomes a tumble weed. Apparently naturalized from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 92.] =Field Pepper-Grass or Cow Cress.= _Lepidium campestre_ (L.) R. Br. Petals white; pods flat, nearly circular; seeds dull, dark brown, obovoid, with base acute, more or less flattened on three sides, 2-2.5 mm. long. Mucilaginous when wet. Cotyledons incumbent. Naturalized from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 93.] =Hoary Cress.= _Lepidium Draba_ L. Seed reddish brown, surface slightly uneven, slightly flattened, oval to broad oval, 2-2.3 mm. long, usually with two slight vertical grooves on each side, incumbent. This may soon appear in Michigan. [Illustration: Fig. 94.] =Golden Pepper-grass.= _Lepidium sativum_ L. Seed reddish yellow to reddish brown, oval, slightly compressed, often nearly straight on one edge, usually showing two vertical grooves on each side, 2.5 mm. long, cotyledons incumbent. This is not a grass but a plant of the mustard family; it has escaped from cultivation. [Illustration: Fig. 95.] =Wild Pepper-Grass.= _Lepidium Virginicum_ L. Petals white, pods flat, nearly circular; seeds granular, dull, reddish yellow, flat, ovoid with one edge straight, the other rounded, usually with a slight wing on the broad end and on the round edge. 1.5-1.8 mm. long. Mucilaginous when wet. Cotyledons accumbent. When mature, large plants become tumble weeds. Apparently native to this country. [Illustration: Fig. 96.] =Ball Mustard.= _Neslia paniculata_ (L.) Desv. Small fruits, greenish to light yellowish-brown, globular, 2 mm. in diameter, covered with net-veined ridges; 1-2 seeded, cotyledons incumbent. Not yet known in Michigan but may arrive any time. Native of Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 97.] =Tall or Tumbling Mustard.= _Sisymbrium altissimum_ L. Flowers cream-color; pods long and narrow; seeds reddish yellow, oblong, about 1.5 mm. long, the apex winged. Mucilaginous when wet. Cotyledons incumbent. Introduced from Europe. One of the worst weeds in the northwest. [Illustration: Fig. 98.] =Hedge Mustard.= _Sisymbrium officinale_ (L.) Scop. Flowers yellow, seeds reddish brown or yellow, oblong, while lying on the flat side, circular in outline at the middle as viewed from the edge, straight on one side from the middle tapering to each end. 1-1.5 mm. long. Mucilaginous when wet. Cotyledons incumbent. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 99.] =Penny Cress.= _Thlaspi arvense_ L. Flowers white; pods thin, double convex, nearly circular; seeds deep reddish brown, flat-oval or ovate, covered on each side by 12-14 curved ridges which originate and terminate at the narrow extremity. 1.5-2 mm. long. Cotyledons accumbent. When eaten by cows the milk and meat has a disagreeable taste. A bad weed, especially in the north-west. Introduced from Europe. ORPINE FAMILY. CRASSULACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 100.] =Mossy Stonecrop.= _Sedum acre_ L. Seed light, reddish-yellow, somewhat glossy, obovate to oblong, pointed at the base, slightly anatropous, compressed, 6-7 mm. long. This mossy little plant is persistent when once established in sandy soil. Introduced from Europe. ROSE FAMILY. ROSACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 101.] =Tall Hairy Agrimony.= _Agrimonia gryposepala_ Wahl. _Agrimonia hirsuta_ (Muhl.) Bicknell. Flowers yellow. Bur, consisting of calyx and two included fruits inside of which are two seeds; lower part of bur, top-shaped, rough, grooved, above which are numerous hooked prickles in several rows, the whole 7-10 mm. long. Native of woods in this country; seeds mottled brown, flat on one side, 2.5 by 2.5 mm. not found mixed with grass seed. Several other species are nearly as troublesome as this one. Seldom found out of the woods. [Illustration: Fig. 102.] =Small-flowered Agrimony.= _Agrimonia parviflora_ Ait. Flowers yellow; fruit 5-6 mm. long and nearly as wide including the hooked bristles; bristles few, erect or spreading, scarcely any recurved; seeds light brown, broad oval, 2.7 by 2.5 mm. with a rounded point at the base more pronounced than in the former species. Shady places. [Illustration: Fig. 103.] =Silvery Cinquefoil.= _Potentilla argentea_ L. Flowers yellow, achenes dull white to brown, unsymmetrically ovoid or short kidney-shaped, slightly flattened, 0.5-0.7 mm. long, smooth or marked by a few longitudinal curved ridges, some of them forked. Introduced into Michigan from Europe or possibly from the eastern states. Thrives in sandy land. [Illustration: Fig. 104.] =One kind of Cinquefoil or Five-finger.= _Potentilla Canadensis_ L. Achene unsymmetrically ovoid, light straw-color to brown, ridges indistinct, short, wavy, branched and broken up, (these ridges are different from those of P. argentea or P. monspeliensis) 1 mm. long, the achene is less flattened and narrower in proportion. Native from Me. to Ga. Miss. [Illustration: Fig. 105.] =Rough Cinquefoil.= _Potentilla Monspeliensis_ L. Flowers yellow; achenes nearly white to light brown, unsymmetrically ovoid, or short kidney-shaped, slightly flattened, 1 mm. or less in length, clearly marked by a few longitudinal curved ridges, the longer ones forked. Indigenous to Michigan, thriving on moist or wet land. PULSE FAMILY. LEGUMINOSAE. [Illustration: Fig. 106.] =Ax Seed. Ax Wort.= _Coronilla scoparioides_ Koch. Seed reddish brown, oblong, slightly flattened and curved, 4-5 mm. long, 1.5 mm. wide, with a circular scar in a depression on the middle of one edge, and a slight ridge the entire length of both sides. Introduced from Europe, not yet a prominent weed in Michigan. [Illustration: Fig. 107.] =Bird's-foot Trefoil. Ground Honeysuckle. Bloom-fell.= _Lotus corniculatus_ L. Seed light brown occasionally mottled with black, shining, spherical to ovoid, slightly compressed near one edge, 1-1.2 mm. in diameter, the compressed portion (raphe) extending half to three-fourths the length of the seed to the hilum or scar, above this the seed is narrower. Introduced from Europe. Seldom met with in this country. [Illustration: Fig. 108.] =Black Medick. Nonesuch.= _Medicago lupulina_ L. Flowers light yellow; pods black, oval, much flattened, spirally coiled, causing the two extremities to nearly meet; 2-2.8 mm. long; seeds smooth, dull yellow to green, oval, flattened, kidney-shaped, with a tubercle near the middle of the concave edge or like the figure, 1.5-1.8 mm. long. Introduced from Europe and becoming frequent in grass land. Its worst feature is to supply seeds that may be mistaken for and mixed with seeds of alfalfa and red clover. The seeds differ from those of alfalfa in being more commonly egg-shaped than kidney-shaped in outline. The scar is nearer the small extremity in these seeds than in those of alfalfa. For pasture this is less valuable than white clover. [Illustration: Fig. 109.] =Alfalfa. Lucerne.= _Medicago sativa_ L. Seeds varying much in shape and size owing to their crowding in the pod when young, yellowish green to light brown. The cuts give a good idea of the variety of shapes; surface dull or somewhat glossy, often kidney shaped, with the scar in a depression near the middle, the tips may be truncate or acute or rounded, 2-2.5 mm. long in cross-section, oval; when viewed from one edge it is seen to be bent or warped in various ways, half anatropous, often seen with a slight depression extending along one edge from the scar to one end, larger seeds more often flattened than are the shorter. A prominent forage plant, the seeds of which are often adulterated. Native of Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 110.] =White Sweet Clover.= _Melilotus alba Desv._ Flowers white; pods straw-color to brown, coarsely and irregularly reticulate-ridged or wrinkled; seeds smooth, dull, yellowish or greenish, more strictly elliptical-oblong in outline than those of red clover and alfalfa, bearing the broad, shallow notch near one extremity; 2-2.2 mm. long. Introduced from Europe. Seeds used to adulterate those of alfalfa. [Illustration: Fig. 111.] =Alsike Clover.= _Trifolium hybridum_ L. Seeds dull yellowish green to very dark green, some of them mottled, lighter about the seed scar, flattened, one of the rounded edges thicker than the other, and between the two a slight groove on each side; seed rounded at one end, the other truncate with the seed scar in the middle of the truncate end. Some seeds are half anatropous, resembling in shape those of red clover; 1.3-1.2 mm. in diameter. When compared with white clover, these seeds are larger and thicker. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 112.] =Crimson Clover. Scarlet Clover.= _Trifolium incarnatum_ L. Seed smooth, shining when not old, color light yellow to reddish yellow or brown, oval, scar about one-third the distance from the narrow end, three-fourths anatropous, 2-2.5 mm. long, very slightly compressed. [Illustration: Fig. 113.] =Red Clover.= _Trifolium pratense_ L. Seeds usually dull, pure light yellow to purple, flattened, ovoid, having the seed scar near the middle of one edge or below the middle, half anatropous, a slight depression on each side from the scar toward the broad end, the short edge thinner than the long edge, 1.5-1.8 mm. long by 1.x1.4 mm. wide. Very common. Introduced from Europe. =Mammoth Clover= is a variety or race or red clover, the seeds of which are indistinguishable from the seeds of red clover. As a rule they are darker in color and rather smaller. Red clover and mammoth clover are usually much mixed. [Illustration: Fig. 114.] =Low Hop-clover.= _Trifolium procumbens_ L. A low, yellow-flowered annual, often becoming a tumble-weed at maturity. Seeds plump, shining, straw-colored to light brown, broad oval, very slightly flattened, 1 mm. long, three-fourths anatropous, i. e., the scar is a very little distance from one end of the seed. A little way back of the scar on each side is a light-colored depression. Rather rapidly spreading. From Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 115.] =White Clover.= _Trifolium repens_ L. Seeds scarcely shining, yellow to light brown, flattened, one of the rounded edges thinner than the other, and between the two a slight groove on each side, one end rounded, the other truncate with a slight depression in the center containing the seed scar 1.-1.2 mm. long to 1 mm. wide. The seeds that are truncate at one end are anatropous, some of them resembling those of red clover are half anatropous. Common and well known, possibly native to the northern country. GERANIUM FAMILY. GERANIACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 116.] =Alfilaria. Storks-bill.= _Erodium cicutarium_ (L.) L'Her. Flowers pink; achenes reddish brown, hairy, lance-shaped, the smaller end curved, hard, sharp, the larger end when mature bearing an awn spirally coiled for half its length, the sickle like apex turned to one side. Achenes 5-6 mm. long, the coiled portion and cycle-like apex each 10-15 mm. long. True seed light brown, ovoid-lanceolate 2.5-2.7 mm. long. Introduced from Europe. This plant is not yet common in our state, but, judging from its behavior in the botanic garden, it is destined soon to become a bad weed. On the desert ranches of Arizona, Nevada and elsewhere, it furnishes much pasture. [Illustration: Fig. 117.] =Cut-leaved Crane's bill.= _Geranium dissectum_ L. Seed light brown, broadly oval or ovoid, surface deeply pitted requiring 25-30 pits to form one row transversely about the surface. Seed scar at the larger end from which extends a slight vertical ridge reaching nearly one-third the length of the seed. Introduced from Europe, becoming common. [Illustration: Fig. 118.] =Small-flowered Crane's bill.= _Geranium pusillum_ Burm. f. Flowers minute, pink, pubescent under a lens, slightly compressed, oval with the apex near one side of one end, about 2 mm. long, the beak nearly twice as long; seed reddish brown, smooth, oval, slightly flattened, 1.7-1.9 mm. long. Introduced from Europe, a bad weed when once established. SPURGE FAMILY. EUPHORBIACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 119.] =Three-Seeded Mercury.= _Acalypha Virginica_ L. Seeds 1.3-1.8 mm. long oval or obovoid, dull, light to dark reddish brown or gray, mottled with black spots, surface covered with numerous irregular vertical lines, a ridge (hilum) extending from the pointed end for about one-third the length, continuing to the broad extremity as a dark line (raphe). Native to this country. Moist land. [Illustration: Fig. 120.] =Cypress Spurge.= _Euphorbia Cyparissias_ L. Seeds dull, light lead or ash-colored, oval or oblong, circular in transverse section, 1.5-2 mm. long, not including an irregular yellowish appendage (caruncle) at the base, a dark verticle line (raphe) extending along one side. Introduced from Europe. Thriving on thin sandy soil. [Illustration: Fig. 121.] =Toothed Spurge.= _Euphorbia dentata_ Michx. Seeds ash colored, obovoid, or globose, inconspicuously four-angled, base obtuse, irregularly tuberculate, 1 mm. or more long. It thrives in the Botanic Garden and very likely may soon spread onto Michigan farms. [Illustration: Fig. 122.] =Leafy Spurge.= _Euphorbia Esula_ L. Seeds dull, light drab colored, broad-oval, narrowed at one end, nearly circular in transverse section, 2.3 mm. long, not including a wrinkled bunch (caruncle) at the base, a dark vertical line (raphe) extending above one side opposite which is another ridge the color of the seed. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 123.] _Euphorbia hirsuta_ (Torr). Weigand. Seeds lead colored, obovoid approximately square in transverse section with one side narrower than the others, 4-10 irregular transverse ridges on each side, the raphe standing along one corner, about 1.2 mm. long by 7 mm. wide. Sandy soil. [Illustration: Fig. 124.] =Spotted Spurge.= _Euphorbia maculata_ L. Seeds obovoid-oblong, nearly square in cross-sections, minutely pitted and transversely wrinkled with 2-5 broken wavy ridges, a fine dark vertical line (raphe) along one corner, color reddish drab, .6-.8 mm. long. Probably introduced from west of the Rocky Mountains. [Illustration: Fig. 125.] =Upright Spotted Spurge.= _Euphorbia Preslii_ Guss. _Euphorbia nutans Lag._ Seeds lead-colored obovoid-oblong, with 4 unequal sides as seen in cross-section, pitted and transversely wrinkled, with 2-5 broken wavy ridges, a fine dark, verticle line (raphe) along one corner, 1-1.3 mm. long. Native of eastern North America. Introduced in seeds of red clover. [Illustration: Fig. 126.] =Thyme-leaved Spurge.= _Euphorbia serpyllifolia_ Pers. Seed ash-colored, obovoid, four-angled or nearly square in cross-section, the surface covered with four or five more or less broken obtuse transverse ridges, a slender, dark line (raphe) extending from end to end on one corner. Dry soils, like railway tracks. CASHEW FAMILY. ANACARDIACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 127.] =Poison Ivy.= _Rhus Toxicodendron_ L. Berry nearly white, globular, about 5 mm. in diameter, drupe kidney-shaped, concave on both edges, 3 by 4.5 mm. in diameter, 2 mm. thick. To some people very poisonous to the touch; a woody shrub. MALLOW FAMILY. MALVACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 128.] =Indian Mallow. American Jute. Velvet Leaf.= _Abutilon Theophrasti_ Medic. _Abutilon Abutilon_ (L.) _Rusby_. Flowers yellow; seeds brown, flattened, 3.5-4 mm. long, ovoid excepting a piece cut from one side of the smaller end with 3-4 curved rows of minute slender objects on each side, the raphe extending from the pointed end to the notch on one side (half anatropous). Naturalized from northern Asia. [Illustration: Fig. 129.] =Bladder Ketmia.= _Hibiscus Trionum_ L. Seed brown, the surface dotted with numerous, ragged, light-colored pimples. Think of the shape as obovoid, and then bent somewhat to the side. As now found the seed is triangular in outline with rounded corners, considerably thinned toward one corner near which is the seed scar in the midst of a depression. Each side of the triangle is about 2 mm. long. Introduced from Europe. Not yet a prominent weed in Michigan. [Illustration: Fig. 130.] =Cheeses. Running Mallow.= _Malva rotundifolia_ L. Flowers white; cluster of 12-15 fruits flattened, circular with depression on each side, ovary circular, wedge-shaped, very slightly roughened, with radiating ridges; seeds light brown, nearly smooth, flattened, 1.4-1.7 mm. in diameter, wedge shaped, nearly circular with a small notch on the thin edge. Naturalized from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 131.] =Whorled Mallow.= _Malva verticillata._ L. Flowers white; cluster of 10-12 fruits flattened, circular with depression on each side, carpel circular, wedge-shaped, about three rows of irregular shallow pits on the wide edge, radiating ridges on each flat side; seeds light brown, nearly smooth, flattened, wedge-shaped, ovate or nearly circular, 1.5-1.7 mm. long, with a small notch on the thin edge. Introduced from the west. [Illustration: Fig. 132.] =Prickly Sida.= _Sida spinosa_ L. Seed smooth, dull brown or reddish brown, having one side round and two sides flat or more or less concave, all edges obtuse while lying on one flat side, broadly ovoid, with one side nearly straight, scar at the larger end in the midst of a slight depression, 1.5-1.8 mm. long. Not yet common in Michigan. Introduced from the tropics. ST. JOHN'S-WORT FAMILY. HYPERICACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 133.] =Common St. John's-wort.= _Hypericum perforatum_ L. Seed dark brown, mottled with about twenty-four vertical rows of small scars, short oblong, 1 mm. long, a little more or less, circular in cross-section, a slight point at one or both ends. Troublesome in old meadows and pastures. From Europe. EVENING-PRIMROSE FAMILY. ONAGRACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 134.] =Small-flowered Gaura.= _Gaura parviflora_ Dougl. Achenes greenish brown, at first glance, having the appearance of barley, linear, swollen in the middle, more or less grooved or channeled, 6-8 mm. long. Introduced from the South. [Illustration: Fig. 135.] =Common Evening-Primrose.= _Oenothera biennis_ L. _Onagra biennis_ (L.) Scop. Flowers yellow; seeds reddish brown or darker, surface dull, minutely ridged, very irregular in shape owing to crowding in the pod, more or less pyramidal and four or five sided, the angles acute or with a wing-like border, 1.-1.5 mm. long. Native to this country. PARSLEY FAMILY. UMBELLIFERAE. [Illustration: Fig. 136.] =Water Hemlock.= =Mosquash Root.= =Beaver Poison.= _Cicuta maculata_ L. Achenes, when young grow in couples joined by their flat sides, broadly oval, somewhat flattened, a single one-half oval, 2.7-3.2 mm long, with five corky yellowish white vertical stripes alternating with four brown oil tubes, the flat side with two wide light corky stripes including two brown oil tubes. The roots are very poisonous. Native to Michigan and elsewhere. Moist or wet lands. [Illustration: Fig. 137.] =Poison Hemlock.= _Conium maculatum_ L. Flowers white, achenes growing in pairs, light brown, oval, flat on one side, five ribs extending from one end to the other, between them the surface abounds in minute vertical projections, achene about 3.5 mm. long. Difficult to identify. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 138.] =Wild Carrot.= _Daucus Carota_ L. Flowers white; achenes light brown, striped with white, oval, flattened, bearing numerous frail spines along the edges and in two rows lengthwise of one face, tips of spines diverging, often hooked, about 3.5 mm. long not including the spines. Introduced from Europe. This is the cultivated carrot escaped from fields and gardens. A great pest in old meadows. [Illustration: Fig. 139.] =Wild Parsnip.= _Pastinaca sativa_ L. Flowers yellow; achenes growing in pairs, 5-6 mm. long, with flat sides together, light brown, broad oval, much flattened, surrounded by a narrow thin ridge, 9-curved shallow ribs on one side. Introduced from Europe. MILKWEED FAMILY. ASCLEPIADACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 140.] =Common Milkweed.= _Asclepias Syriaca_ L. Pods 8-12 cm. long, covered with soft spiny processes; seeds dull light brown, much flattened, narrowly obovate, 6.5-8 mm. long, the small end truncate, surrounded by a broad wrinkled wing-margin or hem. The concave side bears a slender vertical ridge (raphe) for two-thirds of its length; the convex side bearing fine, short ridges. Before escaping from the pods, the small end of the seed contains a cluster of spreading silky hairs (coma) 2-3 cm. long. Native of this country. Often troublesome and conspicuous in light soil, occasionally becoming small, pale, with slender branches and dying. [Illustration: Fig. 141.] =Black Swallow-wort.= _Cynanchum nigrum_ (L.) Pers. _Vincetoxicum nigrum_ Moench. Smooth pods of the vine about 5 cm. long; seeds brown when dry, much flattened, concave, obovate, 6-8 mm. long, nearly surrounded by a wing margin or hem, the small end truncate. The concave side bears a slender vertical ridge (raphe) for over half its length, both sides bearing fine short ridges. Before escaping from the pods, the small end of the seed contains a cluster of spreading silky hairs. Introduced from Europe; not yet common, but it is persistent where once started. MORNING GLORY FAMILY. CONVOLVULACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 142.] =Small Bindweed.= _Convolvulus arvensis_ L. Color of seeds dull dark brown, coarsely roughened, oval, 3-4 mm. long, one face convex, the other face sloping to the edges from a broad, central ridge, becoming mucilaginous when soaked in water. Introduced from Europe. Seldom, if ever, seeding in Michigan. On dry, poor land. [Illustration: Fig. 143.] =Hedge or Great Bindweed.= _Convolvulus sepium_ L. Pod nearly globose, about 8 mm. in diameter, usually covered by the bracts and calyx; seeds dull black or dark brown, roughened, oval, about 5 mm. long, one face convex, the other face sloping to the edges from a central ridge. Native to this country. Seldom seeding in Michigan. On low land. [Illustration: Fig. 144.] =Field Dodder.= _Cuscuta arvensis_ Beyrich. A pale yellow leafless parasitic vine; seeds dull, yellowish brown, minutely pitted, considerably resembling those of red clover, broad oval, ovoid or spherical, .7-1 mm. long, one side rounded the other often with two flat surfaces terminating in a ridge. Not uncommon with alfalfa. [Illustration: Fig. 145.] =Flax Dodder.= _Cuscuta Epilinum_ Weihe. Stems very slender, yellow or red, a parasitic vine; seeds dull, yellowish to dark brown, minutely pitted, nearly spherical, oval, ovoid, 1-1.5 mm. long. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 146.] =Clover Dodder.= _Cuscuta Epithymum_ Murr. Stems very slender, a parasitic vine; seeds oval to spherical, dull, pitted, color yellowish, light to dark brown, light green to purple, about 2 mm. long. Introduced from Europe. Occasionally found on red clover. [Illustration: Fig. 147.] =Gronovius Dodder.= _Cuscuta Gronovii_ Willd. Seed light to dark brown, surface minutely granular, free from gloss, a few spherical, most of them indented as they dry or variously angled where they crowded against each other in the pod, 1.5-1.7 mm. in diameter. Species of dodder are difficult to distinguish one from the other. This is common on low land, where it draws nourishment from a great variety of plants, such as willows, balsams, nettles. [Illustration: Fig. 148.] =Spanish Dodder.= _Cuscuta planiflora_ Tenore. Color light to dark pink, purple buff, olive green; surface well roughened, almost reticulated, in shape flattened on one side, ovoid, oval angled, indented in great variety, 0.7-1.2 mm. long. BORAGE FAMILY. BORAGINACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 149.] =Hound's Tongue.= _Cynoglossum officinale_ L. Flowers reddish purple; ovary brown deeply 4-lobed separating into four achenes, 5-7 mm. long, flattened, broadly ovate or circular, excepting a slight extension at one end, lower side having an ovate scar, nearly half as long as the achenes, all the rest of the surface clothed with straight, stiff, cap-shaped hairs, bearded on all sides. Introduced from Europe. Very objectionable in pastures. [Illustration: Fig. 150.] =Stick-Seed. Burr Seed.= _Lappula echinata_ Gilibert. _Lappula Lappula_ (L.) Karst. Flowers blue, ovary deeply 4-lobed separating into four warty achenes, each one brown, about 2.5 mm. long, slightly flattened, ovate with wedge-shaped apex; the upper side bearing a few stiff straight, diverging cap-shaped hairs, bearded on all sides; lower side destitute of hairs, bearing a straight ridge from the point to the middle of the large end. Introduced from Europe. Very objectionable in pastures. [Illustration: Fig. 151.] =Wild Comfrey.= _Lappula Virginiana_ (L.) Greene. Flowers blue; ovary deeply 4-lobed separating into four brown achenes, about 3 mm. long, flattened on upper side, broadly ovate, the apex wedge-shaped, the upper side clothed with stiff straight cap-shaped hairs, bearded on all sides; lower side a low 4-sided cone, nearly smooth with a concave triangular scar. Native to rich woodlands. [Illustration: Fig. 152.] =Red Root. Wheat Thief. Corn Gromwell.= _Lithospermum arvense_ L. Flowers white; ovary 4-divided separating into four hard, conical-ovoid achenes, each dull gray, erect, wrinkled, 2.5-3 mm. long, convex on the back, keeled on the inner side, base obliquely truncate, containing two minute white tubercles. A prominent weed of high rank in fields of winter wheat. VERVAIN FAMILY. VERBENACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 153.] =Blue Vervain.= _Verbena hastata_ L. Achenes crowded, four together until mature, dull, reddish brown, flattened, oblong, 1.7-2 mm. long, bordered by a narrow margin, the outer face convex, bearing 3-5 small vertical ridges branching and uniting at the apex, forming a distinct network, the inner face sloping to the margin from a central vertical ridge; a light colored scar is seen on one side of the base. Native to this country. Not important. [Illustration: Fig. 154.] =Nettle-leaved Vervain.= _Verbena urticifolia_ L. Achenes 1.6-1.8 mm. long, very closely resembling the last above mentioned. The achenes of this one are a trifle shorter and broader, more nearly oval than oblong. Native to this country. Not common in fields. MINT FAMILY. LABIATAE. [Illustration: Fig. 155.] =Dead Nettle.= _Lamium amplexicaule_ L. Achenes light brown, conspicuously marked by white spots some of which coalesce making the surface striped crosswise, obovate-oblong, pointed at the smaller end, 1.5-2 mm. long, the outer surface rounded, the inner face angled, the concave surfaces sloping to the edges from a central vertical ridge. Introduced from Europe. Thrives in cool weather. [Illustration: Fig. 156.] =Motherwort.= _Leonurus Cardiaca_ L. Achenes light brown, obovoid-oblong, rounded on one side flat on the other two sides, the truncate apex hairy, 2-2.4 mm. long. Introduced from Europe. Waste places. [Illustration: Fig. 157.] =White Hoarhound.= _Marubium vulgare_ L. Achenes dull, varying from light to dark brown, sometimes finely roughened by numerous minute tubercles, slightly flattened, oval or obovoid, about 2 mm. long, outer surface convex, inner face angled sloping to the edges from a central vertical ridge, edges of achenes often slightly margined, surface lightly grooved. Introduced from Europe. A weed in northern Michigan where snow protects it in winter. [Illustration: Fig. 158.] =Catnip. Catmint.= _Nepeta Cataria_ L. Achenes dull, light reddish brown to nearly black, with two laterally placed cavities near the base, each filled with white spongey tissue, broadly oval, slightly flattened, 1.3-1.7 mm. long. Introduced from Europe. Scarcely a weed. [Illustration: Fig. 159.] =Self-heal. Heal-all.= _Prunella vulgaris_ L. Achenes light to dark brown, slightly roughened, having a diffused luster, slightly flattened, oval or oblong, the base tapering to a small whitish, triangular appendage, outer side convex having dark verticle lines, the other face sloping to the edges from a central ridge, becoming mucilaginous when soaked in water. Native to this country. NIGHT SHADE FAMILY. SOLANACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 160.] =Jimson Weed. Thorn-apple.= _Datura Stramonium_ L. Pods ovoid, densely prickly, about 4 cm. long; seeds black to brown, flattened, with 6-10 slight irregular elevations, the whole surface covered with minute shallow pits, short kidney shaped, i. e., one edge nearly straight or slightly notched, the remainder of the margin making about two-thirds of a circle. 3-3.5 mm. long. Most likely introduced from Asia. A coarse, poisonous weed found in waste places. [Illustration: Fig. 161.] =Purple Jimson Weed. Purple Thorn-apple.= _Datura Tatula._ The color of the stems are purple, the flowers and pods nearly the same as those last above; seeds of the two scarcely if at all unlike. Naturalized from tropical America. Waste places. [Illustration: Fig. 162.] =Horse Nettle.= _Solanum Carolinense_ L. Berry orange-yellow, 1.6 to 2 cm. in diameter; seeds lemon yellow, slightly double convex, obovate 2.1-2.9 mm. long, surface finely granular all over. Native of the southwest U. S. It spreads rapidly by long roots. [Illustration: Fig. 163.] =Black Nightshade.= _Solanum nigrum_ L. Berry black, smooth, globose, 8-10 mm. in diameter; seeds finely granular, dull, yellowish to light brown, flattened, unsymmetrically ovate, about 1.5 mm. long. Native to this country. I have the best of authority for saying that these berries when ripe make good pies, whether the uncooked fruit is poisonous there is less proof. Of little importance. [Illustration: Fig. 164.] =Beaked Nightshade.= _Solanum rostratum_ Dunal. Fruit surrounded by a persistent prickly calyx about 2 cm. long; seeds flattened, irregularly undulate or wrinkled, dark brown or black, usually ovate or circular in outline, 2-2.5 mm. in diameter, surface covered with small pits. Introduced into Michigan from the southwest. A coarse prickly weed. FIGWORT FAMILY. SCROPHULARIACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 165.] =Butter and Eggs. Toad-Flax.= _Linaria vulgaris_ Hill. _Linaria Linaria_ (L.) Karst. Flowers yellow and orange; seeds dark brown or black, flat, circular or oval, surrounded by a broad wing-margin, the wing notched and covered by numerous fine radiating ridges, the surface of the seed roughened by numerous projecting points, seed, including its wing, 1.5-2 mm. long. Introduced from Europe. A vigorous weed in meadows, spreading by seeds and by root stocks. [Illustration: Fig. 166.] =Moth Mullein.= _Verbascum Blattaria_ L. Flowers yellow; pod 6 mm. diameter; seeds light to dark brown, .5-1 mm. long, columnar, lateral surface slightly angular and 6-sided, base truncate or obliquely so and broader than the rounded apex, thus somewhat thimble-shaped, each lateral face deeply pitted in longitudinal rows, the pits in contiguous rows, alternating. Introduced from Europe. A vile weed in meadows and pastures. =Velvet-Leaved Mullein.= _Verbascum Thapsus_ L. Flowers yellow; pod 6 mm. high; seeds cannot be distinguished with certainty by means of the ordinary lens from those of moth mullein. The pitted surface seems to predominate in _Verbascum Blattaria_, while the grooved surface seems to be more common in the seeds of V. Thapsus. Introduced from Europe. Common in thin pastures. [Illustration: Fig. 167.] =Wall Speedwell.= _Veronica arvensis_ L. Pods heart-shaped; seeds dull, light yellow, flattened, oval, .7-1.1 mm. long on one side appearing as though the two ends had been brought together by bending. From Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 168.] =Common Speedwell.= _Veronica officinalis_ L. Pods heart-shaped; seeds dull, pale yellow, flattened, broadly oval to broadly obovate, .8-1.2 mm. long, with a small scar near the middle of one side, from which extends a faint line (raphe) to one extremity. Appearing as though introduced. [Illustration: Fig. 169.] =Purslane Speedwell.= _Veronica peregrina_ L. Pods heart-shaped; seeds dull, light reddish yellow, flattened, oval to broadly obovate .5-.8 mm. long, with a small scar a little above the middle of one side, from which extends a dark line (raphe) to one extremity. Most likely native to this country. [Illustration: Fig. 170.] =Thyme-leaved Speedwell.= _Veronica serpyllifolia_ L. Pods broadly heart-shaped; seeds pale yellow, a trifle darker than those of V. officinalis, light, reddish yellow, in shape and markings much like those of V. peregrina, flattened, broadly oval to obovate .5-.7 mm. long, with a small scar near the middle on one side, from which extends a dark line (raphe) to one extremity. Apparently native to this country. Seeds of the Veronicas are very difficult to distinguish from one another. PLANTAIN FAMILY. PLANTAGINACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 171.] =Sand Plantain.= _Plantago arenaria_ W. & K. Seeds dark amber brown, shining, rounded on the back like the bottom of a shallow canoe, 2.5-3 mm. long, transverse groove around the middle of the back, opposite side with a groove extending lengthwise, about as wide as the ridge on either side of it; hilum in the middle of the groove. Found at Harrisville, Mich. [Illustration: Fig. 172.] =Large-bracted Plantain.= _Plantago aristata_ Michx. Seeds oval, dull, light to dark brown, 2.2-3 mm. long, shaped like a shallow, thick-walled canoe with ends rounded alike, outer face marked by a shallow, transverse groove at or near the middle, a white line marking the margin at the base on the canoe inside, two white-margined pits occupying the middle of the concave side. Introduced from the west in clover seeds, not yet common. [Illustration: Fig. 173.] =Rib-Grass. Narrow-leaved Plantain.= _Plantago lanceolata_ L. Seeds shining, amber-colored to brown, oval, 2-2.5 mm. long, shaped like a shallow, thick-walled canoe with ends rounded alike, a dark scar occupying the middle of the narrow concave side, a faint, transverse groove across the convex side near the middle sometimes apparent. Often found mixed with clover seeds from which it is very difficult to separate. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 174.] =Broad-leaved Plantain.= _Plantago major_ L. Seeds, light to dark brown or very nearly black, 1-1.5 mm. long, slightly flattened, with acute edges very variable in shape, oval, oblong, rhomboidal and trapezoid, the surface roughened by slender, colored ridges, appearing under the lens as slightly wavy lines, radiating from the scar. The clear light green color of the lower end of the leaf-stem is an easy mark to distinguish this plant from another broad-leaved plantain, _P. Rugelii_ in which the base of leaf is red. Introduced from Europe. About door yards. [Illustration: Fig. 175.] =Rugel's Broad-leaved Plantain.= _Plantago Rugelii Decne._ Seeds dark brown to black, much like those of P. major, but larger, 1.5-2.5 mm. long slightly flattened, with edges acute, very variable in shape, oval oblong, rhomboidal, surface minutely roughened and dull, but wholly without ridge or lines as in P. major. Native of this country. Lower end of leaf-stalk red, and not clear green as in P. major. A vile pest in clover fields. MADDER FAMILY. [Illustration: Fig. 176.] =Blue Field Madder.= _Sherardia arvensis_ L. The parts often called seeds are in reality the half-fruits ripened, each one bearing at the apex three, white, pointed, persistent calyx lobes, the inner face showing a vertical groove, and in some of the fruits the calyx is broken off. Surface dull brown, clothed with small white hairs, obovoid, 2-2.5 mm. long. Introduced from Europe, not often found in the northern states. TEASEL FAMILY. DIPSACACEAE. [Illustration: Fig. 177.] =Wild Teasel.= _Dipsacus sylvestris_ Huds. Achene brown, minutely hairy, 4 mm. long, oblong, square in cross-section, with four vertical ribs on the angles and four on the sides. Seed suspended, anatropous, supplied with endosperm. Introduced from Europe. A weed requiring two years from seed to seeding. COMPOSITE FAMILY. COMPOSITAE. [Illustration: Fig. 178.] =Yarrow. Milfoil.= _Achillea Millefolium_ L. Flowers white; achenes white to gray, finely striate lengthwise, flattened, oblong, tapering at the lower end, straight or curved. 2-2.3 long. Most likely introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 179.] =Ragweed.= _Ambrosia artemisiifolia_ L. Achenes hard, straw-colored to light brown or black, top-shaped, broadly oval, 2.5-3 mm. long, besides the beak 1.5 mm. long, the sides irregularly ridged vertically, with 5-10 short teeth at the apex. Sometimes the hard covering is removed by a clover huller, exposing the naked seed. Native of the U. S. [Illustration: Fig. 180.] =Great Ragweed.= _Ambrosia trifida_ L. Achenes hard, brown, more or less mottled, top-shaped, 7-8 mm. besides the stout beak 2-3 mm. long, sides with 5 stout ridges terminating in 5 short teeth. Native to the United States. River bottoms, low land, sometimes 15 ft. high. [Illustration: Fig. 181.] =Corn Camomile=. _Anthemis arvensis_ L. Achenes very variable, creamy white to light brown, oblong, wedge-shaped in outline, circular to four-angled in cross-section, more or less ribbed lengthwise, a ripple-shaped scar at the narrow end; apex truncate with a minute projection in the center, often with a narrow ridge about the margin. About 1.7 mm. long. Introduced from Europe. Seldom troublesome in Michigan. [Illustration: Fig. 182.] =May-weed. Dog's-Fennel.= _Anthemis Cotula_ L. Outer flowers white; achenes straw color to light brown, obovoid (large end uppermost) to oblong, circular in outline, 1.3-1.8 mm. long, with 10 warty ribs. Introduced from Europe. Old roads and waste places. [Illustration: Fig. 183.] =Great Burdock.= _Arctium Lappa._ So far as I have seen the achenes of this species, when compared with A. minus, are darker colored, rather longer, the ribs more distinct. =Smaller Burdock.= _Arctium minus_ Beruh. Possibly only a variety of _A. Lappa_ L., but the prevailing plant in central Michigan. I see no way of distinguishing the achenes of one from the other; but it makes little difference as one burdock is as bad as another. Flowers purple; achenes dull brown, often spotted with black, straight or curved, slightly flattened, oblong-prismatic with 3-5 narrowly ridged angles, and occasionally other smaller ridges, 4.5-6 mm. long. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 184.] =Biennial Wormwood.= _Artemisia biennis_ Willd. Achenes dark brown, smooth, somewhat flattened, 3-4 angled, obovate, narrowed at the base .8-1.3 mm. long. Native in the northwestern United States and introduced east with grass seeds. Moist land. [Illustration: Fig. 185.] =Smaller Bur-Marigold.= _Bidens cernua_ L. Flowers yellow; achenes 4-6 mm. long, dull brown, the awns lighter, flattened, 4-angled, wedge-shaped, awns 2-4, barbed downward as also are the ribs. Native of this country. Low lands. [Illustration: Fig. 186.] =Purple-stemmed Swamp Beggar-ticks.= _Bidens connata_ Muhl. Flowers orange; achenes brown, wedge-shaped or obovate, hairy, tubercled, flattened, 4-angled, 4-toothed, 4-6 mm. long, achenes and teeth downwardly barbed. Swamps, common. [Illustration: Fig. 187.] =Beggar-ticks.= _Bidens frondosa_ L. Achenes dull brown, tubercled, much flattened, obovate or oval, 6-12 mm. long, awns usually 2, spreading barbed downward. Low lands. [Illustration: Fig. 188.] =Star Thistle.= _Centaurea solstitialis_ L. Achene cream white to mottled brown, flattened, oval about 2 mm. long; scar of attachment in a notch of one edge above the rounded base, apex truncate with a small tubercle in the middle. Found in seeds of alfalfa. A ragged plant from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 189.] =Ox-eye Daisy.= _Chrysanthemum Leucanthemum_ L. Flowers white; achenes brown or black with ten white conspicuous vertical ribs, narrowly obovate 1.5-1.8 mm. long, bearing a tubercle at the apex. Introduced from Europe. Becoming common. A prominent weed in old pastures and meadows. [Illustration: Fig. 190.] =Chickory.= _Chichorium Intybus_ L. Flowers yellow; achenes light brown, more or less mottled or spotted with black, straight or curved, 4-5 angled, flattened, apex truncate crowned with a double row of minute scales. Achenes 2.5-3 mm. long. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 191.] =Canada Thistle.= _Cirsium arvense_ (L.) Scop. _Carduus arvensis_ (L.) Robs. Flowers purple or white; achenes smooth, light brown, curved or straight, narrowly obovoid or oblong, slightly flattened, 2-3 mm. long, apex truncate, cup-shaped with a tubercle in the center. Introduced from Europe. A weed of first rank. [Illustration: Fig. 192.] =Bull Thistle.= _Cirsium lanceolatum_ (L.) Hill. _Carduus lanceolatus_ L. Flowers purple; achenes smooth, nearly white, with sharp vertical brown stripes, slightly flattened, obovate or oblong, usually curved near the apex, 3-4 mm. long, apex truncate with a large tubercle in the center. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 193.] =Narrow leaved Hawksbeard.= _Crepis tectorum_ L. Flowers yellow; achene chestnut brown, straight or curved, linear, ribs 10, smooth or rugose; 3.4 mm. long. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 194.] =Fire-weed.= _Erechtites hieracifolia_ (L.) Raf. Achenes brown, linear, 2.2-2.8 mm. long, flattened, straight or curved, having ten vertical ribs between which are minute white oppressed hairs, the extremities truncate, wider than the narrow portion beneath, the apex white with a tubercle projecting from the center of a minute cup. Native to this country. Not of much importance. =Annual Fleabane.= _Erigeron annuus_ (L.) Pers. Flowers white; achenes smooth, shining, brownish white, translucent, flattened, obovate or oblong, .7-.9 mm. long, bearing at the apex a whorl of very small diverging bristles, the longest ones having been rubbed off. Faint traces of a few oppressed hairs may be seen under a good lens. Native to this country and a very prominent weed in thin meadows. [Illustration: Fig. 195.] =Horse-weed.= _Erigeron Canadensis_ L. _Leptilon Canadense_ (L.) Britton. Achenes oblong, dull cream color, much flattened, 1-1.3 mm. long, shining, smooth or containing a few minute oppressed bristles, apex truncate, bearing a whorl of bristles, the longest having been rubbed off. Native of this country. Compare the above description with that of Erigeron annuus. Common in waste places. [Illustration: Fig. 196.] =Daisy Fleabane.= _Erigeron ramosus_ (Walt.) B. S. P. Flowers white; achenes nearly identical with those last described, Erigeron annuus, bristles shorter, less diverging, surface bearing more minute appressed hairs when seen under a lens. Native to this country and prominent in some thin meadows. [Illustration: Fig. 197.] =Sweet Everlasting.= _Gnaphalium polycephalum_ Michx. _Gnaphalium obtusifolium_ L. Outer scales of the head thin, white, stiff; achenes yellowish white or brown, slightly flattened, smooth, oval or oblong, .5-.7 mm. long. Native to this country. Not often troublesome. Much practice with a good lens and careful comparisons with other small achenes will be necessary in identifying such specimens as are furnished by this species. [Illustration: Fig. 198.] =Low Cudweed.= _Gnaphalium uliginosum_ L. Outer scales of the head thin, brown, more or less wooly; achenes .4-.6 mm. long, yellowish white to brown, slightly flattened, smooth, narrowly oblong .4-.6 mm. long. Achenes narrower and rather shorter than those of G. obtusifolium. Native to this country. Not of high rank as a weed. [Illustration: Fig. 199.] =Broad-leaved Gum Plant.= _Grindelia squarrosa_ (Pursh.) Dunal. Flowers yellow; achenes creamy white or light brown, very variable in appearance, more or less flattened, often 4-angled, straight to much curved, narrowed at the base, apex truncate, often concave with a distinct marginal rim, some of them not very unlike those of Canada thistle, some of them smooth, others finely grooved or ridged lengthwise, others somewhat wrinkled, 2.5-3 mm. long. Occasionally introduced from the west with seeds of grasses or clover. Usually not persistent in Michigan. =Artichoke.= _Helianthus tuberosus_ L. Flowers yellow; achenes black, shiny more or less, slightly flattened, pubescent with very short hairs, with four obtuse angles, narrowly obovate, 6-7 mm. long, one side of the smaller end projecting beyond the other side. Native of this country; cultivated by Indians. [Illustration: Fig. 200.] =Golden Mouse or Orange-Ear Hawkweed. Devil's Paint-Brush.= _Hieracium aurantiacum._ Flowers orange yellow; achenes jet black, oblong, straight or curved, apex truncate, base abruptly tapering, cylindrical, the sides bearing 10 narrow, vertical ridges. Introduced from Europe. In Eastern New York and Western Massachusetts meadows abound in large areas of this vile weed, 1.8-2.2 mm. long. [Illustration: Fig. 201.] =Mouse-Ear Hawkweed.= _Hieracium Pilosella_ L. Flowers yellow; achenes jet black, oblong, straight or curved, apex truncate, base abruptly pointed, cylindrical or narrowly oval, the sides bearing 10 narrow vertical ridges. Introduced from Europe. The achenes very closely resemble those of the orange hawkweed. It doesn't matter much, for the habits are the same, and one is about as noxious as the other. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 202.] =Elecampane.= _Inula Helenium_ L. Flowers yellow; achenes light brown, straight or curved, linear, flattened, 4-5 mm. long, 4 sided with 5-8 obscure vertical ridges on each side, apex concave, the margin bearing a circle of short stiff bristles, the remains of longer ones. Introduced from Europe. Not common. [Illustration: Fig. 203.] =Marsh Elder.= _Iva xanthiifolia_ (Fresen.) Nutt. Achenes various shades of brown to black, flattened or rhombic in section, obovoid, 1.5-2 mm. long, longitudinally, striate with fine lines. Native to the upper peninsula of Michigan where it most likely was at one time introduced from the west. It has not been found in the lower peninsula, probably because it had no means of coming across Lake Michigan. [Illustration: Fig. 204.] =Wild Lettuce.= _Lactuca Canadensis_ L. Flowers yellow; achenes black or nearly so, flattened, oval, bearing 3 ribs, the lateral ones sometimes double, the middle one slender, surface abounding in minute transverse ridges as seen under a lens, the remains of a beak sometimes remaining. Native of this country. Other species of Lettuce are more or less troublesome. [Illustration: Fig. 205.] =Prickly Lettuce.= _Lactuca virosa_ L. For many years erroneously called _Lactuca scariola_. Flowers yellow; achenes dull, dark brown, mottled with black, flattened, bearing 5-7 rough, vertical ridges, interspersed by as many smaller ones; oblong, obovate, widest toward the tapering apex. 3-3.5 mm. long. Some of the leaves turn one edge up and the other down. Introduced from Europe and has proved itself a remarkable traveller. [Illustration: Fig. 206.] =Fall Dandelion.= _Leontodon autumnalis_ L. Flowers yellow; achenes light brown, linear, with 5 broad, rounded ribs; achene 4-6.5 mm. long, straight or curved, the outer traversed, with low transverse ridges. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 207.] =Black-eyed Susan. Yellow Daisy.= _Rudbeckia hirta_ L. Achene purple-brown to black, slightly tapering from base to apex 1.5-1.8 mm. long, base abruptly pointed, apex truncate, in cross section nearly square, having 5-7 slender vertical ridges on each side besides a larger one at each of the four corners. Widely distributed in meadows and pastures. [Illustration: Fig. 208.] =Corn Sow-Thistles.= _Sonchus arvensis_ L. Flowers yellow; achenes dull, dark reddish brown, oblong, extremities blunt, slightly flattened, bearing four coarse, fold-like ridges, with two smaller ridges between each of the two large ones, transversely wrinkled, 2.5-3 mm. long. This species is a perennial spreading by roots-stalks as well as by seeds. Introduced in Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 209.] =Spiny Sow-Thistle.= _Sonchus asper_ (L.) Hill. Flowers pale yellow; achenes dull straw-color to reddish brown, much flattened, obovate, oblong, extremities blunt, each side bearing 3-5 vertical ridges, surface nearly smooth, 2.5-3 mm. long. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 210.] =Common Sow-Thistle.= _Sonchus oleraceus_ L. Flowers pale yellow; achenes reddish brown, linear, oblanceolate, 3 mm. long, flattened extremities blunt, 5 uneven wrinkled ridges on each side. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 211.] =Red-Seeded Dandelion.= _Taraxacum erythrospermum_ Andrz. Achene bright red or red reddish brown, flattened, oblanceolate, 3 mm. long, 1 mm. wide or less, the red beak 1 mm. long, prickles often extending nearly to the base along twelve vertical ribs, the achenes narrower, shorter, much darker in color, with prickles extending farther down the ribs, the short beak longer; the plant is earlier, often smaller, when compared with the other species. Doubtless this is more common than has been reported, having been overlooked. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 212.] =Dandelion.= _Taraxacum officinale_ Weber. _Taraxacum Taraxacum_ (L.) Karst. Flowers yellow; achenes dull light to dark brown, flattened oblanceolate, thread-like beak two to three times as long as the achene, the stout colored beak 0.5 mm. long. The most conspicuous character of the achenes lies in the barb-like-toothed edges and ridges of each of the similar faces, extending along the upper half. Achene, 3-4 mm. long, having twelve longitudinal ridges, 1.2 mm. wide. Introduced from Europe. Troublesome on thin lawns. [Illustration: Fig. 213.] =Salsify. Oyster-Plant.= _Tragopogon porrifolius_ L. Flowers purple; achenes dull light brown, nearly cylindrical; apex tapering, mostly terminating in a slender beak which is often longer than the body of the achene. Achene straight or curved, 10-ribbed, 12-18 mm. long, outermost coarsely roughened by upwardly directed, whitish, scale-like projections. Native of Europe. =Meadow Salsify. Yellow Goat's Beard.= _Tragopogon pratensis_ L. Flowers yellow; achenes dull, light brown, nearly cylindrical, apex tapering, mostly terminating in a slender beak. Achene straight or curved, 10-ribbed, 12-15 mm. long, the inner ones of the head smooth, the outer-most coarsely roughened by upwardly directed, whitish, scale-like projections. Introduced from Europe. [Illustration: Fig. 214.] =American Cocklebur.= _Xanthium Canadensis_ Mill. Achenes or burs reddish brown, oblong, circular in section, two-beaked, about 20 mm. long, covered with stout hooked prickles. Each bur encloses two seeds. Native of this country. [Illustration: Fig. 215.] =Spiny Clotbur.= _Xanthium spinosum_ L. Bur oblong, light brown, very slightly flattened, 10-13 mm. long, the beaks weak and small, small hooked prickles 3-4 mm. long, each bur contains two seeds. Introduced from Europe. =Broad Cocklebur.= _Xanthium strumarium_ L. Bur dark brown, oval, circular in sections 12-22 mm. long, beaks stout, nearly straight, spines about 5 mm. long, surface of burs and base of spines clothed with minute hooked prickles. Naturalized from Europe. INDEX. Page Abutilon, 145 Acalypha, 143 AC-CUM´BENT, leaning or lying upon, applied to cotyledons when the caulicle (radicle) is folded against their contiguous edges, shown as [Symbol: 0== rotated 90 deg. clockwise]. A-CHENE´, achenium, a small, dry, one-seeded, indehiscent fruit, likely to be mistaken for a seed. Achillea, 160 Acnida, 126 A-CU´MIN-ATE, ending in a prolonged tapering point. Agrimonia, 138 Agrimony, tall hairy, 138 Agrostemma, 128 Agropyron, 110 Aizoaceae, 128 Alfalfa, 140 Allium, 119 Alfilaria, 142 Alsike clover, 141 Alsine, 131 Alyssum, 132 Alyssum, hoary, 133 Amaranth, 126, 127 Amaranth family, 126 Amaranthaceae, 126 Amaranthus, 127 Ambrosia, 160, 161 American jute, 145 Anacardiaceae, 145 A-NAT´RO-POUS, a name applied to an ovule or seed which grows so that the funiculus coheres to the whole length forming a raphe along the edge bringing the hilum near the micropyle while the chalaza is at the other extremity. Annual fleabane, 165 Anthemis, 161 Apetalous pepper-grass, 135 A´PEX, the tip or growing point of an organ. Arctium, 162 Arenaria, 129 Artemisia, 162 Artichoke, 167 Asclepiadaceae, 149 Asclepias, 149 Atriplex, 124 Avena, 110 AWN, a bristle-shaped appendage. Ax seed, 139 Ax wort, 139 Ball mustard, 137 Barbarea, 133 BARBED, furnished with rigid points or short bristles, usually reflexed like the barb of a fish-hook. Barnyard grass, 114 Beaked nightshade, 156 Beaver poison, 148 Beggar-ticks, 163 Bermuda grass, 113 Berteroa, 133 Bidens, 162, 163 Biennial wormwood, 162 Bindweed, 150 Bird's-foot trefoil, 139 Bitter buttercup, 131 Bitter dock, 122 Black-eyed susan, 169 Black medick, 139 Black mustard, 134 Black nightshade, 156 Black swallow-wort, 149 Bladder campion, 130 Bladder Ketmia, 146 Bloom-fell, 139 Bluefield madder, 159 Blue grass, 116 Blue grass, Canadian, 116 Blue grass, Kentucky, 116 Blue Vervain, 153 Borage family, 152 Boraginaceae, 152 Bouncing Bet, 129 Broad-leaved Dock, 122 Broad-leaved plantain, 159 Brome grass, 112 Bromus, 111 Buckwheat family, 119 Buckwheat, wild, 120 Bulbous buttercup, 132 Bull thistle, 164 Burdock, 162 Bur-grass, 112 Bur-marigold, 162 Bur-seed, 152 Bursa, 134 Buttercup, bitter, creeping, or tall, 131 Butter and eggs, 156 Camelina, 134 Canada thistle, 164 Canadian blue grass, 116 Capriola, 113 Capsella, 134 Carduus, 164, 165 Carpet-weed, 128 CAR´UN-CLE, an excrescence or protuberance near the hilum of a seed. Caryophyllaceae, 128 Cashew family, 145 Catch-fly, 129, 130 Catmint, 154 Catnip, 154 Celandine, 132 c. m. centimeter, see ruled lines on last page, 183 Cenchrus, 112 Centaurea, 163 Centimeter, see ruled lines on last page, 183 Cerastium, 129 Chaetochloa, 117 Charlock, 133 Cheat, 112 Cheeses, 146 Chelidonium, 132 Chenopodiaceae, 124 Chenopodium, 124, 125, 126 Chess, barren, field, smooth, soft, 111 Chickory, 164 Chickweed, 129, 131 Chrysanthemum, 163 Cichorium, 164 Cicuta, 148 Cinquefoil, silvery, 138, 139 Cirsium, 164, 165 Claviceps, 110 Climbing false buckwheat, 121 Clover dodder, 151 Cockle, 128 Cocklebur, 171 CO´MA, a tuft of hair on a seed. Common chickweed, 131 Common milkweed, 149 Common speedwell, 157 Compositae, 160 Composite family, 160 Conium, 148 Conringia, 135 Convolvulaceae, 150 Convolvulus, 150 Corn camomile, 161 Corn gromwell, 153 Coronilla, 139 Couch grass, 110 Cow-cress, 136 Crab-grass, 113-114 Crassulaceae, 138 Creeping buttercup, 132 Crepis, 165 Cress, cow, 136 Crimson clover, 141 Crowfoot, 131 Crowfoot family, 131 Cruciferae, 132 Curled Dock, 122 Cut-leaved Crane's bill, 142 Cuscuta, 150, 151 Cycloloma, 126 Cynanchum, 149 Cynodon, 113 Cynoglossum, 152 Cyperaceae, 118 Cyperus, 118 Cypress spurge, 143 Daisy fleabane, 166 Dandelion, 170 Datura, 155 Daucus, 148 Dead nettle, 154 DEL´TOID, shaped like the Greek letter delta; triangular. Devil's paint-brush, 167 Digitalis, 113 Diplotaxis, 135 Dipsaceae, 160 Dipsacus, 160 Dock, 121 Dock-leaved Persicaria, 120 Dodder, 150 Dog's fennel, 161 Echinochloa, 114 Elecampane, 167 Eleocharis, 118 Eleusine, 114 EL-LIP´TIC-AL, oblong and rounded at the ends; longer than oval. EM´BRY-O, the little plant forming a part of the seed, usually consisting of caulicle, one or more cotyledons and a plumule. Eragrostis, 115 Erechtites, 165 Ergot, 110 Erigeron, 165, 166 Erodium, 142 Erysimum, 135 Euphorbia, 143, 144 Euphorbiaceae, 143 Evening primrose, 147 Evening primrose family, 147 Fall dandelion, 168 False Buckwheat, 121 False flax, 134 FE´MALE FLOW´ER, one having pistils only, but no stamens; pistillate flower. FER´TILE, producing fruit, or reproductive bodies of any kind. Field dodder, 150 Field garlic, 119 Field madder, 159 Field pepper-grass, 136 Figwort family, 156 Fire-weed, 165 Five finger, 139 Flat-stemmed Poa, 116 Flax dodder, 150 Fleabane, 165, 166 Floral glume FLO´RET, a single flower of a head or cluster, especially in Compositae. Forked catchfly, 130 Foxtail, green, yellow, 117 Garlic, field, wild, 119 Gaura, 147 Geraniaceae, 142 Geranium family, 142 GLUME, one of the outer floral envelopes in grasses or sedges. The term as now used includes the bracts (empty glumes) which subtend a spikelet and the lower of the two bracts subtending the individual flower (flowering or floral glume, lemma). Gnaphalium, 166 Golden pepper-grass, 136 Goosefoot, 125 Goosefoot family, 124 GRAIN, the caryopsis or fruit of Gramineae; any small seed. Grass, crab, 114 Grass family, weeds in, 110 Grass, old witch, 115 Grass, porcupine, 117 Grass, stink, 115 Green foxtail, 117 Great bindweed, 150 Great burdock, 162 Great ragweed, 161 Grindelia, 166 Gronovius' dodder, 151 Ground honeysuckle, 139 Gum plant, 166 Hare's ear, 135 HAS´TATE, like the head of a halberd--applied to leaves which have a spreading lobe on each side of the base. Hawksbeard, 165 Heal-all, 155 Hedge bindweed, 150 Hedge mustard, 137 Helianthus, 167 Hibiscus, 146 Hieracium, 167 Hillman, F. H., graduate of the College in 1888; expert draftsman of the seed Division of Washington, D. C, 103 Hilum, 134 HI´LUM, the scar or point of attachment of a seed. Hoarhound, 154 Hoary alyssum, 133 Hoary cress, 136 Honeysuckle, ground, 139 Hordeum, 115 Horse nettle, 155 Horse-weed, 165 Hound's tongue, 152 Hypericaceae, 147 Hypericum, 147 Illecebraceae, 128 IN-CUM´BENT, leaning or lying upon; applied to cotyledons when the caulicle is folded against the track of one of them, shown as [Symbol: || o]. Indian mallow, 145 Indian mustard, 133 Indigenous, 139 IN-DIG´E-NOUS, native and original to the region. Inula, 167 Iva, 167 IN´VO-LU-CRE, a set of bracts immediately subtending a flower or inflorescence. Jerusalem oak, 125 Jimson weed, 155 Juncaceae, 118 June grass, 116 KEEL, the joined pair of petals in a papilionaceous corolla; a projecting ridge along the back of an organ. Knawel, 128 Knot-grass, 119 Knotweed, 120 Knotweed family, 128 Labiatae, 154 Lactuca, 168 Lady's Thumb, 121 Lamb's quarters, 124 Lamium, 154 LAN´CE-O-LATE, tapering abruptly towards the base and gradually towards the apex, like the head of a lance. Lappula, 152 Large-bracted plantain, 158 Leafy spurge, 143 Leguminosae, 139 Leontodon, 168 Leonurus, 154 Lepidium, 136 Leptilon, 165 Liliaceae, 119 Lily family, 119 Linaria, 156 LIN´E-AR, very narrow with the margins parallel or nearly so. Lithospermum, 153 Low cudweed, 166 Lucerne, 140 Lotus, 139 Low hop-clover, 141 Madder family, 159 Mallow, 145, 146 Mallow family, 145 Malva, 146 Malvaceae, 145, 146 Mammoth clover, 141 Many-seeded goosefoot, 126 Maple-leaved goosefoot, 125 Marsh elder, 167 Marubium, 154 May-weed, 161 Medicago, 139, 140 Melilotus, 140 Mexican tea, 125 Milfoil, 160 Milkweed, 149 Milkweed family, 149 Millimeter, see last page of this bulletin Mint family, 154 m. m. Millimeter, see ruled lines on last page, 139 Mollugo, 128 Morning-glory family, 150 Mossy stonecrop, 138 Motherwort, 154 Moth mullein, 156 Mouse-ear chickweed, 129 Mouse-ear hawkweed, 167 Mullein, 156, 157 Musquash-root, 148 Mustard, 133, 134, 135 Mustard family, 132 Narrow-leaved dock, 122 Narrow-leaved hawk's beard, 165 Narrow-leaved plantain, 158 Nepeta, 154 Neslia, 137 Nettle family, 119 Nettle-leaved vervain, 153 Night-flowering catchfly, 130 Nightshade, 156 Night-shade family, 155 Nonesuch, 139 Nut-grass, 118 Oak-leaved goosefoot, 125 Oat, wild, 110 OB-LAN´CE-O-LATE, lanceolate in form, but tapering toward the base more than toward the apex. OB´LONG, longer than wide with nearly parallel sides. Compare Oval. OB-O´VATE, a flat body broader toward the apex than the base. See Ovate. OB-O´VOID, a solid body broader towards the apex than the base. See Ovoid. OB-TUSE´, having a rounded end or apex; blunt. Oenothera, 147 Old witch grass, 115 Onagraceae, 147 Orache, spreading, 124 Orpine family, 138 O´VAL, about twice as long as broad, with regular curved outlines, broadly elliptical. O´VATE, like a longitudinal section of an ordinary hen's egg, with the attachment, if any, at the broad end. O´VOID, the shape of a hen's egg and attached, if at all, at the large end. Ovoid spike rush, 118 Ox-eye daisy, 163 Oyster-plant, 170 Paint brush, 167 PA´LE-A, PA´LET, the upper bract which with the floral glume incloses the flower in grasses. Pale persicaria, 120 Panicum, 113 Panicum capillare, 115 Panicum, smooth, 115 Papaveraceae, 132 Parsley family, 148 Parsnip, wild, 149 Pastinaca, 149 Patience dock, 123 Pennsylvania persicaria, 120 Penny cress, 137 Peppergrass, 135, 136 Persicaria, dock-leaved, 120 Pigeon grass, 117 Pigweed, 124 Pigweed family, 124 Pink family, 128 Plantago, 158, 159 Plantain family, 158 Poa annua, 116 Poa compressa, 116 Poa, flat-stemmed, 116 Poa pratensis, 116 Poison hemlock, 148 Poison ivy, 145 Polygonaceae, 119 Polygonum, 119-120 Poppy family, 132 Porcupine grass, 117 Portulaca, 131 Portulacaceae, 131 Potentilla, 138, 139 Prickly lettuce, 168 Prickly sida, 146 Prostrate amaranth, 127 Prunella, 155 PU-BES´CENT, clothed with soft and rather short hairs. Pulse family, 139 Purple Jimsonweed, 155 Purple-stemmed beggar-ticks, 163 Purslane family, 131 Purslane speedwell, 157 Pusley, 131 Quack grass, 110 Ragweed, 160 Ranunculaceae, 131 Ranunculus, 131, 132 RA´PHE, the adherent funiculus connecting the hilum and chalaza in anatropous or amphitropous ovules or seeds. Red clover, 141 Red-seeded dandelion, 170 Red root, 153 RE-TIC´U-LATE, in the form of network. Rhus, 145 Rib-grass, 158 Rocket, yellow, 133 ROOT, the descending axis which is destitute of leaves or nodes. ROOT STOCK, rhizome, a stem usually subterranean and more or less thickened, producing young branches. Rosaceae, 138 Rose family, 138 Rough cinquefoil, 139 Rough pigweed, 127 Rudbeckia, 169 Rugel's broad-leaved plantain, 159 Rumex, 121, 122, 123 Running mallow, 146 Rush family, 118 Rush, slender, 118 Rush, spike, 118 Russian thistle, 126 Rutabaga, 133 Rye, 116 Salsify, 170 Salsola, 126 Sand-bur, 112 Sand plantain, 158 Sand rocket, 135 Sandwort, 129 Saponaria, 129 Scarlet clover, 141 Scleria, 128 Scrophulaceae, 156 Secale, 116 Sedge family, 118 Sedum, 138 Self-heal, 155 Setaria glauca, viridis, 117 Sheep sorrel, 122 Shepherd's purse, 134 Sherardia, 159 Shore knot-weed, 120 Sida, 146 Silene, 129, 130 Silvery cinquefoil, 138 Sisymbrium, 137 Sleepy catchfly, 129 Slender pigweed, 127 Slender nettle, 119 Slender rush, 118 Small alyssum, 132 Smaller burdock, 162 Small-flowered crane's bill, 142 Small-flowered crowfoot, 131 Small-fruited false flax, 134 Smut-weed, 120 Solanaceae, 155 Solanum, 155, 156 Sonchus, 169 Sorrel, 121 Sour dock, 121 Sow-thistle, 169 Spanish dodder, 151 Spear grass, 116 Speedwell, 157 Spergula, 130 SPIKE´LET, a small or secondary spike, as found in grasses. Spotted spurge, 144 Spring clotbur, 171 Spring sow-thistle, 169 Spurge family, 143 Spurry, 130 Squirrel-tail grass, 115 St. John's-wort family, 147 Star thistle, 163 Stellaria, 131 STER´ILE, not fertile. Stick-seed, 152 Stink grass, 115 Stipa spartea, 117 Stonecrop, mossy, 138 Stork's-bill, 142 STRI´ATE, striped with parallel ridges and grooves. Swallow-wort, 149 Swamp begger-ticks, 163 Sweet clover, 140 Sweet everlasting, 166 Syntherisma, 113 Tall buttercup, 131 Tall mustard, 137 Taraxacum, 170 Teasel family, 160 Thistle, 164 Thistle, Russian, 126 Thorn apple, 155 Three-seeded mercury, 143 Thyme-leaved sandwort, 129 Thyme-leaved speedwell, 157 Thyme-leaved spurge, 144 Toad-flax, 156 Tragopogon, 170 Treacle mustard, 135 Trefoil, 139 Trifolium, 141, 142 TRUN´CATE, terminating abruptly, as though cut off or flattened at the end. Compare Premorse and Succise. TU´BER-CLE, a swollen part or a root due to bacteria. Usually applies to such as possess the power to fix nitrogen; a little tuber. Tumbleweed, 127 Tumbling mustard, 137 Umbelliferae, 148 Upright spotted spurge, 144 Urtica, 119 Velvet leaf, 145 Velvet-leaved mullein, 157 Verbascum, 156, 157 Verbena, 153 Verbenaceae, 153 Veronica, 157 Vervain family, 153 Vincetoxicum, 149 Wall speedwell, 157 Water hemlock, 148 Water hemp, 126 Weed, defined, 103 Weed, what enables a plant to become one, 105 Weeds, disadvantages of, 104 Weeds, found in certain crops and why, 107 Weeds, how introduced and how spread, 106 Weeds, how to exterminate, 108 Weeds, lists of, in clovers and grasses, 107 Weeds of Michigan compared with those elsewhere, 107 Weeds, some small benefits from, 104 Weeds, where certain ones are troublesome, 107 Weeds, where they come from, 107 Western water hemp, 126 Wheat thief, 153 White clover, 142 White hoarhound, 154 White sweet clover, 140 Whorled mallow, 146 Wild carrot, 148 Wild comfrey, 152 Wild garlic, 119 Wild lettuce, 168 Wild parsnip, 149 Wild peppergrass, 136 Willow-leaved dock, 123 Winged pigweed, 126 Wild buckwheat, 120 Wild oat, 110 Winter cress, 133 Wire grass, 114, 116 Witchgrass, old, 115 Worm-seed, 135 Wormwood, 162 Xanthium, 171 Yard grass, 114 Yarrow, 160 Yellow alyssum, 132 Yellow daisy, 169 Yellow foxtail, 117 Yellow goat's beard, 170 Yellow rocket, 133 [Symbol: right pointing index] If not familiar with the decimal scale used in recording measurements in this volume, the reader can clip out one of those found below and use it for measuring. [Illustration] Transcriber's Notes Use the first phrase to find the change. Page 2 'a dollar is almost indispensable in' Changed 'indispensible' to 'indispensable'. Page 2 'they annoy the gardner.' 'gardner' may be 'gardener'. Unchanged. Page 105 'enormous number of weeds.' 'weeds' may be 'seeds'. Unchanged. Page 114 'three obscure longitudinal' Changed 'obcure' to 'obscure'. Page 119 'Urtica gracilis' Changed 'Utrica' to 'Urtica'. Page 120 'Polygonum Convolvulus' Changed 'Concolvulus' to 'Convolvulus'. Page 120 'elliptical to obovoid,' Changed 'ellipical' to 'elliptical'. Page 121 'base obtuse or bearing' Changed 'abtuse' to 'obtuse'. Page 122 'Rumex Acetosella' Changed 'Rumux' to 'Rumex'. Changed 'Actosella' to 'Acetosella'. Page 124 'faintly evident radiating striation' Changed 'striatian' to 'striation'. Page 125 'one side a groove leads to near' Changed 'grove' to 'groove'. Page 125 'Chenopodium hybridum' Changed 'hybrium' to 'hybridum'. Page 126 'Acnida tuberculata' Changed 'tubercalala' to 'tuberculata'. Page 131 'Purslane. Pussley.' Changed 'Purselane' to 'Purslane'. Page 131 'nearly circular, each side covered with 5-6 curved rows of tubercles, giving the appearance of having the two extremities bent together,' These two lines were reversed in original. Page 131 'in outline, hem-like margin,' Changed 'hemlike-like' to 'hem-like'. Page 134 'scar (hilum) is a whitish,' Changed 'whittish' to 'whitish'. Page 136 'Lepidium Draba' Changed 'Lepidum' to 'Lepidium'. Page 138 'slightly anatropous,' Changed 'anatroupous' to 'anatropous'. Page 138 'Agrimonia gryposepala' Changed 'cryposepala' to 'gryposepala'. Page 141 'long by 1.�1.4 mm. wide.' '1.�1.4 mm.' maybe '1.-1.4 mm.'. Unchanged. Page 142 'are half anatropous' Changed 'anathropous' to 'anatropous'. Page 144 'verticle line (raphe)' 'verticle' may be 'vertical'. Unchanged. Page 147 'ST. JOHN'S-WORT FAMILY. HYPERICACEAE.' 'HYPEPICACEAE' changed to 'HYPERICACEAE'. Page 150 'Convolvulus arvensis' Changed 'Convolvoulus' to 'Convolvulus'. Page 153 'four hard, conical-ovoid' Changed 'connical' to 'conical'. Page 153 'long, bordered by a narrow margin,' Changed 'bordred' to 'bordered'. Page 155 'convex having dark verticle lines,' 'verticle' may be 'vertical'. Unchanged. Page 156 'dull, yellowish to light brown,' 'grown' changed to 'brown'. Page 156 '.5-1 mm. long, columnar,' Changed 'colummar' to 'columnar'. Page 157 'Purslane Speedwell' Changed 'Purselane' to 'Purslane'. Page 157 'with certainty by means of' Changed 'certainity' to 'certainty'. Page 157 'oval to broadly obovate,' Changed 'obvate' to 'obovate'. Page 159 'shape, oval, oblong, rhomboidal' Changed 'rhombodial' to 'rhomboidal'. Page 164 'Chickory. Chichorium Intybus' 'Chicory' and 'Cichorium' are the generally accepted spellings today. Unchanged. Page 165 'Leptilon Canadense' Changed 'Leptiton' to 'Leptilon'. Page 165 'extremities truncate,' Changed 'extremeties' to 'extremities'. Page 167 'brown, straight or curved,' Changed 'stright' to 'straight'. Page 167 'Iva xanthiifolia' May be 'xanthifolia'. Unchanged. Page 167 'or rhombic in section,' Changed 'rhombicin' to 'rhombic in'. Page 168 'Leontodon autumnalis' Changed 'autunalis' to 'autumnalis'. Page 169 'spreading by roots-stalks' 'root-stocks' and 'roots-stalks' used interchangeably. Unchanged. Page 169 'Introduced in Europe.' May be 'Introduced from Europe.' Unchanged. Page 170 'Taraxacum Taraxacum' Changed 'Taraxacum Taraxicum' to 'Taraxacum Taraxacum'. Page 170 'faces, extending along' Changed 'exending' to 'extending'. Page 173 'ending in a prolonged tapering point.' Changed 'prolonge' to 'prolonged'. Page 175 'Clover dodder, 151' Changed '51' to '151'. Page 177 'Lithospermum,' Changed 'Lithospernum' to 'Lithospermum'. Page 177 'Hoary alyssum,' Changed 'allyssum' to 'alyssum'. Page 178 'lanceolate in form,' Changed 'laceolate' to 'lanceolate'. Page 178 'Ox-eye daisy,' Changed 'daisey' to 'daisy'. Page 181 Tall mustard, 137 Changed '237' to '137'. 
33507	----	NUMBER 123 JULY 10, 1922 OCCASIONAL PAPERS OF THE MUSEUM OF ZOOLOGY UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN ANN ARBOR, MICHIGAN PUBLISHED BY THE UNIVERSITY THE MAMMALS OF WASHTENAW COUNTY, MICHIGAN BY NORMAN A. WOOD Three natural physiographic divisions cross Washtenaw County from northwest to southeast. The northwestern part of the county is occupied by the rough interlobate moraine of loose-textured soil, the Interlobate Lake District; a broad Clay Morainic Belt occupies most of the central part of the county; and in the southeastern corner of the county is found a low Lake Plain, once the bed of glacial Lake Maumee. The Interlobate Lake District has a conspicuous system of moraines, making up a most irregular land surface. Steep knolls 100 to 200 feet in height are closely associated with basins, which are often deep, and some of which are occupied by lakes. Small, undrained depressions occur everywhere, producing thousands of acres of swamp and marsh land. The Clay Morainic Belt occupies the region from just below Portage Lake to Ypsilanti. It is composed of glacial till plains and clay moraines extending from northeast to southwest. This area includes the highest land in the county, one hill exceeding and several approaching 1100 feet in altitude. Most of the area is high and rolling. The old beach, marking the limits of the Lake Plain District, runs northeast from Ypsilanti to the county line above Cherry Hill, and southwest through Stony Creek to a point on the county line about eight miles west of Milan. The native upland forests of the Interlobate Moraine District were composed chiefly of red, yellow, and white oak, with some smooth-bark hickory and sugar maple and a few shag-bark hickories. Here were also large areas of creeping juniper and a few small patches of ground hemlock (yew). On the flood-plains of the rivers and lakes were quite extensive swampy forests of soft maple, black ash, and white elm. Swamp oak and whitewood grew commonly in the drier situations toward the edge of the swamp conditions. The red-bud and red cedar were characteristic of the river banks. White pine probably never grew in the county, although a few trees occur on the south bank of the Huron River near Hamburg, a few miles north of the county line. Tamarack bogs, some of large size, are abundant in the Interlobate Moraine District and occur commonly also in the Clay Morainic District, but are practically wanting in the Lake Plain District. The Clay Morainic District was originally dominated by forests of oak and hickory. Several kinds of oaks, white ash, and several species of hickories, with shag-bark most characteristic, were most abundant. Mixed with these were elm, beech, sugar maple, black walnut, and butternut. On the higher ground many stands of quaking aspen were found. The forest was quite dense and little underbrush normally occurred. Tamarack bogs were common, and a small stand of black spruce occurred at the edge of Independence Lake. There are few flood-plains along the Huron River in this district, but along the river's edge were a few cottonwoods and sycamores, and many willows, some of large size. On the steep bluffs along the river was often a heavy growth of red cedar; and some large areas of procumbent juniper occurred. In this district were several open, level, sandy plains covered with a scattered growth of white and bur oaks and an undergrowth of hazel brush. These were known to the pioneers as "oak openings" or "plains." Lodi Plains in Lodi Township, Bur Oak Plains in Manchester Township, Sharon Plains in Sharon Township, and Boyden's Plains in Webster Township were the largest of these natural openings in Washtenaw County. On the low lands of the Lake Plain District great forests of black ash, elm, whitewood, soft maple, red-bud, swamp oak, and bur oak were found by the early settlers. Large sycamore trees were found along the river banks, these following the Huron River up a short distance beyond Ann Arbor and occurring all along the Raisin and Saline rivers. The paw paw and pin oak were found rarely in the southeastern part of the county. Along the small streams in this district were extensive marshes which were evidently old beaver meadows. About the edges of the marshes were fringes of tamaracks. At the beginning of the nineteenth century Washtenaw County was an unbroken wilderness, and deer, wolves, bear, and other large and small fur-bearing animals were abundant. A few white trappers were in the region, and the Indians frequently passed through on the old Tecumseh Trail to Detroit, where they went to trade. In 1809 three Frenchmen established a trading-post at Ypsilanti, where the Tecumseh Trail crossed the Huron River, and for several years they traded here with the Indians. In 1823 the first permanent settlement in the county was made by Benjamin Woodruff and two others at Woodruff's Grove, not far from the present site of Ypsilanti. A settlement was made at Ann Arbor in 1824, and many pioneers arrived in the county during the next few years. With the coming of the settlers and the clearing of the forests the natural mammal habitats were greatly altered or destroyed. This, together with the hunting by the settlers, caused the gradual disappearance of the larger mammals, such as the cougar, bear, wolf, lynx, and deer. The clearings of the settlers created new habitats which were gradually occupied by species better adapted to civilization, such as the mole, woodchuck, ground squirrel, fox squirrel, and skunk, and also the house mouse and Norway rat, which were brought in unintentionally by the settlers. For sixty-five years I have lived almost constantly in Washtenaw County and I have seen the latter part of the exploitation of the forests of the county and the extermination of most of the larger mammals. From my father, who settled in the county in 1836, and other old pioneers I have drawn extensively for information about the early mammals of the county. Much use has also been made of information contained in the Michigan Historical Collections. The specimens on which the records here are based are mostly preserved in the Museum of Zoology. For considerable assistance in the preparation of the manuscript of this paper I am indebted to L. R. Dice, Curator of Mammals in the Museum of Zoology, University of Michigan. LIST OF SPECIES _Didelphis virginiana virginiana._ Virginia Opossum.--This species is rare in the county. One was taken by my father, Jessup S. Wood, in 1845, in Lodi Township. We have later records for Ann Arbor, Dexter, Manchester, Saline, and Scio Township. The last recorded specimen was taken by some boys in November, 1921, just south of the Oakland County line. February 5, 1912, a trapper took a specimen near Ann Arbor on a night when the temperature was about 10° F. below zero. _Scalopus aquaticus machrinus._ Prairie Mole.--The mole was rare or absent from the county when first settled, but it has gradually increased and has spread over most of the cultivated lands. It is most common in sandy or gravelly loams, and is absent from the hard clay soils. I remember the first appearance of the species on the old Wood homestead in Lodi Township about 1870. It soon became common. _Condylura cristata._ Star-nosed Mole.--Although not very rare in this county, it is seldom seen. We have records for Lodi Township, Ann Arbor, Webster Township, Ypsilanti, and Chelsea. It prefers low, marshy land near the water, and much of its food consists of aquatic insects, which it secures by swimming. It is not as well adapted for burrowing as the preceding species, so it lives in softer soil. May 8, 1913, a nest containing six half-grown young was found by Kitt Cobb in marshy ground beside the Huron River at Portage Lake. The nest was in a good-sized cavity near the surface of the ground and was lined with dried grass. This species sometimes comes out on the surface of the ground, where I have found several individuals in early spring, most of them dead. February 10, 1907, near Ann Arbor, A. D. Tinker heard one tunneling in the snow and dug it out. _Sorex personatus._ Masked Shrew.--In this county the masked shrew is usually found in sphagnum and tamarack bogs. There are records for a tamarack bog, three miles south of Ann Arbor, and for Honey Creek, three miles west of Ann Arbor. I have found it mostly under old logs and in stumps in rather moist situations. _Blarina brevicauda talpoides._ Short-tailed Shrew.--Common in swamps, woodlands, and even in meadows, where it has its own runways and also uses those of the meadow mouse, on which it largely feeds. This shrew is diurnal as well as nocturnal, and I have often seen it in its runways. It is active all winter, and its tunnels may often be seen in the snow. While trapping in Steere's Swamp, south of Ann Arbor, a _Synaptomys cooperi_ in a trap was eaten by one of these shrews, which was later caught in the same trap. _Cryptotis parva._ Small Shrew.--The first record for the county was obtained in 1902 at Ann Arbor. In February, 1904, one was found in a barn three miles east of Ann Arbor. At Portage Lake, in 1916, a house cat brought two individuals to her kittens on October 29 and 31, respectively. The specimens taken by me were found in grassy places, usually where briers and shrubs were intermingled with the grass, but not in the woods. _Myotis lucifugus lucifugus._ Little Brown Bat.--Almost every winter individuals have been found in the building of the Museum of Zoology, at Ann Arbor, where they have been awakened by the heat long before insects were flying about. Max Peet took one at Ypsilanti June 6, 1904. _Myotis subulatus subulatus._ Say Bat.--In 1902 one was found alive in one of the buildings of the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor and was kept in a cage from February 26 to March 6, when it died. _Lasionycteris noctivagans._ Silver-haired Bat.--A female which seemed to have an injured wing was picked up at Ann Arbor by A. G. Ruthven, June 13, 1910. It contained two large embryos. This species is rare in this county. _Eptesicus fuscus fuscus._ Large Brown Bat.--Common at Ann Arbor and Ypsilanti. It is often found in buildings in winter. We have records for Ann Arbor every month except September, October, and November. Of all the bats this one is the most common about dwellings, and it is the one that most often enters houses at night in search of insects. Perhaps it is attracted by the light, as I have often seen it feeding about the street lights. _Nycteris borealis borealis._ Red Bat.--Common at Ann Arbor, and there is one record for Ypsilanti. At Ann Arbor there are records from April 30, in 1919, to July 4, in 1921. Also one was taken in November, 1917. On June 12, 1903, a female with two young attached to the underside was found hanging in a tree in Ann Arbor. The young were naked and blind and quite small. June 10, 1908, another female was found in a similar situation with three half-grown young attached. _Nycteris cinerea._ Hoary Bat.--We have records for Ann Arbor, Bridgewater Township, Manchester, and Portage Lake. Our dates run from September 5 to October 15; but in December, 1891, one was found in a barn and was kept alive for several weeks. _Ursus americanus._ Black Bear.--Formerly common, and one of the last of the larger animals of the county to be exterminated. The last one known to be in the county was killed in October, 1875, in the big marsh west of Saline. Mr. George Inman, one of the pioneers of Lodi Township, told me that he had seen one just killed a few miles west of Ypsilanti in 1852. One was killed in Pittsfield Township in 1835. Black or brown is the normal color in this state, but I have heard of one albino which was taken in Bay County not many years ago. _Canis lycaon._ Timber Wolf.--When the county was first settled the wolves were so destructive that it was difficult to keep any domestic animals. As late as 1840, 30 sheep were killed for a neighbor of my father's in Lodi Township; and another neighbor was himself chased by a pack in the winter of 1836. In October, 1834, a large wolf was seen by Mr. S. P. Allen near Ypsilanti. In looking over the county records I find that in 1837 a bounty of five dollars each was paid to four residents for eight wolf scalps; in 1838 eight more bounties of eight dollars each were paid; and up to 1839 bounties to a total amount of $178 had been paid. The records for the next twelve years are not available, but as late as 1853 two wolf bounties of eight dollars each were paid to residents of the county. Some of these probably refer to coyotes. We have one record of a black wolf for the county. _Canis latrans._ Brush Wolf, Coyote.--In the History of Washtenaw County[1] there is a full-page picture of hunting the prairie wolves in an early day, which shows men on horseback in oak openings, rounding up the wolves. In the same volume is an account by Mrs. H. L. Noble, saying that the wolves would "come at evening and stay about the cabin all night, keeping up a serenade that would almost chill the blood in my veins." These were no doubt coyotes. In 1905 I mounted a large male, weighing 45 pounds, which had been shot in Sharon Township, March 10, by Mr. Keeler. Another is reported to have been seen in the same township in 1910. [Footnote 1: History of Washtenaw County, Michigan, p. 67, 1881.] _Vulpes fulva._ Red Fox.--The early settlers report the red fox as being quite common and destructive to small lambs, poultry, and game. Owing to its cunning this species has been able to live and increase in spite of much hunting and trapping. It is nocturnal as a rule, though I have seen them often in the daytime catching mice on the marshes. In April, 1883, a den was found in Lodi Township, and by careful watching the young could be seen playing about the entrance to the den while waiting for their mother to bring them food. The young in this den were moved to other dens every week or so, and to my certain knowledge were moved three times before they were dug out by a friend and myself. One transfer was for more than one-third of a mile. There were six of them about the size of small cats. These dens seem to have been woodchuck holes dug out and enlarged. Some were in hillsides, but some were on level ground. The den dug out was an old woodchuck hole. It extended about 25 feet into a bank, with a large nest chamber at the end about six feet from the top of the ground. A second entrance to the tunnel led down from the top of the bank and joined the tunnel about 12 feet from the nest. Some dried grass was noted in the nest chamber. A black fox was taken in Pittsfield Township in 1878, and I have heard of another being seen at a later date. _Urocyon cinereoargenteus cinereoargenteus._ Gray Fox.--This small fox persisted in this county for many years. I saw one in Lodi Township in 1866 which had been treed by a dog. In October, 1866, two were shot near Saline by J. H. Bortle. The last one known to me in the county was taken in Steere's Swamp, near Ann Arbor, in the winter of 1882. The species is very local, living in swamps and woods, which it rarely leaves. It has a sharp bark which is heavier than that of the red fox. _Procyon lotor lotor._ Raccoon.--In this county the raccoon was formerly very common, according to the early settlers, and did much damage to poultry and to the corn when in the milk. In return it served as food and its skin was both an article of dress and a medium of exchange, a coon-skin being valued at 25 cents. It was still very common in Lodi Township in 1870-80 and furnished the sport of "cooning," when it often led both dogs and men a tiresome chase through woods and swamps and often escaped to its den in some big hollow tree. When taken young it makes an interesting but very mischievous pet, and cannot be allowed loose in the house. I once had three as pets, and nearly all kinds of food given them were treated to a bath before eaten. It is omnivorous in its food habits and eats all kinds of fish, flesh, eggs, apples, berries, and is especially fond of green corn. On this food the coon grows fat, and when winter comes curls up in some den tree and sleeps through the winter, sometimes alone, and sometimes with several others. I have known of seven being found in a big hollow tree in Lodi Township. The latter part of the winter, during the warm spells, I have found tracks in the snow and have followed the tracks for miles as they visited other dens. The species is not strictly nocturnal, and I have often seen coons sunning themselves on limbs and have also found them on the ground feeding in the daytime. I once found a small one in the water of a little brook, where it was nearly drowned and was uttering a shrill, piteous cry. It had probably fallen from a log into the stream. The young grow slowly and generally stay with the parents until a year old. They do not obtain their full growth until about the third year. They vary much in size, weighing from 15 to 40 pounds. One caught near Ann Arbor in November, 1905, weighed 30 pounds, and the blanket of fat under the skin weighed five pounds. The heaviest Michigan raccoon known to me was taken near Edmore, Montcalm County, May 10, 1904, and weighed 56 pounds. The call is a shrill tremulo cry, almost like a whistle, and on a still night may be heard for a long distance. When caught by a dog it sometimes utters a snarling cry, from rage or pain. The color varies in shades of gray and black, and we have a dozen records of white or albino raccoons from this county, and half that number of black or melanistic ones. _Mustela pennantii pennantii._ Fisher.--Henry Wilson, an old pioneer of Dexter, told me that he killed a large male in February, 1862, near Independence Lake, Webster Township. Other old trappers report that it has been taken in the county, but are not able to give exact data. _Mustela noveboracensis noveboracensis._ New York Weasel.--This species is quite commonly distributed over the county even now. One summer day in Lodi Township I heard the excited squawking of a setting hen that was confined in a box coop; on raising the cover the hen was seen to have a weasel attached to her leg. With a stick I attempted to hit the weasel, which was dragged about by the hen, but only succeeded in causing it to run under a shed, from which place it soon stuck its head out of a hole. I again tried to hit it with a stick, but it always dodged the blow. Finally I went to the house for the gun, and when I returned found the weasel out chasing the hen again. A shot soon finished it. In this county only about 75 per cent of the weasels change to the white coat in winter. _Mustela vison mink._ Northeastern Mink.--In this county the mink has been so closely trapped that it is almost, if not quite, exterminated in some townships where it was formerly common. The mink is not so perfectly aquatic as the otter, but it also travels on land quite fast and far. I have found them a half-mile from water hunting for mice, birds, and even cottontails. I once shot one in Lodi Township that came to the chicken house and killed a fully grown hen, which it dragged a rod or so away, where it ate all it wanted. Another time I followed on the snow one that had run five miles in a night, and finally found it only a short distance from the place it started from. The mink is generally nocturnal, but I have often found it out on dark days. Once while fishing I saw one catch and carry away a good-sized trout. It is a poor climber, but once while hunting raccoons a dog chased one up a tree, where it was shot from a limb 20 feet above the ground. Albinos are rare, but we have in the Museum collections a mounted specimen which was taken at Ann Arbor. Melanistic specimens are rarer still, and I have seen but one, which was caught in Lodi Township in 1875. _Mephitis nigra._ Eastern Skunk.--The skunk was common when the first settlers arrived in this county. With the clearing of the forests it became abundant. Altogether I have seen hundreds about my old home in Lodi Township. Here in one winter, about 1870, more than 30 were taken in one trap under an old barn. Although it usually passes most of the winter months in a state of hibernation, it occasionally comes out during warm spells and wanders from one den to another. I have seen its tracks every winter month. It is mainly nocturnal, but it also travels in the early evening and later morning, and I once saw a mother and six young pass through the dooryard just at dusk. The skunk is not a climber, as a rule, but I have found it a few feet up the inside of small hollow trees. Once I saw one enter a small stream and swim across; it was not forced, but went into the water of its own volition. _Taxidea taxus taxus._ Badger.--The early settlers state that the badger was found in this county, but was not common. We have records from 1883 to 1919, including Saline Township, Superior Township, Lyndon Township, Ann Arbor, Chelsea, and Bass Lake. The species hibernates, but I have known it to come out on the snow, and I have records for every winter month. _Lutra canadensis canadensis._ Canada Otter.--Formerly the otter was not rare in all the river systems of the county, and we know of a number being taken on the Huron, Raisin, and Saline rivers from 1856 to 1910, but none have been reported since that date. Three were seen and one shot by Edwin Hawley near Munith, Jackson County, not far from the county line, March 25, 1909. One was reported seen in a small mud lake in Lodi Township in 1910. At this same lake in 1886 two were taken by J. H. Bortle, of Saline. In May, 1908, John Staebler, a farmer, saw one at close range near Fleming Creek, two miles east of Ann Arbor, and in the spring of 1900 he saw another near the same place. _Felis cougar._--L. D. Watkins, of Manchester, records this animal as often passing through Manchester, about 1835, generally going southwest; the last one was seen in 1870. Hon. Henry S. Dean, of Ann Arbor, stated that one was reported in the county by hunters in 1838. Miss Julia Dexter Stannard[2] tells of a panther that in 1830 chased her mother at dusk one evening while she was returning home, to Webster Township, from Ann Arbor on horseback. The panther followed almost to the house, when the lights in the window scared it off. [Footnote 2: _Mich. Pioneer Coll._, v. 28, p. 565.] _Lynx canadensis._ Canada Lynx.--L. D. Watkins reports that he killed one in this county in 1842, and Hon. Henry S. Dean, of Ann Arbor, told me that old hunters reported it in the county in 1838. _Lynx ruffus ruffus._ Bob-cat, Bay Lynx.--This species was always more common in the county than the Canada lynx, but it has been extinct here for fifty years. The early settlers often recorded it as common. In 1850 J. S. Wood, of Lodi Township, treed one with a dog. In 1870 Henry Wilson, of Dexter, saw one near Independence Lake. _Peromyscus maniculatus bairdii._ Prairie Deer Mouse.--Specimens were taken September 28, 1909, in open fields near Manchester by F. M. Gaige. In the fall of the same year Dr. J. B. Steere took it on the big marsh four miles south of Ann Arbor; this, he states, is his first record for the species. In 1920 it was taken near Cavanaugh Lake, and is numerous near Ann Arbor and Portage Lake. It probably formerly occurred on the open prairies and oak openings, but now it is found in open fields and in grassy meadows. _Peromyscus leucopus noveboracensis._ Northern Deer Mouse.--This mouse is abundant in forests over the county, and is found in adjoining fields, especially in those containing corn. _Synaptomys cooperi cooperi._ Cooper Lemming-vole.--In October, 1883, George B. Sudworth took one near Ann Arbor. February 13, 1903, E. H. Frothingham found one under a corn shock about four miles south of Ann Arbor. In a runway in a small tamarack stand in Steere's Swamp, near the same place, I trapped an adult female and four nearly grown young, October 8 and 9, 1903. In February, March, and April, 1921, H. B. Sherman trapped six in a field containing a little brush, a short distance south of Ann Arbor. A number of their remains were found by J. Van Tyne in the winters of 1921 and 1922 near Ann Arbor, in pellets of the long-eared owl. _Microtus pennsylvanicus pennsylvanicus._ Pennsylvania Vole.--Was formerly found in beaver meadows, but with the clearing of the forests it has extended its range to the fields of grass and grain, and has become the most numerous of all the mammals of the county. Records are at hand for Ann Arbor, Pittsfield Township, and Portage Lake. _Microtus pinetorum scalopsoides._ Pine Vole.--July 15, 1921, A. G. Ruthven found an adult male in the oak-hickory woods on his grounds near the outskirts of Ann Arbor. _Fiber zibethicus zibethicus._ Muskrat.--In spite of persistent trapping, muskrats are still numerous in the county. Records are at hand for Ann Arbor, Pittsfield Township, Portage Lake, Saline, and Ypsilanti. _Rattus norvegicus._ Norway Rat.--This injurious rodent became common soon after the settlement of the county. Its omnivorous food habits and adaptability have enabled it to increase greatly. _Mus musculus musculus._ House Mouse.--The house mouse did not reach Washtenaw County until several years after the settlement of the district. It has become a serious pest, not only to household effects and stored food, but it has taken to the grassy fields and the woods bordering grain fields, and is commonly found in shocks of corn. The amount of damage done by it in this county must be very great. _Zapus hudsonius hudsonius._ Jumping Mouse.--A few occur in the county. We have records for Ann Arbor, Portage Lake, and Whitmore Lake. In October, about 1880, in Lodi Township, a female jumped from a shock of corn that was pulled over, and when caught, after several jumps of two feet or more, was found to have three small young attached to her teats. _Erethizon dorsatum dorsatum._ Canada Porcupine.--The first settlers found porcupines were common in the county. My father killed one in 1855 in Lodi Township, and the last one known in the county was killed near Saline in October, 1868, by John H. Bortle. The porcupine lives on the buds and bark of several species of trees, and also eats the stems and leaves of water lilies. It is a clumsy and stupid animal, knowing under natural conditions neither fear nor haste. Its coat of sharp-barbed quills affords almost complete protection from nearly all enemies except man, who alone is responsible for its extinction in the county. Although large and clumsy, it climbs readily, and often lives in the same tree for days. It also swims quite readily, sometimes entering the water voluntarily. It makes a number of noises; it sniffs, grunts, whines, chatters, and sometimes shrieks and cries like a child. _Marmota monax refuscens._ Woodchuck.--Before the settlement of the county woodchucks were not very common, a few living on the prairies as well as in the woods. With the clearing of the forests it found a congenial habitat about the fields and gardens of the settlers, and there found also choice food easily gathered. With these conditions it has greatly increased and has become a pest, so that many townships in southern Michigan pay a bounty of 25 to 50 cents each for woodchucks. On the Wood homestead of 400 acres in Lodi Township this animal was rarely seen in 1865, but in the next twenty years it became so common that in the years 1881-82 I killed more than 100 and my brother and his helper 125 more, all of them on this one small tract, and even then some were left. Its flesh is good when properly prepared, but most people are so prejudiced that they will not eat it. Albinos are not rare; I know of one taken near Saline about 1885. When alarmed it utters a shrill whistle; and when angry it chatters its teeth. I have often seen it climb trees, and have shot it from heights of 10 to 30 feet. It climbs when chased by dogs and also of its own free will. _Citellus tridecemlineatus tridecemlineatus._ Striped Ground-squirrel.--This animal (erroneously called "gopher" by many people) was formerly common only in the southern part of the Lower Peninsula, where its natural habitat was the prairies or oak openings. Here it occurred in great numbers, as stated by the first settlers. As the state became settled and the timber cut off it gradually extended its range until at present it occurs in most of the cultivated areas of the Lower Peninsula. This squirrel rarely climbs in bushes or small trees. It has a sharp whistle of alarm and a lower chirping call while feeding in company. _Tamias striatus lysteri._ Northeastern Chipmunk.--Formerly abundant in the county, living in the forests. With the cutting of the forests it has become scarce, but is now sometimes found along brushy roadsides as well as in woods. It occasionally climbs trees, but usually lives under stumps or logs in or at the edge of woods. It stores up quantities of food, and is seldom seen in the winter months. We have an albino at the Museum of Zoology which was caught near Ann Arbor by a cat, and I know of one other seen near the city. The call of the chipmunk is a loud chirp or chuck, regularly repeated and audible for a half-mile on still, frosty mornings. It also has a bird-like chirp or rapid call. _Sciurus hudsonicus loquax._ Southeastern Red-squirrel.--This is the most abundant squirrel in the county. Owing to its small size it was formerly not hunted; it also easily adapted itself to civilization and increased so rapidly that in places it became a nuisance. It has been accused of driving off the fox and gray squirrels, for which reason it was exterminated from the University campus, where it formerly occurred. The red-squirrel is very noisy and has a number of calls, chatters, and a whining cough which easily distinguishes it from other squirrels. Several albinos have been taken in Washtenaw County, one pure albino in Dexter Township in 1908, and one nearly pure white, but with brownish dorsal stripe and tail, near Ann Arbor in 1912. _Sciurus carolinensis leucotis._ Northern Gray Squirrel.--Abundant in the county for many years after its settlement. To the early settlers it was an injurious species, as it destroyed much of their scanty corn crop; but in later years it furnished much sport as well as a choice food for the table. Its chosen habitat was the heavy forest of beech and sugar maples, and with the cutting of these woods the gray squirrel has gradually become rare, only a few now being found in the county. As late as 1875 I saw many of the species, about one-half of the black phase. Its call is a high, shrill chatter, which may be heard quite a distance, and which is distinguished by hunters from the call of the red squirrel or fox squirrel. J. Austin Scott witnessed a migration in the fall of 1840, when hundreds of gray and black squirrels crossed the Raisin River near Adrian. They came from the south and were so exhausted from swimming across the river that the boys killed many with clubs. He counted 30 in one small tree near the water's edge. _Sciurus niger rufiventer._ Western Fox Squirrel.--When Michigan was first settled the species was rare and was confined chiefly to the southern part of the state, where it occurred in the oak openings, which seem to be its favorite habitat.[3] With the cutting of the heavy timber it has gradually extended its range, occupying all of the more open forests, and it has become very common, even entering the cities, where it has become semi-domesticated. [Footnote 3: Robert Kennicott, _U. S. Patent Office Report_, p. 56, 1856]. W. J. Beal[4] states that in Lenawee County there were no fox squirrels in the early days, but later they came in from the south. At my home in Lodi Township I never saw one until about 1875, and they were rare for several years after that. [Footnote 4: _Mich. Pioneer Coll._] This is our largest squirrel, furnishing sport and food for hunters. One albino taken in the county is in the collection of the Museum of Zoology; and one partly melanistic individual, taken near Ann Arbor, November 12, 1910, has the whole underside jet black. The call is hoarser than that of the gray squirrel, but although not so high in pitch may be heard for some distance. It occasionally swims; I know of one which swam across a part of Portage Lake, one-half mile, on a hot summer day, about 1910. _Glaucomys volans volans._ Southern Flying Squirrel.--This species may still be found in some numbers in suitable habitats in the county. They are usually found in woods, although I have found them in houses both in Ann Arbor and at Portage Lake. They nest and live in tree cavities, and in winter are gregarious. In late December, about 1890, in Lodi Township I found 20 or more in a hollow butternut stub. The call is a high, bird-like chirp or long squeak, which I have often heard from the tree tops while in the woods on moonlight nights. _Castor canadensis michiganensis._ Woods Beaver.--The first settlers of this county found this species to be nearly extinct, although dams and old beaver meadows were very common. It probably became scarce about 1800. Hon. Henry S. Dean, of Ann Arbor, told me that in 1837 at "Gravel Run," a few miles north of Ann Arbor, he saw a dam in good shape, although not used at that time. Remains of other dams still exist. S. D. Allen, of Ann Arbor, told me that in 1835 he saw a live beaver in the Huron River near Ypsilanti. This is the last record for the county. _Lepus americanus americanus._ Snowshoe Hare.--This hare was formerly common over all the southern peninsula of Michigan. In Washtenaw County it persisted for a long time in the tamarack bogs, but when these were mostly drained or destroyed the hares became extinct. It was last taken in Steere's Swamp, four miles south of Ann Arbor, in 1875. One was taken in a swamp near Whitmore Lake in 1890. L. D. Watkins, of Manchester, reports shooting one in a large swamp near Pleasant Lake in the fall of 1907. _Sylvilagus floridanus mearnsii._ Mearns Cottontail.--The cottontail was formerly common only in the southern part of Michigan, but it now occurs over all the cultivated area of the Lower Peninsula. It has increased with and followed the civilization that furnished an abundance of food and destroyed many of its enemies. I have several times found nests in meadows and cultivated fields. The nest is built in a deep form and is lined with fur from the mother's body and fine grass. The young are completely hidden when left by the mother. April 16, 1920, I found a nest containing five young in a stubblefield at Portage Lake. The young were well covered with hair, but the eyes were not open. April 20, 1920, I found another nest containing young on the lawn of an unoccupied house near the shore of Portage Lake. The number of young was not determined. May 5 the young were gone and the nest was deserted. May 16, 1920, L. R. Dice saw four young cottontails with their eyes open in the possession of a boy. They were taken from a nest near Ann Arbor. About May 10, some years ago, I saw a cottontail jump into and swim across Mill Creek in this county. The animal was not pursued nor driven in any way into the water. Sometimes when caught alive the cottontail utters a loud, shrill cry. _Bison bison bison._ American Bison.--According to the reports of the early explorers, this large mammal, in the eighteenth century, occupied, or at least visited, the southern border of the state of Michigan. Although we have no record of its occurrence in this county, its remains have been found just over the western border of the county by L. D. Watkins, who in 1835 picked up three skulls near Norvell, Jackson County (Township 4 south, Range 2 east, Section 22). Two of these skulls were sent to Hillsdale College, where one still remains, though the data with it were lost during a fire; the other skull was sent to Albion College, but cannot now be found. At the time these specimens were collected other bones were plentiful on the surface of the ground. _Cervus canadensis canadensis._ Eastern American Elk.--Probably common over most of the Southern Peninsula of Michigan up until the time of the settlements. I have found no record of live elk seen in the county, and the species probably was extinct in the district before 1800. Bones and antlers are common in the marshes and swamps of the county. _Odocoileus virginianus borealis._ Northern White-tailed Deer.--Abundant in the county when the first settlers arrived, and continued common for many years. It quickly learned to adapt itself to civilization, feeding by night where it formerly fed by day. Some early settlers report much damage done to gardens and crops, of which the deer soon learned the location. The last deer known to me in the county was seen in Saline Township in 1875 by William Gordon, who reported it to me at the time. Covert[5] records one seen in the county in 1879. [Footnote 5: Covert, A. B., in History of Washtenaw County, p. 194, 1881.] _Hypothetical List_ The mammals included in this list have been reported as occurring in Washtenaw County, but I can find no specimens with authentic data nor descriptions satisfactory for identification, and consider the records doubtful. _Rattus rattus rattus._ Black Rat.--Covert[6] states that the species is "very rare. I have but one specimen, which was caught at the Michigan Central R. R. Depot." [Footnote 6: Covert, A. B., in History of Washtenaw County, pp. 193-194, 1881.] _Mustela allegheniensis._ Least Weasel.--Covert says, "The only specimens of this mammal I have had were brought in this winter" (1881). I have not been able to find these specimens, which were doubtless small females of _Mustela noveboracensis_. 
35006	----	FOREWORD The Fish and Wildlife Service is proud to present this bulletin describing an experimental attempt to re-establish an endangered species in part of its native range. Two States, a Federal agency, a university, and two private conservation groups pooled their resources to make the project possible. This effort exemplifies the type of cooperation the Department of the Interior believes is imperative in beginning the gigantic task of trying to save and restore the threatened and endangered animals in this country today. Our pride is bittersweet, however. The experiment was a complete success in providing the information sought: What might happen when a pack of wolves is transplanted to a new area where the native population has been all but exterminated by Man? It was the answer to this question that was disappointing. Nevertheless, experiments are for learning, no matter what the answers may be. We are convinced that the answers provided by this project will ultimately be most helpful in future attempts to restore endangered animals to parts of their native ranges where they can begin again on the road to recovery. [Illustration: Lynn A. Greenwalt] DIRECTOR U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service Additional Copies Available from UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR FISH AND WILDLIFE SERVICE REGION 3 Federal Building Fort Snelling Twin Cities, Minnesota 55111 AN EXPERIMENTAL TRANSLOCATION OF THE EASTERN TIMBER WOLF THOMAS F. WEISE Department of Biology Northern Michigan University[1] WILLIAM L. ROBINSON Department of Biology Northern Michigan University RICHARD A. HOOK Department of Biology Northern Michigan University L. DAVID MECH Endangered Wildlife Research Program U. S. Fish & Wildlife Service[2] [1] _Marquette, Michigan 49855_ [2] _Division of Cooperative Research, Patuxent Wildlife Research Center, Laurel, Md. 20810. Mailing address: North Central Forest Experiment Station, Folwell Ave., St. Paul, MN. 55101._ TABLE OF CONTENTS FOREWORD Inside front cover ABSTRACT Back side of title page INTRODUCTION 1 THE STUDY AREA 2 METHODS 4 RESULTS 8 Social Structure of the Translocated Wolves 8 Aerial Tracking 10 Movements of the Translocated Wolves 11 Post-Release Phase 11 Directional Movement Phase 11 Exploratory Phase 11 Settled Phase 11 Movements of the Remaining Pack Member 11 Movements of Wolf No. 10 12 Feeding Habits 16 Citizen Sightings 17 Habitat Use 19 Failure of Female No. 11 to Whelp 19 Demise of the Translocated Wolves 19 DISCUSSION 21 Effect of Captivity and Human Contact 21 Movements 22 Environmental Influences 22 Possible Homing Tendencies 22 Distances Traveled 23 Home Range Size 25 Selection of a Territory 25 Vulnerability and Mortality 25 Food Habits and Predation 26 An Alternate Approach 26 CONCLUSIONS 26 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 27 LITERATURE CITED 27 ABSTRACT Two male and two female eastern timber wolves (_Canis lupus lycaon_), live-trapped in Minnesota were released in March 1974 near Huron Mountain in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Their movements were monitored by aerial radio-telemetry. The wolves separated into a group of three and a single animal after release. The single, a young female, remained in the release region in an area of 346 square miles (896 km²). The pack of three moved generally westward for 13 days and then explored a 1,631 square-mile (4,224 km²) region but settled after 2 months in a 246 square-mile (637 km²) area about 55 miles (88 km) southwest of the release site. The adult female, which mated while captive prior to release, failed to whelp. In early July, one male was killed by an automobile, and the other was shot. The remaining female from the pack then began to move over a much larger area again. On September 20th she was trapped by a coyote (_Canis latrans_) trapper and shot. Two months later the single female was killed by a deer (_Odocoileus virginianus_) hunter. These results indicated that wolves can be transplanted to a new region, although they may not settle in the release area itself. The displacement of the translocated wolves in this experiment apparently caused an initial increase in their daily movements, and probably increased their vulnerability, at least during the first 2 months after release. The two females examined post-mortem were in good physical condition indicating that food supplies were adequate in Michigan. Human-caused mortality was responsible for the failure of the wolves to establish themselves. Therefore recommendations for a more successful re-establishment effort include a stronger public-education campaign, removal of the coyote bounty, and release of a greater number of wolves. INTRODUCTION The eastern timber wolf (_Canis lupus lycaon_) originally occurred throughout the eastern United States and Canada but is now extinct in most of the United States. The only substantial population left inhabits northern Minnesota (Fig. 1). The estimated wolf population in the Superior National Forest of northeastern Minnesota in winter 1972-73 was about 390 (Mech 1973), and a tentative population estimate for the entire state is 500 to 1,000 (Mech and Rausch 1975). A well known population of about 15 to 30 wolves is also found in Isle Royale National Park, Lake Superior, Michigan (Mech 1966; Wolfe and Allen 1973; Peterson 1974). [Illustration: _Fig. 1.--Original and present range of the Eastern Timber Wolf_] In the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, Hendrickson et al. (1975) estimated the wolf population in 1973 at 6 to 10 animals, existing in three scattered areas: Iron County, Northern Marquette County, and Chippewa and Mackinac Counties (Fig. 2). Lone wolves made up 90 per cent of verified wolf observations there in recent years, and no more than two animals have been found together in at least the past 13 years. Hendrickson et al. (1975) postulated that the current low wolf population is maintained through possible sporadic breeding and immigration from Ontario and Minnesota (via Wisconsin), but is suppressed by illegal shooting and losses incidental to coyote (_Canis latrans_) bounty trapping. The eastern timber wolf was classed as an endangered species in the conterminous United States in 1967 under the Endangered Species Act of 1966. There then followed widespread national and international concern and support for preserving natural wolf populations. Substantial scientific and ethical arguments exist for preventing the extinction of a species or subspecies of any plant or animal. In addition, the presence of the wolf adds immeasurably to a wilderness experience; its esthetic value is incalculable. Thus in 1970, D. W. Douglass, Chief of the Wildlife Division, Michigan Department of Natural Resources, suggested that restoration of a viable population of wolves in Michigan would be desirable, especially if such efforts could be supported by private organizations. In 1973 the Huron Mountain Wildlife Foundation and the National Audubon Society offered financial support, and we undertook this pilot project to obtain information necessary for a full-scale restoration effort. The objectives of the research project were to determine whether (1) wild wolves could be moved to a new location, (2) such translocated wolves could remain in the new area, (3) they could learn to find and procure enough food in the new area, (4) they could tolerate and survive human activities, and (5) they would breed and help to re-establish a new population in Upper Michigan. As background we had the results of three previous attempts to transplant wolves to new areas. In 1952, one male and three female zoo wolves were released on Isle Royale (Mech 1966). They were attracted to humans, became nuisances, and had to be disposed of. Two were shot, one was captured and returned to the mainland, and the male escaped; his fate is unknown. The second transplant effort took place on uninhabited, 36-square-mile (92 km²) Coronation Island in southeastern Alaska (Merriam 1964; Mech 1970). In 1960, two male and two female, 19-month-old captive wolves, were released there. They learned to prey on black-tailed deer (_Odocoileus hemionus columbianus_), and multiplied to about 11 members by 1964. In the third case, two male and three female laboratory wolves from Barrow, Alaska were released near Umiat in August 1972, 175 miles (282 km) southeast of Barrow (Henshaw and Stephenson 1974). Eventually, all moved toward centers of human habitation and three were shot within 7 months. A fourth returned to the pens where she was reared, and was recaptured, while the fate of the fifth wolf remains unknown. Three of the five had taken the correct homing direction. Because results of the earlier attempts at translocating wolves suggested that pen-reared wolves did not fare well in the wild, we decided to use wild wolves that were accustomed to fending for themselves and avoiding people. They would have to be released in the most inaccessible area we could find and encouraged to stay there. To maximize their chances of breeding, we would have to try to obtain animals with already established social ties, that is, members of the same pack. Approval was obtained from the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources to live-trap up to five wolves in Minnesota, and a permit was granted by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources to release up to five in Upper Michigan. This bulletin describes the results of the experimental translocation. THE STUDY AREA The area selected for the release of the translocated wolves was the Huron Mountain area (Fig. 2) in northern Marquette County in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan (47° N Latitude; 88° W Longitude). This is one of the largest roadless tracts in Michigan, and has one of the lowest year-around densities of resident humans. Much of the area is owned by the Huron Mountain Club, on which accessibility is restricted. The Upper Peninsula is 16,491 square miles (42,693 km²) in area, bounded by Lake Superior to the north, and by Lakes Huron and Michigan to the east and south. The Wisconsin border along the western portion of the Upper Peninsula forms no distinctive ecological boundary. The Upper Peninsula is in the Canadian biotic province (Dice 1952), characterized by a northern hardwoods climax, interspersed with spruce-fir and pine subclimaxes. The northwestern portion of the Upper Peninsula, including Marquette, Baraga, Houghton, Ontonagon, and Iron Counties, contains rugged highlands and rock outcroppings which rise to elevations approaching 2,000 feet (610 m) in several locations. The human population of the Upper Peninsula is 303,342, with a rural density of about 9.0 persons per square mile or 3.5 persons per square kilometer (Table 1). The population of the Upper Peninsula has remained at about 300,000 for the past 50 years, and the rural human populations of local areas have generally declined or remained stable. During those 50 years, the wolf population has declined from several hundred animals to near extinction, with the population estimated by Hendrickson et al. (1975) at 6 to 10 remaining wolves. These authors concluded that the bounty on wolves between 1935 and 1960 was largely responsible for the demise of the species in the Upper Peninsula. The bounty was removed in 1960, after only one wolf was taken in 1959. Legal protection was granted by Michigan in 1965. The Endangered Species Act of 1973 added federal protection in 1974. [Illustration: _Fig. 2.--Range of the wolf in Upper Michigan in 1973, and the release point (from Hendrickson et al. 1975)_] _Table 1. Density of Rural Human Populations in Four Wolf Ranges in the Great Lakes Region_ ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Rural[4] Area in Population Square Miles Density Per (Square Percent Rural Square Mile Location Kilometers) Urban[3] Population (Square Kilometer) ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Ontario[5] 412,582 3.3 (1,068,125) 80.4 1,364,33 (1.27) Northern[6] 12,627 6.4 Minnesota (32,690) 68.0 81,246 (2.5) Upper 16,491 9.0 Michigan[7] (42,693) 51.4 147,841 (3.5) Iron and Oneida Co.[8] 1,859 12.3 Wisconsin (4,812) 26.0 22,899 (4.7) ---------------------------------------------------------------------- [3] Towns or cities of more than 2,500 people [4] Including towns with a population less than 2,500 [5] 1966 Census, 1970-71 Canada Yearbook [6] Cook, Koochiching, Lake and St. Louis Counties [7] All 15 Upper Peninsula counties [8] Last described wolf range in Wisconsin (Thompson 1952) The white-tailed deer (_Odocoileus virginianus_) would be the major prey for wolves in Michigan, and there appear to be sufficient numbers to support wolves. The Michigan Department of Natural Resources pellet count estimates for the spring deer population in the Upper Peninsula in 1973 was 10 ± 21.9% deer per square mile (3.9 ± 21.9% per km²). Deer densities of 10 to 15 per square mile (3.9 to 5.8 per km²) supported wolf densities of one wolf per 10 square miles (26 km²) in Algonquin Provincial Park, Ontario (Pimlott 1967). The population of deer wintering on the 14 square-mile (36 km²) Huron Mountain deer yard in winter 1973-74 was estimated at 73.3 ± 49.5% deer per square mile (28.3 ± 49.5% deer per km²) by the pellet count method (Laundre 1975). Thus total wintering population on the Huron Mountain Club, the wolf release area, would be about 1,000 deer. The utilization of available browse by deer in the Huron Mountain deer yard reached 95% by March 8, 1969 and 92% by March 5, 1970 (Westover 1971). The minimum winter deer loss (actual number found) in 1969 was 40 animals, of which at least 12 had starved, and it was estimated that perhaps up to 33% of the deer starved in the Huron Mountain Yard in 1968-69 (Westover 1971). The Huron Mountain yard continues to be overbrowsed, with high deer mortality expected in severe winters. Many other northern deer yards of the Upper Peninsula are also overbrowsed and are dwindling in area. Thus we expected that numbers of vulnerable deer (Pimlott et al. 1969; Mech and Frenzel 1971) would be available to wolves. Beavers (_Castor canadensis_) are an important food source for wolves in many areas during summer (Mech 1970), and they are common throughout the Upper Peninsula. The beaver population on the 26 square-mile (67 km²) Huron Mountain Club was estimated at 46.9, or about 1.9 beavers per square mile (0.7 per km²) (Laundre 1975). Moose (_Alces alces_) are rare on mainland Michigan. METHODS The general procedure for this study was to attempt to capture an intact pack of wolves in Minnesota, fit each animal with a radio-collar (Cochran & Lord 1963), release them in northern Michigan, and follow their fate through aerial and ground radio-tracking (Kolenosky and Johnston 1967). A pack was selected from an area near Ray, Minnesota (Fig. 3), south of International Falls (48° N Latitude, 93° W Longitude), where wolf hunting and trapping were legal. Two male and two female wolves were captured by professional trapper Robert Himes, under contract for the project, between December 24, 1973 and January 21, 1974 (Table 2). Three of the wolves were trapped (Fig. 4) in No. 4 or 14 steel traps (Mech 1974), and one (No. 13) was live-snared (Nellis 1968). If these animals had not been solicited for this study, they would have been killed and their pelts sold, as part of the trapper's livelihood, before the Endangered Species Act of 1973 took effect. [Illustration: _Fig. 3.--Capture and release points of the translocated wolves_] At capture each wolf was immobilized with a combination of phencyclidine hydrochloride (Sernylan) and promazine hydrochloride (Sparine) intramuscularly (Mech 1974), with dosage recommendations from Seal et al. (1970). They were then carried out of the woods (Fig. 5), held in pens in Minnesota, and fed road-killed white-tailed deer, supplemented with beef scraps. [Illustration: _Fig. 4.--Wolf caught in trap (Photo by Don Breneman)_] [Illustration: _Fig. 5.--The captured wolves were drugged and carried to an enclosure in Minnesota (USFWS Photo by L. David Mech)_] There is no certain way of ascertaining that wolves are related or that they belong to the same pack. Thus to maximize chances that members of the same pack would be captured, the trapper set traps where he suspected only one pack ranged. To try to determine whether the individual wolves he caught were socially related, we instructed the trapper to hold the wolves in individual pens until we could observe their introductions to each other. Wolves No. 10 and 11 were placed together on January 23, 1974, and No. 13 and 14 were released into the pen with No. 10 and 11 on February 4. [Illustration: _Fig. 6.--Before being transported to Michigan, each wolf was weighed (USFWS Photo by Don Reilly)_] _Table 2. Background information on the translocated wolves_ ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Wolf Number 10 11 12 13 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Sex F F M M Estimated age[9] 1-2 years 6-7 years 2-3 years 2-3 years Capture date 12-24-73 1-5-74 1-19-74 1-21-74 Capture Method Trapped Trapped Trapped Live-snared Capture foot Left front Right front Right front Capture-related Two nails Three nails None None damage lost lost Weight at 55 lb. 65 lb. 74 lb. 75 lb. capture (24.9 kg) (29.4 kg) (33.5 kg) (33.9 kg) Weight, March 5 46 lb. 58 lb. 66 lb. 60 lb. (20.8 kg.) (26.3 kg) (29.9 kg) (27.2 kg) % weight loss 16% 11% 11% 20% Canine length, 0.83" 0.25-0.50" 0.93" 0.87" upper (21 mm) (6-13 mm) (24 mm) (22 mm) Canine length, 0.75" very worn 0.82" 0.85" lower (19 mm) (21 mm) (21 mm) Testes[10] ---- ---- 0.5 × 1.0" 0.5 × 0.75" (13×25 mm) (13×19 mm) Teats Tiny, not Dark, ---- ---- apparent evident ---------------------------------------------------------------------- [9] Gross subjective estimates based on tooth wear [10] Estimated On March 5, 1974, the wolves were again immobilized for pre-release processing in Minnesota. An initial dose, and several supplemental doses of phencyclidine and promazine were administered intramuscularly and intraperitoneally between 9:00 a.m. and 4:30 p.m. CDT. The wolves were restrained with muzzles and their legs were bound together during processing and transport. Two of the wolves were blindfolded because they were too active otherwise. The wolves were ear-tagged with both Minnesota and Michigan Department of Natural Resources tags, and weights and body measurements were taken (Fig. 6, 7). Their teeth were inspected and canines were measured to try to obtain an indication of age. Each animal was fitted with a radio transmitter (AVM Instrument Co., Champaign, Illinois[11]) molded into an acrylic collar (Mech, 1974). [Illustration: _Fig. 7.--Standard body measurements were also taken (USFWS Photo by Don Reilly)_] Each wolf was injected with 1,200,000 units of Bicillin (Wyeth), 2 cc of distemper-hepatitus-leptospirosis vaccine (BioCeutic Laboratories D-Vac HL), 0.5 cc of vitamins A, D, E, (Hoffman-LaRoche[11] Injacom 100), 1 cc of vitamin C-fortified vitamin B complex (Eli-Lilly, Betalin Complex FC), and 2 cc anti rabies vaccine (Fromms Raboid). These injections (Fig. 8) were given to insure that the wolves would be as healthy as possible upon release, and would not contract or introduce diseases in the release area. [11] _Mention of trade names does not constitute endorsement by the U. S. Government._ Some 30 to 60 cc of blood were drawn from each wolf for analysis of its physical condition (Seal et al. 1975). The processing of the wolves took from 8:45 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. CDT on March 5, 1974. The animals were then transported by truck to International Falls, loaded on an airplane (Fig. 9), and flown for 2 hours (Fig. 10) to the Marquette County Airport, Michigan. They were turned on different sides each half hour while drugged during their processing and transport to prevent lung congestion. At the Marquette Airport they were transferred by van to a 25 foot by 25 foot by 12 foot (7.6 m × 7.6 m × 3.7 m) holding pen on the Huron Mountain Club property 35 miles (56.3 km) northwest of Marquette. [Illustration: _Fig. 8.--Various vitamins and vaccines were administered to each wolf to insure their health and freedom from common canine diseases (USFWS Photo by Don Reilly)_] The wolves were released individually into the holding pen while each was still partly under sedation (Fig. 11). The transmitting frequency of each wolf's collar was rechecked on the receiver as each wolf was released into the pen (Fig. 12). All wolves were in the pen by 10:00 p.m. EDT, and were held there until March 12. Four road-killed deer carcasses, provided by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources, had been placed inside the pen for food (Fig. 13), and a tub of drinking water was provided. Carcasses of five road-killed deer and a black bear (_Ursus americanus_) were placed within a half-mile (0.8 km) of the release pen as food for the wolves after their release. We had scheduled the release for mid-March for several reasons which we felt would maximize chances for success. Deer are concentrated then in the Huron Mountain area and vulnerable to predation. Pregnancy and subsequent whelping of the alpha female might increase her attachment to the new area. Furthermore, the snow is usually deepest then and hinders travel. However, a few days before the release, a freak rainstorm had settled the snow, and cold temperatures had frozen it so hard that animals could walk readily on top, making travel conditions excellent. [Illustration: _Fig. 9.--The anesthetized wolves were placed aboard an aircraft in International Falls, Minnesota (USFWS Photo by Don Reilly)_] [Illustration: _Fig. 10.--The wolves were kept lightly drugged during the flight to Michigan (USFWS Photo by L. David Mech)_] [Illustration: _Fig. 11.--In the Huron Mountain area of Upper Michigan the wolves were taken to another holding pen (Photo by Don Pavloski)_] [Illustration: _Fig. 12.--Biologists checked the signal from each radio-collar before the wolves were released into the holding pen (Photo by Don Pavloski)_] An observation shack 120 feet (36.6 m) from the pen was used to determine the activities and interactions of the four wolves. Weise spent three nights in the shack and also observed the wolves each day of the one-week penned period, for a total of 20 hours of observation (Fig. 14). During preliminary air and ground checks of radio equipment, we discovered that Wolf No. 10 had a defective collar. Thus on March 12, we subdued her with a choker, restrained her with ropes, replaced her collar and released her just after sunset. We then opened the pen, and let the other wolves loose. [Illustration: _Fig. 13.--While in captivity, the wolves were fed primarily on road-killed deer (Photo by Don Pavloski)_] The subsequent locations of the wolves were then checked intermittently through aerial radio-tracking (Mech 1974), with a receiver and antenna from the AVM Instrument Co., Champaign, Illinois, used in a Cessna 172 and a Piper Colt. We made two flights each day for the first 2 days after release, one each day when weather permitted, until April 20, three per week in May, approximately two per week from June through September, and three per week in October and November. A total of 194 hours were flown, 80 per cent by Weise, and the remainder by Hook. Aerial locations were usually recorded to the nearest 40 acres (16 ha.). We also tracked the wolves from the ground whenever interesting or significant activities were observed during flights or were reported by ground observers. Carcasses of prey animals were investigated from the ground after consumption was complete and the wolves had left. Deer eaten by the wolves were considered killed by them if the ground check revealed fresh blood or flesh, or signs of a struggle. Scats were collected along the tracks of the wolves in the snow whenever possible. When radio signals were received from the same location for unusually long periods, ground checks were made to determine the cause. Attempts were made to verify all sightings and track records reported by local citizens, by comparing them with the aerially-determined locations. RESULTS Social Structure of the Translocated Wolves Wolves No. 11, 12, and 13 were captured in Minnesota within a mile (1.6 km) of each other, and No. 11 and 12 were taken in the same trap set 12 days apart; Wolf No. 10 was caught approximately 7.5 miles (12.1 km) southeast of the others (Table 2). All were judged to be thin but in good condition. Females No. 10 and 11 were introduced into the same pen on January 23. No. 11 was reluctant to enter the pen containing No. 10 while several observers were around, but entered within 15 minutes after all but one had left. No. 11 went directly to No. 10 which was lying in a corner as she usually did, and pawed the fence at No. 10's back. When the pawing became more vigorous, No. 10 snapped at No. 11, moving only her head and neck. No. 11 then turned directly to No. 10, sniffed the top of her head and mane, and lay down beside No. 10 with her nose still in No. 10's mane. No. 10 remained still throughout the whole process. The trapper reported that later No. 11 licked the face of No. 10. Sniffing and licking anteriorally are usually signs of intimacy between wolves (Schenkel 1947). The two male wolves (No. 12 and No. 13) were allowed into the pen with the two females on February 4. No. 13 remained in the original adjoining pen and did not move in with the females immediately, but No. 12 did. There were no signs of aggression among any of the four wolves. No. 11, 12, and 13 moved freely around the pen while in Minnesota, but No. 10 most often lay in one corner by herself. Trapper Himes first observed vaginal bleeding in female 11 on February 7. He observed Wolves 11 and 12 mating (with normal coupling) on February 12 and 16. No unusual aggressive or agonistic social interactions of consequence were observed among the wolves while penned in Michigan, from March 5 to 12. Animals 11, 12 and 13 would lie down and feed together in various combinations. No. 10 was less active than the others and often stayed inside a shelter box within the enclosure, but would come out and mix with the other wolves for brief periods when humans were not in evidence. Her actions were indicative of a low ranking, immature, distressed, or alien animal. Male No. 12 was the only wolf that would stare directly at a person approaching the pen. He was bolder and more direct in his actions than any of the other animals. This is the wolf that mated with adult female No. 11 while penned in Minnesota, and thus can be considered the "alpha male," or pack leader. When approached by humans, all the wolves would urinate and defecate; No. 11 and 12 would pace, No. 10 (when out of the shelter box) and No. 13 would lie in the far corner of the pen and remain motionless (Fig. 14). No. 11 limped on her right front foot throughout the penned period, but this limp did not appear to have a significant effect on her activities or movements. Blood samples taken on March 5, 1974 were analyzed and interpreted by Dr. U. S. Seal of the Veterans Administration Hospital in Minneapolis. The assays performed included hematology, 16 blood chemistries, thryoxine, and cortisol (Seal et al., 1975), plus estrogen and progesterone. According to Seal (personal communication), all blood values for wolves No. 10, 12, and 13 were similar and indicative of good health and minimal stress, as indicated by very low levels of the enzymes LDH, CPK, and SGOT. Such levels are typical of animals in a state of good nutrition that have been in captivity for several weeks and have accepted their captive circumstances. The MCV's were normal, indicating no vitamin deficiency, and the MCHC showed full hemoglobin content in the red cells, indicating no lack of iron. The white blood cell counts were much lower than usually seen in newly trapped wolves. All the remaining chemistry values from these three wolves were in the normal range for the season. [Illustration: _Fig. 14.--The Minnesota wolves in their Michigan pen (Photo by Tom Weise)_] Wolf No. 11, however, differed in that she had a much higher hemoglobin level, higher blood glucose and white cell count, and higher levels of LDH, CPK, and SGOT, indicating that she was significantly stressed. This is corroborated by a low thyroxine level of 0.6 micrograms percent, which is hypothyroid for wolves. The fibrinogen levels of all four animals were normal, indicating that there was no acute or chronic inflammation in progress. The wolves ate well in captivity but still lost from 11% to 20% of their capture weight (Table 2). Himes estimated that they consumed an average of 8 lb. (3.6 kg) of food per wolf per day, while penned in Minnesota. In Michigan the wolves consumed about a deer and a half, or an estimated 5.5 lb. (2.5 kg) per wolf per day. These estimates fall within the range of food consumption figures estimated for wolves in the wild (Mech and Frenzel 1971). After the wolves began feeding on the first carcass, they completely consumed it before starting a second one, even though four carcasses were available; they ate nothing from the other two carcasses. We released the wolves at dusk on March 12, 1974. Having just restrained Wolf No. 10 without drugs, to replace her collar, we untied her and let her free; she bounded off northwestward. We then opened the pen, and No. 12, whom we had judged to be the alpha male, left in less than 5 minutes and trotted off steadily toward the west-southwest. The remaining two animals paced around the pen for about 5 minutes and then lay down. Because we felt that they might become too widely separated from the others, three of us approached the pen opposite the door to encourage the wolves to find the open gate. Five minutes later No. 13 left the pen running southwestward, and No. 11 left less than 5 minutes later. Upon exiting, No. 11 appeared to smell the track of No. 12 and slowly trotted in his direction. Aerial Tracking Our success in locating the translocated wolves by aerial radio-tracking was 95% (Table 3), similar to that of Mech and Frenzel (1971) working with wolves in their native range in Minnesota. During the part of the study in which extensive snow cover was present (March 13 to April 20) wolves No. 11, 12, and 13 were observed 14 times from the aircraft. The first time they were seen, near Laws Lake, they appeared alarmed and moved into heavy cover. The next day, however, and on all subsequent observations, the aircraft appeared to have little effect on their behavior, although they sometimes looked up at it. No. 10 was seen only once by a passenger in the tracking aircraft, and she immediately hid from view. It seems likely that she avoided the aircraft. After the snow melted and leaves appeared, we no longer saw the wolves. The activities of the three wolves during the 14 aerial observations were as follows: traveling 4 (Fig. 15), feeding and scavenging 5 (Fig. 16), resting 4, and sleeping 1. _Table 3. Success in locating wolves by aerial tracking_ --------------------------------------------------------- Wolf Number 10 11 12 13 --------------------------------------------------------- Number of tracking attempts 113 65 59 67 Number of times located 105 62 59 61 Percent located 93% 95% 100% 91% Number of times observed 1 14(Pack) Last date tracked Nov. 17 Sept. 19 July 10 July 27 --------------------------------------------------------- [Illustration: _Fig. 15.--The wolves often used woods roads for traveling (Photo by James Havemen)_] [Illustration: _Fig. 16.--The released wolves were sometimes observed from the aircraft feeding on deer they had killed (Photo by Richard P. Smith)_] Movements of the Translocated Wolves Wolf No. 10 never joined any of the other radioed wolves after their release, whereas the others generally remained as a pack. Thus the movements of the pack will be described separately from those of lone wolf No. 10. Four phases were seen in the movements of the pack: (1) Post-Release Phase, March 12 to 14; (2) Directional Movement Phase, March 15 to 24; (3) Exploratory Phase, March 25 to May 7, and (4) Settled Phase, May 7 to July 6. Post-Release Phase This first phase of the wolves' movements, including the first 2 days after release, seemed to be characterized by confusion and indecision. On March 13, the morning after the release, the three wolves were separated, but all remained within 2.0 miles (3.2 km) south to west of the release site, the general direction in which they had headed upon release (Fig. 17). No. 11 and 13 were about a half-mile (0.8 km) apart in the morning, and by late afternoon, No. 13 apparently had joined No. 11. No. 12 remained about 2 miles away from the others all day, although he did move about a half-mile during the day. By the 14th, No. 11 and 13 had moved 2 miles southwestward, but were separated by a half-mile; No. 12 had moved only a half-mile west. Directional Movement Phase During this phase, all three wolves left the immediate vicinity of the release point and headed southwestward. Early in this phase, wolves No. 11 and 13 rejoined (by March 15) and traveled 9 miles (14.5 km) west-southwest of their previous day's location, while No. 12 took a more northerly route. Nevertheless, by March 19, No. 12 had joined the other two wolves near Skanee, some 14 miles (22.5 km) west-southwest of the release point (Fig. 17). For the next several weeks these wolves all remained together and travelled a straight-line distance of about 40 miles (64.1 km) to a point just north of Prickett Dam about 11 miles (17.6 km) west-southwest of L'Anse, arriving there on March 24 (Fig. 17). Exploratory Phase In the Exploratory Phase of their movements, from March 25 to May 7, wolves No. 11, 12, and 13 covered a 1,631-square-mile (4,224 km^2) area from the town of Atlantic Mine on the Keweenaw Peninsula to the north to a point about 64 miles (103.0 km) south, near Gibbs City (Fig. 18). In the opposite dimension, they ranged from Keweenaw Bay on the east to 9 miles (14.5 km) south of Ontonagon, 42 miles (67.6 km) west of there. This phase was characterized by long movements, considerable zigzagging, and revisiting of certain general regions such as the base of the Keweenaw Peninsula and areas east and north of Kenton (Fig. 18). An interesting social change also occurred during this phase: No. 13 split from the pack sometime after April 26 when the pack had reached its westernmost location, south of Ontonagon. Whereas No. 11 and 12 returned east-northeastward toward Otter Lake, where they had been in late March, No. 13 headed west-northwestward to the Porcupine Mountains, 18 miles (30.0 km) west of where the pack had last been located together (Fig. 18). Thus on May 2, Wolf No. 13 was 51 miles (82.0 km) west of No. 11 and No. 12. Nevertheless, 5 days later all the wolves were found near Gibbs City, 62 miles (99.8 km) southwest of the Porcupine Mountains, and 45 miles (72.4 km) south of Otter Lake; No. 13 was only 6 miles (9.7 km) from his packmates. The next time an attempt could be made to locate the wolves, on May 16, they had reunited. Settled Phase This last phase of the wolves' movements includes the period when the animals had settled into an area similar to the size of home ranges reported for other wolves in the Great Lakes Region (Mech 1970). From May 7 to July 6, this pack lived in a 246-square mile (637 km^2) area with its center north of Gibbs City (Fig. 18). On July 10, wolf No. 12 was found dead. Presumably he had died by July 6, for he had not moved since then. Wolf No. 13 had again split from his associates between June 14 and 19 and begun to travel alone. On July 20, his remains were discovered 24 miles (38.6 km) southeast of where the pack had settled. These deaths will be discussed in detail later. Movements of the Remaining Pack Member After the death of her mate (No. 12), Wolf No. 11 left the 246-square-mile area in which the pack had settled (Fig. 19). By July 15, she had traveled 28 miles (45.0 km) northwest of this area and by the 20th, was back by Otter Lake, 40 miles (64.4 km) north. She returned south of Gibbs City on July 27, and was found about 3 miles (4.8 km) north of the Wisconsin border on August 2, near Lac Vieux Desert about a half mile (0.8 km) north of the Wisconsin border on August 6, and near Bruce Crossing on August 9. [Illustration: _Fig. 17.--Movements during the Post-release and Directional Movement Phases of Wolves No. 11, 12, and 13_] On August 13, Wolf No. 11 was located 1½ miles (2.4 km) southeast of Ewen on the western edge of her previous locations. She was not located again until August 28. By then she had moved a straight-line distance of almost 60 miles (96.5 km) to an area in Marquette County just south of Squaw Lake, in the Witch Lake area. In doing so, she probably had passed through the area previously explored just north of the Iron County region where the pack had spent so much of its time. These widespread movements are characteristic of lone wolves even in their native range (Mech and Frenzel 1971). No. 11 was still in the Witch Lake area on September 2. Due to poor flying conditions we did not locate her again until September 19. At that time she was on the Floodwood Plains a quarter mile (0.4 km) north of the Floodwood Lakes. She was caught in a coyote trap during the night of September 19 and shot about 10 a.m. on September 20. Movements of Wolf No. 10 The movements of female wolf No. 10 during the post-release phase were markedly different from those of the pack. In fact, this wolf apparently skipped the relatively sedentary post-release phase of movements that the pack displayed, and immediately dispersed (Fig. 20). By the morning after release, No. 10 was 10 miles (16.0 km) southeast of the release point and by late afternoon was an additional 5.5 miles (8.8 km) southeast (March 13). On the night of March 15 this wolf crossed four-lane Highway 41, and on the 16th was found 1¼ miles (2.0 km) south of the Marquette County Airport, approximately 32 miles (51.5 km) from the release site; she had traveled a minimum of 36 miles (57.9 km) to get there. However by March 20 she had returned to within 4 miles (6.4 km) of the release point, and by the 24th was within a quarter mile of the site. The other three wolves had already dispersed westward and were near Prickett Dam, some 40 miles (64.0 km) away. It is not known whether No. 10 tried to locate them. Her locations indicate that she did not, although she may not have been able to find or follow their route. From April 2 to 15, No. 10 made a second exploration southward, again returning to the Huron Mountain area. She also made a third such trip on June 14 to 22, even crossing Highway 41 again. [Illustration: _Fig. 18.--Exploratory and Settled Phases in the movements of Wolves No. 11, 12, and 13_] [Illustration: _Fig. 19.--Movements of No. 11 after the death of No. 12 and 13_] From the time of release until the first week in September, there seemed to be a pattern to the movements of Wolf No. 10. She made nine trips of about 40 miles (64.0 km) each, starting near Huron Mountain, extending southeasterly about 20 miles (32.0 km), and then returning northwesterly to the Huron Mountain area (Fig. 20). [Illustration: _Fig. 20.--Movements of Wolf No. 10_] During March, April, and the first week of May Wolf No. 10 made three of these trips roughly paralleling the Lake Superior shore, and she remained in the Huron Mountain area for several days between trips. From late May until mid-July she made four such trips but did not remain long anywhere. During that time she gradually moved westerly to near the Dead River Basin. In late July she made another trip to the Dead River Basin area after a stay near the Big Bay dump. These trips enlarged No. 10's range considerably. Early in July, Wolf No. 10 moved almost directly south from the Huron Mountain area to the Silver Lake area, again expanding her range to the west. From September 5 until October 10 she remained in the Silver Lake area, and there was no apparent pattern to her movements then. After the wolf was located on September 15 near a bait that bear hunters had put out on the west edge of the Mulligan Plains, a ground check was made. No evidence of the wolf was found at the bear bait, consisting mostly of fish, and no signal was heard there. A signal was picked up in the southwest corner of the Mulligan Plains, and the wolf was flushed from her bed about 80 yards (75 m) away. On October 10, this wolf began a westward move, and on October 22 she was found south of Herman, 25 miles (40.2 km) west of Silver Lake. On October 24 she was located 6.5 miles (10.4 km) to the northeast, near Dirkman Lake. By October 26 she had moved 12 miles (19.3 km) southeast to within a mile of the town of Michigamme. From there she gradually moved northeastward. She was shot near Van Riper Lake during deer hunting season, probably on the morning of November 16. During the westward move, this wolf had increased the size of her range by 87 square miles (222.7 km^2), about a 30% increase. She seemed to be heading back to the Silver Lake area when she was killed. Feeding Habits What little information we could obtain on the wolves' feeding habits indicated considerable variation (Table 4). In the Skanee area, which the pack of three first visited after leaving the release area, deer were abundant, and 7 to 10 were seen within a quarter mile (0.4 km) of the pack on March 20. It is possible that the wolves killed a deer there, for they remained in the area for a few days. They did scavenge deer feet and head remains on the 22nd at Laws Lake, 12 miles (19.3 km) southwest of Skanee. Deer were also sighted within a quarter mile of the wolves on March 25, April 15, April 16, May 7, June 8, and June 14. The first confirmed deer kill was made east of Otter Lake about April 1. The deer was a 4½-year-old doe with a partly healed broken left front leg (radius) and fat-depleted bone marrow (1%); a bullet was found in the skin of the right front leg. The pack also fed on a discarded deer carcass near Nisula, and then killed a 5½-year-old doe near Kenton on April 15 (Fig. 21); this animal also had bone marrow with a low fat content (6%). The next day, lone Wolf No. 10, back in the Huron Mountain area, killed a 4-5-year-old doe with fat-depleted marrow (5.6%). No doubt not all of the deer killed or fed upon by the translocated wolves were found, even when snow was present. However, it is clear from the observations we did make, and from the fact that all 26 scats we analyzed from this pack contained deer hair, that the wolves did adapt to killing deer in their new environment and that it was their primary food. Near Atlantic Mine the wolves scavenged on garbage from loggers, and then near Otter Lake they spent several days also feeding on garbage. A discarded cow (_Bos taurus_) head was scavenged, and at least one red-backed vole (_Clethrionomys gapperi_) was consumed. Lone Wolf No. 10 was found near the Big Bay dump nine times, or 29% of the times she was located during tourist season (May through August). _Table 4. Analysis of scats collected from released wolves_ --------------------------------------------------------------------- No. Wolf Date Scats No. Location and items found --------------------------------------------------------------------- March 22 5 Pack Laws Lake, deer hair March 29 1 Pack Otter Lake area, deer hair, red-backed vole hair, grass, refuse (including coffee grounds) April 3 2 Pack Otter Lake deer kill, scats soft and dark, some deer hair April 8 3 Pack Nisula, deer hair April 17 5 Pack Kenton deer kill, scats soft and dark, deer hair June 28 3 Pack Gibbs city area, summer and winter deer hair --------------------------------------------------------------------- Total (Pack) 19 --------------------------------------------------------------------- March 27 2 No. 10 Conway Lake, deer hair April 18 2 No. 10 Pine Lake, deer hair June 1 1 No. 10 Huron Mountain Club, fawn deer hair and hoof --------------------------------------------------------------------- Total No. 10 5 --------------------------------------------------------------------- Sept. 20 1 No. 11 Floodwood Plains 3.1 miles (5.0 km) south of Witch Lake, deer hair, and ruffed grouse (_Bonasa umbellus_) bones and nails July 1 1 No. 12 Collected from under dead No. 12, 1.9 miles (3.0 km) north of Amasa, deer hair --------------------------------------------------------------------- Total 26 All [Illustration: _Fig. 21.--Each deer killed by the translocated wolves was examined from the ground (Photo by Richard P. Smith)_] The three wolves were located near beaver lodges or dams on April 10, April 15, May 7, June 8, and June 12. No beavers were known to have been killed by them, however, and no beaver remains were found in their scats (Table 4). Citizen Sightings The wolves were seen by many citizens early after their release (Table 5 and 6), no doubt because of the wolves' confusion, their extensive movements, and their lack of familiarity with the region. They often traveled near populated areas and probably moved more during the day than they would have in their native territory. They were known to have made 14 daytime moves (from citizen reports) in addition to those observed from the aircraft. In at least five of the citizen reports, the wolves were observed sitting alongside the road, or otherwise making little attempt to move away immediately. However, after April 13 the group of three wolves was reported by citizens only twice, and Wolf No. 10, three times. _Table 5. Significant events in history of Wolf No. 10_ Date Event March 12 Wolves released in Huron Mountain area (T52N-R28W-Sec 20) March 13 No. 10 separated from the other three wolves and never reunited March 15 Sighted from tracking car crossing County Road 492 south of Marquette County Airport, 6:35 p.m. (EDT) (T47N-R26W-Sec 33) March 15 Crossed a four-lane highway between Marquette and Negaunee about 4:00 p.m. (EDT) (T49N-R26W-Sec 29) March 24 Located from the air less than 0.5 miles (0.8 km) from release pen (T52N-R28W-Sec 20) March 27 Reported seen by Huron Mountain Club guard on edge of First Pine Lake, 6:30 p.m. (EDT) (T52N-R28W-Sec 29) April 18 Visited bear carcass 100 feet (30.5 m) from release pen, had also visited 3 nearby deer carcasses (T52N-R28N-Sec 20) April 18 Confirmed deer kill by No. 10 near Pine Lake, Huron Mountain Club (T52N-R28W-Sec 20) June 6 Reported seen by gate guard, Huron Mountain Club (T51N-R27W-Sec 6) June 3 Reported seen north of Saux Head Lake on Lake Superior beach (T50N-R26W-Sec 17) June 20 Reported seen crossing four-lane highway headed north about 5 miles (8.0 km) west of Marquette (T50N-R26W-Sec 24) May 22 } May 23 } June 5 } Located near Big Bay dump, probably scavenging. July 15} Bears are baited at the dump by local citizens and July 20} tourists (T51N-R27W-Sec 16) July 31} Aug. 6 } Aug. 13} Aug. 16 Back in Huron Mountain area between Conway and Ives Lakes. 5:35 p.m. (EDT) (T52N-R28W-Sec 35) Aug. 27 Returned to Big Bay dump, 11:10 a.m. (EDT) (T51N-R27W-Sec 16) Aug. 30 Huron Mountain area, 8:45 a.m. (EDT) (T49N-R28W-Sec 9) Sept. 2 Left Huron Mountain area for last time. Located on Yellow Dog Plains, 8:45 a.m. (EDT) (T50N-R28W-Sec 13) Sept. 5 Near Silver Lake, 8:45 a.m. (EDT). Begins rambling move westward out of established range (T49N-R28W-Sec 17) Sept. 15 Tracked on ground on Mulligan Plains, 4:45 p.m. (EDT) (T49N-R28W-Sec 9) Oct. 22 Farthest west, 22 miles (35.4 km) west of Silver Lake. Begins rambling return east. Nov. 16 Killed ½ mile (0.8 km) south of Van Riper Lake, 5.4 miles (8.4 km) north of Champion (T49N-R30W-Sec 36) _Table 6. Significant events in history of Wolves No. 11, 12 and 13_ Date Event March 12 Wolves released in Huron Mountain area (T52N-R28W-Sec 20) March 18 Two wolves reported seen near Ravine River, Skanee area, the smaller one limping (T51N-R31W-Sec 2) March 19 First aerial fix of the three wolves in the same location (T52N-R31W-Sec 36) March 20 Wolves reported howling about 2 miles (3.2 km) east of Arvon Tower, 10 miles (16 km) south of Skanee (T50N-R31W-Sec 4) March 22 Wolves dug up five discarded doe and fawn heads and 27 deer legs near Laws Lake (T50N-R32W-Sec 18) March 22 Wolves reported crossing highway north of Herman, 4 miles (6.4 km) southeast of L'Anse, 8:30 a.m. (EDT) (T50N-R33W) March 25 Wolves reported in Pelkie area 6 miles (9.6 km) east of Baraga by DNR officer, 8:30 a.m. (EDT) (T51N-R34W-Sec 27SW) March 25 Wolves crossed road 2.5 miles (4 km) north of Pelkie near Otter River 11:00 a.m. (EDT) 5 miles (8 km) southwest of Otter Lake (T51N-R34W-Sec 5) March 25 Wolves reported seen crossing Highway M26, 2 miles (3.2 km) north of Twin Lakes 7:30 a.m. (EDT) (T52N-R38W-Sec 12) March 26 Wolves reported seen by logger during most of morning 9:00-11:00 a.m. (EDT), 4 miles (6.4 km) south of Houghton, (T54N-R35W-Sec 14) March 26 Wolves crossed Highway M26 south of Atlantic, 4:30 p.m. (EDT), (T54N-R34W-Sec 16) March 26 Wolves sighted from aircraft, eating garbage from cutting crew, 4:20 p.m. (EDT) (T54N-R34W-Sec 9NE) March 29 Wolves reported being chased away from house by dog, had been feeding on discarded cow head 150 feet (45.7 m) from house near Otter Lake (T52N-R33W-Sec 5) March 31 Wolves sighted in Otter Lake area (T52N-R33W-Sec 5) April 2 First confirmed wolf-killed deer, Arnheim area about 10 miles (16 km) north of Baraga (T52N-R33W-Sec 11) April 5 Wolves reported seen at 9:00 a.m. (EDT) on county road 5 miles (8 km) southwest of Otter Lake, small wolf reported as appearing fat (T53N-R35W-Sec 36) April 8 Wolves dug up old deer carcass about 150 feet (45.7 m) from house near Nisula (T50N-R36W-Sec 4) April 10 Wolves reported seen by logger in Nisula area (T50N-R36W-Sec 5) April 13 One wolf sighted crossing Highway M28 in morning between Kenton and Sidnaw April 15 Wolves killed deer near Kenton (T47N-R36W-Sec 8) April 18 Observed the three wolves from the tracking aircraft swim the East Branch of Ontonagon River, southeast of Kenton (T47N-R37W-Sec 7) May 2 No. 13 split from other two wolves; found in northwest Ontonagon County (T51N-R32W-Sec 21) May 7 All wolves back in Iron County for the second time, not known to leave until July 15 May 7 Forest service crew reported seeing the wolves and tracking aircraft north of Gibbs City near old deer carcass (T45N-R35W-Sec 26) May 15 Loggers reported six wolves (one with collar) (T54N-R37W-Sec 33)--Probably saw the collared wolves twice May 16 Confirmation from aerial location that the three wolves had reunited south of Mallard Lake after May 2 split June 19 No. 13 again separated from No. 11 and 12 July 11 Wolf No. 12 found dead, killed by automobile just before July 6, north of Amasa (T45N-R33W-Sec 17) July 15 Wolf No. 11 moved out of Iron County for the first time since May 7, found north of Kenton (T49N-R38W-Sec 31) July 20 Wolf No. 13 found dead from gunshot, south of Sagola, last previous location (June 27) at same location where No. 12 killed by automobile (T52N-R30W-Sec 5) Aug. 6 Wolf No. 11 located near Wisconsin border, ¾ miles (1.2 km) east of Lac Vieux Desert, 10:15 a.m. (EDT) (T43N-R38W-Sec 9) Aug. 13 Wolf No. 11 located 1.5 miles (2.4 km) southeast of Ewen 25 miles (40.5 km) north of Lac Vieux Desert, 10:10 a.m. (EDT) (T46N-R40W-Sec 36) Aug. 28 No locations since Aug. 13. Wolf No. 11 back in Marquette County .25 miles (0.4 km) south of Squaw Lake, a 60-mile (96.5 km) move eastward (T45N-R30W-Sec 21) Sept. 20 No. 11 trapped and shot on Floodwood Plaine 3.1 miles (5.0 km) south of Witch Lake (T44N-R24W-Sec 11) Habitat Use The relative percentages of various habitats in which the translocated wolves were found during aerial locations (Table 7) did not indicate a preference for any particular habitat type. Evidently the animals chose their travel routes and ranges on some basis other than forest habitat, or at least habitat was not of any overriding importance in their movements. _Table 7. Habitat types in which the released wolves were located_ -------------------------------------------------------- No. of Percent Percent Habitat Locations of Total Available[12] -------------------------------------------------------- Northern Hardwoods 43 48.3 40.9 Northern Hardwoods- Coniferous[13] (57) ...[13] ...[13] Spruce-fir 19 21.3 17.0 Aspen-hardwoods 11 12.4 20.5 Elm-ash-maple 1 1.1 4.5 Pine 2 2.2 5.5 Oak 0 0.0 1.4 Non-commercial forests 0 0.0 2.6 -------------------------------------------------------- Other (near towns, farms, dumps) 13 14.6(8.9)[13] 7.6 __ ______ _____ Totals 89(146) 100.00 100.0 -------------------------------------------------------- [12] Spencer and Pfeifer 1966. [13] This forest type was not distinguished separately by Spencer and Pfeifer (1966), so they did not provide availability figures for it. Thus in this comparison, we did not include the 57 wolf locations that fell in the type. However in calculating percentage figures for non-forest areas (towns, farms, dumps), these 57 fixes could validly be used as representing forest locations. Failure of Female No. 11 to Whelp There was no sign that adult female No. 11 whelped or attempted to locate or construct a den. The usual gestation period for wolves is about 63 days (Brown 1936). Because No. 11 was seen coupled in copulation on February 12 and 16, she should have whelped between April 13 and April 21, if she had conceived. Probably she would have moved little during the preceding 2 or 3 weeks (Mech 1970). However no such changes in this animal's movements were noticed. The three wolves stayed near Kenton between April 15 and April 18 but also killed a deer during that time. They moved extensively from April 19 to May 7. The only indirect evidence that the female may have been pregnant was an observation made by a local citizen on April 5 (Table 6) who saw the three wolves and stated that the small wolf looked "fat." This would probably have been No. 11, but a full stomach could easily have been mistaken for pregnancy. Unfortunately, neither the reproductive tract collected from No. 11 in September nor the blood sample taken in early March shed any light on the cause for the wolf's failure to produce pups. The ovaries did contain _corpora albicantia_, indicating that at some time the wolf had ovulated, but it could not be stated with certainty just when (R. D. Barnes, personal communication). The blood progesterone levels were more helpful. No. 11 had 3,560 picograms of progesterone per milliliter, compared to 56 picograms per milliliter for Wolf No. 10, whose reproductive tract appeared immature. This high progesterone level of No. 11 indicated that the animal had recently ovulated, but it was impossible to tell whether she was carrying any fetuses at the time the sample was taken (U. S. Seal, personal communication). Demise of the Translocated Wolves All four translocated wolves were killed by humans (Table 8). The alpha male (No. 12) was the first victim. He was found from the air in the same location on July 6 and 10. A ground check on July 11 showed him already decomposed. He lay about 60 feet (18.3 m) from paved highway US 141 north of Amasa (Fig. 22). The articular processes on the right side of his fifth and sixth cervical vertebrae were broken and inverted. Part of the process of the sixth cervical vertebra was lodged in the neural canal between the fifth and sixth cervical vertebrae and would have exerted pressure on his spinal cord. His acrylic radio collar was also cracked on the right side in three places. We concluded that he had been struck and killed by an automobile. A scat found beneath the remains contained deer hair, so apparently the animal had been feeding not long before his death. [Illustration: _Fig. 22.--The remains of Wolf No. 12 were found near a highway, and broken bones indicated he had been hit by a vehicle (Photo by Richard P. Smith)_] Wolf No. 13 was killed next. He had been located south of Sagola in Dickinson County on July 20, the first time he was found since June 27. He was still there on July 27, so a ground check was made. It revealed that the wolf had been dead for perhaps 2 or 3 weeks. His flesh had decomposed, and only hair, bones and the transmitting collar remained (Fig. 23). His leg bones and ribs were mostly disarticulated, his skull was separated from the vertebral column, and his mandible had separated. A small caliber bullet had passed through the ramus of the left mandible and had entered the base of the cranium. The hole through the mandible was 0.26 inch × 0.34 inch (6.6 mm. × 8.6 mm.) and that through the cranium was 0.34 inch × 1.30 inch (8.6 mm. × 33.0 mm.). Three small lead fragments were removed from the cranium. [Illustration: _Fig. 23.--Wolf No. 13 had been shot, as the hole in the jawbone indicates (Photo by Tom Weise)_] The remains of Wolf No. 13 were sent to the Michigan Department of Natural Resources Wildlife Research Center at Rose Lake and examined by staff pathologists Dr. L. D. Fay and Mr. John Stuht. No fractures or other signs were found that might indicate that he had been trapped. However, some of the smaller foot bones were missing and a complete examination was not possible. Notches were found in both shoulder blades, and one rib was broken, suggesting that the animal had been shot twice by a small caliber firearm in addition to the head shot. The hole in the left scapula indicated a deep penetrating wound. The notch in the right scapula indicated a bullet traveling more parallel to the body. _Table 8. Details of Deaths of Translocated Wolves_ ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Wolf No. 10 11 12 13 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Sex Female Female Male Male Last date tracked Nov. 17 Sept. 19 July 10 July 27 Date Nov. 16[14] Sept. 20 June 28 to Early killed July 4 July[14] Date Nov. 18 Sept. 20 July 11 July 28 found Manner Gunshot in Gunshot in, Struck by Gunshot in of death head and head, after automobile head and right foreleg being trapped chest Location Van Riper Lake Floodwood 1.9 miles (3.0 2 miles (3.2 of death 5.4 miles (8.7 Plain 3.1 km) north of km) south of km) north of miles (5.0 Amasa (T45N- Sagola (T42N Champion (T49N km) south of R33W-Sec 17) -R30W-Sec 5) -R30W-Sec 36) Witch Lake (T44N-R24W- Sec 11) Weight 52 lb. 56.5 lb. (23.6 kg) (25.6 kg) Unknown[15] Unknown[15] Condition Excellent Good Unknown[15] Unknown[15] ---------------------------------------------------------------------- [14] Estimate [15] Decomposed Wolf No. 11 was caught the night of September 19, 1974 in a coyote trap set by a trapper from Channing. The next morning the trapper came upon the trapped wolf by surprise at a range of 12 feet (3.6 m). She growled and lunged toward him, and thinking he was in danger, the trapper shot the wolf in the head. The .22 caliber bullet entered below the right eye and lodged in the skull. The trapper immediately took the animal to the Michigan Department of Natural Resources office in Crystal Falls and reported the incident. The wolf weighed 56.5 lb. (25.6 kg), 1.5 lb. (0.68 kg) less than when she was brought to Michigan. Her general condition was good, with some omental fat, but no subcutaneous fat. She did harbor ten tapeworms (_Taenia pisiformis_) about 40-50 cm long and a few hookworms (_Uncinaria stenocephala_), as determined by Mr. John Wenstrom (personal communication), Biology Department, Northern Michigan University. Both are common tapeworms of wolves (Mech 1970). Wolf No. 10 was shot by a deer hunter, probably on the morning of November 16, the second day of firearms deer season. On November 17 her signal was heard from near a cabin on the south shore of Van Riper Lake. The hunters occupying the cabin later said they had removed the collar from the wolf, which they had found dead on the afternoon of November 16. Before we had learned this, the carcass of Wolf No. 10 was discovered without the collar by another hunter, about a half mile (0.8 km) south of Van Riper Lake. It had been shot through the right leg, shattering the radius and ulna, and through the head, the bullet entering the left frontal bone and exiting below the right eye. In addition the radio collar had been shattered by a bullet and was missing, and one ear had been cut off. We identified the wolf from the tag in the other ear. The wolf had gained 6 lb. (2.7 kg) since she had been brought to Michigan, and had heavy internal and subcutaneous fat. She had light infections of two species of tapeworms (_Echinococcus granulosus_ and _Taenia pisiformis_), and of one species of hookworm (Uncinaria stenocephala), as determined by John Wenstrom. _Echinococcus granulosus_ is not uncommon in wolves (Mech 1970). The other two species were discussed above. DISCUSSION Wolves No. 11, 12, and 13 undoubtedly were members of the same pack. This conclusion is based on the fact that they did not fight when placed together in captivity, that they freely intermixed while penned, that No. 11 and No. 12 copulated, and that all three wolves generally traveled as a unit after their release. No. 11 and No. 12 were always located together from a few days after their release until the death of No. 12. Temporary splitting, as with No. 13 is a normal occurrence in wild wolf packs (Mech 1966). The identity of Wolf No. 10 remains unknown. She was captured 7.5 miles (12.1 km) away from the other three, and in captivity she behaved differently from them, remaining more to herself but intermingling with the others occasionally, with no signs of aggression. The face licking of No. 10 by No. 11 could be interpreted as a sign of patronizing intimacy as an adult might treat a subordinate offspring. The teeth of Wolf No. 10 had very little wear, indicating that she probably was less than 3-years old, whereas the teeth of No. 11 were blunt from wear. The tendency for No. 10 to withdraw from the others and from human beings indicated that she probably was a low-ranking or subordinate animal, a peripheral member of the pack (Woolpy 1968), or even a lone wolf currently dispersing from the pack (Mech 1973). The separation of No. 10 from the others upon release does not necessarily mean that she was not a member of the pack. No. 10's radio collar was replaced just before she was released. The handling without sedation could have frightened her enough that she ran some distance before the others were even released. The fact that No. 10 returned to within a half mile (0.8 km) of the release pen on March 20 and to within less than 100 feet (30.5 m) on April 18 may indicate she was seeking the other wolves. However, she may also just have used the release pen as a reference point in a generally unfamiliar area, or may have been attracted by the remains of carcasses left there. Effect of Captivity and Human Contact The necessary capture, captivity, translocation and contact of the experimental wolves with humans had an unknown effect on the wolves. They had been exposed to humans for over 2 months while in captivity. No attempts were made to tame them, and they never passed the escape stage of socialization as described by Woolpy and Ginsburg (1967). The dominant wolves (No. 11 and No. 12) were more relaxed when approached than were No. 10 and No. 13, however. The failure of female No. 11 to bear young probably can be attributed to her captivity and handling. The fact that two couplings were observed over a 5-day period indicates normal estrus in the female, and a normal response in the male. Conception would have been expected from such a mating. In wild wolves, it is known that there is only a small loss between number of ova shed, number of embryos implanting, and number of fetuses being carried (Rausch 1967). Thus it seems unlikely that, if No. 11 conceived, she lost her fetuses _in utero_. Rather, she probably did not conceive, or perhaps the embryos never implanted. This wolf lost about 11% of her capture weight during captivity, despite an adequate food supply. This fact, plus the results of her blood tests indicate a high degree of stress, which probably explains why she never produced pups. The possible interference of the drugs used can be ruled out, for they were chosen because of their known lack of effect on pregnancy (Seal et al. 1970). The radio collars placed on the wolves had no noticeable effect on the animals. Radioed wolves are regularly accepted back into their packs in Minnesota, where they also reproduce and function normally (Mech and Frenzel 1971; Mech 1973, 1974). Movements Environmental Influences Lake Superior was a barrier to the northward and eastward movements of the wolves. Apparently it also directed wolves No. 11, 12, and 13 southward around Keweenaw Bay, and possibly it prevented their eastward movement on April 2 when they approached Keweenaw Bay from the western side. The Bay is approximately 6-miles (9.6 km) wide there, and was frozen until late April. One to two miles (3.2 km) south of the release site, the Huron Mountains, with an elevation of 1,500 feet (457.5 m) might have prevented the southward movement of the wolves. Along the lakeshore, the land is relatively flat, which may have facilitated east-west movement. Wolves No. 11 and 13 were found at an elevation of 1,300 feet (490 m) the day after release but had returned to the flat shore areas (600 to 700 feet, or 200 to 230 meters above sea level) by the next day. Topography likely had effects in other areas but the actual travel routes, in most instances, are unknown. The pack did travel along an abandoned railroad grade near Gibbs City and for 2 miles (3.2 km) on a muddy road north of Kenton. Wolf No. 10 used a railroad bridge to cross a river in mid-March. It is well known that wolves generally choose the easiest routes of travel (DeVos 1950, Stenlund 1955, Mech 1966). Possible Homing Tendencies Some of the movements of the wolves during the Directional Movements Phase could in part have resulted from a tendency for the animals to home, that is to return to their home territory. Packs have been observed to travel 45 miles (72 km) in 24 hours in Minnesota (Stenlund 1955), Alaska (Burkholder 1959) and on Isle Royale (Mech 1966). In Minnesota, a radioed wolf was tracked a straight-line distance of 129 miles (208 km) over a 2-month period before being lost by researchers (Mech and Frenzel 1971), and annual migratory movements of over 200 miles (320 km) have been reported for Canadian wolves (Kuyt 1972). Therefore it seems within the capabilities of the released wolves to return the 270-mile (434 km) straight-line distance, or the 340-mile (547 km) travel distance around Lake Superior to Ray, Minnesota, if the orientation ability and inclination were present. Homing tendencies have been reported in wolves and other carnivores. One of five laboratory-reared wolves returned to her Barrow, Alaska homesite within about 4 months after a 175-mile (282 km) displacement (Henshaw and Stephenson 1974). An adult female red fox (_Vulpes vulpes_) returned to her homesite within 12 days after being displaced 35 miles (56.3 km) (Phillips and Mech 1970). For black bears there are many records of apparent homing. Harger (1970) displaced 107 adult black bears from 10.0 to 168.5 miles (16.1 to 270.3 km) with an average displacement of 62.5 miles (100.6 km). Thirty-seven of them homed and 11 others moved long distances toward home. The longest distance homed was 142.5 miles (229.4 km). The return travel routes seemed direct, with little evidence of wandering or circling. Harger (1970) concluded that bears could navigate by some means, as yet undetermined. There is some indication that the pack of three wolves may have attempted to return home to Minnesota, although it is possible that exploration itself also may have produced the movement pattern observed. If the translocated wolves were to try homing directly toward their previous territory, they would have had to travel west-northwestward. However, within a few miles they would have encountered Lake Superior. The next closest choice would have been to head westward, and this is what the pack did (Fig. 17). The next possible barrier to their homeward movements would have been Huron Bay, which would have forced them southwestward, at least temporarily. Again this is what actually happened. The pack maintained its southwestward movement beyond Huron Bay until reaching a point southeast of the next possible barrier, Keweenaw Bay. They then continued westward south of Keweenaw Bay to the Prickett Dam area, and veered northwestward to Twin Lakes on March 25. By this time, the wolves had traveled for 13 days and covered a minimum distance of 59 miles (94.9 km), and they were 42 miles (67.6 km), closer to home (16% of the straight-line distance between home and release site). The directions of the movements of the wolves were consistent with what they would have to be if the wolves were to return home. However, after March 25, the directionality in the movements of the pack ended (Fig. 17), and the animals began what we consider the Exploratory Phase of their movements. If the wolves actually were homing, perhaps the tendency diminished as they failed to encounter familiar terrain, or perhaps they met too many obstacles, or became confused after encountering too much human activity. Or possibly these factors or the need to find food and security overcame the homing tendency. As discussed earlier in relation to the unusual number of times the wolves were observed, it is clear that they were not moving normally during this period. The lone wolf, No. 10, dispersed from the release site in as much of an opposite direction as it could from the pack (Fig. 20). Thus there is no evidence that this animal was trying to home. However, it is of interest to note that the first 32 miles (51.5 km) of her travel was directional rather than random. Furthermore, when the animal encountered what probably was a psychological barrier, a high concentration of human activity along Highway 41, she reversed her movements but still maintained a directionality by returning to the release area. In fact a striking pattern of southeast-northwest movements characterized this wolf's travels for several months after her release, with a gradual westward drift developing in the southeast-northwest movements (Fig. 20). Mech and Frenzel (1971) found that a wolf dispersing from his former home range in Minnesota maintained a general southwestward movement for a straight-line distance of 129 miles (207.6 km) over a 2-month period, and Mech (unpublished) has three additional records of dispersing wolves that maintained directionality for distances of 48 to 130 miles (77.2 to 209.2 km). Storm (1972) followed 12 dispersing red foxes in Iowa, Illinois, and Minnesota that moved directionally for distances of 12 to 110 miles (19.2 to 176.0 km). The ability of wolves to orient and navigate even in unfamiliar surroundings was demonstrated dramatically by the separation of Wolf No. 13 from his two packmates and his later rejoining of them. On May 2 he was 51 miles (82.1 km) away from them. Five days later he and his packmates were only 6 miles (9.6 km) apart, in an area 62 miles (99.8 km) from where No. 13 had been on May 2, and 45 miles (72.4 km) from where his packmates were on that date (Fig. 18 and p. 11). Because No. 13 had taken such a divergent route from that of No. 11 and 12 upon splitting, and then had met them again at a point so far from (1) where they had split and (2) where either had gone after the split, mere backtracking would seem to be ruled out as explanation of how they were able to rendezvous. Possibly No. 13 backtracked to the separation point and then followed the others by scent, although this seems unlikely because of the amount of time that had elapsed. Perhaps a combination of memory of the general lay of the land, and some backtracking and eventually howling and the crossing of each group's fresh tracks could explain this remarkable feat. Distances Traveled The average daily straight-line distances (average of all known 24-hour moves) traveled by Wolf No. 10 was 3.6 miles (5.8 km). For Wolf No. 11 and her associates it was 5.8 miles (9.3 km) for the period before the settled Phase of their movements. The daily summer straight-line movements of an immature radioed female in Ontario ranged from 0.0 to 3.5 miles (5.6 km) per day and averaged 1.0 (1.6 km) per day (Kolenosky and Johnston 1967). Mech and Frenzel (1971) found that the average daily straight-line distance traveled in Minnesota by three lone wolves was 2.0, 1.0 and 2.9 miles (3.2, 1.6, and 4.6 km), and a pack of five averaged 2.5 miles (4.0 km) straight-line distance per day. A pack of eight wolves in Ontario traveled actual distances of 0.0 to 13.2 miles (21.1 km) per day during winter with an average movement of 4.4 miles (7.1 km) per day (Kolenosky 1972). Thus distances moved by both lone Wolf No. 10 and the pack were greater than the distances reported for lone wolves and packs in their native range. In Harger's (1970) study of homing in black bears, he also found increased movement by displaced animals. There was a general reduction in distances moved by the pack in May and June after the wolves had settled in Iron County (Fig. 19), compared with their earlier exploratory movements (Fig. 24). The movements during the Settled Phase were similar to those reported from the studies in Ontario and Minnesota. [Illustration: _Fig. 24.--Straight-line distances between consecutive locations for (A) Wolves No. 11, 12, and 13, (B) Wolf No. 10. (Gaps between data points represent periods when no data were obtained. Because these periods varied, and because distance traveled is partly a function of duration between locations, it is only valid to grossly compare distances from one period to the next.)_] Home Range Size At least in some areas, wolves are territorial (Mech 1972, 1973), and the sizes of their home ranges are restricted somewhat by boundaries established by the scent marks of surrounding packs (Peters and Mech 1975). The introduced wolves probably encountered no native packs with established territories (Hendrickson et al. 1975), so they would not be similarly restricted. The total area that wolves No. 11, 12, and 13 explored, 2,918 square miles (7,586 km^2), is larger than any reported from the Great Lakes area and is comparable to home ranges of "tundra wolves" (Mech 1970). Even the area in which they settled (May 7 to July 6) until the deaths of the males was 246 square miles (637 km^2), which is larger than most reported ranges in the Great Lakes Region. The deaths of the two males seemed to cause an increase in both daily distance traveled and home range in Wolf No. 11. Essentially she began traveling as extensively as do lone wolves in Minnesota (Mech and Frenzel 1971). The home range of Wolf No. 10 from March through mid-November, 346 square miles (895.7 km^2), was smaller than those of lone wolves in Minnesota (Mech and Frenzel 1971). Apparently she was still expanding her range when killed, however. Selection of a Territory The eventual settling of the pack of translocated wolves into a territory would be expected because such behavior is characteristic of wolves in other areas. The translocated pack did settle into a territory of 246 square miles (637 km^2) after about 2 months (Fig. 18). Although the region where they settled was not as remote as the release area, it was more inaccessible than most of the rest of the 1,631 square mile (4,224 km^2) area they explored after dispersing. As with the rest of Upper Michigan, the pack's adopted territory was inhabited by a moderate population of deer and beavers. It seems significant that this area is one of three where a few native Michigan wolves are known to still exist (Hendrickson et al. 1975). Vulnerability and Mortality It could be expected that the translocated wolves would be more vulnerable than wolves in their native environment. Although no data are available from any previous study of translocated wild wolves, Harger's (1970) investigation of displaced wild black bears showed that they were more vulnerable. In our study, it was clear that during the Directional Movement and Exploratory Phases Wolves No. 11, 12, and 13 were observed by local residents an unusual number of times (Table 6). No. 10, which did not explore such an extensive area and which spent considerable time in a more remote area, was seen less (Table 5). It is not clear why the wolves were not killed by humans during these periods when they appeared so vulnerable. Perhaps the novelty of the transplant coupled with the awareness that frequent aerial checks were being made of the wolves had some effect. Furthermore, spring is not generally a season of intensive hunting and trapping. Whatever the explanation, the wolves did survive what seemed to be their most vulnerable period. We do not believe that the deaths of the wolves can be attributed to the conditions of their translocations. Instead, we think that the most important factor in their demise was the accessibility of the area to human beings and the attitudes of humans towards wolves. As indicated earlier, there appears to be an inverse relationship between human density and wolf density in the Great Lakes Region (Table 1). Wolves are vulnerable to both accidental and deliberate mortality from humans. For example, in winter 1947-48 at least 14 wolves were struck by automobiles in northern Ontario (DeVos 1949). In Michigan, a $15-$20 bounty still exists on coyotes, so these animals are commonly shot and trapped. Because many people cannot distinguish wolves from coyotes, and because wolves are often caught in the same kind of trap sets made for coyotes, wolves might be killed accidentally. Whether the killing of the translocated wolves was deliberate or accidental is unknown except in the case of No. 11. No. 11 was caught accidentally in a coyote trap, but was killed deliberately when the trapper thought the animal might attack him. The best guess about No. 12, which was killed by a car, is that it was accidental. No. 10 and No. 13 were shot, but it is possible that the hunters in each case may have mistaken them for coyotes. On the same day that No. 10 was killed, a deer hunter shot a 76-lb. (34.5 kg) native Michigan wolf and turned himself in to authorities, stating that he had thought it was a coyote, and in March 1975 there was a similar occurrence. Some Upper Michigan residents strongly opposed the transplant experiment, largely out of concern for deer populations. The Northern Michigan Sportsmen's Association passed a resolution against it, and the Baraga County Wolf Hunters Association was formed with the express purpose of interfering with the transplant effort. This association offered a reward of $100 to a person killing a wolf (Fig. 25). Supposedly 132 memberships at $1.50 each were sold. It is unlikely that members of the Baraga County group killed the experimental wolves, for it would be extremely difficult for anyone to deliberately hunt down and kill a wolf. Most wolves that are shot anywhere just happen to be seen by a few of the hundreds of thousands of hunters that are afield or by local residents who keep a gun handy. Thus the more accessible the area, and the higher the density of human beings, the greater the chances that wolves will encounter such people. Of course there was also excellent public support for the experiment. With weekly newspaper accounts of the travels of the wolves, many people began to develop an interest in, and sympathy for, the wolves. Some letters in the newspapers expressed regret that the animals had been killed. Food Habits and Predation The translocated wolves apparently scavenged more in Michigan than in Minnesota, at least shortly after their release. There were no known garbage dumps within their native territory. The dumps in Michigan presumably offered more readily available food during a time when the wolves appeared preoccupied with extensive travel. Nevertheless, the wolves did kill at least the three deer that we found, and no doubt took several others. Although the sample size is small, the results of our analysis of the condition of the deer are consistent with those from other studies, indicating that wolves prey primarily on debilitated deer (Pimlott et al. 1969, Mech and Frenzel 1971). All three deer killed by the wolves were seriously malnourished, with 6% or less fat content in the marrow of their femurs, or thigh bones. At less than 25% fat in the marrow, serious malnutrition has developed (Cheatum 1949). (In comparison, the femur fat of 59 doe deer killed by automobiles in the Upper Peninsula in March and April 1974 averaged 46%, according to Dr. L. D. Fay, Michigan Department of Natural Resources.) In addition, one of the animals killed by the wolves had been wounded by a bullet and had a broken leg; all three were does, and were over 4 years of age, a factor that Pimlott et al. (1969) and Mech and Frenzel (1971) have also found important in wolf kills. An Alternate Approach Although the time of release for the four wolves in this study was selected in order to maximize chances that they would remain in their new range, possibly a release earlier in winter would be more successful. The failure of the adult female to conceive was probably a result of captivity and handling, although this needs confirmation through additional studies. Nevertheless, an early winter release might be favored by deep snows hindering travel. Furthermore, by breeding season in late February the wolves might already have settled into an area. Then the entire breeding cycle might take place outside captivity and stand a better chance of succeeding. CONCLUSIONS Three principal conclusions can be drawn from the results of this experiment: (1) It is possible to transplant a pack of wild wolves into a new range. That new range, however, must be large enough to permit some initial wandering. The animals cannot be expected to establish a home range centered on or even including the point of release. (2) The habitat in Upper Michigan apparently is adequate to support wolves, in terms of food and cover, for the carcasses of the two experimental wolves that could be examined intact had maintained or improved their condition during their 6-to-8-month residence in Michigan. (3) The reason for the failure of the experimental wolves to re-establish themselves was direct mortality by human beings, just as Hendrickson et al. (1975) concluded was the case for the failure of native and immigrant Michigan wolves to re-establish a population. This mortality probably is related to two factors, negative human attitudes toward wolves and accessibility of humans to wolf range. We are convinced that, ecologically, wolves can be re-established in Upper Michigan. However, a successful program of re-establishment will require the following: 1. A survey of public attitudes in Upper Michigan toward re-establishing wolves, 2. An intensive public relations campaign to promote an understanding of wolf ecology and the benefits of a wolf population, 3. Suspension or removal of the bounty on coyotes, 4. Releases of additional wolves in larger numbers perhaps over a period of a few years, if public attitudes appear favorable, 5. A concentrated effort to inform the public of the penalties for killing wolves, 6. A concerted law enforcement program, and 7. Monitoring of translocated animals through radio-tracking to determine the results. [Illustration:] ___________________________________ | | | =F. E. Noble, Sr., President= | | | | =BARAGA COUNTY= | | =WOLF HUNTERS ASSOCIATION= | | | |=Preserve Our Deer "Shoot a Wolf"=| | | | =$100.00 Reward For Any Wolf= | | | | =$1.50 Membership Fee= | |___________________________________| _Fig. 25.--Although the transplant experiment enjoyed wide public support, some people opposed it and organized the Baraga County Wolf Hunters Association to try to prevent the re-establishment effort_] ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This project was a cooperative effort among the Michigan Department of Natural Resources, The Minnesota Department of Natural Resources, the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Northern Michigan University, the Huron Mountain Wildlife Foundation, and the National Audubon Society. The Michigan and Minnesota Departments of Natural Resources provided the legal permits and logistical support necessary for the transplant. The Fish and Wildlife Service assisted in the planning and fund-raising for the overall project, and provided the technical expertise in the live-trapping, radio-tagging and radio-tracking of the wolves. Northern Michigan University initiated and administered the project and conducted the Michigan aspects of the work. Financial support was provided by the Huron Mountain Wildlife Foundation and the National Audubon Society. Dr. U. S. Seal of the Veterans Administration Hospital in Minneapolis analyzed and interpreted the blood samples, and Dr. Ray D. Barnes, University of Minnesota, the female reproductive tracts. The authors wish to thank all of the people mentioned above and the following individuals: Ralph Bailey and Robert Rafferty, Michigan Department of Natural Resources; Jeff Renneberg, U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service; Fred Harrington, State University of N. Y. at Stony Brook; Roger Peters, University of Michigan; Tom Jernstad, Leo Maki, and Leo Wouri, Huron Mountain Club; the late William P. Harris Jr. and Theodore A. McGraw of the Huron Mountain Wildlife Foundation; Edward H. Brigham III, National Audubon Society; Dennis Diaz and William Rowloff, pilots of Northern Airmotive; Robert Neil, owner of the research airplane; Denis Kallery, Cynthia Watt, and George Wilson of Marquette; and last but certainly not least, wolf-trapper Robert Himes of Ray, Minnesota. LITERATURE CITED Brown, C. E. 1936. Rearing wild animals in captivity, and gestation periods. J. Mammal. 17:10-13. Burkholder, B. L. 1959. Movements and behavior of a wolf pack in Alaska J. Wildl. Manage. 23:1-11. Cheatum, E. L. 1949. Bone marrow as an index of malnutrition in deer. N. Y. State Conservationist 3(5):19-22. Cochran, W. W., and R. D. Lord. 1963. A radio-tracking system for wild animals. J. Wildl. Manage. 27:9-24. DeVos, A. 1949. Timber wolves (_Canis lupus lycaon_) killed by cars on Ontario highways. J. Mammal. 30:197. DeVos, A. 1950. Timber wolf movements on Sibley Peninsula, Ontario. J. Mammal. 31:169-175. Dice, L. R. 1952. Natural communities. Univ. of Mich. Press, Ann Arbor. 547 p. Douglass, D. W. 1970. History and status of the wolf in Michigan. p. 6-8 _In_ Jorgensen, S. E., C. E. Faulkner, and L. D. Mech (_Ed._) Proc. Symp. on Wolf Management in Selected Areas of North America. U. S. Fish & Wildl. Serv., Twin Cities, Mn. 50 p. Harger, E. M. 1970. A study of homing behavior of black bears. Unpubl. Master's Thesis. North. Mich. Univ., Marquette. 81 p. Hendrickson, J., W. L. Robinson, and L. D. Mech. 1975. The status of the wolf in Michigan--1973. Am. Midl. Nat. (In press). Henshaw, R. E. and R. O. Stephenson. 1974. Homing in the gray wolf (_Canis lupus_). J. Mammal. 55:234-237. Kolenosky, G. B. 1972. Wolf predation on wintering deer in east-central Ontario. J. Wildl. Manage. 36:357-369. Kolenosky, G. B., and D. H. Johnston. 1967. Radio-tracking timber wolves in Ontario. Amer. Zool. 7:289-303. Kuyt, E. 1972. Food habits of wolves on barren-ground caribou range. Can. Wildl. Serv. Rep. Series No. 21. 36 p. Laundre, J. 1975. An ecological survey of the mammals of the Huron Mountain Area. Occ. Pap. Huron Mt. Wildl. Found. No. 2. Mech, L. D. 1966. The wolves of Isle Royale. U. S. Nat. Park Serv. Fauna Ser. 7. 210 p. Mech, L. D. 1970. The wolf: the ecology and behavior of an endangered species. The Nat. Hist. Press. Garden City, New York. 384 p. Mech, L. D. 1972. Spacing and possible mechanisms of population regulation in wolves. Am. Zool. 12(4): 9 (abstract). Mech, L. D. 1973. Wolf numbers in the Superior National Forest of Minnesota. North Cent. For. Exp. Stn., St. Paul, Minn. USDA For. Serv. Res. Pap. NC-97. 10 p. Mech, L. D. 1974. Current techniques in the study of elusive wilderness carnivores. Proc. XI Int. Cong. Game Biol., Stockholm, p. 315-322. Mech, L. D., and L. D. Frenzel, Jr., eds. 1971. Ecological studies of the timber wolf in northeastern Minnesota. North Cent. For. Exp. Stn., St. Paul, Minn. USDA For. Serv. Res. Pap. NC-52. 62 p. Mech, L. D., and R. A. Rausch. 1975. Status of the wolf in the United States, 1973. Proc. of First Meeting of IUCN-SSC Wolf Specialist Group, Stockholm (In press). Merriam, H. R. 1964. The wolves of Coronation Island. Proc. Alaska Sci. Conf. 15:27-32. Nellis, C. H. 1968. Some methods for capturing coyotes alive. J. Wildl. Manage. 32:402-405. Peters, R. R., and L. D. Mech. 1975. Scent-marking in wolves: a field study. American Scientist 63(4) (In press). Peterson, R. O. 1974. Wolf ecology and prey populations on Isle Royale. Unpubl. Ph.D. Dissertation, Purdue Univ., Lafayette, Ind. 368 p. Phillips, R. L., and L. D. Mech. 1970. Homing behavior in a red fox. J. Mammal. 51:621. Pimlott, D. H. 1967. Wolf predation and ungulate populations. Amer. Zool. 7:267-278. Pimlott, D. H., J. A. Shannon, and G. B. Kolenosky. 1969. The ecology of the timber wolf in Algonquin Park. Ont. Dept. Lands and Forests. Res. Rep. (Wildlife) No. 87. 92 p. Rausch, R. A. 1967. Some aspects of the population ecology of wolves, Alaska. Am. Zool. 7:253-265. Schenkel, R. 1947. Expression studies of wolves. Behaviour 1:81-129. (Translation from German by Agnes Klasson). Seal, U. S., A. W. Erickson, J. G. Mayo. 1970. Drug immobilization of the Carnivora. Int. Zoo Yearbook 10:157-170. Seal, U. S., L. D. Mech, and V. Van Ballenberghe. 1975. Blood analyses of wolf pups and their ecological and metabolic interpretation. J. Mammal. 56:64-75. Spencer, J. S., Jr., and R. E. Pfeifer. 1966. The growing timber resource of Michigan--1966. Unit 2--the Western Upper Peninsula, Mich. Dept. Nat. Res., Lansing. Stenlund, M. H. 1955. A field study of the timber wolf (_Canis lupus_) on the Superior National Forest, Minnesota. Minn. Dept. Cons. Tech. Bull. No. 4. 55 p. Storm, G. L. 1972. Population dynamics of red foxes in northcentral United States. Ph.D. Thesis, Univ. of Minn., Mpls., 227 p. Thompson, D. Q. 1952. Travel, range, and food habits of Timber Wolves in Wisconsin. J. Mammal. 25:37-43. U. S. Bureau of Census. U. S. Census of Population: 1970. No. of inhabitants. Final Rept. PC(1). Westover, A. L. 1971. The use of a hemlock-hardwood winter yard by white-tailed deer in northern Michigan. Occ. Pap. Huron Mt. Wildl. Found. No. 1. 59 p. Wolfe, M. L., and D. L. Allen. 1973. Continued studies of the status, socialization, and relationships of Isle Royale wolves, 1967 to 1970. J. Mammal. 54:611-635. Woolpy, J. H. 1968. The social organization of wolves. Nat. Hist. 77(5):46-55. Woolpy, J. H., and B. E. Ginsburg. 1967. Wolf socialization: a study of temperament in a wild species. Am. Zool. 7:357-363. _The Audubon Conservation Report series_: No. 1 THE GOLDEN EAGLE IN THE TRANS-PECOS AND EDWARDS PLATEAU OF TEXAS by Walter R. Spofford. 1964. No. 2 THE SUBURBAN WOODLAND/Trees and Insects in the Human Environment by Roland C. Clement and Ian C. T. Nisbet. 1972. No. 3 SOME ENVIRONMENTAL AND ECONOMIC IMPLICATIONS OF THE NATIONAL WATER COMMISSION'S 1972 DRAFT REPORT by Roland C. Clement and Robert K. Davis. 1973. No. 4 PROCEEDINGS OF A CONFERENCE ON PEREGRINE FALCON RECOVERY Edited by Roland C. Clement. 1974. No. 5 AN EXPERIMENTAL TRANSLOCATION OF THE EASTERN TIMBER WOLF by Thomas F. Weise, William L. Robinson, Richard A. Hook, and L. David Mech. 1975. National Audubon Society, 950 Third Avenue, New York City 10022 
44637	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 44637-h.htm or 44637-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/44637/44637-h/44637-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/44637/44637-h.zip) Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). BROTHER BILLY * * * * * * BROTHER BILLY Works of Frances Margaret Fox Farmer Brown and the Birds $ .50 The Little Giant's Neighbours .50 Mother Nature's Little Ones .50 Betty of Old Mackinaw .50 Brother Billy .50 Little Lady Marjorie 1.50 L. C. PAGE & COMPANY New England Building Boston, Mass. * * * * * * [Illustration: "'THAT'S MY AUNT FLORENCE'S LOCKET'"] (_See page 31_) Cosy Corner Series BROTHER BILLY by FRANCES MARGARET FOX Author of "Farmer Brown and the Birds," "Little Lady Marjorie," "Betty of Old Mackinaw," etc. Illustrated by Etheldred B. Barry [Illustration] Boston L. C. Page & Company 1905 Copyright, 1904 By L. C. Page & Company (Incorporated) All rights reserved Published October, 1904 Colonial Press Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. Boston, Mass., U. S. A. TO MY DEAREST ONE =Lee Everett Joslyn, Jr.= [Illustration: CONTENTS] CHAPTER PAGE I. ENTERTAINING AUNT FLORENCE 1 II. INDIANS 8 III. BILLY GOES SWIMMING 24 IV. THE STEAM-TUG BILLY 35 V. ANTOINE LEBRINN 53 VI. ORANGES 67 VII. MINNAVAVANA'S BRAVES 72 VIII. ANTOINE'S BEAR STORIES 82 IX. UNCLE JOHN'S "OLD TIMER" 97 X. FISHING THROUGH THE ICE 105 XI. CHRISTMAS EVE 119 [Illustration: ILLUSTRATIONS] PAGE "'THAT'S MY AUNT FLORENCE'S LOCKET,'" (_See page 31_) _Frontispiece_ "'ISN'T IT QUEER ABOUT INDIAN TRAILS?'" 10 "EVERYTHING HE WORE WAS NEW" 34 "HE HELD BILLY ON HIS KNEE" 54 "WATCHING FROM BEHIND THE NORTH WALL OF THE EVERGREEN FORT" 76 "THERE WAS MERRIMENT WITHIN THE EVERGREEN FORT" 77 "SAMONE" 83 "BETTY ... WROTE HER PLEDGE" 109 "LIFTING HER IN HIS ARMS" 127 BROTHER BILLY CHAPTER I. ENTERTAINING AUNT FLORENCE Billy was cross. The twins from Grand Rapids who were living in the green cottage wanted him to play Indians on the beach. The boy from Detroit, whose mother didn't know where he was half the time, had been teasing him to go swimming. 'Phonse LeBrinn, child of Mackinaw, was throwing stones at the boat-house, a signal Billy well understood. When 'Phonse had a plan that promised more fun than usual, he always threw stones at the boat-house. Other boys came to the door and rang the bell or knocked when they wanted Billy. 'Phonse knew better. Billy longed to find out what was on his mind, but it wouldn't do to let any one know that the ragged little playmate had a particular reason for throwing stones. Suddenly a light dawned on Billy's face. "Mamma," said he, "let me go down on the beach and tell Frenchy he must quit that, he'll spoil the paint. I won't be gone but a minute." "Now, see here," remonstrated Billy's mother, "never mind what 'Phonse is doing, and keep away from the window, Billy, so he won't see you. Come, child, Aunt Florence will soon be ready." "Oh, shoot the luck! I don't want to go with Aunt Florence. I want to play with the boys. What made Betty go and tell her all about old fort relics, I'd like to know." "Hush, hush, Billy! Aunt Florence may hear you." "Well, but, mamma, I don't want to go to the old fort and dig beads all the afternoon. It's too warm. I'm roasting." Billy's mother laughed. One look at the child's face was enough to make anybody laugh. He was so cross. "Maybe auntie won't care to stay long, Billy. Strangers who are not accustomed to our woods often feel pretty lonesome at the old fort." "She'll stay, mamma; I know all about bead-diggers; they stay and stay. Besides that, she won't be afraid, because there are about a million thousand resorter folks up there every day digging relics. I wish that Betty had kept something to herself. She just reads that old Pontiac's history all the time, and then tells all she knows to anybody that wants to find out. She makes me tired. I don't like to go to the old fort, anyway." "Why not, Billy?" "'Cause everybody up there that don't know you asks questions. They say, 'There's a little boy, ask him;' then 'cause you don't want to talk, they say, 'Lost your tongue,' and silly things like that. Aunt Florence is a question asker, too, mamma. Oh, shoot the luck!" "I'll tell you a good plan, Billy dear," suggested his mother. "You help Aunt Florence dig beads, like a good boy, and very likely she'll be willing to come home sooner. Then you can play with the boys the rest of the afternoon." "May I play with Frenchy?" "Ye-es, yes, you may this time." Billy's face brightened suddenly. "Oh, goody, goody, there comes Betty," he cried. "Now I won't have to go. Where's my hat? Oh, Bet, you came just in time," continued the boy. "Aunt Florence wants you to go to the old fort with her to dig beads, because the missionary meeting's going to be here, and mamma says to entertain Aunt Florence. You've got to go, that's all." "Of course she must go," echoed Aunt Florence, who came down-stairs in time to hear Billy's last words. "Didn't you find your little girl at home, Betty?" "No, auntie, she had gone to the island, but I only came home for a minute to ask--" "Well," interrupted Aunt Florence, "then of course you can go with Billy and me to the old fort." "Guess--guess I won't go, Aunt Florence; there's a boy down there wants me," and Billy waved his hand to 'Phonse. "Yes, Billy'll go with you," Betty hastened to say, "because--because, Aunt Florence, I can't. I'd love to, but I must go to see another girl. I'd love to walk up there with you, but--but I--" "You needn't go if you don't want to, children," Aunt Florence looked the least bit grieved. "Certainly they want to go," declared Billy's mother, in a tone that Betty and Billy understood. "Go find your little shovels, children, and bring Aunt Florence the fire shovel from the wood-shed." Billy was about to venture a protest, but, catching a look from Betty that meant a great deal to him, he followed her out of the room. "What is it, Bet?" he whispered. "Well, Billy, don't you see it won't do a bit of good to make a fuss. We'll have to go to the old fort; mamma'll make us. But I know one way to fix it so we won't have to stay long. The Robinsons are making pineapple sherbet, and they've invited me to it, so I can't waste time up to the old fort this afternoon. I told Lucille I'd come right straight back soon's I asked mamma." "And I want to play with Frenchy," put in the little brother. "But don't you see, Billy, we've got to be decent to company first, so we'll take her to the old fort all right enough, but we'll scare her to death when we get her there, so she'll want to come right straight home. Don't you see? I'll tell her true wild Indian stories, and she won't want to stay." "And I know another thing we can do," agreed Billy. "What is it?" "We'll take your old fort beads and then, Betty, we'll break the string and scatter the beads in the dirt, and then we'll call her to come and find them. She'll be satisfied to come home after that." "Why, of course, Billy, and your plan is so much better than mine, we'll try it first. We won't scare her unless we have to, though a good scare never hurts anybody. You get the beads while I get the shovels. Hurry now, we'll have some fun." Mrs. Grannis was much relieved when the children returned with pleasant faces. Aunt Florence, too, was pleased. "I truly wouldn't want you to go a step unless you were perfectly willing," she said, as they were leaving the house. "Well, auntie, we're always willing to go anywhere, Billy and I, if we think we can have some fun, and we're going to have a jolly time this afternoon, aren't we, Billy?" The little brother's round face beamed as he felt of the beads in his trousers' pocket. CHAPTER II. INDIANS "You are the dearest children," exclaimed Aunt Florence. "I wish I could take you back to New York with me. You can't remember your grandfather and grandmother at all, can you, Billy?" "No, wouldn't know 'em if I'd meet 'em." "It's a shame. Never mind, I'll tell them all about you two and Gerald, and some day I'm coming north on purpose to take you all home with me, and we'll have the best kind of a time." "Guess you wouldn't think of coming after us if we lived where we do now, and it was a hundred years ago," suggested Betty. "Why not?" "Oh, because you would have had to come from Detroit in a canoe, and this was all woods then, deep, deep woods full of Indians." "Dear me, Betty, don't speak of it! It seems to me there are woods enough here now. My! What a dreary place! the undergrowth is so thick you can't see the water, and yet you can hear every wave. Betty Grannis, do you mean to tell me that you ever come out here to the old fort alone?" "Oh, not very often; it is rather dreary, isn't it, auntie? You see, this is an old, old Indian trail, and that is why the pines meet overhead. Let's walk faster. I don't believe you'll want to stay long, auntie, after you get to the fort." "I agree with you, Betty, this is a lonesome walk. I almost wish we'd stayed at home." "Let's turn around and go back," suggested Billy. "Oh, I must find some beads," Aunt Florence insisted. "Do you ever see Indians around here nowadays?" "Oh, just tame ones," Billy was honest enough to say. "You must be brave children," the young lady remarked, as she followed Betty through the gloomy forest. [Illustration] "We're used to it," Betty sung over her shoulder, and Billy knew she was laughing. "Besides that, we can run like the wind if we have to. Then you know, auntie, the awful things that happened here happened over a hundred years ago, and there isn't any real danger now, of course. It just makes you feel shivery, that's all. Isn't it queer about Indian trails, how they wind in and out so often? This trail is exactly as it used to be. Did you ever read 'The Conspiracy of Pontiac,' auntie?" "No, Betty, I never read it all; I simply know about the massacre here. Have you read it?" "She knows it by heart," said Billy. "She can say bushels of Indian speeches. Tell her one, Betty. Tell her that one where the Indian said to Alexander Henry, 'The rattlesnake is our grandfather.'" "Yes, do, Betty, only tell me first who Alexander Henry was." "Why, auntie, don't you know? He was the English fur-trader whose life was saved by the Indian chief Wawatam. I like him best of any fur-trader I ever knew." "Do tell me his story, Betty." "Oh, I can't tell it, it is too long. Do you want to know what happened to him in the spring of 1761, two years before the massacre?" "Yes, certainly." "Well, of course, you know all about the French and Indian War, auntie?" "Yes, I know something about it." "Then, auntie, you know that the French liked the Indians, and the Indians liked them, but the English despised the Indians, and treated them so badly the Indians hated all Englishmen. That was why the Indians helped the French in their war. They wanted to drive the English out of the country. Well, when the war was over, the Indians didn't know that the English came out ahead, and that the French soldiers would have to march out of every fort and that the English soldiers would march in. Even my Pontiac didn't know it." "He'd have known all about his own war and where he died if he'd had you for a sister," mocked Billy. "Don't talk quite so loud, Billy dear," cautioned Aunt Florence. "'Fraid?" questioned Billy. "Oh, not exactly; go on, Betty, we're listening. How much longer is this Indian trail, anyway?" "Only half a mile, auntie. Billy, you'll punch a hole through your pocket if you aren't careful." "Go on with your story, Bet, and don't turn around so much." "Well," continued Betty, giving Billy a look that meant "Don't you dare lose those beads," "well, auntie, in the spring of that year, 1761, the French soldiers had left this fort, and only Canadian families were living in it. The English soldiers hadn't come yet, but they were on the way. The fort was over a hundred years old then. Only think of it! "Alexander Henry, my Englishman, wasn't afraid of anything, that's why I like him. He came up here with canoes full of beads and things to trade with the Indians for furs. On the way he was warned again and again to go back if he didn't want to be killed. He probably would have been killed long before he got here if he hadn't put on the clothes of a Canadian voyageur." "They're the ones," interrupted Billy, "that used to paddle the canoes and sing 'Row, brothers, row,' and--" "She knows that," sniffed Betty; "even our baby knows that much. Well, auntie, when Alexander Henry got here, the Canadians were bad to him and tried to scare him. They wanted him to go away before anything happened. He hadn't been here but a short time when Minnavavana, a Chippewa Indian chief, came with sixty warriors to call on him. They marched to his house single file, auntie. Their faces were painted with grease and charcoal, and they had feathers through their noses and feathers in their hair. Their bodies were painted with white clay. That isn't the worst of it. Every warrior carried a tomahawk in one hand and a scalping-knife in the other. I suppose they came along this very trail. "Alexander Henry says they walked into the house without a sound. The chief made a sign and they all sat on the floor. Minnavavana asked one of the interpreters how long it was since Mr. Henry left Montreal, and then he said it seemed that the English were brave men and not afraid to die, or they wouldn't come as he had, alone, among their enemies. Then all the Indians smoked their pipes, and let Alexander Henry think about things while it was nice and quiet. Just think of it, auntie! "When the Indians were through smoking, Minnavavana made a speech. I don't know it by heart, but it was something like this: "'Englishman, it is to you that I speak. Englishman, you know that the French king promised to be our father. We promised to be his children. We have kept this promise. Englishman, it is you that have made war with our father. You are his enemy. How could you have the boldness to venture among us, his children? You know his enemies are ours. "'Englishman, our father, the King of France, is old and infirm. Being tired of war, he has fallen asleep. But his nap is almost at an end. I think I hear him stirring and asking for his children, the Indians, and, when he does awake, what must become of you? He will destroy you utterly.'" Betty, becoming much in earnest, was walking backward. "'Englishman, we have no father, no friend among the white men but the King of France,'" the child went on. "'But for you, we have taken into consideration that you have ventured your life among us in the expectation that we should not molest you. You do not come to make war; you come in peace to trade with us. We shall regard you, therefore, as a brother, and you may sleep tranquilly, without fear of the Chippewas. As a token of friendship, we present you this pipe to smoke.'" Whereupon, Betty, making a serious bow, offered her little shovel to Aunt Florence. For the moment, she actually believed herself Minnavavana, the Indian chief, though Billy's face quickly brought her back to the present. "I am thankful to say," resumed Betty, joining in the laugh following the presentation of the shovel, "that after three hundred warriors of another tribe came and were going to make trouble, the English soldiers arrived, and the red flag of England soon floated above the fort. Then, for two years, nothing much happened, but I'm glad I wasn't here then. I wouldn't have slept a wink, I know." "Neither should I, Betty," Aunt Florence agreed. "Frenchy'd have been all right, though," remarked Billy. "There's the fort, Aunt Florence, straight ahead; the trail ends here. Now we will find an old cellar-hole and hunt for beads. Let me go first, Betty." "The fort," repeated Aunt Florence, "where is it?" She saw nothing but a wilderness of wild-rose blooms. "Oh," laughed Betty, "there's nothing left of the fort but part of the old palisades. Most of the buildings were burned the day of the massacre." "It's unspeakably dreary, in spite of the sunshine and the roses," commented Aunt Florence, "but I do want some beads." "Come on, come on," cried Billy. "Oh, hurry up, Aunt Florence, I'm finding beads by the bushel." "Where is the child? can you see him, Betty?" "'Way over there, auntie, in that cellar-hole near the old apple-tree. We think that is where one of the storehouses used to be, because all around it is where most of the beads have been found." For awhile Aunt Florence forgot the surrounding woods, in her eager search for beads. Had she known Betty and Billy as their mother knew them, she might have understood that there was more of mischief than pure joy in their smiles. "Never found so many beads in one place in my life," declared Billy. "Nor anybody else in the last hundred years," added Betty. "Fun, isn't it?" "Fun!" echoed Aunt Florence, "why, children, I won't want to go home until dark." Betty stared, and Billy made faces. This was an unexpected blow. At last the beads that Betty had collected, after working hours and hours through many a day, were all found. "Now we'll look for another place," announced Aunt Florence. "I guess we are alone out here," suggested Betty, glancing about, as though she felt uneasy. "Oh, no," was the cheerful reply, "down there nearer the lake I saw two sunbonnets not three minutes ago. We're all right, children; I'm not the least bit timid." Patiently Aunt Florence continued her search for beads, encouraged by the hope of finding another place equal to the first. "It seems strange that there should have been so many beads in one spot of earth, and so few everywhere else," she said, "but I'm not going to give up now, after such luck in the beginning." "You'll just have to scare her to death, I guess," grumbled Billy. "Lost your beads for nothing, too." "Trouble is," confessed Betty, moving nearer Billy and farther from her aunt, "this isn't a good place to tell Indian stories." "Why not?" "Because, Billy, I get scared myself. Honest and truth, I don't even like to think of such horrible things right here where they happened." "Don't make any difference, you've got to," protested Billy. "Don't you know she said she'd stay here till dark?" "I know it, Billy; let me see, how'll I begin. Oh, I know, Alexander Henry was in his room in the fort writing letters home. Perhaps, Billy, we are standing on the very place where his house was. He was so busy with his letters he didn't want to take the time to go down to the beach to see the canoes that had just arrived from Detroit. First thing he knew, he heard the war-whoops. Mercy, Billy! Don't scream like that again!" "Billy Grannis," called Aunt Florence, "what's the matter?" "Why, that was just an Indian war-whoop, auntie. Frenchy and I have been practising whoops lately." "Well, please don't practise any more now; you made me jump so I lost three beads. I don't believe an Indian could give a worse yell." "Oh, yes, he could," exclaimed Betty, "my, that's nothing!" and, seeing her opportunity, she began telling stories. Even Billy grew solemn in his very mind as he listened, and it wasn't long before Betty succeeded in scaring herself, however Aunt Florence may have felt. Suddenly the air was filled with shrieks. Aunt Florence became white as the daisies, as she stared at Betty, while terror seized Billy. "It's the sunbonnet girls," gasped Betty; "what do you s'pose is the matter? What is the matter?" she demanded of the flying maidens. "Indians, Indians, run quick, run, run! I tell you they're after us!" One glance toward the lake was enough for Betty. She saw canoes being drawn up on the beach, and Indians coming straight toward them. The child was never more frightened in her life. Forgetting Billy, she and Aunt Florence fairly flew over the rough ground. Billy, poor fellow! never could run because he was too plump. He hadn't gone ten breathless steps before he fell into a cellar-hole, and, before he could scramble out, a big Indian overtook him. "Match," grunted the Indian, "want match." "N-n-no, I don't want any matches," answered Billy, trying to steady his trembling knees. "Humph! Indian want match. Give Indian match. Indian build fire," was the explanation. Billy shook his head, and the Indian turned away disappointed. "That Betty'd leave you to be eaten up by Indians," grumbled Billy, and, because he was so angry and because he had been so badly frightened over nothing, he began to cry. "Billy, Billy, don't cry, I came back after you, you poor child." It was the voice of Aunt Florence, though Billy couldn't see her. "Here I am, behind this clump of goose-berry bushes, Billy. I didn't dare come straight back, so I kept behind trees and bushes. Come quick; now let's run." "There isn't anything to run for, Aunt Florence," sobbed Billy. "Don't you see, they're just tame Indians, and wouldn't hurt anybody? Don't you see the little Indian children and the squaws, too? I s'pose they've come with baskets to sell. Yes, there comes a squaw, going to town now with a load of baskets." "Then I guess I'll sit down and rest a minute," said Aunt Florence, "for I'm tired out. It's dreadful to be so frightened. I'm trembling yet." "Me, too," confessed Billy. "Where's that Betty?" "Home by this time, I presume," was the laughing reply, "unless she couldn't stop running when she got there, in which case she's probably in the lake. Well, Billy, let's walk on now, or the whole missionary society will be coming to our rescue." "Oh, Billy, I've been crying my eyes out, fear something had happened to you," was Betty's greeting when she saw her little brother. Billy made a face, as he replied in scornful tones: "'Fore I'd run away from tame Indians!" For many a day thereafter, if Billy wanted anything that belonged to Betty, it was his if he but threatened to say "Tame Indians." CHAPTER III. BILLY GOES SWIMMING Early the following afternoon, Billy saw 'Phonse LeBrinn throwing stones at the boat-house, and, as he liked to play with 'Phonse much better than with his nearest neighbours, the twins in the green cottage, he flew down the bank fast as he could go. "Oh, Frenchy," he panted, "I wish I could run like a deer, way you do. I can't run worth a cent." "Shouldn't think you could," grinned 'Phonse. "Let's go the other side of the boat-house," suggested Billy, "I'm 'fraid, if my mother sees me down here, she'll think of something she wants me to do." 'Phonse was sure of it, so he and Billy straightway sought a hiding-place. "What have you got that tog on for?" asked 'Phonse. "Going to be a thimble party at our house," explained Billy, "and Bet made such a fuss I had to be dressed up fear somebody might see me." "Where's Gerald?" "He's camping this week at the Snow Islands with some folks. Wish he was home. What'll we do this afternoon, 'Phonse?" "Catch minnows; don't you want to?" "I'd rather hunt for Aunt Florence's locket than anything else. See, 'Phonse, that girl up there on the bank looking through my father's spy-glass, she's my Aunt Florence, and she's a brick." "Ain't she pretty!" exclaimed 'Phonse. "She's the prettiest lady I ever saw. She wouldn't like me, though; nobody does." "I do; all the trouble is, 'Phonse, nobody's acquainted with you. Now, if you could find Aunt Florence's locket that she lost yesterday, she'd like you for ever and ever. I know she would." "Where'd she lose it, Billy?" "She thinks she lost it at the old fort yesterday. It's a gold locket that her father gave her when she graduated last summer, and Aunt Florence and I hunted for it all the forenoon. We had to give up. 'Phonse, you stay here, and I'll run up to the house and tell my mother I'm going to hunt for the locket. You be walking up the beach, and I'll meet you around the point." When Billy rejoined his ragged playmate, the two began a diligent search for the locket. "If anybody can find it, you can, 'Phonse." "Aw, somebody's picked it up 'fore this, Billy. Nobody could help seeing it on this black ground. Gold shines, you know." "Maybe," suggested Billy, "maybe she didn't lose it; perhaps she lost it where we were digging for beads. Surely, this morning we hunted over every inch of this trail, and you know Betty." 'Phonse nodded his black head. "She'd find it if it was here. Don't you want to go swimmun, Billy?" "Too cold, 'Phonse; we'd freeze." "We can make a bonfire on the beach, see?" 'Phonse showed Billy a handful of matches. "Swiped 'em," he commented. "We'll go down on the sand under the bank and start a fire beside of the tramp's raft. Nobody'll see us there, you know, and we can go swimmun and get dressed where it's warm." "All right, sir," assented Billy, "only don't run, 'Phonse, whatever you do." Beyond the fort was an old raft of planks, upon which years before tramps crossed the straits in a storm. It was a favourite resort among the boys. Billy instantly began gathering driftwood for a bonfire. "Guess the Indians had a fire in this same place yesterday, 'Phonse," he said, "because just see the new-looking ashes. Wonder if they started it with flint or by rubbing two sticks together. Do you know?" "No, I don't. Hustle up, Billy, and don't stop to talk." When the pile of driftwood was high enough to suit 'Phonse, he started the fire. Thanks to the west wind, it burned, and the boys were soon ready for the water. Billy walked into the lake, screaming at every step. 'Phonse climbed upon a rock and plunged in. "Silly," he shouted, "course you'll be cold acting that way; get down in the water, Billy, then you'll be warm." "It's too--too--too early to go swimming," gasped Billy, shivering in the wind and the icy water. "I--I'm--I'm glad we started the fire." "Come out where it's deeper; here, give me your hand," said 'Phonse, "I'll show you how to go swimmun." Soon Billy declared that the water was warm, and he and 'Phonse played in the lake for an hour. They splashed, laughed, and shouted, with only the gulls to hear, until 'Phonse said it was time to get dressed. The fire was out. 'Phonse threw some bark upon the coals, and looked for his clothes. There was not a thread of them left. "Oh, Billy," he wailed "we left our clothes too near the fire, and they're all burned up; what can we do?" "Oh, what shall we do?" cried Billy. "Oh, b-b-but m-my c-c-clothes are all r-right," he added in the next breath. "I'll divide with you, 'Phonse." "Your clothes ain't either all right," insisted 'Phonse. "They're burning yet. Look at them." "Here's one all right s-stocking, just the same, 'Phonse." "Let me take it, then, Billy, and I'll put out the fire with it that's burning the rest of the things." "You may wear the stocking," offered Billy. "The other one's gone, and the shoes are spoiled. Why, 'Phonse, there isn't anything left of my clothes but my shirt and my blouse and my trousers,--and look at my trousers, will you, all full of holes!" "What if you didn't have anything left," grumbled 'Phonse. "I've got some shoes and stockings at home, Billy, but that's all. I don't know what dad will do, but I'll catch it, sure." "Oh, 'Phonse, my mother'll give you some clothes to wear, if we can ever get to my house, but, oh, dear, it is so cold! Which do you want to wear, 'Phonse, my shirt or my white blouse; there's one sleeve burned out of both of 'em, and my waist is all gone." "I'll take the shirt," 'Phonse decided. "Don't cry, Billy, I'm the one that ought to cry." "B-but, but I'm s-s-so c-cold, and, oh, dear, I'm going to put on the s-s-stocking if you--you don't want it." "I do, though," insisted 'Phonse; "give her here. You've got more on than I have, anyway. Come on, Billy, we'll be warmer if we run." "Only I can't run, and--and--and the s-s-stones h-hurt m-my fee-feet," protested Billy, his teeth chattering. "Don't be a baby," 'Phonse advised. "Oh, Billy, what if there is a lot of folks at the old fort? We better keep back from the lake. It's too cold here, anyway. Let's sneak around where the bushes grow." "All right, go ahead, 'Phonse." Cautiously the boys made their way around the clearing. They were nearly past the old fort grounds when they heard voices. "Duck, Billy, duck; it's some boys from out of town," whispered 'Phonse, "and if they see us, I don't know what'll happen! Let's crawl!" "Listen," Billy replied; "they've found a wonderful relic, I guess; hear them quarrel. Oh, 'Phonse, it's my Aunt Florence's locket, that's what it is, and they've got to give it up!" Without stopping to think further, Billy darted from the thicket, followed closely by 'Phonse. "That's my Aunt Florence's locket, so please give it to me," demanded the child, springing toward the largest boy in the group. "Listen to him, will you," replied a taunting voice. "Here's the Wild Man of Borneo wants his Aunt Florence's locket. Well, I guess not. Have you two escaped from a circus, or do you want to join one, which?" "Give me that locket," cried Billy. "I say that belongs to my Aunt Florence." Great fun the big boys had then, teasing poor Billy, who begged, threatened, and jumped for the locket held just beyond his reach. "Tell you what," suggested the roughest-looking boy, "let's tie these youngsters together, and leave them here until we can get out of town. Them's diamonds in that locket, boys." At that moment 'Phonse sprang like a wild-cat upon the boy with the locket, and, snatching the treasure, ran with it to the woods. Billy was never more astonished, and at first the boys were too surprised to chase the strange little figure flying across the clearing. When they ran after 'Phonse, Billy hid. He wasn't afraid any one could catch 'Phonse, the swift-footed French boy, but he did fear being caught himself. Like an old-time Indian, Billy managed to keep out of the enemy's sight all the way home. 'Phonse was waiting for him in the edge of the woods. "Here," said 'Phonse, offering Billy the locket, "take it to her." Billy shook his head. "'Phonse, you come in the wood-shed, and sit in the corner where nobody'll see you, while I ask my mother for some clothes for us. Then you can give auntie the locket yourself." "Won't you catch it?" asked 'Phonse; "you don't look very nice, Billy." "You do what I tell you," remarked Billy. "My mother's the kind you can explain things to. I don't want the company to see me, though, so I guess I'll whistle for Betty." Betty quickly appeared in answer to the whistle. "Why, Billy Grannis!" she began, and then how she laughed. "Keep still, Bet, there is a boy in the wood-shed that's cold. He hasn't on very much clothes, and he wants something to wear home." That was all 'Phonse heard, as Billy was led into the house. The little fellow returned in a moment, dragging a cape. "Here, 'Phonse, Betty sent you this to wrap up in, and Betty says come in by the kitchen fire." "I won't do it," was the reply. "All right, then, I'll have to bring your 'freshments out here. It's a shivering kind, though,--ice-cream and cake; want some?" "Don't I? You bet!" was the answer. "Come, 'Phonse, come in the kitchen," urged Betty, again appearing at the door. "Please come. Billy has told auntie and me about the locket, and Aunt Florence just loves you. Quick as the company goes, mamma'll find you something to wear." Trailing the cape behind him, 'Phonse walked into the kitchen, where Betty introduced him to Aunt Florence. [Illustration] That night, when 'Phonse LeBrinn went home, his own folks didn't know him. In his arms he carried a bundle of Billy's old clothes; but everything he wore was new, from the red cap to the patent-leather shoes. CHAPTER IV. THE STEAM-TUG BILLY Aunt Florence didn't forget 'Phonse, and it was evident to the marine reporter's family that 'Phonse didn't forget her. He scarcely said thank you when she gave him his new suit, but every morning while Aunt Florence was in Mackinaw a bunch of wild flowers was found tied to the front door-knob. Once only a bit of pasteboard was attached, upon which was written in letters hard to read, "For billies ant." At first the family wondered why 'Phonse kept away, but when they learned that Antoine LeBrinn had sold his little son's new clothes for drink, they understood. "Poor little fellow," Aunt Florence said one morning, when a cluster of bluebells was brought her, wound so closely not a blossom could move its dainty head. "How I wish he would come again." "He won't, though, 'cept when nobody knows," observed Billy, "and if any one says a word against his father, he'll fight." "I'm curious to see his father, too," replied Aunt Florence. "Betty has told me so much about the family that I'd like to talk to that man; I'd say some things he'd remember." "Antoine used to come often," said Betty. "We always tease him to tell stories. Everybody likes him; you'll see him sometime, auntie, and then you'll like him, too." "I shall tell him what I think of him," declared Aunt Florence; but a week later, when Antoine came, she didn't say a word. It was a rainy afternoon, and when Billy announced that the game must be circus as usual, and that the parade should be first on the programme, Betty objected. "Billy Grannis," she exclaimed, "you're a nuisance. Gerald and I have played circus with you until we are sick and tired of it. You may be a lion-tamer if you want to, but you and your old lion will have to have a show of your own. I won't stand it any longer, and you can't have my cat for a polar bear, either." "Why, Bet," was the remonstrance, "what makes you be so cross? I thought you liked to play circus. Do you want to be the lion-tamer this time, Bet? I'll let you take my big dog; do you want to, Betty?" "No, Billy, I don't want to be anything that's in a circus, so there! I'll play Grace Darling, though; you and Gerald and Hero may be the shipwrecked sailors, and I'll be Grace Darling." "I don't want to play shipwreck," declared Gerald. "I had enough of shipwrecks when the _California_ went down." "Me, too," echoed Billy. "I'd rather play Noah and the flood. Oh, Betty, let's play that, and then my dog Hero can be the lion,--no, Betty no, I didn't mean it; he can be the elephant, I mean, and your cat can be a--a--what other animal is white 'sides a polar bear? And, oh, Gerald, your bluest pigeon can be the dove." "But why don't you want to play Grace Darling?" interrupted Betty. "I'll let you take my dolls for the shipwrecked children, and I'll live in the lighthouse." "If you want to know what's fun," put in Gerald, "just listen to me. Let's play--" "But I want to play get the animals out of the ark," insisted Billy. "And I say," Betty argued, "that you don't know whether you like to play Grace Darling or not until you try it. Who's going to be captain of the shipwrecked boat, you, Billy, or Gerald? Now, this rug is the Northumberland coast." "No, sir," shouted Billy, "it's Mt. Ararat." "Why, children, what's going on?" asked Aunt Florence, who was passing the doorway. "We all want to play different things," explained Betty. "Why don't you make signal-flags, like the ones on the chart?" suggested Aunt Florence. "You know what I mean, Betty, the chart I saw you looking at yesterday in your father's office, the one with the pictures of signal-flags on it. I'll find sheets of red and blue and yellow and white paper, and I believe you can have a nice time making tiny paper flags. I'll get some paste ready for you, too." "But what are the flags for?" asked Billy, "and why do they put letters beside of them on the chart?" "It tells all about the signal-flags in papa's marine directory, and I'm going after it," announced Betty. "She can tell you about the signals, Billy," said Aunt Florence, "and let's see who can make the most perfect little flags. Gerald will help you, Billy, won't you, Gerald?" "Don't need any help," Billy hastened to say, "'less he wants to whittle out flag-sticks." "That's so, auntie," agreed Gerald. "I'll go after something to use for flagstaffs." "And I'm going after some shears and things, and then," said Billy, "I'm going to cut out the 'B' flag. It's all red, auntie, and cut the way Betty's hair-ribbons are on the ends. I guess I will make the 'Q' flag, 'cause it's just a square made out of yellow; and the 'S' is easy, too, just white with a blue square in the centre. Oh, auntie's gone. Don't you feel queer, Hero, when you talk to somebody that isn't there?" Gerald and Betty returned quickly with coloured paper and a book. "Now, Billy," remarked the little girl, in her most severe tone, "put down the shears and listen a minute. I'm going to read out of the Marine Directory." "Don't read it; tell it," besought Billy. "She wants to read it just because she can read big words without stopping to spell them," declared Gerald, after a glance at the open book. Betty could read much better than Gerald ever expected to. "It isn't that," was the reply, "but, if you will listen, you will know that the book tells it all better than I can. Now listen: 'The necessity for a uniform and comprehensive system of signalling at sea'--Billy Grannis, stop making faces. I've got to begin it all over again. 'The necessity for a uniform and comprehensive system of signalling at sea and to shore stations on the coast of the United States and other countries has long been felt and discussed by those interested in maritime pursuits, and by the leading maritime powers of the world.' Now, Gerald, stop acting like a goose. You and Billy both know what 'maritime' means just as well as I do. Now listen, and I'll go on. 'In view of this necessity, the adoption of a common code of signals to be observed by all nations, discarding all other codes and systems, appears to be in a high degree desirable and important. The international code of signals has been recommended and adopted by nearly all the principal nations of the world, and it is now the only code recognized or of practical use. It is the only one which, from its completeness, is likely to fully meet the existing need.' "Billy, what ails you? Do stop laughing. What's the matter with you, Gerald,--tooth-ache?" "No, Betty, worse'n that. When I think how your jaws must feel, I--" "Now, Gerald, I don't believe you know a word I've read." "Well, Betty, I should say not. Who could?" "What I want to know is, what are all these flags for?" demanded Billy. "So please shut that old book and tell us." "You horrid boys," exclaimed Betty, "I don't see how you ever expect to 'mount to anything." "Wouldn't if we were girls," was Gerald's retort, which Betty didn't seem to hear. She often had deaf spells. "Now, Billy dear," she went on, "you see there are eighteen of the signal-flags. They are marked B, C, D, F, G, H, J, K, L, M, N, P, Q, R, S, T, V, and W. Besides these are two little pointed flags that mean 'Yes' and 'No.' The 'Yes' flag is white with a round red spot, and the flag that means 'No' is blue with a round white spot on it." "Oh, now I know," exclaimed Billy. "If your boat wants to tell another boat 'No,' then it puts up the pointed blue flag." "Yes, Billy, that's it." "How do they use the other flags?" inquired Gerald. "You can't spell things without _a's_ and _o's_." "Don't you see, Gerald, each flag means something. Look on the back of the chart and you will see how they use the flags. The first signal is 'H--B.' When those two flags are displayed,--'display' is the right word to use, mister, so don't make eyes. When the 'H' flag and the 'B' flag are displayed together, with the 'H' above the 'B,' that's a signal that means 'Want immediate assistance.' "Oh, boys, now I'll tell you what let's play. Every ship, you know, should carry a set of these signal-flags, so let's play we're all boats. I'll be a yacht, I guess, because yachts are beautiful." "I'm a steam-tug--choo--choo--choo!--and my name's the tug _Billy_. Choo--choo choo--" "Good, Bill!" exclaimed Gerald. "You're built just right for a tug. I guess I'll be the schooner _Gerald_ of the White Star Line. Lumber's my cargo." "Dear me, I can't be just a yacht, sailing around for the fun of it," remarked Betty. "I must be part of the merchant marine myself." "Part of the dictionary, you mean," grumbled Gerald. Betty was deaf for a moment. "I guess I would rather not be what you boys are, after all, so I'll be a passenger boat, the _City of Elizabeth_. I'm an ocean liner." "Oh, that's just like a girl," and Gerald laughed. "An ocean liner on the Great Lakes. Oh, oh!" "Did you ever get left, smarty Gerald? I tell you, I'm an ocean liner. These signals aren't used on the Great Lakes, only on the ocean. Besides that, if I'm a boat, I want the ocean to sail on. I couldn't think of puddling around in a little bit of water. I'm the finest steamship afloat, and I make regular trips between--oh, I guess London and New York. That will give you some work to do, Billy, because I'll need a steam-tug to pilot me into the harbour every time. You'll make a dear little pilot-boat, you are so chubby." "Choo--choo--choo! toot--toot--toot!" responded the steam-tug _Billy_. "What's the use of making a full set of flags?" remonstrated Gerald. "If we're going to play boat, let's play boat, and pretend we have them all. I've made the 'N--M' flags, that mean 'I'm on fire.'" "That's what I say," agreed Billy. "I found out that 'P--N' means 'Want a steam-tug,' so I've made two sets of 'P--N' flags, one for you and one for Betty to use. For my own self, the 'Yes' and 'No' flags are all I want. You two better pin your 'Want a steam-tug' flags on; they won't stay stuck. Choo--choo--choo! toot--toot! Here I come puffing around--toot--toot--toot--see my black smoke! Oh, Bet, let's play there came up an awful fog, so we'll have to toot our horns all the time." "And keep our bells sounding all the while we are at anchor," added Gerald. When the three boats began making trips, there were collisions and noise. Hero tried in vain to keep out of the way. "He's a reef; there ought to be a lighthouse on him," suggested Betty. "Look out for the St. Bernard Shoals," assented Gerald. "Hold on, there's a tug ashore,--a wreck on the St. Bernard Shoals." "Toot--toot--toot! puff--puff! choo--choo--choo!" This from the steam-tug _Billy_. "Tug is off the shoals, no lives lost," commented Gerald. "Oh, fire! fire! fire! My deck is all in flames. Up goes my signal 'I'm on fire,' and now where's my 'Want a steam-tug' signal. Oh, right here. I shall be saved if the tug _Billy_ doesn't burst his boilers before he gets here!" It so happened that the tug fell sprawling over the St. Bernard Shoals, and but for the timely assistance of the steamship _City of Elizabeth_, the schooner _Gerald_ of the White Star Line must have been lost with all on board. To be sure, Gerald emptied his pockets upon the floor, insisting that everything that fell, from his jack-knife to marbles, were frantic sailors, who either perished in the sea or were devoured by sharks. In the meantime, the St. Bernard Shoals made trouble for the steam-tug _Billy_. "Can't even blow my whistle," puffed Billy. "Hero, let me get up. Don't keep tumbling me over and over. Don't you know I'm a boat? Go 'way, Hero. Open the door, Gerald, so he'll go out. Call him, Betty." Outside the window, Hero tried his best to persuade the children to come out and play in the rain. "Oh, dear, let's rest a minute," suggested Betty. "And say over the verses we learned that day of the worst blizzard last winter," added Billy. "You know what I mean, Betty, the rules for steamers passing, and then, Betty, we'll play it is a dark night when we go on some more trips." "Oh, I'll tell you," put in Gerald, "we'll cut lanterns out of paper, red and green and white ones, and pin them on." "Begin the verses first, Betty; let's say them all together," suggested Billy, "and say them loud so Hero can hear." "Let me see," Betty hesitated, "the first one is this: "'Meeting steamers do not dread When you see three lights ahead. Port your helm and show your red.'" "Here's a red lantern for you, Bill," interrupted Gerald, "and this is yours, Betty. Go on, why don't you? The next verse is about two steamers passing." "Oh, I remember; say it with me, boys: "'For steamers passing you should try To keep this maxim in your eye. Green to green or red to red, Perfect safety--go ahead.' "Then, boys, the third verse is about steamships crossing: "'If to starboard red appear, 'Tis your duty to keep clear; Act as judgment says is proper, Port or starboard--back--or stop her. "'But when on your port is seen A steamer with a light of green, There's not much for you to do, The green light must keep clear of you.'" By this time three voices were singing merrily: "'Both in safety and in doubt, Always keep a good lookout. Should there not be room to turn, Stop your ship and go astern.'" Billy gave a shout. "Oh, look, Betty! look, Gerald! There's Antoine at the gate, and he's afraid of Hero. He doesn't dare pass him." "He's calling you, Billy; go get your dog." Gerald laughed as he spoke. "'Both in safety and in doubt, always keep a good lookout,'" mocked Billy. "He's scared to death. Look at him back up when Hero walks toward him. 'Should there not be room to turn, stop your ship and go astern.' If Antoine was a boat, he could play Hero was an iceberg. Hey, Bet?" At last Antoine saw the children. "If we don't stop laughing," warned Betty, "he'll go away. He may think we're making fun of him." "Oh, how I wish Hero would give one of his loud barks," added Gerald. "Oh, I believe he will, sure as anything. He doesn't know what to think of Antoine. I guess he never saw any one act so queer. Now just see him stand there in front of the gate and make crazy motions." Suddenly Hero gave three loud barks that startled the little Frenchman almost out of his senses. "Look at him jump," continued Gerald. "He went up in the air like a rubber ball." "It's too bad," protested Betty. "I'm going to the door to tell Antoine that Hero won't hurt him. Billy, you go and get your dog." "Oh, I say, Bill," suggested Gerald, "instead of getting Hero, why don't you tow Antoine into port?" "Oh, goody! Choo--choo--choo!--where's my tow-line?" "Here, you rascal!" exclaimed Betty, "how dare you take my hair-ribbons. Why, Billy, you'll spoil them tying them together in a hard knot like that." "One's too short--choo--ch--choo!--toot--toot--toot--French boat in distress, don't you see? Gerald, you go and pin your 'Want a steam-tug' flag on him." Away flew Gerald, while Betty and Billy stood laughing in the window. Antoine not only allowed Gerald to pin the flag upon him, but instantly began making an active display of his signals, calling aloud for the steam-tug _Billy_. "Toot--toot--toot!--choo--choo--choo!" was the immediate response, and the steam-tug went puffing to the rescue regardless of the falling rain. "Make fast the hawser," commanded Billy, passing Antoine the tow-line. "It's kind of short," he added, under his breath. Antoine obeyed. "Choo--choo--choo!--ding--ding--ding--make fast. Ding--ding--ding--let go." Slowly did the steam-tug venture into deep water; too slowly to suit Antoine, whose fear of the dog was genuine. Gerald had explained that Hero never harmed any one Billy befriended, merely hinting at dark possibilities that might befall the unwary. He also laughingly told Antoine that Hero was not a dog, but a dangerous reef. In a short time the little Frenchman had reason to believe that the reef was volcanic in its nature. "Choo--choo--choo"--on came the steam-tug, the French boat close behind. "Choo--choo--choo--choo"--slower and slower the two approached the reef, the steam-tug venturing nearer and nearer, to the dismay of the boat in tow. Four sharp whistles sounded from the tug. It was the danger-signal! The steam-tug _Billy_ was on the reef, and but for the parting of the hawser the French boat must have followed. "Don't you try to run, Antoine," called Gerald; "you can't tell what Hero might do. You better stand right still till Billy gets on his feet again." Then he and Betty laughed. Terror was pictured on Antoine's face as the dog barked and pranced around, thoroughly enjoying the game. Billy struggled to his feet. "Toot--toot--make fast," he commanded, and Betty's hair-ribbons were once more tied together, how loosely only Billy knew. "Toot--go ahead," he sung out, but again the hawser parted, and Antoine, watching Hero, dared not stir. "Toot--toot--toot," there was the sound of laughter in the whistle, and the captain's voice was scarcely steady as he called out, "Slow up," then "Toot--stop--toot--toot--back up--make fast--toot--go ahead." Safely into port came the French boat, in the midst of cheering from the decks of the _City of Elizabeth_ and the schooner _Gerald_ of the White Star Line. CHAPTER V. ANTOINE LEBRINN "Tell you a bear story, Beely? No, I'm too scare to tell you a bear story," Aunt Florence heard Antoine remark. "I tole you dog story, hey? How you scare you old friend Antoine with you big dog. That was a bad trick, Beely. You do wrong to scare ole Antoine." So earnestly did the Frenchman say this, as he held Billy on his knee, the small boy felt uncomfortable, though Aunt Florence laughed, and wondered how and when to begin her lecture. "But, Antoine," Billy explained, "that was a game." "A game, Beely, you call that game, do you, when you scare ole Antoine out his wit? Game, hey?" [Illustration] "I knew Hero wouldn't hurt you, Antoine; he's a nice, kind dog, and he wouldn't bite a mosquito." Antoine shook his head and made a downward motion with his hands. "That's all right for you, Beely, but how did Antoine know the dog she wouldn't bite one moskeet? When I see his mouth, I say to myself, Antoine, he swallow you sure, and then I call my friend Beely." "But I was a steamboat then," protested Billy, "and, anyway, I came after you, didn't I?" "Yes, Beely, I find you out in the wood some day, big black bear after you. Beely call ole Antoine, and ole Antoine he play steamboat, hey, Beely? How you like that?" "Tell us a bear story, please do," persisted the child. "No, Beely, maybe I tole you bear story, maybe so, but that big dog he scare me. Now, I'm scare out of bear story." "Poor old Hero, he wants to come in," said Billy. "Shall I let him come in and get acquainted with you, Antoine?" "No, Beely, I'm too much acquaint with him now. You call your dog, I go." "But he likes you, Antoine; I could tell by the way he sniffs at you that he likes you." "Yes, maybe he likes me too much, I'm think. I'll bring my gun next time," warned Antoine; "then let him sniff at me, hey, Beely?" "You wouldn't shoot him." "I wouldn't stand still and let him eat me, I tell you that, Beely. When you see Antoine coming, you better call your dog and hide him." "Give it to him, Antoine," said Gerald, with a brotherly grin. Billy said nothing, but, with his back turned toward Aunt Florence, he made a face at Gerald. "Well, Beely," protested the Frenchman, "that's a pretty crooked face you make there. Let me look on that face. She's round like the pumpkin, and your eye she's like two little blue bead. Well, I can't see nothing wrong with it now. A minute ago I'm 'fraid. You must not make such face like that on your brother, because, Beely, I'm afraid she freeze like that." "But where have you been all this time?" questioned Betty, while Gerald motioned Aunt Florence to watch the grimaces and motions Antoine made as he talked. "Oh, I'm work back here on the cedar swamp, getting out some pole to load big vesseal when he come. Where's your papa? I want to see if he's hear anything of the _George Sturgis_. I'm think he's come last week, and I'm look for it ever since. He was going to come last week to Cecil Bay to get my pole to take to Chicago. I'm 'fraid we's going to get bad weather, and I want to get out my load of pole quick as I could." "You'll have to wait, Antoine," declared Gerald, "because papa went to the station with some messages, and he's going to wait for the mail, and the train's late." "Don't you want to see our baby?" asked Betty. "Oh, he is the dearest little fellow, just three months old. Mamma says he looks exactly as Billy did when he was a baby." "Beely ain't baby no more," commented the Frenchman. "I s'pose he ain't like the new baby pretty good?" "Oh, yes," Betty assured Antoine, "Billy loves the baby." "And I'm seven, going on eight," the small boy declared. "It seems a hundred years since you were here last," he continued; "have you been working in the cedar swamp all that time?" "Well," was the reply, "I'm think if you be there when the black fly and the moskeet eat you up, you would say it was one hundred year sure. You say your papa she go to the post-office, hey?" "Yes, and the train is late. If I was an engine, I'd get here on time, and not keep folks waiting for their mail." Antoine LeBrinn made a remarkably bad grimace, looked at Billy for several seconds, and then replied: "Little boy ain't got no patience these day. Now, when I'm a little boy and live on Cadotte's Point, we only got our mail two time in one week." "But that was before the railroads came," said Betty, "and I don't see how you got any mail at all. Did it come in canoes?" Antoine shrugged his shoulders. "No, Betty, the dog she bring our mail in those day." "Dogs!" exclaimed Billy. He was sure there was a story coming. "What do you mean?" inquired Gerald, seating himself in Billy's rocker, while Betty drew her footstool close beside him. "Antoine, what do you mean?" "Just what I'm say. Dog, she bring our mail in the old day. Did you never hear of a traineau?" "Yes," admitted Betty. "I have read of traineaus, but I never expected to see any one who ever saw one. Do tell me all about them." "Well," began the Frenchman, making all sorts of motions with his head and his hands as he went on, "well, when I'm little boy and this was call Old Mackinaw Point, there was no train and no steamboat, and in the winter-time all our mail was brought by these dog I am tell you about. These dog she was train with the harness and haul a long sleigh call a traineau. I know a little chap," and Billy had to give a hard kick at somebody who pinched his toes, "I know one little chap that hitch up one dog to her sled and take a ride on all kinds of weather. Well, well, what's the matter with Beely? She jump around like something bite him." "Go on, Antoine, go on, tell us about the dogs," teased Billy. "Gerald's always acting horrid." "Well," resumed the Frenchman, "a traineau was pulled by six dog; all had harness on, and hitch one in front the other on one long string. The traineau she's all pile full of mailbag, and one man go along to drive the dog. This driver she go three, four hundred mile on one trip, and she would carry enough along to eat to last him and his dog four or five day." At this point Billy became much excited, and broke in with a remark that amused Gerald so highly he stood on his head and waved his feet in the air until Betty reminded him of his manners. "Why, why, Antoine," Billy demanded, "how could the driver carry stones enough to last even one hundred miles, I'd like to know?" The Frenchman was puzzled. "Stone," he remarked, running his fingers through his short, black hair, "now what, Beely, would the driver do with stone?" Betty clapped her hands. "When Billy goes driving on the ice with Major," she explained, "he has to carry a pocket full of stones, or Major wouldn't go a step. He throws a stone and Major goes after it; then he throws another, and that's the way he keeps the dog flying." "Well, that's pretty good," said the smiling Antoine, "but you see, Beely, these dog she was train to pull the sleigh when she was a little bit of a pup. He was train so he was used to it. When the driver said 'Go,' she went; and at first, no matter how much mail they have, the dog she would jump and run as if they like it. After they draw a bit load two or three day, she's begin get tired, and then they would lay right down on the road, so the driver would stop and let the dog rest. "Here, on Mackinaw Point, the driver she stop at the little store and left the mail for all the folks; for the fishermen along the shore and on Cadotte's Point where I'm live." "But where did the traineaus start and where did they go?" inquired Betty. "They come from Alpena and go way up to the Soo, and then go back again." "Why didn't they use big sleighs and horses?" Gerald put in. "No road," was the reply, "only narrow trail through the wood." "And was all the mail from the big world brought to Mackinaw that way when you were a little boy?" persisted Betty; "and did you ever get a letter?" "No, I can't say I ever got one letter myself. Little children ain't much account those day, but my aunt what live on Canada send me one pair mitten for a New Year present. I'm just about big like Beely then, but I'm walk in all alone from Cadotte's Point." "And you must have seen a bear," observed Billy. "Oh, now, you Beely, you think I'm going to tell you a bear story. Well I ain't feel just right for tole you a bear story this time. I'm tell that some other time. I'm tell you a bear story every time I'm see you, Beely, and I'm getting them pretty near all wear out." At this the children laughed so uproariously, the baby awoke and began to cry. "Mamma'll bring him out in a minute," remarked Betty, and when the baby, still screaming, was brought into the room, Antoine insisted upon taking him, to the delight of the children, who stood by, softly clapping their hands and laughing. Their mother laughed, too, when Antoine, who knew something about babies from long experience, began walking the floor with the little fellow and talking to him. "Well, is this the new baby? Bring it here and let me look at it. Well, a pretty nice looking baby, I'm think, if she ain't cry so much. Her face is all crooked and all wrinkle up. Come now, you ain't going to cry all the time. I'm going to look and see them little eye you got there. Well, she make quite a bit of noise for her size, but I'm going to sing him a little song and see if she won't go to sleep again: "'The Frenchman he hate to die in the fall, When the marsh is full of game: For the muskrat he is good and fat, And the bullfrog just the same. "'High le, High low, Now baby don't you cry, For ole Antoine is right close by.'" "Now you see, Beely, she's quit crying already. You ain't know Antoine can sing, eh?" It was even as Antoine said; the baby had stopped crying, and Billy, astonished by the music of the Frenchman's voice, begged for another song, insisting that anything would please him. "Oh, no, Beely," objected his friend. "I ain't going to sing no more to the baby, she's quiet now. I'm goin to tole you a story." "Is it a bear story?" "No, it's a cow story. My cow she's run away once, and I'm find it on Wheeler's farm." Thus began Antoine, accompanying his words with gestures far more laughable than the tale he told, and causing the children great amusement. Billy's round face became one broad grin as he listened. "When I'm take my cow home," went on the little Frenchman, still walking the floor with the baby in his arms, "I'm take short cut on the wood; I'm go by old log road. There was a lot of raspberry there, so now I'm to pick up some raspberry for myself. So I'm tie my cow on black stick of wood, and let it eat grass on the road and drag the wood along, and she can't get away from me." At this point Betty's mother rescued the baby from the arms of the prancing Frenchman, to the evident relief of Betty, who thought the baby too precious a bundle to be flourished so vigorously, as Antoine stooped to pick raspberries and to tie his cow. "Pretty soon," continued the narrator, "pretty soon she give a jerk with his head, and the piece of wood jump toward it and scare my cow. Well, she start to run down the road, and I'm run after it and holler, 'Whoa, Bess, whoa!' but she's so scare she ain't stop. "By and by my cow stop, all play out." Antoine placed himself before Betty, who was sitting on a footstool near Aunt Florence, while Gerald and Billy were standing near their mother's chair, the refuge they sought when Antoine was running after his cow. "Well, as I'm say, my cow stop all play out. She stand right there on front that stick of wood." Antoine certainly mistook Betty for the stick of wood. "She's stand there and look straight at it, and she's go, 'Woof! woof! woof!' and his tail she's go round and round," and Antoine's arms made wide circles in the air, "but she's all right; she ain't hurt at all, so I'm catch my cow and take it home, and I'm pretty glad she ain't hurt at all. Now I ain't tie my cow to no more black stick of wood. I told you that right now." In the midst of the laugh that followed, and while Billy was pulling at the Frenchman's sleeve, beseeching him to tell another story, the marine reporter came home. Immediately Antoine told his errand, and made his escape from the presence of the clamouring children, laughing, shrugging his shoulders, and declaring that he would sometime tell them all the stories they would listen to. Thus Aunt Florence lost an opportunity to deliver her first temperance lecture. Scarcely had the door closed behind Antoine when it was opened by Billy, who followed his friend into the yard. "Here, Antoine," he called, "take this orange to 'Phonse. Mamma gave me one, and Betty one, and Gerald one." "It's a good little Beely," was the remark that filled the small boy's heart with pride, as Antoine slipped the treasure in his pocket. CHAPTER VI. ORANGES After supper Billy thought longingly of his orange. He wondered if it was thick-skinned and if it was juicy. He felt pretty sure it was sweet, and the more he thought of it the sweeter it seemed to his imagination. Billy was just saying to himself that, if he had not given away his orange, he would eat it without asking his mother for sugar, when he stumbled upon Gerald leaning over the wood-box in the kitchen. "What are you doing out here all alone?" demanded Billy. "What business is it of yours, I'd like to know? Why don't you go back in the other room?" Gerald grumbled, making rather lively motions around three sides of the wood-box, as he tried to keep his back toward Billy. "Aw, pig!" sniffed Billy, "eating your orange out here where nobody'd see you, so you wouldn't have to divide. Orange juice running all down your arm, and I'm glad of it, pig!" "Got an orange of your own," was Gerald's retort. "Haven't either," declared Billy. "Then you've eaten it up, and now who's a pig, I'd like to know? I offered to divide my orange with Selma, but she was in a hustle to get her dishes washed and get down-town, and it isn't my fault if she couldn't wait for me to get it peeled. You're the pig, Billy, because you didn't even offer to divide with anybody." "No, I gave my whole orange to Antoine before I even stopped to smell of it," wailed Billy, "and I guess if I had a little brother that hadn't had a smell of orange, I'd give him a piece." Gerald whistled. "Who ever'd think you'd do such a thing, Billy? Here, little boy, is your reward of merit," and Gerald, thrusting half his orange into Billy's outstretched hand, walked away, whistling. Half an orange made Billy wish for more. It was a sweet one and juicy. He wondered if Betty's orange was anywhere near as good. Later in the evening Gerald went out on the beach with his father to see if there were any boats in sight to be reported. While he was gone, Betty prepared to eat her orange. "Come on, Billy," she suggested, "get your rocker, and we'll eat our oranges while mamma undresses the baby. I'm glad it is a chilly night, so we had to have a fire in the grate." A wistful expression crept into Billy's face. "I gave my orange to Antoine to take to 'Phonse," was his reply in sorrowful tones. "Why, you dear, good Billy, you shall have half of mine. Bring your rocker here beside of me, and we'll eat my orange together. See my saucer of sugar. I'll divide that with you, too." Billy, more than willing, was thoroughly enjoying himself when Gerald returned. The minute the door was opened, the boy stuffed the last piece of his half of Betty's orange into his mouth so quickly Betty couldn't imagine what ailed him. Gerald's remark upon beholding this performance was an explosion. "Pig!" he shouted. Explanations followed, and Billy was sent into the kitchen to do some quiet thinking. The cat followed him, whether from curiosity or because she liked Billy, it is impossible to say. When Billy climbed into a hard, uncomfortable chair, so high his feet couldn't touch the floor, the cat jumped upon another chair and settled down to watch him. At first Billy looked ashamed of himself and miserable. For a minute he seemed to think of pulling his loose tooth; but, after touching it ever so gently, he shook his head. Then, observing a strange expression on the cat's face, Billy half-smiled; that is, the smile stopped just below his eyes, whose solemn stare remained unchanged. That was enough for the cat. With a remark that sounded exactly like what she used to say to her kittens when she brought them a mouse, she bounded into Billy's chair, and began rubbing against him, purring cheerfully. By the time she had flourished her tail in his face, licked his hands, and clawed at his red sweater for a few seconds, Billy laughed merrily. Perhaps if the cat had minded her own business, Billy would not have forgotten his disgrace so quickly. However that may be, the small boy slipped down from his chair and had a good time. He played tiger in the jungle with the cat until she objected; then he played he was the northwest wind, sending everything helter-skelter before his icy breath. Suddenly Billy bethought him of a new game, and a few minutes later the whole family rushed into the kitchen half-fearing that the stove must have fallen upon the child, so unusual was the racket they heard. There was no cause for alarm. At the moment Billy was Antoine's cow. A big tin pail attached to his waist by Betty's jumping-rope was the black stick of wood. When the family appeared at the door, the cow was standing in front of the black stick of wood, stamping its feet and snorting, "Woof! woof! woof!" The cat was nowhere in sight. CHAPTER VII. MINNAVAVANA'S BRAVES The north wind is no respecter of persons. He wasn't invited to Betty's lawn party, but he came at dawn and stayed until dark the day she chose to entertain her dearest friends. Billy was glad of it. He said that girls' parties were silly, anyway, and he hoped the whole flock would have to stay in the house. He declared that Betty needn't expect to see him at the party: he would rather hide in the cellar all day than be the only boy among so many girls. Aunt Florence smiled, and said she guessed they could get along without him if he felt that way. "Sometime before I go home, though," she promised Billy, "we'll have a boys' party, and then we won't care how hard the wind blows. But the girls, dear me, Billy, they'll be so disappointed if they have to stay in the house." "Who cares?" suggested Billy. "Why, I care," suggested Aunt Florence. "Young man, I am helping Betty with this party, and the wind is more than I know what to do with." "Oh, if it's your party, Aunt Florence, that's different, and I know what to do. Build a tramps' shelter and keep the wind out." "What's a tramps' shelter, Billy?" "Why, Aunt Florence, out in the woods the tramps make regular little rooms of trees and branches. We can coax papa and his man to get a wagon-load of Christmas-trees from the woods and make a room, not where we'd spoil the lawn, but the other side of the house, you know, down close to the lake." "Who would report boats, Billy, if your father and the man both go to the woods?" "Mamma would," was the reply; "she does lots of times. I'll get some boys to help make the room if you want to do it. I wish Gerald was here, but every time Mr. Robinson invites him to go on the fishing-tug, he goes. I wish I was him." When Betty heard of Billy's plan, she said she didn't know he could think of anything so nice, and before noon the room was made. "It's a fort!" declared Billy. "Why, so it is," added Betty. "And to-morrow, Billy, let's play fort, and I'll ask Lucille and that little girl that plays with her, that little Marion Struble from Marquette, and Cora and Gay to come and bring their dolls and play ladies from the settlement seeking safety in the fort during an Indian war. You may be an Indian chief, you know, and I don't care how many boys you have for braves. Oh, it will be loads of fun." "Let's do it to-day," suggested Jimmie Brown, the Detroit boy. "And scare the girls to death," added one of the green cottage twins. "Oh, mercy, boys, that wouldn't do at all! You see, this is to be a real stylish party to-day, and besides that, I don't s'pose half the girls that are coming ever played Indian. Why, one time, auntie, Gerald and Billy and I had an Indian show, and we hadn't any more than begun when the girls were scared and ran home crying. "I wish you boys would please go now and pick about ten bushels of wild flowers, so we can make the inside of this evergreen fort perfectly beautiful. See, Aunt Florence, papa made the north wall extra thick and high, so the wind can't get in. Isn't this the sweetest place for a party you ever heard of? Of course, we'll be crowded, and of course we can't stay in it all the time, but that won't hurt anything. Mamma says we may bring out all the cushions and put them on the board seats. We'll have the music-box here in the corner." Soon the boys returned with arms full of wild flowers. "Powder and shot for the fort," announced Billy, and the mischief shining in his eyes alarmed his sister. "Now, Billy Grannis," she warned, "don't you dare try any tricks." "Of course not," replied Billy, though Jimmie and the green cottage twins tossed their caps into the air and grinned. "They're planning something, auntie," Betty declared, but when the guests began to arrive she forgot her suspicions. [Illustration] Alice Swayze came first, dressed in her best white gown. She was from Kalamazoo. Betty seated her beside the music-box. Two little girls from Chicago came next, wearing wide blue sashes just alike. Little Belle Lamond from California straightened her pink sash, felt of the bow on her pretty dark curls, and acted so vain and silly, four small boys, who were watching from behind the north wall of the evergreen fort, almost laughed aloud. "Won't she jump, though?" whispered Billy. "You bet," replied Jimmie Brown, "and there comes Nellie Thomas. She's from Detroit, and is in my sister's room at school. She'll jump sky-high." [Illustration] There was merriment within the evergreen fort, as little girls continued to enter and the tiny space became crowded. When Betty started the music-box, whispering behind the north wall was no longer necessary. "It's getting so noisy in there, I'm 'fraid they won't even hear wild Indians," ventured Jimmie Brown at the top of his voice. "Hush," cautioned Billy, "don't talk too loud. Music-boxes and wind and waves and talking girls sometimes keep still at the same time." "Oh, look," exclaimed the twins, "what's coming?" "Frenchy and Bud and Buzz and Tony and their little 'dopted sister Samone," Billy declared, as he began motioning for the new-comers to creep quietly to the fort. 'Phonse took the hint, and soon he and his wondering followers were peering through the evergreen walls. "What's going to happen?" demanded 'Phonse, with a grin. "Well," explained Billy, "it's a game, only the girls don't know they're in it. That's a fort, and we're Indians. I'm Minnavavana, the chief, and the rest of you are my braves. You want to play, of course. Samone don't count, though, she's only a papoose." "But where are your tomahawks, and what's going to happen, I say?" persisted 'Phonse, as he and his brothers crowded around Billy. "Look," said Jimmie Brown, showing the LeBrinn children a firecracker. "These Indians have guns. Can't you give him a gun, Billy? My pocket's full of matches." "Sure," replied Billy; "you give out the matches. Now listen, you that don't know the game. We're all Indians, but I'm the chief. You're just braves. When I nod my head like this, every brave must give an awful war-whoop. Just screech, boys, yell for all you're worth, and I will, too, and that same minute fire off your firecrackers and run. You mustn't even stop to see what the girls do, because then we'll be caught." "You all cut for the woods," 'Phonse warned his brood. "Now get in a straight line," commanded Billy, "and look in. I guess they're all here now, and we mustn't wait long if we expect to have any fun, because soon's they're all here Betty's going to have them all go and have games on the porch, and they're coming back here for 'freshments. Watch out there, Bud, don't lean too hard. What if the stockade should tumble in?" Unconscious of bright eyes watching, and of the row of grins behind the fort's north wall, the little girls laughed and gaily chatted. Suddenly, without the least warning, blood-curdling sounds filled the air, accompanied by what seemed to be cannon shots. At the same instant, the evergreens forming the north wall trembled, shook, fell in; while screaming girls, frightened almost out of their senses, struggled to get away. Billy tried to run but couldn't. "Wait, boys, wait for me!" he shouted, but the boys didn't wait, not even for the little Samone, who cried frantically for help. Billy never heard such an uproar, quickly followed by screams of terror unlike anything he ever dreamed of. Turning, he saw what Betty and her little friends that instant noticed; saw what made the grown folks, rushing across the lawn, white with fear. Little Samone, trying in vain to free herself from the evergreens, was on fire. Billy saw the flames reaching for the ragged sleeve of her calico slip, and knew that he must try to save her. Betty saw what he meant to do, and tried to stop him. "Wait, Billy, wait!" she screamed. "You're too little! Papa is coming! Wait, oh, Billy, Billy!" But the north wind wasn't waiting, and Samone was tiny. Quicker than a flash, Billy, usually so slow, leaped upon the evergreens, snatched Samone, and rolled her down the bank into the water. When certain braves returned, seeking a lost papoose, they found her playing with Betty's guests; but the great chief, Minnavavana, whose hands were a trifle burned, was still sobbing in his mother's arms. CHAPTER VIII. ANTOINE'S BEAR STORIES Straight into all hearts walked the little Samone. Every one in the village loved her, and strangers, learning the child's story, had tried to take her away from Antoine LeBrinn, for Samone was a waif. When Betty, Billy, and Aunt Florence called at the Frenchman's home, Antoine received them with scant courtesy. He supposed that Aunt Florence was one more summer visitor who wanted the child; one more who had come to tell him that she must not be allowed to grow up in a shanty on the beach; and, taking Billy one side, Antoine talked angrily, as he spread his nets to dry. [Illustration] "Why," remonstrated Billy, "of course, I wouldn't bring any one down here to get Samone away from you. Auntie is glad you have Samone. She says she's glad of it--only--only--" How could Billy explain the errand upon which Aunt Florence had come? He did wish Betty would keep things to herself. Talking to Antoine about drinking didn't do a bit of good, anyway. Billy was sure of it, and he did wish Mrs. LeBrinn and the children were home. They were away huckleberrying. Betty and Aunt Florence were sitting on a log in front of the shanty, waiting for Antoine to finish spreading his nets. "What for your face she get so red, little Beely?" asked Antoine. "I was wondering if you would tell us a bear story," replied the little fellow. "Beely, I tole you one bear story, you tell ole Antoine why your aunt come down to see him." Billy hesitated only a minute, and then told Antoine that Aunt Florence liked his children so well she wanted him to promise not to drink any more. "I wouldn't have said a word if you hadn't asked me," concluded Billy, "and now you'll tell us a bear story, won't you?" Antoine laughed long and loud before saying: "Beely, you think your aunt like one bear story?" "Why, yes, but what are you laughing at, Antoine?" "Oh, I'm think I'm tell one, two, three, four bear story until your aunt go home, and ole Antoine she laugh." "How are you going to begin, Aunt Florence?" asked Betty, as Antoine and Billy came toward them hand in hand. "They say he won't promise not to drink; he just will spend every cent he can get when he wants to. Now what are you going to say?" "Oh, Betty, I don't know how to begin a bit better than you do, but for the sake of those five children somebody ought to try to do something besides laugh at such a man, and I shall try." "But, auntie, how will you begin?" "You must wait, Betty, and see." "Excuse me," Antoine began, "but I'm think I'm tell my friend Beely one bear story. I guess I'm tell you about the white bear. When I'm a little fellow, not so old as you, Beely, my brother have a pet bear. It was so high and so big and his colour was brown." "Brown," repeated Billy, "I thought you said it was white." "Maybe so, maybe so, Beely. Well, we all like the little brown bear but my ma, and she don't like that bear so much as I like the switch she always keep on the corner behind the flour barrel. My brother would have the bear on the house, and my ma scold and scold, because that bear get into all kind of troubles. He steal lump of sugar and he eat the codfish, and he help hisself to anything she want. "Well, Beely, one day my ma hear big noise on what you call the pantry, and that noise, Beely, was near the flour barrel, and when she go over to see what was the matter out jump a little white bear. He was the same little brown bear, Beely, all cover over with flour. My ma was so mad at that bear she ain't know what to do after he spoil all that flour. So she grab the broom, and she chase the bear all over the kitchen. She hit him whack-e-ty whack, Beely, until the poor little bear was pretty near scare to dead, and the air was all full of flour, and everything was all tip over and tumble down and upset, and my ma she look like a crazy woman. By and by she open the door, the little bear scoot out and climb a tree, and then he sit and look on my mother while she stand there and scold him. "And do you know, Beely, that little pet bear don't want to come on the house no more. You can't coax him on. "And one time, Beely, I have one little coon; he was my own pet. We catch him when he was a little fellow, and I have to feed him with a spoon, and when he was big he was chuck full of trick, too. One day, when my ma she was milking the cow, she turn her head, and my coon she jump right in the milk. Then my ma gave him a taste of a stick, like this, Beely, whack, whack, whack. Then my ma say to my pa she won't have so much wild animal around, and next day I find my little coon asleep, and he never wake up." "He died while he was asleep, did he, Antoine?" "Look that way, look that way, Beely. Now I'm tole you about one time me and my brother start out to find what you call ging-seng; around here we call it shang." "I never heard of it, Antoine, what is it?" "It's a root, Beely, the Chinamen want. It used to grow on China, but now she's all gone. It grows wild on the wood here, and you can get four and five dollar a pound for it if you know where to send it. You have to know the wood pretty well, or you ain't know where to find it. Well, Beely, me and my brother know where there was a good patch of shang, so one time when we have a week to spare, we start out one afternoon. "Before we have go a half-mile from home, my brother think he forget something. He go back to get it, and I walk on alone. We intend to stay all night in old log shanty. It is pretty near dark when I get there. I wait for my brother. He don't come. I'm pretty hungry, so I eat my supper, and look around the house where I'm to stay all night. Well, Beely, there was no door on the house, but that don't scare me. I am used to the wood, and I don't think nothing going to hurt me. But before I lay down and before it get dark, I put everything we bring to eat up on some high place, so the mouse and the squirrel can't get it. Then I go to sleep." "Oh, my, weren't you afraid, Antoine?" "What I be afraid of, Beely? I have my gun close beside me. I ain't know what time it is when I wake up. It is dark, and I think I hear a noise outside the shanty. Then I hear something walk in. Oh, Beely, my hair stand on one end, I'm so scare when I hear something go 'sniff--sniff.' I'm so scare I don't dare get my gun, and my teeth go like this, Beely." Antoine tried to make Betty, Billy, and Aunt Florence realize how his teeth chattered, accompanying the performance by gestures that were funny enough. "Well, Beely, in a moment more I hear something walk, and I know a big bear has come to see me." "Why, Antoine, why didn't you shoot him?" "Because, Beely, I'm too scare. I don't dare stir, and, Beely, I'm think good-bye, Antoine, for the big bear came and pokes me two time with his nose." "Oh, sakes alive, Antoine." "Well, Beely, it is the truth I tole you. After he give me two poke, the old bear walk around until he find my can of salmon. Then I hear him eating and tip over all my things. Then he walk around and around, and by and by he come and see me again." "Oh, Antoine!" "But, Beely, you just wait; I tole you one joke on the big bear. He knock my gun down; he go off biff-bang! At first I'm so scare I'm think I'm going to die. Then I laugh until I pretty near choke to dead, for I hear the big bear run off through the wood. And in the morning, Beely, I find his track,--great, big, black bear track." "Tell me another, Antoine, please." Antoine, giving Billy a wink, began again before Aunt Florence or Betty could say a word. "Now, Beely, you know the wood is full of some bear, and ole Antoine he like to go bear-hunting." "Yes, go on, you went hunting, and what happened?" "Hold on, Beely, I don't go hunting, I go fishing; that is, Beely, I start to go fishing, but before I go far I come across a bear track. I think I never see such a big bear track. It is big like this, Beely, so I say I will follow the track of the big bear, but first I will go and get my gun. Then I leave my fish-pole at home, and start out with my gun, and I am think I am kill the biggest bear you ever hear of. I'm follow that bear track for one, two, three, four mile. It's a fresh track, and I'm pretty sure I'm find the bear and shoot him. By and by I stand still and think what I'm going to do. The big bear she's gone into one thicket, and, if I went after it, I shall have to crawl in. I ain't like to do that. I'm a little scare." "Well, I should think so. Go on, Antoine; of course, you did crawl in." "Yes, Beely, I crawl in and I keep crawling. You see, I think after awhile I'm going to come out at a clearing. I don't much like to follow track of one big bear on a place where I can't stand, and by and by I hear a twig snap, and pretty soon I'm hear another. Then I'm so scare I keep still a minute. I think maybe I'm going straight to the big bear's house, and the big bear and his folks will eat me up. When I'm think that, I'm think I better get back to the road, I think I don't want to shoot that bear, after all. I'm change my mind and go back to the road just so quick as I can." "And when you got there, what happened, Antoine?" "Why, Beely, I go home." "And you didn't even see the bear?" "No, Beely, and when I'm in that thicket, I'm think I don't want to see him." "Well, Antoine, maybe that's a track story, but I don't call it a bear story. Now, please tell me a good one 'bout narrow 'scapes. That's the kind I like." "Well, Beely, one time when I'm a little boy, my ma send me after the cows. We have two cows then. Well, I'm just ready to start home with the cows, when she stand still a minute and look scare to dead. I stand up on a log, and I think what is the matter, and then I see a big bear stand up on his hind feet. I don't know how I do anything so quick, but in a second I jump up on one of those cow, and then they both give a snort and start down the road lickety-split." "And did the bear chase you, Antoine?" "I think so, Beely, I don't know. I ain't look back to see. I have all I can do to hang on my cow. It ain't easy riding, I tole you that." "Oh, Antoine," remonstrated Billy, "I don't call that a bear story. I call it a cow story. Now, please, Antoine, tell me a good one. Please don't laugh; tell me a good, wild bear story, one of your narrow 'scapes. Tell me about the time you caught the little bear last summer. I like that story." "Well, Beely, I ain't like to tell you that story pretty good, for every time I'm think on it I'm scare out of my wit yet." "But, Antoine, the bears can't hurt you now; they are all dead." "I know that, but I'm think they are going to hurt me that time. Well, it's just like this: I'm going on the swamp to look at some cedar I'm going to get out that winter. When I'm come to a little birch ridge on the swamp, well, I'm going to go across that ridge when I see two big bear and one little one lay down on front of me about twenty-five feet away. Well, I'm scare the bear, and the bear scare me. I'm come up there so quiet they ain't think I'm going to come at all; and I ain't think I'm going to see any bear there. I'm too scare to run away and I'm too scare to shoot. You know I'm got my gun with me. You know, Beely, I'm always got my gun and one little axe when I'm go through the wood. "Well, I'm stand there behind one stump; I look on the bear and the bear look on me. The biggest one get up on his hind leg and she show his teeth and growl. I'm pretty scare, I'm tole you that, Beely, when I'm see her big teeth. But I'm make up my mind I'm got to shoot that bear right there, or Antoine don't see Beely no more. Well, I'm take a rest with my gun on the stump, and take a good aim and shoot. I'm hit that bear right on the head. She's fall right down on his back, and growl and kick little bit and die. "Well, that scare the little bear, so she's climb up the tree. They got one more big bear there yet, and I ain't got no more bullet on my gun, and I ain't got time for load, so I'm climb one little tree pretty quick, just like one little red squirrel. But I'm take my gun along with me, so I can load it up there, you know. "Well, the bear she's come for me, but I'm load my gun pretty quick. When the bear she get ready for climb the tree, I'm shoot it, but I ain't hit it pretty good, and I ain't kill it that time, because just the same time I'm shoot, the limb what I'm stand on break, and I'm fall on the ground. I fall right close by the bear. I ain't hurt me very much, because I ain't fall pretty far, but I'm jump up like a rabbit and I'm grab my little axe, what I'm got on my belt, just the same time the bear she jump for me. "I'm hurt the bear pretty much when I'm shoot the first time, so she can't jump quick like me. When the bear she's jump on me, I'm jump behind one stump and hit him on the head with my axe. But I ain't kill it first time. "I'm run around the stump, and ever time I'm get a chance I'm hit that bear with my axe, and by and by I'm hit it on the nose and kill the bear that time. You know, Beely, it's pretty easy to kill a bear when you hit him right on the nose. "Well, Beely, I'm pretty glad I'm kill that bear, but I'm so scare I sit on that stump and shake and shake and shake just like as if I have the ague. By and by I'm feel a little better, and I think I'm going to catch that little bear what's up on the tree, so I'm cut down the tree and catch the bear; and I'm take off my belt and tie it around his neck and fetch it home. Then I go back there and skin the two bear, because the bear she's nice and fat and pretty good to eat that time. "I have that little bear yet, and he do lots of trick. Pretty smart little fellow, pretty ugly, I tole you that. I'm call him Beely after my little friend." "Oh, let's show him to Aunt Florence," suggested Billy, but Aunt Florence, for some reason, insisted upon going home. "No use for me to try to say anything to him," she remarked to Betty, as they walked along the bay shore. "I'll give up. I should think that man would be ashamed when he remembers that little suit I gave 'Phonse." "But that's the queer thing about him, auntie," Betty explained; "he never remembers anything he wants to forget. I like him, though." "So do I, far as that goes," agreed Aunt Florence, "but I more than like that poor little Samone." CHAPTER IX. UNCLE JOHN'S "OLD TIMER" Betty cried at the station when Aunt Florence went home. Billy felt like crying, but he wouldn't. Aunt Florence was sorry to leave the children, and even Gerald felt sad enough as her train disappeared among the pines, and the whistle sounded at the crossing down the bay shore. "Well, she's gone," was his cheerful remark. "But she said she'd come again next summer," Betty sobbed, "and just as soon as she gets to the city she's going to send me a beautiful doll to dress for Samone." "Perhaps Samone won't be here then," said Gerald. "Won't be here! Why not?" asked Betty, wiping her eyes and staring at the boys. "Well, you know Antoine's been drinking again, and I heard some men saying if he keeps on they are going to take Samone away from him. They're going to send her to the House of Correction,--no, I don't believe that's the name of the place, either, but it is some home for children that don't belong to anybody." "Oh, what will Antoine do?" exclaimed Betty. "He'll fight," suggested Billy, "and so I will, too." "I'll tell you, boys, what we can do," advised Betty. "You know, it won't be long now before Uncle John comes to go hunting. Of course, Aunt Florence will tell him all about Antoine and Samone, and how she couldn't make him stop drinking, because she didn't know how to begin talking to him about it. Now, everybody says that if Antoine would make up his mind to be a different kind of a man, he could, and everybody likes him, even now, so I'm just going to ask Uncle John to go down to his house and make him stop. That's a fine plan. Folks always listen to Uncle John because he's so good-looking." When Uncle John came, he laughed at Betty. "Why, child, I'm not a temperance lecturer," he protested. "I came up here to hunt deer, not Frenchmen. Besides that, what's the use of my trying to do what you and Aunt Florence couldn't?" "Aunt Florence didn't half try," answered Betty, "and, of course, I've never tried at all. I wouldn't dare." Again Uncle John laughed. "If you don't dare venture, Betty, let's give up. What do you say, Billy?" "I say, let me go hunting with you," replied the boy. "Hunting the Frenchman?" "No, hunting deer and bears. Will you take me sometime?" Betty turned away much troubled. There was no use of talking to Uncle John, she could see that plainly. Betty liked Antoine so well she couldn't understand why every one laughed when anything was said about trying to make him do right. She knew, too, how dearly the Frenchman and his family loved the little Samone, and how kind they were to the child. She also knew what Antoine was beginning to suspect: a number of men in the village who were interested in Samone, and whose decisions were always carried out, were talking of sending the little one to the State School at Coldwater. Betty said no more about Antoine to Uncle John, but, while the frost fairies painted the maple leaves crimson and brightened the borders of the evergreen woods with many a dash of colour, she listened as eagerly as Billy and Gerald to all he had to say of forest wonders. At the same time, down in her heart, Betty was hoping that Uncle John wouldn't get a deer that season. "If he don't kill a deer," she told herself, "then the Coldwater school don't get Samone. That's my new superstition, though I'll never tell even Billy. Some things you must keep to yourself." Those were the days when Billy hated bedtime with all his might. It always came in the middle of some tale of adventure, often at the point where Uncle John almost shot a bear. Evening after evening, Mr. Larzalere, a neighbour, called to see Uncle John, and many a tale of the woods he told that made Gerald stare. Billy often wondered why such great hunters as Mr. Larzalere and his Uncle John could go forth each day, knowing exactly where to find deer, and yet return without one. "Should think you'd begin to get discouraged," he said at last. Uncle John and Mr. Larzalere only smiled at the idea, and advised Billy to wait. In the meantime, they talked with great enthusiasm of salt-licks, runways, bucks, does, and fawns, and a certain "Old Timer" that interested Billy more than anything else that lived in the woods. The little boy dreamed of the "Old Timer," and one never to be forgotten morning he saw him. Mr. Larzalere had promised to meet Uncle John at the "Big Stone," and Billy had begged to be taken along. He hadn't the least idea where the "Big Stone" was, but, from listening to the daily talk of the hunters, he believed that all the animals in the woods trooped by that enchanted spot ever day; possibly they formed a procession and marched past. Mr. Larzalere and Uncle John seemed always to reach the place either too late or too early to see all that happened. Uncle John told Billy that, when he was bigger, he would gladly take him hunting, but little boys seven years old were too small to think of shooting "Old Timers." "But, Uncle John, of course, I don't want to shoot the 'Old Timer,'" persisted Billy. "I just want to see his big horns, and if you'll let me go, I'll climb up on the 'Big Stone' and sit right still until you come after me. You and Mr. Larzalere can leave me there while you hunt." "Couldn't think of it, Billy," replied Uncle John. "When Mr. Larzalere and I drag in the Old Timer, then you'll see him." "That isn't the way I want to see him," said Billy to his mother. "I want to see him while he is alive. I've seen hundreds of dead deer down to the depot. What I want to see is the 'Old Timer' holding his own horns high,--high and running fast,--fast as if he was happy and wasn't afraid of hunters." Early the next morning Billy was up and gazing wistfully out-of-doors. In spite of the rain pelting against the window, Billy wanted to go hunting, and wondered how his Uncle John could lie in bed and sleep after daylight. Suddenly the small boy rubbed his eyes and stared. Across the common, in front of Mr. Larzalere's house, he saw the "Old Timer." A moment later the deer lifted his wide, spreading horns, stood quietly gazing toward the house, then came bounding across the common, pausing a moment at Billy's gate before making a dash for the woods. "Oh, I saw him! I saw him!" cried Billy, rushing from window to window, hoping for another glimpse of the deer. In a little while Mr. Larzalere came, calling loudly upon Uncle John to get his gun and follow the deer. He was wet to the skin, and a more excited man Billy never saw. "Where--where's your gun?" asked Billy. "Uncle John isn't dressed yet; he says he'll hurry." "My gun's at home," explained Mr. Larzalere. "You see that deer was grazing by the big pine in front of my house, and when I raised the shade I must have startled him. I told my wife to get my gun quick, but I didn't dare wait for it, because I didn't want to lose sight of my deer. Tell your Uncle John to come quick's he can! I'm going back for my gun!" As Mr. Larzalere ran for his gun, Billy flew through the house shouting: "Gerald! Betty! Selma! Everybody! Get up and see where there was a deer! Come on quick and I'll show you his tracks out in the sand! You'll have to hurry if you want to see the tracks, 'cause it's raining pitchforks!" After chasing through the storm for an hour or more, Mr. Larzalere went home to breakfast, though broiled venison wasn't on the bill of fare. Whether dogs drove him out of the woods, or whether the deer overheard Mr. Larzalere and Uncle John planning his downfall at one of the meetings by the "Big Stone," and walked into the village to show how little fear he had of hunters, Billy never knew, and the "Old Timer" was never again seen in that region. Whereat rejoiced Betty, the superstitious. Soon after, Uncle John went home; but he always declared that he should have killed the deer had he stayed long enough. CHAPTER X. FISHING THROUGH THE ICE It was Billy who gathered the last bunch of bluebells. He found them one November morning, their brave, delicate beauty all that remained of unforgotten blooms. The next day it was winter. The boy welcomed the whirling snow, but when the ice began forming all along the beach, his delight was unbounded. He couldn't pity the poor sailors as Betty advised; Billy envied them. The last trip of the season, like the first perilous voyage in the spring, seemed brimming with possibilities of adventure. Morning after morning, Billy ran to the window before he was dressed to see the waves tossing the broken ice in ridges farther and farther from the shore. How he longed to try the stretches of clear ice between the ridges! How he longed to go where the waves were dashing against the crystal wall! He wondered how much higher than his head the spray leaped toward the sun before it fell in sparkling showers all along the southern shore as far as the child could see. In the meantime the last light-ship had gone into winter quarters, the last buoy had been taken away, and even Billy understood that navigating the straits was a perilous undertaking. Whenever a boat whistled to be reported, the whole family ran to the window to see it pass, while the fog-horn sounded a farewell, and Billy's father dipped the stars and stripes in parting salute, to which the boat made answer. One steam-barge, the _Wallula_, was long unaccounted for. She was the last of the season, as Billy knew. He and Betty watched almost as anxiously as their father for the belated boat. One afternoon there came a blinding snow-storm, and for the first time Billy agreed with Betty in pitying the poor sailors, especially those on the _Wallula_. "Just think of being out in such a storm, with the light-ships all gone and the buoys all taken away!" said the little girl. "I don't see how a boat could help going on the shoals. Don't you ever be a sailor, Billy, will you?" "No," replied Billy, "of course not; I'll be the captain." A wonderful sight greeted Billy the following day. As usual he was up early, and through the east window in the sitting-room he saw the _Wallula_ frozen fast in the ice not far from shore. "Oh, mamma! mamma!" he called. "Here's the big red sun coming right out of the red, red clouds, and it's shining on the _Wallula_. And the icicles! Oh, mamma! Betty! Come and see the icicles shining on all the ropes. Oh, I must get out there quick." As Billy dressed, the sun was swallowed by a cloud so big, so black, its shadow dimmed the joy shining in his face. "Why, mamma!" he shouted, "what a 'normous cloud, and it's spreading over all the sky. I never saw anything happen so quick before. Did you ever see such a cloud! It was so heavy it had to go and fall down over all the sunshine." "No wonder!" exclaimed Betty, "I should think it would! Look there!" "Where? What?" "Why, Billy, don't you see? There is Antoine LeBrinn down on the beach with Samone in his arms, and I know the poor little thing hasn't on half enough clothes to keep her warm. I don't care how soon they take her away from him, so there!" "Why, Betty!" "I don't care, Billy. I'm beginning to feel just the way the rest of the folks do about that old Antoine. Papa says he don't stick to any kind of work, and his family are too poor for anything!" "I'm going to tell him," Billy threatened; "you see if I don't." Late in the morning half the village gathered to watch the tug from Cheboygan release the _Wallula_ and tow her into safe water. Then Billy saw more than one man frown, as he noticed the thinly clad child shivering in the Frenchman's arms. From that time he determined to compel Betty to tell Antoine he must stop drinking. At first Betty refused, but finally a new idea came into her mind. "Tell you what we might do, Billy," she said, "we might get up a pledge for him to sign his name to." "What's a pledge?" [Illustration] "Oh, it's something you sign," and Betty, offering no further explanation, wrote her pledge. Having never seen a temperance pledge, this was not an easy thing to do. Betty tried many times, and destroyed nearly all her best tablet before she decided upon the correct form. All this scribbling she did in the presence of the impatient Billy. "Now read it," he begged, when Betty folded several sheets of paper instead of destroying them. "I am afraid you won't understand it, Billy," she said, doubtfully, "but it means, 'I won't drink any more whiskey and things.' Now listen, Billy; I'd like to hear how it sounds myself: 'When in the course of human events it becomes necessary to touch not, taste not, handle not, look not upon the wine when it is red, give me liberty or give me death before I ever touch another drop.'" "Oh, Betty, that's good; course I understand it. Why, it sounds just like the Fourth of July last year!" "There now, Billy, I shall have to read it all over again if I find out how it sounds, because that's only the short beginning." "Why, Betty, but that's enough! If he signs that and promises that he won't drink another drop, why, why, that's the place to stop, Betty." "I don't know but you're right, Billy, but lawyers put in lots of words they don't need when they write things, and they never stop when they get through. You see, I haven't read you the 'whereas' and 'now therefore' part. I wanted this pledge to sound as if a lawyer made it. You see, Billy, I know, because I read everything." "I don't care," Billy maintained, "you might get him mixed." "That's so," admitted Betty. "And then, too, Bet, why don't you say 'before I drink another drop--of whiskey,' in big capital letters." "Oh, never, Billy, that would hurt Antoine's feelings. We mustn't even hint about getting drunk and such things, but I will do as you say about having a short pledge, and we'll trim it with pictures." "Make pictures of bottles and things, Betty." "Oh, stop, Billy, I should say not! Birds and flowers will be better, and won't hurt Antoine's feelings. Don't you understand? Then we'll tie a red ribbon on it." It so happened that Billy's mother, not sharing the children's secret, wouldn't allow them to visit the Frenchman's home, and it was not until the ice stretched from shore to shore, and Antoine began his winter fishing, that their opportunity came. After school one night, they visited his fish shanty on the frozen straits. "Come in," said Antoine, in response to Betty's knock, "come in." "Oh, my, what a tiny place!" exclaimed Betty, "and how warm it is! too warm! Oh, my!" "Smells fishy and tarry," added Billy, holding his nose. "Hush!" warned Betty, fearing Antoine might be offended. "Warm!" repeated the man, laughing heartily; "the preacher she was here, and I ain't want it to stay, so I make it warm, and she ain't stay long." "Why did the minister come to see you?" asked Betty. "Did he come out here to have you tell him fish stories?" Billy inquired. Again Antoine laughed. "No, Beely, the preacher she come out here and bring one temperance pledge. She say to me, 'Antoine, I'm fisherman, too. I'm ask you to sign your name on this one paper.' I'm tell that preacher she make a mistake, and I'm put one, two, three stick of wood on the stove, and it get too warm pretty quick. The preacher she go home, and ole Antoine she sign no pledge so long she live, I tole you that right now." Betty looked discouraged, but Billy grinned as he knelt to peer through the hole in the ice. Both children knew better than to speak of their pledge. With utmost patience Antoine explained to his visitors all he knew about fishing through the ice. "What you think is on the end of that line, Beely, that go into the water there?" "Minnows?" "Oh, no, Beely, no minnow on the winter. On the end that line is one decoy fish. She's heavy and weighted with lead. We let it down on the deep water. Then, when we see a fish come after it, we wind the line with one windlass." "Can't you pull in the line?" asked Betty. "No, Betty, no, you pull the line, you jerk the decoy fish, and that won't do. Beely, you turn the crank there and wind the line over the reel. Now, Betty, kneel on the edge of the opening on the floor and look down on the water. Can you see one decoy fish?" "Yes, just as plain as anything." "Now you, Beely, turn the crank." "Oh, oh!" cried Betty. "Up comes the little fish, straight, straight up, just as natural as if it was alive." "Now let me see," besought the small boy. "You come, Betty, and turn the crank." "Here, Beely," said Antoine, "you and Betty can both look on the same time if you squeeze beside her. Fish shanty ain't big like the town hall?" "Well, I should say not," admitted Billy. "Why, isn't it nice, Antoine? You can sit right still on your box and reach all the walls, can't you? Oh, that's the way you do it? When you see a fish coming, you just keep watching him, and then you reach over and turn the crank and wind up the line, and then the pretend fish comes up higher and higher. But then, I don't see how you spear the real fish." "Well, Betty and Beely, I will show you. You see the decoy fish she come quiet through the water when we bring it up with a windlass. If we brought it up with one jerk, our trout would be scare away. Fish no fool, I tole you that. When my fish come to the top of the water, so I'm sure of my aim, I send my spear after him." "But I should think you would lose the spear," said Billy. "My, it's heavy!" Antoine pointed to the rope which tied the spear to a ring fastened in the roof. "Wish a fish would come along now," said Billy, still gazing into the depths beneath. "We make too much noise, Beely. Betty, you be little squaw and Beely be Indian, and we'll keep still like the Indian and then I'll show you one fish. I'm fix the spear so she's all ready, and now watch. Don't whisper." Silently the three peered through the hole in the ice. Betty wished that her heart wouldn't beat so loud; she feared the fish must hear its thumping. Several times Billy was compelled to stifle deep sighs, warned by a look from Antoine. Poor Billy! His knees ached and his back ached, and it is no wonder the active child kept thinking that he couldn't endure such a cramped position another moment. It seemed ages to Betty also before she raised her face with a pleased smile to the fisherman and exchanged a glance with the radiant Billy. There was a big fish coming straight toward the decoy. The children had a fine chance to see exactly how a fish swims. Billy held his breath, as the line was slowly wound over the reel and the decoy came nearer and nearer the surface. They could see the bright eyes and the glistening fins of the fish that came after it. Just as Antoine reached for his spear, Betty sneezed. Quick as a flash the fish darted to the bottom of the straits; but it moved no quicker than Antoine, who motioned for silence. Betty longed to explain that she couldn't help sneezing, while Billy could scarcely be restrained from venting his wrath. Under the circumstances, he gave Betty an angry glance, and ventured to wiggle the least bit before settling himself for another time of breathless waiting. As for Betty, she could just manage to keep the tears back, and, when the fish slowly rose from the bottom of the lake, she didn't see him so clearly as Billy and the fisherman did. That time Antoine speared the fish. Billy not only saw him do it, but helped pull a big trout through the hole in the ice, and soon he and Betty were taking turns carrying the treasure home. "Dear me," said Betty at last, "I'll never dare say 'pledge' to him again." "I should say not," echoed Billy. Upon reaching home, Betty was much distressed when she discovered that her pledge was lost. "Somebody'll find it, Billy, and tell everybody in town, and then won't we catch it? Everybody'll be making fun of us." Billy tried to be consoling. "They won't know who wrote it, Betty." "Oh, that's the worst of it, Billy. I put my name and your name and the date and everything on that paper, and I said it was for Mrs. LeBrinn's Christmas present! Oh, dear!" At that very moment, Antoine, alone in his shanty, was reading Betty's pledge. A curious smile came and went as he read the slip of paper. When the last gleam of sunlight faded in the west, he locked his shanty and walked to the village with his load of fish. The following morning little 'Phonse LeBrinn came late to school. His pinched face looked sad and care-worn. "Old Antoine was drunk again last night," some one whispered across the aisle. "He sold his fish before he went home, and spent every cent at the saloons." Billy heard the whisper, and, passing 'Phonse on his way to class, he left a piece of candy on his desk. It was all he had to offer. CHAPTER XI. CHRISTMAS EVE Two things puzzled Billy. One was the letter from Aunt Florence, in which she hinted at the possibility of visiting Santa Claus on Christmas Day. Neither Billy's father nor Billy's mother knew what to think. Mid-winter was not the time to expect company in their part of the world. "It's some kind of a joke, I guess," was Billy's suggestion. The second thing that puzzled Billy was the great change that suddenly came over the LeBrinn family. He wondered if he had anything to do with it. One day, having overheard a conversation not intended for his ears, he told 'Phonse that Samone was surely going to be sent to the home at Coldwater, and advised him to tell his father to "watch out." The next time Billy met Antoine LeBrinn, Samone was with him. "Come here, little Beely," called the Frenchman, "ole Antoine want to shake hand with you. It's a pretty good little Beely. Samone like Beely pretty good, I tole you that." Antoine then explained to the boy that no one should take Samone away from him, because he intended keeping her with him all the time, and from that hour until the day soon after, when Billy saw the little Samone no more, she was always close beside her father. The particular thing that puzzled Billy, though, kept half the village guessing. 'Phonse, Buzz, Bud, and Tony came to school just before the holidays dressed in fine new suits and beaming with smiles. That same afternoon Billy was in the dry-goods store when Antoine bought a red dress for his wife and wide red ribbons to trim it with. "I tole you the ole lady she look pretty good when he get this on, Beely," said Antoine, rattling a pocketful of money for Samone's benefit. The jingle pleased Antoine more than it did the little girl. Billy wondered where Antoine got his money, and when he learned that the Frenchman's own family didn't know, he wondered more than ever. For many weeks Antoine had been stage-driver on the evergreen road,--the winding way across the ice, marked on either side by forest trees. The day before Christmas there was a blizzard. From Billy's home on the point nothing could be seen but whirling snow. The nearest trees on the evergreen road were hidden from sight, while the north shore across the frozen straits seemed for ever lost. "Antoine won't go to-day," said Billy; but scarcely were the words spoken when the sound of sleigh-bells was heard, and Antoine stopped his horses at the cottage door. He asked for an extra shawl or blanket for the children, and laughed at the idea of being afraid to make the trip. When Billy's mother knew that 'Phonse and Samone were in the sleigh, she begged Antoine to leave them with her. "Samone stay with ole Antoine long as he live in Mackinaw," declared the Frenchman, "and Beely she know that. I ain't leave Samone no more." Antoine went on to explain that he could cross the evergreen road with his eyes shut, and that there wasn't a bit of danger. He had positively promised to meet two passengers who were coming from Duluth, and he was determined to be on time for the train. The children were comfortable as two kittens, Antoine further insisted, at the same time declaring that he would be back at noon to help the "old lady" get ready for Christmas. Fumbling in his pocket at the last moment, Antoine drew forth an envelope, in which he declared was his wife's Christmas present. "Tell Beely to take care of it until ole Antoine come back, and, if she ain't come home no more, give her to the old lady." Every hour the storm grew worse, and at noon the marine reporter's three children listened in vain for the sound of sleigh-bells. "Antoine must have decided to stay in St. Ignace, and drive home to-morrow," said their mother, and the family were of the same opinion. All the afternoon the children had the gayest kind of a time. No thought of the storm outside disturbed their fun. Gerald, Betty, and Billy were too accustomed to blizzards to mind their fury. After the lamps were lighted, they gathered around the piano to sing the familiar carol they loved so well. That Christmas Eve they sang but one verse: "'Oh, little town of Bethlehem! How still we see thee lie! Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by; Yet in thy dark street shineth The everlasting light, The hopes and fears of all the years Are met in thee to-night!'" The door-bell rang, and Antoine LeBrinn's wife, weeping and wringing her hands, was ushered into the bright sitting-room. She had waited all the afternoon for the return of her husband and children, and at last, leaving Bud and Buzz and Tony with neighbours, had walked to the village, expecting and dreading to find Antoine at the saloons. No one having seen him since morning, she was sure that, unless he had reached the marine reporter's cottage, he was lost on the Straits of Mackinaw, and every one knew what that meant. That night the evergreen road was drifted full, the trees along the way were blown down, and the ice was a trackless wilderness. Even Billy thought of the air-holes and shuddered. It was the little brother who spoke first, after the sobbing Frenchwoman had told her story. "Papa," he asked, "why don't you go down and telegraph to St. Ignace?" "I'll do it, Billy," he answered, and straightway left the cottage. There was a look on his father's face when he returned that Billy had never seen before. "Antoine left St. Ignace two hours ago," he said to Billy's mother. "Men have already gone to find him, but it is useless." Billy's father went away, and in that dreadful time of waiting the three children listened to the Frenchwoman's despairing talk. Just that morning her husband had told where his money came from. The old aunt in Canada was dead, and had left her farm and all she owned to Antoine. They had made such happy plans. The little Samone should be a lady, and the boys would no longer be ragged and half-starved. Christmas Day the children were to be told the good news, and before the New Year they would be living in a home of their own in Canada. The mention of Christmas reminded Billy of the worn envelope left in his care. "Here," said he, giving it to Mrs. LeBrinn, "he said give you that." The woman tore open the envelope and stared at the slip of paper it contained. She couldn't understand; but the instant Betty saw it she knew the truth. It was the pledge, with Antoine LeBrinn's name signed at the bottom. For the first time since she entered the cottage, the Frenchwoman raised her head and looked hopeful. She said Antoine always kept his word, and, since she knew he had not been drinking that day, unless he perished in the blizzard, he would find his way home. A shout from Billy startled every one in the room. "Why, my dog!" he fairly screamed. "He is a St. Bernard, and, oh, Mrs. LeBrinn, you know what St. Bernards are for. He'll find the lost folks!" "Billy is right," echoed his mother, as the child ran for the dog. "Hero will find them, I know." Like a flash, the dog darted into the night when he knew what was expected of him, and there were no more tears shed in the sitting-room. The curtains in the bay-window were raised, while the three children, their mother, and Mrs. LeBrinn watched the beacon-fire blazing high at the beginning of the evergreen road. It was growing colder every minute, though the minutes were long. Men who gave up the search piled timbers on the fire and waited. It was all they could do. At last Hero bounded toward them, and the faint sound of sleigh-bells came on the wind. Safe was the little Samone,--safe, warm, and sound asleep with 'Phonse. Neither of the children awoke as they were carried into the cottage and placed upon the couch; but they opened wondering eyes when Betty and Gerald and little Billy welcomed their Aunt Florence and their Uncle John, the passengers for whom Antoine had made that trip to St. Ignace. For a few minutes every one, including Hero, talked at the same time, and nobody listened to what anybody else said until Billy's mother suggested dinner. [Illustration] "We'll have our Christmas dinner now," she declared. "And another one to-morrow, mamma," added Billy, in a whisper, "unless Uncle John would rather have venison than turkey. I know one thing, Antoine's so happy, he won't know what he is eating to-night, and I feel the same way myself. Aunt Florence looks as if she's pretty glad to get here, too. I guess we'll have a good time to-night that even Samone will remember long time after she goes to Canada. We are all happy, mamma; I 'tole you that.'" When Antoine saw the candle-light from the Christmas tree shining upon his little Samone, he did a queer thing,--lifting her in his arms to take her in to dinner, he touched her soft curls and said: "It's a good little Beely." THE END. =COSY CORNER SERIES= It is the intention of the publishers that this series shall contain only the very highest and purest literature,--stories that shall not only appeal to the children themselves, but be appreciated by all those who feel with them in their joys and sorrows. The numerous illustrations in each book are by well-known artists, and each volume has a separate attractive cover design. Each, 1 vol., 16mo, cloth $0.50 _By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON_ =The Little Colonel.= (Trade Mark.) The scene of this story is laid in Kentucky. Its heroine is a small girl, who is known as the Little Colonel, on account of her fancied resemblance to an old-school Southern gentleman, whose fine estate and old family are famous in the region. This old Colonel proves to be the grandfather of the child. =The Giant Scissors.= This is the story of Joyce and of her adventures in France,--the wonderful house with the gate of The Giant Scissors, Jules, her little playmate, Sister Denisa, the cruel Brossard, and her dear Aunt Kate. Joyce is a great friend of the Little Colonel, and in later volumes shares with her the delightful experiences of the "House Party" and the "Holidays." =Two Little Knights of Kentucky.= WHO WERE THE LITTLE COLONEL'S NEIGHBORS. In this volume the Little Colonel returns to us like an old friend, but with added grace and charm. She is not, however, the central figure of the story, that place being taken by the "two little knights." _By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON (Continued)_ =Cicely and Other Stories for Girls.= The readers of Mrs. Johnston's charming juveniles will be glad to learn of the issue of this volume for young people, written in the author's sympathetic and entertaining manner. =Aunt 'Liza's Hero and Other Stories.= A collection of six bright little stories, which will appeal to all boys and most girls. =Big Brother.= A story of two boys. The devotion and care of Steven, himself a small boy, for his baby brother, is the theme of the simple tale, the pathos and beauty of which has appealed to so many thousands. =Ole Mammy's Torment.= "Ole Mammy's Torment" has been fitly called "a classic of Southern life." It relates the haps and mishaps of a small negro lad, and tells how he was led by love and kindness to a knowledge of the right. =The Story of Dago.= In this story Mrs. Johnston relates the story of Dago, a pet monkey, owned jointly by two brothers. Dago tells his own story, and the account of his haps and mishaps is both interesting and amusing. =The Quilt That Jack Built.= A pleasant little story of a boy's labor of love, and how it changed the course of his life many years after it was accomplished. Told in Mrs. Johnston's usual vein of quaint charm and genuine sincerity. _By EDITH ROBINSON_ =A Little Puritan's First Christmas.= A story of Colonial times in Boston, telling how Christmas was invented by Betty Sewall, a typical child of the Puritans, aided by her brother Sam. =A Little Daughter of Liberty.= The author's motive for this story is well indicated by a quotation from her introduction, as follows: "One ride is memorable in the early history of the American Revolution, the well-known ride of Paul Revere. Equally deserving of commendation is another ride,--untold in verse or story, its records preserved only in family papers or shadowy legend, the ride of Anthony Severn was no less historic in its action or memorable in its consequences." =A Loyal Little Maid.= A delightful and interesting story of Revolutionary days, in which the child heroine, Betsey Schuyler, renders important services to George Washington. =A Little Puritan Rebel.= Like Miss Robinson's successful story of "A Loyal Little Maid," this is another historical tale of a real girl, during the time when the gallant Sir Harry Vane was governor of Massachusetts. =A Little Puritan Pioneer.= The scene of this story is laid in the Puritan settlement at Charlestown. The little girl heroine adds another to the list of favorites so well known to the young people. =A Little Puritan Bound Girl.= A story of Boston in Puritan days, which is of great interest to youthful readers. _By OUIDA_ (_Louise de la Ramée_) =A Dog of Flanders=: A CHRISTMAS STORY. Too well and favorably known to require description. =The Nürnberg Stove.= This beautiful story has never before been published at a popular price. =A Provence Rose.= A story perfect in sweetness and in grace. =Findelkind.= A charming story about a little Swiss herdsman. _By MISS MULOCK_ =The Little Lame Prince.= A delightful story of a little boy who has many adventures by means of the magic gifts of his fairy godmother. =Adventures of a Brownie.= The story of a household elf who torments the cook and gardener, but is a constant joy and delight to the children who love and trust him. =His Little Mother.= Miss Mulock's short stories for children are a constant source of delight to them, and "His Little Mother," in this new and attractive dress, will be welcomed by hosts of youthful readers. =Little Sunshine's Holiday.= An attractive story of a summer outing. "Little Sunshine" is another of those beautiful child-characters for which Miss Mulock is so justly famous. 
46586	----	[Illustration: "I must return to the house! There's something in the garret I must have."--page 34.] ALICE WILDE: THE RAFTSMAN'S DAUGHTER. A FOREST ROMANCE. BY MRS. METTA V. VICTOR. NEW YORK: IRWIN P. BEADLE AND COMPANY, 141 WILLIAM ST., CORNER OF FULTON. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1860, by IRWIN P. BEADLE & CO., in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. ALICE WILDE. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE CABIN HOME. CHAPTER II. PALLAS AND SATURN. CHAPTER III. REJECTED ADDRESSES. CHAPTER IV. BEN PERKINS. CHAPTER V. AN APPALLING VISITOR. CHAPTER VI. THE COLD HOUSE-WARMING. CHAPTER VII. SUSPENSE. CHAPTER VIII. AWAY FROM HOME. CHAPTER IX. A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER. CHAPTER X. RECONCILIATION. CHAPTER XI. A MEETING IN THE WOODS. CHAPTER XII. FAMILY AFFAIRS. CHAPTER XIII. THE TORNADO. CHAPTER XIV. GATHERING TOGETHER. CHAPTER XV. BEN AND ALICE. CHAPTER I. THE CABIN HOME. "That ar' log bobs 'round like the old sea-sarpint," muttered Ben Perkins to himself, leaning forward with his pole-hook and trying to fish it, without getting himself too deep in the water. "Blast the thing! I can't tackle it no how;" and he waded in deeper, climbed on to a floating log, and endeavored again to catch the one which so provokingly evaded him. Ben was a "hand" employed in David Wilde's saw-mill, a few rods farther up the creek, a young fellow not without claims to admiration as a fine specimen of his kind and calling. His old felt-hat shadowed hair as black as an Indian's, and made the swarthy hue of his face still darker; his cheeks and lips were red, and his eyes blacker than his hair. The striped wammus bound at the waist by a leather belt, and the linen trowsers rolled up to the knees, were picturesque in their way and not unbecoming the lithe, powerful figure. Ben had bobbed for saw-logs a great many times in his life, and was a person too quick and dextrous to meet with frequent accidents; but upon this day, whether the sudden sight of a tiny skiff turning the bend of the river just below and heading up the creek threw him off his guard, or what it was, certain it is, that stretching forward after that treacherous log, he lost his balance and fell into the water. He did not care for the ducking; but he cared for the eyes which saw him receive it; his ears tingled and his cheeks burned as he heard the silvery laugh which greeted his misfortune. Climbing up on to a log again, he stood dripping like a merman and blushing like a peony, as the occupant of the boat rowed nearer. "Keep out the way them logs, Miss Alice, or ye'll get upsot!" he cried, glad of an excuse for attracting attention from his own mishap. "I can take care of myself, thank you," was the gay answer. "Do you see father's boat coming, anywhere in sight, Ben? He was to be home this afternoon; and I took a fancy to go down and meet him." "I don't see nuthin' of it. That war a mighty big raft he took down to Centre City; the biggest raft that ever floated on that river, I reckon. He mought not be home for two or three days yet, Miss Alice. Gorry! but won't he hev a heap of money when he sells that ar' raft!" "And he'll be sure to bring me something pretty--he always does." "He knows what's what," responded Ben, stealing a sidelong, admiring glance at the sweet, young face in the skiff. If a compliment was intended, it was not understood by the hearer. "Yes, father always knows _just_ what suits me best. Dear father! I hope he _will_ come home to-night. I've been out picking blackberries for supper--just look at my hands," and she held up two pretty, dimpled hands, as if to show how charming they were, instead of to betray the purple-tipped fingers. But Alice Wilde did not know they were pretty, in sober truth, for she had never been praised, flattered, nor placed in a situation where she could institute comparisons. "Well, Ben, good-by. I shall float down the river a few miles, and if I don't see him, I can row back alone." "You're mighty pert with the oars, for a gal. I never seed no woman 't could row a boat like you, Miss Alice." "Thank you," she said, with a bright smile, as she turned her little birchen skiff about and struck out into the river again. Ben watched that graceful form until it was out of sight, heaving a sigh, as he turned again to his work, which told how absorbed he had been. Drifting down the river, under the shadow of precipitous bluffs, while the sunshine flecked with gold the rolling prairie-land upon the opposite side, the young girl sang wild negro-melodies which she had learned of the two old colored people who formed her father's retinue of house-servants. Rich and clear, her voice floated through those beautiful solitudes, heard only by the envious birds in the trees which overtopped the bluffs. Presently she had listeners, of whom she was unaware. An abrupt bend in the river hid from her the little boat with its single sail, fluttering like a butterfly against the current. It held two persons--David Wilde, the owner and captain of the raft of which Ben had spoken, a rough, striking-looking man of middle age, attired in a pink calico shirt and brown linen jacket and trowsers, who sat at the tiller smoking his pipe; and a young man of four and twenty, extremely good-looking and fashionably-dressed. "What's that?" exclaimed the latter, as the sweet voice thrilled over the water. "That's herself, sure," replied the raftsman, listening; "she's comin' to meet me, I reckon. It's just like her." "And who's 'herself?'" queried the other, laughing. "My cub, sir. Won't yer take yer flute out of yer pocket and give her a tune, before she sees us? It'll set her to wonderin' what 'n earth it is." The young man put the pieces of his flute together, and joined in the strain, rising loud and exultant upon the breeze; the voice ceased; he stopped playing; the voice began, and again he accompanied it; it sang more exuberently than ever, and the flute blent in with it accordantly. It was not until they were nearly upon her fairy bark that they came in sight of the singer, her bright hair flying, her cheeks redder than roses with the double exercise of rowing and singing. Philip Moore thought he had never beheld so lovely an apparition. "Oh, father, I'm so glad you're home again. Did you hear that beautiful echo?" she asked, her eyes all aglow with surprise and pleasure. "I never heard any thing like it before. It must be the rocks." "'Twant the rocks--'twas this here gentleman," said David Wilde, smiling. "Mr. Moore, this is my daughter Alice." Unknown to himself, his tone and look were full of pride as he presented her to his companion, who never paid a more sincere tribute of admiration to any woman, however accomplished, than he did to the artless child who returned his deep bow with so divine a blush. "I thought I'd come to meet you, and run a race home with you," she said to her father, with a fond look. "That's just like my little cub--allers on hand. Wall, go ahead! the breeze is fair, and I guess we'll beat ye. Hope ye'll make good time, fur I'm beginning to get rather growly in the region of the stomach." "Pallas expects you," returned Alice, laughing. "If your skiff were large enough for two, I'd take those oars off your hands," said the young gentleman. "Nobody ever touches this, but myself," and away sped the fairy affair with its mistress, darting ahead like an arrow, but presently dropping behind as they tacked, and then shooting past them again, the young girl stealing shy glances, as she passed, at the stranger who was watching her with mingled curiosity and admiration. So sweetly bashful, yet so arch and piquant--so rustic, yet so naturally graceful--so young, he could not tell whether she esteemed herself a child or a woman--certainly she was very different from the dozen of tow-headed children he had taken it for granted must run wild about the 'cabin' to which he was now about to make a visit. "How many children have you, Mr. Wilde?" "She's all. That's my mill you see just up the mouth of the creek thar. We're nigh on to my cabin now; when we've rounded that pint we shall heave in sight. Seems to me I smell supper. A cold snack is very good for a day or two, but give me suthin' of Pallas' getting up after it. Thar's the cabin!" Philip had been following with his eyes the pretty sailor, who had already moored her craft to the foot of a huge elm, overhanging the gravelly shore from a sloping bank above, and now stood in the shadow of the tree awaiting them. If it had not been for the blue smoke curling up in thin wreaths from a stick chimney which rose up in the rear, he would hardly have discovered the dwelling at first sight--a little one-story log-house, so completely covered with clambering vines that it looked like a green mound. Tartarian honeysuckles waved at the very summit of the chimney, and wild-roses curtained every window. Taking upon herself the part of hostess, Alice led the way to the house. Philip was again agreeably surprised, as he entered it. He had read of squatter life, and considered himself "posted" as to what to expect--corn-bread and bacon, an absence of forks and table-cloths, musquitoes, the river for a wash-basin, sand for soap, the sun for a towel, and the privilege of sharing the common bed. But upon entering the cabin, he found himself in a large room, with two smaller apartments partitioned from the side; the cooking seemed to be done in a shanty in the rear. The table was set in the center of the room, with a neat cloth, and a great glass plate, heaped with blackberries, stood upon it, and was surrounded by a wreath of wild-flowers woven by the same dimpled hands which had managed the oars so deftly. "'Clar to gracious, masser, you tuk us unbeknown." The new speaker was an old negro woman, portly and beaming, who appeared at the back door, crowned with a yellow turban, and bearing in her left hand that scepter of her realm, the rolling-pin. "But not unprepared, hey, Pallas?" "Wall, I dunno, masser. I didn't spec' the pickaninny 'ud eat more 'n _one_ roas' chicken. But thar's two in de oven; for, to tell de trute, masser, I had a sense dat you war a comin'; and I know'd if you wasn't, me and my ole man wouldn't be afraid of two fowls." "But I've brought home company, Pallas." "Hev you now, masser? I'se mighty glad to hear it. I'd as soon wait on masser's frien's as to sing de Land of Canaan. Yer welcome," she added, dropping a courtesy to the guest with as much importance as if she were mistress of the house--as, in fact, she had been, in most matters, for many long years. He made her a deep and gracious bow, accompanied by a smile which took her old heart by storm. Retreating to the kitchen outside, where Saturn, her husband, had been pressed into service, and sat with an apron over his knees pareing potatoes, buoyed up by the promise of roast chicken from his wife, she told him as she rolled and cut out her biscuits: "The finest gentleum she had sot eyes on sence she left ole Virginny. His smile was enough to melt buttah--jus' de smile what a sweet-mannered young gentleum ought to have. She was mighty glad," she added, in a mysterious whisper, "dat ar' pickaninny was no older." "Wha' for?" queried Saturn, pausing, with a potato on the end of his knife, and a look of hopeless darkness on his face, barring the expanding whites of his eyes. "You nebbah could see tru a grin'-stone till I'd made a hole in it for yer. It's a wonder I tuk up wid such an ole fool as you is, Saturn. If yer eyes were wurf half as much as dem pertaters' eyes, yer could see for yerself. Hasn't masser swore agin dem city gentleum?" "He's swore--dat's so." "And he never would forgive one as would come and steal away his precious child--nebbah!" continued Pallas, lifting her rolling-pin threatingly at the bare thought. "If he war rich as gold, and lubbed her to distruction, 'twouldn't make a speck o' difference. He's jealous of the very ground she walks on; and he hates dem smoof-spoken city folks." "Do you suspec' he's a kidnapper--dat ar' vis'ter?" asked Saturn, his eyes growing still bigger, and looking toward the door as if he thought of the possibility of the handsome young stranger carrying _him_ off. "You is born a fool, and you can't help it. Put 'em 'taters in de pot, and mind yer own bisness. I want some more wood for dis fiah--immejetly!" When Pallas said "immejetly!" with that majestic air, there was nothing left for her worser half save to obey, and he retreated to the wood-pile with alacrity. On going out he run against Ben Perkins, who had been standing by the open door, unperceived, for the last five minutes. "Why, Ben, dat you?" asked Pallas, good-naturedly, not dreaming that he had overheard her confidential conversation. "Yes; I came up to the house to seen if Captain Wilde had any orders for the mill to-night. I see him when he passed the creek. Who's with him, Pallas?" The old colored woman gave a sudden sharp glance at the youth's troubled face. "It's a frien' for all I know. What bisness is it of yours to be askin'?" "I s'pose I hain't no business. Do you think it's likely it's anybody as expects to marry Miss Alice?" his voice trembled, and he looked at his boots as he asked the question. "Marry Miss Alice! What a simpl'un you is, Ben. Wha's that pickaninny but a chile yet, I'se like to know? a little chit as don't know nothin' 'bout marryin' nobody. 'Sides that, long as her fadder libs, she'll never marry, not if it war a king. He'd be mad as fury ef any one was to dar' to speak of such a thing. Humf! my pickaninny, indeed!" with an air of scorn and indignation deeply felt by the youth, whose face was flushing beneath the implied rebuke. "Ef you'll stop a few minutes, I'll give yer some of dese soda biscuits," she said, after a brief silence, secretly pitying a trouble at which she had shrewdly guessed, though she resented the audacity of the hope from which it sprang. "Dat ar' man-cook what gets up the vittles for the mill-hands can't make sech biscuits as mine. Stop now, and hab some, won't yer?" "Thank ye, Pallas, I ain't hungry," was the melancholy reply--melancholy when proceeding from a hearty, hard-working young man, who _ought_ to have been hungry at that hour of the day. He turned away, and without even going to the cabin-door to inquire of Mr. Wilde as he had proposed, struck into the pine-woods back of the garden-patch. CHAPTER II. PALLAS AND SATURN. Supper was over, and David Wilde was cutting with his jack-knife the strings of several packages which had accompanied him on his trip back from Center City, where he had disposed of his raft. His guest sat upon a wooden settle, as much interested as the others in the proceedings, though his eyes were fixed mostly upon the happy girl, who, with all of her sex's love of finery, was upon her knees on the floor, assisting, with smiling eyes and eager fingers, at the pleasant task of bringing forth the contents of these packages. A dark-blue dress of the finest merino, a rich shawl, and some pretty laces for collars and ruffles rewarded her search. There was another package which was all her own, with which she was equally delighted; it was made up of a dozen of books, whose titles she eagerly read before she continued her explorations. "Here's a dress Mr. Moore picked out for you," said the raftsman, maliciously, unfolding a gorgeous red and yellow calico. "But I hadn't seen you, you know," returned Philip coloring. At this moment Pallas, who had an eye upon the bundles, came in on a pretence of clearing off the table. "Come and look at my beautiful presents, Pallas," cried her young mistress. "You've got little les'n an angel fer a fadder, my dear chile," ejaculated that personage, catching sight of the calico from the corner of her eye while admiring the merino. Alice looked up into the rough sun-burnt face of her father with a smile; the idea of his being an angel was not so ludicrous to her as it was to their guest. "Here's somethin' to help you along with yer sewing," continued David, taking a little box containing a gold thimble from his jacket-pocket. "See if it fits," and he placed it on the little fair hand. "It sets to your finger like a cup to an acorn," exclaimed Pallas. "Thar's none like masser to tell per-_cisely_ what a person wants and is a wishin' fer," and again her covert glance sought the calico. "Sartainly, old girl; no doubt," chuckled the raftsman. "If that's the case, jist take them handkerchiefs and that dress-pattern and give 'em to Saturn. You can keep the vest and the tobacker and the boots yerself, and especially the trowsers--you've allers worn 'em!" "Laws, masser, ef I _hadn't_, things would a gone to rack and ruin long ago. Dat nigger of mine no use, but to sleep hisself to deaf. He's a great cross to me, Saturn is," and with a profusion of smiles and thanks she carried off her booty to the kitchen, graciously dispensing his share to her "ole man," and condescending to be unusually affable. "Ef we only had a camp-meetin' to go to now," she said, spreading out the new jacket and trowsers beside the calico. "It's four yeer, come nex' monf, since we went to dat meetin' down de riber. I declar' it's jes' like de heathen fer decent culled pussons not to have any place to holler Glory, and show der new clo'es." "I'd like to go to meetin' wid dese boots," remarked her spouse, looking down at the immense pair into which he had squeezed his feet. "Ef you did, all I can say is, dar' wouldn' be no room fer anybody else dar'," returned Pallas, giving way, by mere force of habit, to her custom of snubbing her companion. "Wha' fer?" inquired Saturn. "No matter, ef yer don't know. My! my!"--hopelessly--"what a fool you is!" "Dat's so, wife;" was the humble reply, "but," picking up courage at the sight of his new rig, "mebbe when I get my new jacket on, I'll know more." "You'd bettar put it on quick, den, and nebbar take it off." When her dishes were washed, Pallas took the calico in her lap and sat down. "I've a sense," she said, in a low voice, "dat things is goin' to happen." "Wha' fer?" "I haven't had such a sense fer years," she continued, too preoccupied to administer her customary rebuke. "And when I've a sense, it allers comes to suthin'--it never fails. I haven't had such feelin's since missus died. 'Pears to me dat young gentleum looks like missus' family. And it's de same name--curus, isn't it?" "Berry," replied Saturn, at random, lost in the study of his feet; "dem boots is beauties." "I dunno what masser brought him here fer, he's allers been so keerful. He tole me 'twas a pardner in de steam saw-mill dat takes his lumber off his han's; a young storekeeper in Center City now, though he use to be a lawyer in New York--bress it! it's a long time since I sot eyes on dat city now. Our fus' masser, Mortimer Moore, usin to invite no shop-keepers to _his_ house. My! my! but he was a mighty proud man, and dat's what made all de trouble. Dem was grand times, wid all de serbents and de silber--never tought I cud come to dis--but I promised missus, when she died, I'd stan' by her chile, and I shall stand by her, long as der's any bref left in dis ole body--bress her! She's growing up jes' as han'some as ever her mudder was, and she's got her ways; and as for manners--hi! hi! folks might larf at the idea of ole Pallas learnin' manners to her missus, but dar ain't nobody knows better how table ought to be set and sarbed, and things to be done, than my dear chile now, dis minit. Ef masser _will_ keep her, like de children of Israel, forty years in de wilderness, she shall be a lady for all dat, bress her, and a Christian lady, too! She knows all de bes' part of de psalms by heart, now; and she can sing hymns like a cherubim. Sometimes I mos' think she's got one of dem golden harps in her hand. If dat ole fool ain't asleep. Saturn!" kicking his shins, "wake up yer, and go to bed--immejetly!" Saturn had a discouraging time getting his new boots off in the sleepy state which had come upon him; but this being at last accomplished, and he safely lodged in the bed, which took up the greater portion of Pallas' "settin'-room," off her kitchen, she stole out to the corner of the house to "spy out the land," in Bible language, which, to her, sheltered the deed from opprobrium. Pallas was no mischief-making listener; she considered herself entitled to know all that transpired in the family, whose secrets she kept, and whose welfare she had in her heart. "My! my! they make a pretty pictur' sittin' dar' in de light ob de moon," she thought, peeping at the group, now gathered outside of the door, enjoying the glory of a most brilliant August moon. The young stranger was telling some story of foreign adventure, his fine face and animated gestures showing well in the pure light, while the old raftsman smoked his pipe to keep away musquitoes, as he said--though they were not particularly troublesome in that neighborhood--and Alice sat on the step at his feet, her arms folded over his knee, her eager, girlish face lifted to the story-teller. "He sartainly belongs to _our_ family of Moores, ef he ain't no nearer than a forty-second cousin," whispered Pallas to herself. "Masser don't know 'em, root and branch, as well as I do, else he'd see it right away. How that pickaninny is a watchin' of him talk! Laws! nobody knows what their doing in dis yere worl', or we'd all act different." As she stood there, taking observations, she thought she saw a person in the shade of the great elm on the bank; and not being afraid of any thing but "gosstesses" and "sperits," she went back to the kitchen for a bucket, as an excuse for going down to the river and finding out who it was. "Ef it's that yer young Perkins, won't I let him know what a fool he's making of hisself--he, indeed! Gorry! I'll give a scolding 'at'll las' him his lifetime." But she had no opportunity of venting her indignation, as the form, whosever it was, slipped down the bank, and ran away along the wet sand, taking shelter behind a ledge of rock, before she could recognize it. "My! my! dis ole bucket full of silber," she ejaculated, as she lifted it out of the river, glittering in the moonlight. "Dis yere ribber looks lubly as de stream of life dat's flowin' round de streets ob Paradise, to-night;" and the good old creature stood watching the burnished ripples. The rush of waters and the murmur of the pine-forest were sweet even to her ears. "It's a bad night for young folks to be sittin' out-o'-doors," she reflected, shaking her yellow turban suggestively, as she looked at the two by the cabin-door. But let us go back a little way with our story. CHAPTER III. REJECTED ADDRESSES. Through the spacious lengths of a suite of richly-furnished rooms, a woman was wandering, with that air of nervous restlessness which betokens a mind ill at ease. The light, stealing in soft tints through the curtains, fell upon many pictures and objects of taste and art, and all that lavish richness of plenishing to which wealthy Gothamites are prone--but upon nothing so beautiful as the mistress of them all, who now moved from place to place, lifting a costly toy here, pausing before a picture there, but really interested in neither. "Virginia!" Her cousin Philip had come in through the library so silently that she was unaware of his presence until he spoke, although it was waiting for him which had made her so uneasy. "Well, Philip?" She had started when he spoke her name, but recovered her haughty self-possession immediately. "Sit down, please, on this sofa. I can not talk to you when you are standing. You look too cold and too imperious. I have come to-day for your answer, Virginia." They sat upon the sofa together, he turning so as to read her face, which was bent down as she played with the diamond ring upon her finger. She looked cool and quiet enough to dampen the ardor of her lover; but he was so absorbed in his own feelings that he could not and would not understand it. "Speak, Virginia! I can not bear this suspense." Still she hesitated; she _liked_ him too well to take any pleasure in giving him pain, frivolous coquette though she was. "I have questioned my heart closely, Philip, as you bade me," she began after a few moments, "and I have satisfied myself that I can never be happy as the wife of a poor man." "Then you do not love me! Love does not put itself in the scales and demand to be balanced with gold." "But gold is very necessary to its welfare and long life. No, Philip, I do not know that I love you--perhaps I do not--since I am not willing to make this sacrifice. I certainly think better of you than of any other living man, except my father; I would rather marry you than any other man, if you had the wealth necessary to support me in the station for which only I am fitted. A young man, with nothing to rely upon but the profession of the law, in a great city like this, must expect to wait some time before he can pour many honors and much wealth into the lap of the woman he loves." "You are sarcastic, Virginia!" "No, only practical. My father is not so rich as in days gone by. His fortune has dwindled until it is barely sufficient to keep up the house in the old style. If I would still preserve the family pride, still rule queen of the circle I have brought around me, I must marry rich." "And for this you can resign a love like mine." "It is my nature, Philip--born in me, cherished in me. My father, I know, would not listen to the match, as highly as he esteems you. I had a sister, a woman when I was a child--you remember her, do you not? she married against his will, married poor, and tried this 'love in a cottage' sentiment--he never forgave her, and she never prospered; she is dead, poor thing, and I do not care to emulate her." "Humph! I am to understand that your father then rears his children as slaves to be sold to the highest bidder--that you hold yourself ready for the market?" "Don't provoke me, Philip." The black eyes were fixed upon him haughtily. "Forgive me, Virginia. I am half-mad just now, you know. You can not say that you have not encouraged me." "Perhaps I have--shown you the affection of a cousin. I have felt as if you were one of the family. I might even have felt a still closer interest, had I allowed myself. But I am, what you never will be--prudent. I may yet see some one whom I can really respect and love, who has also the fortune you lack; if not, I shall accept some one for glory's sake, and let the love go! Don't look so scornful, Phil. I have beauty, fashion, pride of place, family, every thing but the means wherewith to set these off magnificently; and this has made me ambitious. Dear Philip, much as I like you, I could never be contented to wait your slow promotion." "Prudence is very commendable, Virginia. Its maxims fall with double force from lips as beautiful as yours. I will try to learn it. I, a man, upon whom such cold duties are supposed most naturally to devolve, will be taught by you, a soft, tender woman, who looks as if made for the better purpose of loving and teaching love. Farewell! when you see me again, perhaps I shall rival you in prudence." "You are not going away, cousin Philip?" He was already opening the door into the hall, as she followed him, and caught his hand. "Oh, yes, I am. Since only rich men can possess the happiness such gentle creatures have it in their power to bestow, I must make haste after wealth," and he looked down bitterly at the proud girl over whose face was coming a faint expression of remorse and relenting. "Shall I not hear from you?" she asked, quite humbly. "No; not until I am in a fair way to achieve that which will recommend me to your _disinterested affection_!" He withdrew his hand from her clasp, and went out with a quick, resounding step which told of the firmness of his resolution. The girl who had rejected him sank down in the nearest seat. She had never seen him look more--as a woman is proud to have a man look--handsome, self-reliant, determined, than in the hour of his disappointment. Two or three tears trickled through her jeweled fingers; she shook them off impatiently. "He is a man who would never have shamed my choice," she whispered. "But I have decided for the best. I know my own disposition; I should fret at the chains which limited my power. And I am used to every indulgence. I am selfish. Poor Phil! if somebody would present you with a check for half-a-million, I'd marry you to-morrow." In the mean time Philip Moore, all the dregs stirred up from the bottom of the fountain in his usually transparent soul, hurried to the office which he had just set up in Wall-street. There, as if in answer to the wish which had been aroused, he found a letter from a friend who had emigrated westward three years previously, forsaking the law for speculations in pine-lands and lumber, merchandise, etc. He was doing well, was getting rich in seven-league strides, had married a pretty western girl, was happy, had gone to housekeeping, wanted a partner in business as well as domestic affairs--recommended Philip to accept the chance--a few thousand dollars would be all the capital required. Philip had seven thousand dollars in stocks; he sold out, shook off the dust from his feet as he left the great metropolis, and answered his friend's letter in person, in less than a fortnight. Virginia Moore missed the convenient escort, the constant attentions, _and_ the profound worship of her high-hearted cousin; but a rich Spaniard, ugly and old, was come into the market, and she was among the bidders. Let us leave Virginia Moore, and return to that western wilderness, where a certain little girl looks lovelier, in her blue-gingham dress and wild-flower wreath, than the other in all the family diamonds. CHAPTER IV. BEN PERKINS. The day after her father's return, Alice Wilde sat down to try her new thimble in running up the skirt of her merino dress. The frock which she wore, and all her others, probably, were fashioned in the style of twenty years ago--short under the arms; a belt at the waist; low in the neck; full, puffed, short sleeves; narrow skirt, and no crinoline. Her profuse hair, when it was not allowed to fall in a golden torrent around her neck, was looped up in the quaint style which marked the fashion of her dress. She looked like the portrait, come to life, of some republican belle and beauty of long ago. Quite unconscious that this ancient style had been superseded by the balloons of to-day, she measured off the three short breadths which, when hemmed, would leave her pretty ankles exposed, even as they now, with the slippered feet, peeped from beneath her gingham. If Philip Moore had understood the mantua-maker's art, and had possessed "patterns" of the latest mode, he would not have instructed his hostess in any changes, she looked so picturesque and quaint as she was. But he did not let her sew very steadily that day. He wanted to explore the surroundings of the cabin, and she was his ready, intelligent guide. They went back into the forest, through which thundered, ever and anon, the crash of a falling tree; for many men were busy cutting timber for another raft, on which, at its completion, Philip was to return to Center City. His business would not have detained him more than three or four days, but he was in no haste; he wanted to hunt and fish a little, and he liked the novelty of the idea of floating down the river on a raft of logs in company with a score of rough fellows. Although David Wilde sawed up some of his timber himself, his old-fashioned mill was not equal to the supply, and he sent the surplus down to the steam saw-mills, one of which was owned by Philip and his partner. It called forth all his affability to conquer the shyness of his pretty guide, who at last dared to look full into his face with those brilliant blue eyes, and to tell him where the brooks made the sweetest music, where the fawns came oftenest to drink, where the violets lingered the latest, and where there was a grape-vine swing. Both of them looked very happy when they came in, just in time to meet Mr. Wilde at the supper-table, who had been at the mill all day. _He_ did not seem in such good spirits. Some new thought troubled him. His keen, gray eyes scanned the countenance of his child, as if searching for something hitherto undiscovered; and then turned suspiciously to the stranger, to mark if he, too, held the same truth. For the first time it occurred to him, that his "cub," his pet, was no longer a little girl--that he might have done something fatally foolish in bringing that fine city aristocrat to his cabin. Had he not always hated and despised these dandified caricatures of men?--despised their vanity, falsehood, and affectation?--hated their vices, their kid-gloves, their perfumed handkerchiefs, and their fashionable nonsense? Yet, pleased with one of them, and on a mere matter of business, he had, without the wisdom of a fool, much less of a father, brought one of that very class to his house. How angry he was with himself his compressed lip alone revealed, as he sharply eyed his guest. Yet the laws of hospitality were too sacred with him to allow of his showing any rudeness to his guest, as a means of getting rid of him. Unconscious of the bitter jealousy in her father's heart, Alice was as gay as a humming-bird. She had never been happier. We are formed for society; children are charmed with children, and youth delights in youth. Alice had been ignorant of this sweet want, until she learned it now, by having it gratified. For, although she had passed pleasant words with such young men as chanced to be employed by her father, they had never seemed to her like companions, and she naturally adopted the reserve which her father also used with them. His cabin was his castle. No one came there familiarly, except upon invitation. The "hands" were all fed and lodged in a house by themselves, near the mill. The gloom of the host gradually affected the vivacity of the others; and the whole household retired early to rest. The next day, Philip set off to the mill with Mr. Wilde, carrying on his shoulder the excellent rifle of the latter, as he proposed, after business was over, to make a search for deer, now nearly driven away from that locality by the sound of the ax in those solitudes once so deep and silent. "Tell Aunt Pallas I'll bring her a haunch of venison for supper," he said gayly to the young girl, touching his straw hat with a grace that quite confused her. She looked after them wistfully as they went away. She felt lonely; her sewing fatigued her; the sun was too hot to go out on the water; she didn't know what to do. Even her new books failed for once to keep her interested many hours. When Pallas looked for her to help pick over berries to dry, she was not to be found. She had sought that delightful refuge of early youth--the garret; which in this instance was but a loft over the main story, reached by a ladder, and seldom resorted to by any one, except when the raftsman stored away a bear-skin, a winter's store of nuts, or something of the kind. To-day Alice felt powerfully attracted toward a certain trunk which had stood in that garret ever since she could remember. It was always locked; she had never seen it open; and did not know its contents. Now, for a wonder, the key was in the lock; she never thought of there being any thing wrong in the act, as she had never heard the trunk mentioned, and had never been forbidden access to it, and lifting the lid, she sat down beside it and began an examination of its mysteries. Lifting up a napkin spread over the top, she was met by a lovely face, looking up at her from the ivory upon which it was so exquisitely painted. The breath died upon her lips. "It must be my mother's; how very beautiful she was--my mother!" Hot tears rushed up into her eyes at this life-like vision of a being she did not remember, of whom old Pallas often spoke, but whom her father seldom mentioned--never, save in the most intimate moments of their association. She was sorry she had opened the trunk, realizing at once that if her father had desired her to know of the miniature he would have shown it to her years ago; she had a glimpse of a white-silk dress, some yellow lace, a pair of white-silk slippers, and long white-kid gloves, but she would not gratify the intense curiosity and interest which she felt. She remembered hearing her father descend from the garret late in the preceding night; and she guessed now the purpose of his visit. An impulse was given to her thoughts which drove away her restless mood; she retreated from the loft, and set very quietly to work helping Pallas with the blackberries. She was sitting in the kitchen-door, an apron on, and a huge bowl in her lap, when Philip Moore came through the pines, dragging after him a young deer which he had slain. Pallas was on a bench outside the shanty, and it was at her feet the hunter laid his trophy. "Bress you, masser Moore, I'se mighty glad you went a huntin'. Miss Alice she laugh and say de deer needn't be afraid of you, 'cause you was a city gentleum, but I tol' her she didn't know nuffin' about it. I was afeard you'd get tired of white-fish and salmon, and bacon and fowls,--dis ven'sen jes' de meat I want." "Well, Aunt Pallas, I shall claim one of your best pies as my reward," said the amateur hunter, laughing. "But little Alice here mustn't think no one can do any thing right except foresters and lumbermen." "Oh, I don't!" exclaimed she, blushing. "I think you do every thing beautifully, Mr. Moore, that you've been brought up to do, you know--but shooting deer--they don't do that in cities, do they?" "Not exactly in cities; but there are wild woods near enough New York yet for young men to have a chance at gaining that accomplishment. I suppose you wouldn't trust me to take you out sailing, to-morrow, would you?" "If she would, yer couldn't do it, for I want the boat myself. Captain Wilde's goin' to send me down to the pint with it." Mr. Moore looked up in surprise at the speaker, who had just come up from the river, and whose looks and tones were still ruder than his words. "Hi, Ben! yer as surly as a bar," spoke up Pallas; "yer haven't a grain of perliteness in yer body," she added, in a lower tone. "I leaves perliteness to them as is wimmen enough to want it," answered Ben, throwing back a glance of defiance and contempt at the innocent stranger, as he stepped into the shanty. "I want them new saws as came home with the capt'n." "There's somebody that looks upon me in the same light you do," laughed Philip, when the youth had secured the saws and departed. "Oh, Mr. Moore, you don't know how I look upon you!" she exclaimed, earnestly; neither did he, any more than he knew how the fate of that black-eyed, heavy-browed mill-hand was to be mixed and mingled with his own. He admired Alice Wilde as he would have done any other pretty and singular young creature; but he never thought of loving her; she was a child in his eyes, ignorant and uncultivated in many things, though always graceful and refined; a child, who would be out of place in any other sphere except that peculiar one in which she now moved. He did not guess that in her eyes he was a hero, almost supernatural, faultless, glorious--such as an imaginative girl who had seen nothing of the world, but who had read many poems and much fiction, would naturally create out of the first material thrown in her way. No! all through that happy fortnight of his visit he talked with her freely, answering her eager questions about the world from which she was so secluded, roamed the woods with her, sailed the river, played his flute, sang favorite love-songs, and all without reflecting upon the deathless impression he was making. Keen eyes were upon him, and saw nothing to justify censure; he would have laughed at the idea of that little wild girl falling in love with him, if he had thought of it at all; but he did not think of it; sometimes he frolicked with her, as if they were both children; and sometimes he kindly took upon himself the pleasant task of teaching her in matters about which she showed an interest. He was touched by her beauty and innocence; and was extremely guarded in her presence not to let a hint of evil be breathed upon that young soul--her father, Pallas, all who approached her, seemed naturally to pay her purity the same deference. The raft for which Philip was waiting was now in readiness, and was to commence its drifting journey upon the next day. Alice had fled away into the pine-woods, after dinner, to anticipate, with dread, her coming loneliness; for her father was also to accompany it, and would be absent nearly three weeks. Her footsteps wandered to a favorite spot, where the grape-vine swing had held her in its arms, many and many a frolic hour. She sat down in it, swinging herself slowly to and fro. Presently a footfall startled her from her abstraction, and, looking up, she saw Ben Perkins coming along the path with a cage in his hand, of home manufacture, containing a gorgeous forest-bird which he had captured. "I reckon I needn't go no further, Miss Alice," he said; "I war a bringin' this bird to see if you'd be so agreeable as to take it. I cotched it, yesterday, in the wood." "Oh, Ben, how pretty it is!" she cried, quickly brushing away her tears, that he might not guess what she had been crying about. "It sings like any thing. It's a powerful fine singer, Miss Alice--I thought mebbe 't would be some comfort to ye, seein' yer about to lose that flute that's been turnin' yer head so." "What do you mean?--you speak so roughly, Ben." "I know I ain't particularly smooth-spoken; but I mean what I say, which is more 'n some folks do. Some folks thinks it good sport to be telling you fine fibs, I've no doubt." "Why do you wish to speak ill of those of whom you have no reason to, Ben? It isn't generous." "But I _have_ reason--O Alice, you don't know how much!" he set the bird-cage down, and came closer to her. "I've got suthin' to say that I can't keep back no longer. Won't you set down 'side of me on this log?" "I'd rather stand, Ben," she said, drawing back as he was about to take her hand. The quivering smile upon his lip when he asked the question changed to a look which half frightened her, at her gesture of refusal. "You didn't object to settin' by that town chap; you sot here on this very log with him, for I seen you. Cuss him, and his fine clothes, I say!" "I can not listen to you, Ben, if you use such language; I don't know what's the matter with you to-day," and she turned to go home. "I'll tell you what's the matter, Alice Wilde," and he caught her hand almost fiercely. "I can't keep still any longer and see that feller hangin' 'round. I didn't mean to speak this long time yet, but that stranger's driven me crazy. Do you 'spose I kin keep quiet and see him smirking and bowin' and blowin' on that blasted flute, around _you_; and you lookin' at him as if yer couldn't take yer eyes off? Do you s'pose I kin keep quiet and see him making a simpleton of the purtiest girl that ever growd? You needn't wince--it's true; jist as soon as he'd got away from here he'd forget all about you, or only think of you to laugh at your hoosier ways with some proud lady as fine as himself." "Oh, I am afraid it's too true!" burst forth Alice, involuntarily. "Yer may bet yer life on that, Alice Wilde! Or, at the best, he'd take yer away from yer own old father as loves the ground you tread, and try and make a lady of you, and never let you speak to your own flesh and blood agin. While I--I wouldn't do nuthin' but what yer father wanted; I'd settle down side of him, work for him, see to things, and take the care off his mind when he got old. Yer father hates them proud peacocks, Alice--he _hates_ 'em, and so do I! I know he'd ruther have me. Say yes, do now, that's a good girl." "I don't understand you, Ben," said Alice, coldly, trying to pass, for she was troubled and wanted to get away. "I'll tell you then," he said, "I want you to marry me, Alice. I've been thinking about it these two years--night and day, night and day." "Why, Ben," cried the startled child, "_I_ never thought of it--never! and I can not now. Father will be very angry with you. Let go of my hand; I want to go home." "You ain't a little girl any longer, Alice Wilde, and I guess yer father 'll find it out. He may be mad for a spell; but he'll get over it; and when he comes to think of the chances of his dyin' and leavin' yer alone, he'll give his consent. Come, Alice, say yes, do, now?" The intense eagerness of his manner made her tremble, from sympathy, but she looked into his blazing eyes firmly, as she replied, "Never! so long as I live, never! And you must not speak of it again, unless you want to be discharged from--" "Don't you threaten me, Miss Alice. I ain't the stuff to be threatened. If I'd have said what I've said this day, three weeks ago, you wouldn't have been so mighty cool. Not that I think I'm good enough for ye--there ain't the man livin' that's that; but I'm as good as some as thinks themselves better--and I won't be bluffed off by any broadcloth coat. I've loved you ever since you were a little girl, and fell in the mill-pond onct, and I fished ye out. I've loved ye more years than he's seen ye weeks, and I won't be bluffed off. Jes' so sure as I live, that man shall never marry you, Alice Wilde." "He never thought of it; and it hurts me, Ben, to have you speak of it. Let me go now, this instant." She pulled her hand out of his, and hurried away, forgetful of the bird he had given her. Love, rage, and despair were in the glance he cast after her; but when, a few moments later, as he made his way back toward the mill, he passed Philip Moore, who gave him a pleasant, careless nod, _hate_--the dangerous hate of envy, jealousy, and ignorance, darkened his swarthy brow. Poor Alice, nervous almost to sobbing, pursued her homeward way. She had never thought of marriage except as a Paradise in some far, Arcadian land of dreams which she had fashioned from books and the instincts of her young heart; and now to have the idea thrust upon her by this rude, determined fellow, who doubtless considered himself her equal, shocked her as a bird is shocked and hurt by the rifle's clamor. And if this young man thought himself a fit husband for her, perhaps others thought the same--perhaps her father would wish her to accept him, some time in the far future--perhaps Philip--ah, Philip! how almost glorified he looked to her vision as at that moment he came out of the forest-shadows into the path, his straw-hat in his hand, and the wind tossing his brown hair. "Here is the little humming-bird, at last! was it kind of her to fly away by herself on this last afternoon of my stay?" How gay his voice, how beaming his smile, while _she_ was so sad! she felt it and grew sadder still. She tried to reply as gayly, but her lip trembled. "What's the matter with the little Wilde-rose?" he asked, kindly looking down into the suffused eyes. "I've been thinking how very lonely I shall be. My father is going away, too, you know, and I shall have no one but good old Pallas." "And that handsome young man I just saw parting from you," he said, mischievously, looking to see her blush and smile. "Oh, Mr. Moore, is it possible you think I could care for _him_?" she asked, with a sudden air of womanly pride which vanished in a deep blush the next instant. "Well, I don't know; you _are_ too good for him," he answered, frankly, as if the idea had just occurred to him. An expression of pain swept over Alice's face. "I know, Mr. Moore, how you must regard me; and I can not blame you for it. I know that I am ignorant--a foolish, ignorant child,--that my dress is odd, my manner awkward,--that the world, if it should see me, would laugh at me--that my mind is uncultivated,--but oh, Mr. Moore, you do not know how eager I am to learn--how hard I should study! I wish my father would send me away to school." "That would just spoil your sweet, peculiar charms, little Alice." He smoothed her hair soothingly, as he would have done a child's; but something in her tone had put a new thought in his mind; he looked at her earnestly as she blushed beneath this first slight caress which he had ever given her. "Can it be so?" he asked himself; and in his eyes the young girl suddenly took more womanly proportions. "How very--how exquisitely beautiful she is now, with the soul glowing through her face. Shall I ever again see a woman such as this--pure as an infant, loving, devoted, unselfish, and so beautiful?" Another face, haughty, clear-cut, with braids of perfumed black hair, arose before his mental vision, and took place beside this sweet, troubled countenance. One so unmoved, so determined, even in the moment of giving bitter pain--this other so confiding, so shy, so full of every girlish beauty. Philip was touched--_almost_ to saying something which he might afterward regret; but he was a Moore, and he had his pride and his prejudices, stubborn as old Mortimer Moore's, nearly. These hardened his heart against the sentiment he saw trembling through that eloquent countenance. "You are but a little girl yet, and will have plenty of chance to grow wise," he continued playfully. "This pretty Wilde-rose 'needs not the foreign aid of ornament.' When I come again, I hope to find her just as she is now--unless she should have become the bride of that stalwart forester." "Then you are coming again?" she asked, ignoring the cruel kindness of the latter part of his speech, and thinking only of that dim future possibility of again seeing and hearing him, again being in his presence, no matter how indifferent he might be to her. For Alice Wilde, adoring him as no man ever deserved to be adored, still, in her forest simplicity, called not her passion love, nor cherished it from any hope of its being reciprocated. No; she herself considered herself unworthy of the thought of one so much more accomplished, so much wiser than herself. Her's was "The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow;" and now that there was a chance in the future for her to burn her white wings still more cruelly, she grew a shade happier. "I have business with your father which will bring me here again, perhaps this fall, in October, certainly, in the spring. What shall I bring you when I come again, Alice? You've been a kind hostess, and I owe you many happy hours. I should like to make you some trifling return." She looked up in his face sadly, thinking she should like to ask him to remember her, but she dared not trust herself. "If you will select some books--such as you think I ought to study, my father will buy them for me." "Don't you love jewelry and such pretty trifles as other girls seek after?" "I really don't know; I've no doubt I could cultivate such a liking," she replied, with some of her native archness. "I wouldn't try very hard--you're better without," he said, pressing a light kiss on her forehead; and the two went slowly home, walking more silently than was their wont. Pallas saw them, as they came up through the garden, and gave them a scrutinizing look which did not seem to be satisfactory. "Dat chile's troubles jes' began," she murmured to herself. "Ef dese yer ole arms could hide her away from ebery sorrow, Pallas would be happy. But dey can't. Things happen as sure as the worl'; and girls will be girls--it's in em; jes' as sartin as it's in eggs to be chickens, and acorns to be oaks. Hi! hi!" CHAPTER V. AN APPALLING VISITOR. One bright September day, after David Wilde had been gone about a week with his raft, a wood-cutter came to the cabin with bad news. He informed Alice that the woods were on fire two or three miles back, and that the wind was driving the fire in a broad belt of a mile wide directly toward the house; that if the wind did not subside with the setting of the sun, nothing could preserve the place from destruction by the middle of the next day. Alice had been sitting at the window, thinking how delicious that soft, dry wind was, but now she prayed with all her heart that it might speedily die. It was yet many hours to sunset; and she, with Pallas, went into the forest until they could see the fire, and were in some danger from the drifting sparks. The foresters shook their heads and told her to be prepared for the worst; Pallas groaned and prayed as if she had been at a camp-meeting; but Alice, although she trembled before the mighty power of the conflagration, endeavored not to lose her presence of mind. "I shall hope for the best," she said to the men, "but shall be prepared for the worst. Go to the mill and bring round by the river all the skiffs you can muster--there are two or three, are there not? They will be ready by evening, and if the wind does not change, or go down, by that time, we will try and save the furniture by means of the boats. Come, Pallas, let us go home and pack up the smaller things." "Home!" The word sounded sweet, when destruction hovered so near; but Alice had a brave heart; she would think of nothing now but of being equal to the emergency; her calmness had a salutary effect upon the characteristic excitability of her sable attendant, who followed her back in quite a composed and serviceable mood. Moving quietly about, putting her precious books into packages, and getting into movable shape all those little articles of household use which become so dear from association, a looker-on would hardly have guessed how anxiously the young girl waited for sunset--how earnestly she wished that her father had been at home. "My! my! dat nigger of mine is a wusser fool 'an ever," said Pallas, as she bustled about like an embodied storm; "jes' see him, Miss Alice; he's went and put on his bes' clo'es, and dar' he stands, nebber doin' a single ting, but jes' holding dem new boots of his." "What are you dressed up for, Saturn," called Alice, laughing, in spite of her anxiety, to find that he had made provision for that which was dearest to him--his new suit would be saved if he was, and if he perished, it would share his fate. "Oh, missus," he replied, looking foolish, "it's the easiest way to carry 'em." "Better put your boots on, also; then you'll have your hands to work with," suggested Alice. "Jes' so, missus; I never tought of dat;" and on went the boots, after which Saturn was ready to get as much in the way as possible. At sunset, the boats, consisting of two little skiffs which would hold but small freightage, and one larger boat which would accomodate the heavier pieces of furniture, were moored under the stately old elm which had so long stood sentinel over that forest home. Three or four men, among whom was Ben Perkins, held themselves in readiness to give the necessary assistance. The sun went down in a clear sky; there were no clouds to threaten a wished-for rain; but that cold, firm wind which sometimes blows unceasingly three days at a time, in the autumn months, rose higher and higher. There was no moon, and as twilight deepened into night, the thick smoke which hung above the earth rendered the darkness intense; and occasionally when heavy volumes of smoke dropped lower toward the earth, the atmosphere was suffocating. Pallas prepared supper for all, with a strong cup of coffee to keep off drowsiness; and no one retired to bed that night. Shortly after midnight the fire traveled within sight; the roar of the conflagration swelled and deepened until it was like the dashing of a thousand seas; the hot breath of the flames aroused the wind, until it rushed in fury directly toward the cabin. Light flashes of flame would run from tree-top to tree-top, while farther back was a solid cone of fire--trunks from which all the foliage and lesser branches had fallen, stretching their glowing arms across the darkness, towering up against the starless background. Frequently these fiery columns would crumble, with crashes scarcely heard through the continuous roar, sending up a fitful shower of sparks to be whirled on high by the rushing currents of air. Fascinated by the beautiful, appalling scene, Alice sat on the bank of the river, wrapped in a shawl, from which her pale, excited face shone like a star, kindling the enthusiasm of the rude men about her to do something in her service. As for Ben, he scarcely looked at the fire--his eyes were upon the girl. "It's no use," he said to her, about two o'clock in the morning, "waitin' any longer. That fire will be on this very spot by break of day. The wind's a blowin' a perfect gale. Ain't you cold, Miss Alice?" "No, no--not at all. If you think it the only way, then let us begin. My father's desk, with his papers, stands in his bedroom. See to that first, Ben, and then the other things." It did not take long for the active fellows engaged to clear the cabin of all its contents; every thing was put into the boats--and then, as Ben said, "it was high time to clear out." The smoke was suffocating, and sparks and small branches of burning trees were beginning to fall around. Saturn and Pallas were safely stowed in the largest boat, while Alice paddled out into the stream in her own tiny canoe. The track of the fire was a mile in width; but the mill was not threatened by it, nor much troubled by the smoke, the wind carrying it in another direction. The house then occupied by the mill-hands must be the present shelter of the captain's family. Down the river, in the full glare of the conflagration, floated the little convoy. The smoke was not so dense about them now; it hung high above, and rolled in dark billows far beyond. The stream was crimson with the reflection, and the faces of the party looked pallid in the lurid glare--always excepting those two sable faces, turned, with awe and dread, toward that sublime picture of devastation. Suddenly Alice, who was in advance, dropped back. "I must return to the house," she cried, as she came along side of the boat containing Ben and the old servants. "No, you mus'n't," shouted Ben; "it's too late. It's getting mighty warm here now; and them flyin' branches 'll hit ye." "I can't help it," replied Alice, firmly. "There's something in the garret I must have. Father would never forgive us for forgetting that trunk, Pallas." "Law, suz! dat trunk! sure enough," groaned Pallas. "I must get it," said the young girl. "How can you, chile? it's locked, so yer can't get out the things, and of course _you_ couldn't carry it down. Come back! oh, come back, dear chile, won't yer? What's forty trunks to yer own precious life, chile? and them sparks 'll set your dress on fire, and the heat 'll smother yer all up." "I've got a hatchet, and I'll break it open," shouted Alice, now fast rowing back toward the cabin. "That girl's right down crazy," said Ben Perkins; "here Saturn, take these oars, and make 'em fly. I'm goin' after her." He threw off his jacket and boots, plunged into the stream, swam ashore, and ran along the bank, keeping pace with the skiff. Both reached the house at the same instant, they were gone perhaps three minutes, and came forth again, Ben carrying the trunk upon his shoulder. One instant they paused to look upon the wall of fire behind them; but the heat was intolerable. "These falling bits will sartainly set your clothing a-blaze," said Ben, hurrying the young girl away, who would fain have lingered yet around the home which had grown dear to her with her growth--already the garden was withering, and the vines she had planted were drooping before their impending ruin. "My dress is woolen," she said; "but I will go. Oh, Ben, this is terrible, is it not?" "Yes, Miss Alice, but if ye get away safe now, you may thank yer stars. I don't believe the canoe 'll hold you and the trunk both," he remarked, as he deposited his precious (to Alice) burden in the bottom of it. "Yes it will--but you, Ben?" "Oh, I ain't of as much consequence as a trunk," he replied, bitterly. "Take car' of yourself--don't mind me." "I shan't stir from this spot until you come with me, Ben. So get into the boat, quick." "Get in yourself, Miss Alice, and make good time. You'll be baked like a brick, if yer don't get out of this soon. I'm going to swim 'long side. What's a mile or two, swimmin' down stream?" He threw himself in the water, and struck out, as he spoke. She kept beside of him, refusing to go faster than he, that she might give him aid, in case he became exhausted; the river at this spot was over a mile in width, and it would have been difficult for him, tired and heated as he already was, to make the opposite shore. As they made their way along in this manner, the wind swept the hot breath of the fire around them in suffocating waves. The cold surface of the river kept the air comparatively pure for two or three feet above it, or they would have smothered; but as it was, Alice gasped for breath convulsively at times. "Alice! Alice! you are sufferin'--you can't stand it," cried her companion in a voice which betrayed the agony of his soul--it thrilled through her, it was so sharp with pain. "Don't be uneasy, Ben, we're nearly clear of the fire, now;" but struggle as bravely as she might, she could endure the heat no longer, and she, too, leaped into the river, and sheltering herself beneath the shadow of the skiff, swam boldly on, holding a small rope in her hand which secured it from floating off. As soon as the advance party had got out of the smoke and heat, they waited the return of the two, who made their appearance in an alarming condition, Alice having become exhausted in the water, and Ben having her in one arm, and swimming with the other, while he towed the skiff by a rope held between his teeth. Alice fainted away when she found herself safe in Pallas' motherly arms; and Ben might have followed her example had not one of his comrades been ready with a flask of spirits. It was thought best to administer the same restorative to the young girl, who soon revived, murmuring: "Father will be so glad the trunk is safe, Pallas." As the morning broke, the party reached the shelter of the mill. It was two or three days before Alice was well enough to visit the ruins of her beloved home; and then she could only row along the river and gaze upon the blackened and smoking mass, for the earth was still too hot to be ventured upon. The cabin smoldered in a heap; the top of the great elm was blackened and the foliage gone, but it had not fallen, and the grass was crisped and withered to the edge of the river. The tears streamed down her cheeks as she gazed; but with the hopefulness of youth, she passed on, seeking a new spot to consecrate as a second home. It was vain to think of rebuilding in the same vicinity, as all its beauty was destroyed, and it would take some years for it to renew itself. She knew that her father did not wish to live too near to his mill, as he had always kept his home aloof from it; that he would be satisfied with such a spot as she liked; and she was ambitious to begin the work, for she knew the winter would be upon them before they could complete a new house, if plans were not early made. There was a lovely spot just beyond the ravages of the fire, where the river made a crescent which held in its hollow a grove of beech and elm and a sloping lawn, standing in advance of the dark pines stretching back into the interior. As her father owned the land for some distance along the shore she was at liberty to make her choice, and she made it here. Ben Perkins, when necessity demanded, was the carpenter of the place. He had a full set of tools, and there were others of the men capable of helping him. There was timber, plenty of it, already sawed, for the frame of the new house, and while a portion went to work upon it, boards were sawed for the siding, and shingles turned out of the shingle-machine. As the "hands" said, Alice made an excellent captain. A little sleeping-apartment had been constructed for her off the main cabin, at the mill, and her own bed put up in it; but she did not like the publicity of the table and the place, and longed for the new home to be completed. The emotions of David Wilde were not enviable when, upon his return, he came in sight of the blackened ruins of his home. He did not so much heed the vast destruction of valuable timber, as he did the waste of that snug little, vine-covered cabin, with the garden, the flowers, and the associations clustering about all. The first question he asked when he clasped his child to his heart, and found _her_ safe, was of old Pallas: "That trunk in the garret--was it saved?" "Pickaninny saved dat ar' trunk, masser. She tought you had suthin' important in it, and she _would_ go back;" and Alice felt repaid for all the risk she had run, when she saw the look of relief upon her father's face. Ben Perkins had planned the new house, the frame of which was ready to be raised the day after the captain's return. Whether he had cunningly calculated that the family would some time be increased, or not, certain it is that he made liberal allowance for such a contingency. He had much natural talent as an architect, and from some printed plans which had fallen into his possession, he contrived a very pretty rustic cottage, with sharp-pointed gables something in the Gothic style, and a porch in front. Alice was charmed with it. "We'll get the house in livin' order in a month or two; but yer can't have all the fixin's over the windows and the porch afore spring; I'll have to make 'em all by hand, through the winter, when thar' ain't much else a-doin'." Ben was ambitious to conciliate Alice, and to make her feel how useful he could be to her and her father. Love prompted his head and hands to accomplish wonders. Poor Ben! work as he might, gain her expressions of gratitude and admiration as he might, that was the most. There was always a reserve about her which held his fiery feelings in check. His was not a nature, either to check and control its own strong passions, or to give up an object upon which they were once set. A settled gloom came over his olive face, and his eyes burned like smoldering fires beneath their black brows. He no longer had pleasant remarks to make; no longer brought daily gifts of fish, birds, berries, squirrels, venison, or grapes to Alice; no longer tried to break down her reserve--he just worked--worked constantly, perseveringly, moodily. Alice herself was scarcely more gay. He guessed whose image filled her mind, when she sat so long without moving, looking off at the frost-tinted forests; and the thought was bitterness. It was necessary for Captain Wilde to go again to some settlement down the river, to get hinges, locks, window-sashes, glass, etc., for the new house, which was to be ready for those finishing touches, by the time of his return. He did not know, when he set out, whether he would go as far as Center City, or stop at some smaller point nearer home. One day, about the time of his expected return, Ben had gone for Alice, to get her opinion about some part of the house. They stood together, on the outside, consulting about it, so interested in the detail that they neither of them noticed the boat upon the river, until it was moored to the bank, and the voice of the raftsman was heard calling to them. Both turned at the same moment and saw that Philip Moore was in company with Mr. Wilde. Ben's eyes fixed themselves instantly upon Alice's face, which was first pale and then red. He saw the great throb her heart gave, heard the sudden catch in her breath; and he was still looking at her when Philip sprang gayly up the path and seized her hand--the man who loved her better than life saw all the blushes of womanhood coming and going upon her face at the touch of another's hand. A threatening blackness clouded his brow; Alice saw it, and knew that he read her secret by the light of his own passion; she almost shuddered at the dark look which he flashed upon Philip; but her father was calling for assistance to unload his craft, and Ben went forward without speaking. "What a surly fellow that is, for one so good-looking and young," remarked Philip, carelessly, looking after him. "He is not always so surly," Alice felt constrained to say in his defense: "he's vexed now about something." "But that's an ill-tempered look for a youthful face, Alice. I'm afraid he'd hardly make a woman very happy--eh, Alice?" "That's a matter which does not interest me, Mr. Moore, I assure you," answered the young girl, with an unexpected flash of pride. CHAPTER VI. THE COLD HOUSE-WARMING. "It's an ill-wind dat blows nobody no good; and dat yar wind dat blowed de fire right down on our cabin did us some good ater all. Masser 'ud libbed in dat log-house till de day he died, hadn't been for dat fire dat frighted me so, and made me pray fasser 'n eber I prayed afore. Lord! Miss Alice, it looked like de judgment-day, when we sailed down de ribber in de light ob de pine-woods. 'Peared to me de worl' was all on fire. I see Saturn a shakin' in his boots. He tole me, nex' day, he tought it was de day of judgment, sure 'nuff. I heard him askin' de good Lord please forgib him fur all de 'lasses he'd taken unbeknown. My! my! I larfed myself to pieces when I tought of it arterward, case I'd never known where de 'lasses went to hadn't been for dat fire. Dis new house mighty nice. Ben didn't forget ole niggers when he built dis--de kitchen, and de pantry, and my settin'-room is mighty comfor'able. Ben's a handy young man--smart as a basket o' chips. He's good 'nuff for _most_ anybody, but he's not good 'nuff for _my_ pickaninny, and he ought to hab sense 'nuff to see it. Ye'd best be kerful, Miss Alice; he's high-tempered, and he'll make trouble. 'Scuse me for speakin'; I know ye've allers been so discreet and as modest as an angel. None can blame you, let what will happen. But I wish dat Mr. Moore would go way. Yes, I _do_, Miss Alice, for more 'n one reason. Don't tink ole Pallas not see tru a grin'-stone. Ef he wants to leab any peace o' mind behind him, he'd better clar out soon. Thar! thar, chile, nebber mind ole nigger. My! how purty you has made de table look. I'm much obleeged for yer assistance, darlin'. I'se bound to hab a splendid supper, de fust in de new house. 'Taint much of a house-warmin', seein' we'd nobody to invite, and no fiddle, but we've done what we could to make things pleasant. Laws! ef dat nigger ob mine wasn't sech a fool he could make a fiddle, and play suthin' for us, times when we was low-sperited." Pallas' tongue did not go any faster than her hands and feet. It was the first day in the new house, and Alice and herself had planned to decorate the principal apartment, and have an extra nice supper. Ever since her father left for the mill, in the middle of the day, after the furniture was moved in, while Pallas put things "to rights," she had woven wreaths of evergreens, with scarlet dogberries and brilliant autumn-leaves interspersed, which she had festooned about the windows and doors; and now she was busy decorating the table, while the old colored woman passed in and out, adding various well-prepared dishes to the feast. Pallas had been a famous cook in her day, and she still made the best of the materials at her command. A large cake, nicely frosted, and surrounded with a wreath, was one of the triumphs of her skill. A plentiful supply of preserved strawberries and wild-plum marmalade, grape-jelly, and blackberry-jam adorned the board. A venison-pie was baking in the oven, and a salmon, that would have roused the envy of Delmonico's, was boiling in the pot, while she prepared a sauce for it, for which, in times gone by, she had received many a compliment. Philip had been taken into the secret of the feast, as Alice was obliged to depend upon him for assistance in getting evergreens. He was now out after a fresh supply, and Alice was beginning to wish he would make more haste, lest her father should return before the preparations were complete. Again and again she went to the door to look out for him; and at last, six o'clock being come and past, she said with a pretty little frown of vexation: "There's father coming, and Mr. Moore not back!" The feast waited until seven--eight--and yet Philip had not returned. Several of the men who had been busy about the house during the day were invited into supper; and at eight o'clock they sat down to it, in something of silence and apprehension, for every one by this time had come to the conclusion that Philip was lost in the woods. Poor Alice could not force herself to eat. She tried to smile as she waited upon her guests; but her face grew paler and her eyes larger every moment. Not that there was any such great cause for fright; there were no wild animals in that vicinity, except an occasional hungry bear in the spring, who had made his way from some remote forest; but she was a woman, timid and loving, and her fears kept painting terrible pictures of death by starvation, fierce wolves, sly panthers, and all the horrors of darkness. "Poh! poh! child, don't look so scart," said her father, though he was evidently hurrying his meal, and quite unconscious of the perfection of the salmon-sauce, "there's no cause. He's lost; but he can't get so fur in the wrong direction but we'll rouse him out with our horns and lanterns and guns. We'll load our rifles with powder and fire 'em off. He hasn't had time to get fur." "Likely he'll make his own way back time we're through supper," remarked one of the men cheerfully, as he helped himself to a second large piece of venison-pie. "'Tain't no use to be in a hurry. These city folks can't find thar way in the woods quite like us fellers, though. They ain't up to 't." Alice looked over at the speaker; and, albeit she was usually so hospitable, wished he _would_ make more speed with his eating. Pallas waited upon the table in profound silence. Something was upon her mind; but when Alice looked at her anxiously she turned her eyes away, pretending to be busy with her duties. Ben Perkins had been asked to supper, but did not make his appearance until it was nearly over. When he came in he did not look anybody straight in the face, but sitting down with a reckless, jovial air, different from his usual taciturn manner, began laughing, talking, and eating, filling his plate with every thing he could reach. "Have you seen any thing of Mr. Moore?" was the first question put to him, in the hope of hearing from the absent man. "Moore? no,--ain't he here? Thought of course he'd be here makin' himself agreeable to the women;" and he laughed. Whether Alice's excited state exalted all her perceptions, or whether her ears were more finely strung than those around her, this laugh, short, dry, and forced, chilled her blood. He did not look toward her as he spoke, but her gaze was fixed upon him with a kind of fascination; she could not turn it away, but sat staring at him, as if in a dream. Only once did he lift his eyes while he sat at the table, and then it was toward her; they slowly lifted as if her own fixed gaze drew them up; she saw them clearly for an instant, and--such eyes! His soul was in them, although he knew it not--a fallen soul--and the covert look of it through those lurid eyes was dreadful. A strange tremulousness now seized upon Alice. She hurried her father and his men in their preparations, brought the lanterns, the rifles, the powder-horns; her hands shaking all the time. They laughed at her for a foolish child; and she said nothing, only to hurry them. Ben was among the most eager for the search. He headed a party which he proposed should strike directly back into the wood; but two or three thought best to go in another direction, so as to cover the whole ground. When they had all disappeared in the wood, their lights flashing here and there through openings and their shouts ringing through the darkness, Alice said to Pallas: "Let us go too. There is another lantern. You won't be afraid, will you?" "I'll go, to please you, chile, for I see yer mighty restless. I don't like trabelling in de woods at night, but de Lord's ober all, and I'll pray fas' and loud if I get skeered." A phantom floated in the darkness before the eyes of Alice all through that night spent in wandering through forest depths, but it was shapeless, and she would not, dared not give shape to it. All night guns were fired, and the faithful men pursued their search; and at daybreak they returned, now really alarmed, to refresh their exhausted powers with strong coffee and a hastily-prepared breakfast, before renewing their exertions. The search became now of a different character. Convinced that the missing man could not have got beyond the hearing of the clamor they had made through the night, they now anticipated some accident, and looked closely into every shadow and under every clump of fallen trees, behind logs, and into hollows. Drinking the coffee which Pallas forced upon her, Alice again set forth, not with the others, but alone, walking like one distracted, darting wild glances hither and thither, and calling in an impassioned voice that wailed through the wilderness, seeming to penetrate every breath of air,--"Philip! Philip!" And now she saw where he had broken off evergreens the day before, and fluttering round and round the spot, like a bird crying after its robbed nest, she sobbed,--"Philip! Philip!" And then she saw _him_, sitting on a log, pale and haggard-looking, his white face stained with blood and his hair mottled with it, a frightful gash across his temple and head, which he drooped upon his hand; and he tried to answer her. Before she could reach him he sank to the ground. "He is dead!" she cried, flying forward, sinking beside him, and lifting his head to her knee. "Father! father! come to us!" They heard her sharp cry, and, hastening to the spot, found her, pale as the body at her feet, gazing down into the deathly face. "Alice, don't look so, child. He's not dead--he's only fainted. Here, men, lift him up speedily, for he's nigh about gone. Thar's been mischief here--no mistake!" Captain Wilde breathed hard as he glared about upon his men. The thought had occurred to him that some one had attempted to murder the young man for his valuable watch and chain and the well-filled purse he was supposed to carry. But no--the watch and money were undisturbed;--may be he had fallen and cut his head--if he should revive, they would know all. They bore him to the house and laid him upon Alice's white bed in the pretty room just arranged for her comfort; it was the quietest, pleasantest place in the house, and she would have him there. After the administration of a powerful dose of brandy, the faint pulse of the wounded man fluttered up a little stronger; more was given him, the blood was wiped away, and cool, wet napkins kept around his head; and by noon of the same day, he was able to give some account of himself. He was sitting in the very spot where they had found him, on the previous afternoon, with a heap of evergreens gathered about him, preoccupied in making garlands, so that he saw nothing, heard nothing, until _something_--it seemed to him a club wielded by some assailant who had crept up behind him--struck him a blow which instantly deprived him of his senses. How long he lay, bleeding and stunned, he could only guess; it seemed to be deep night when he recalled what had happened, and found himself lying on the ground, confused by the pain in his head and faint from loss of blood. He managed to crawl upon the log, so as to lean his head upon his arms, and had been there many hours. He heard the shouts and saw the lights which came near him two or three times, but he could not make noise enough to attract attention. When he heard Alice's voice, he had lifted himself into a sitting posture, but the effort was too great, and he sank again, exhausted, at the moment relief reached him. His hearers looked in each other's faces as they heard his story. _Who_ could have done that murderous deed? What was the object? the pleasant young stranger had no enemies,--he had not been robbed; there were no Indians known to be about, and Indians would have finished their work with the scalping-knife. Alas! the terrible secret preyed at the heart of Alice Wilde. She knew, though no mortal lips had revealed it, who was the would-be murderer. A pair of eyes had unconsciously betrayed it. She had read "_murder_" there, and the wherefore was now evident. Yet she had no proof of that of which she was so conscious. Should she denounce the guilty man, people would ask for evidence of his crime. What would she have to offer?--that the criminal loved her, and she loved the victim. No! she would keep the gnawing truth in her own bosom, only whispering a warning to the sufferer should he ever be well enough to need it; a matter by no means settled, as David Wilde was doctor enough to know. Despite of all the preventives within reach, a fever set in that night, and for two or three days, Philip was very ill, a part of the time delirious; there was much more probability of his dying than recovering. Both Mr. Wilde and Pallas had that skill picked up by the necessity of being doctors to all accidents and diseases around them; and they exerted themselves to the utmost for their unfortunate young guest. Then it was that Mr. Wilde found where the heart of his little girl had gone astray; and cursed himself for his folly in exposing her to a danger so probable. Yet, as he looked at her sweet face, worn with watching and trouble, he could not but believe that the hand of the proudest aristocrat on earth was none too good for her, and that Philip would recognize her beauty and worth. If she _must_ love, and be married, he would more willingly resign her to Philip Moore than to any other man. Alice lacked experience as a nurse, but she followed every motion of the good old colored woman, and stood ready to interfere where she could be of any use. Sitting hour after hour by Philip's bedside, changing the wet cloths constantly to keep them cool, she heard words from his delirious lips which added still more to her despair--fond, passionate words, addressed not to her, but to some beloved woman, some beautiful "Virginia," now far away, unconscious of her lover's danger, while to her fell the sad pleasure of attending upon him. "Oh, that he may live, and not die by the hand of an assassin, so innocent a victim to a needless jealousy. Oh, that he may live to save this Virginia, whoever she may be, from the fate of a hopeless mourner. It will be joy enough for _me_ to save his life," she cried to herself. The crisis passed; the flush of fever was succeeded by the languor and pallor of extreme prostration; but the young man's constitution was excellent, and he recovered rapidly. Then how it pleased Pallas to cook him tempting dishes; and how it pleased Alice to see the appetite with which he disposed of them. Women love to serve those who are dear to them; no service can be so homely or so small that their enthusiasm does not exalt it. Yet the stronger Philip grew, the more heavily pressed a cold horror upon the soul of Alice. Ben Perkins had not been to the house since the wounded man was brought into it; and when Alice would have asked her father of his whereabouts, her lips refused to form his name. She hoped that he had fled; but then she knew that if he had disappeared, her father would have mentioned it, and that the act would have fixed suspicion upon him. She felt that he was hovering about, that he often beheld her, when she was unaware of the secret gaze; she could not endure to step to the door after dark, and she closed the curtains of the windows with extremest care, especially in Philip's room. The first light snow of November had fallen when the invalid was able to sit up all day; but, although he knew that his long absence would excite consternation among his friends at Center City, and that business at home required his attention, he found each day of his convalescence so pleasant, that he had not strength of will sufficient to break the charm. To read to his young friend while she sewed; to watch her flitting about the room while he reclined upon a lounge; to talk with her; to study her changing countenance, grew every day more sweet to him. At first he thought it was gratitude--she had been so kind to him. But a thrilling warmth always gathered about his heart when he remembered that passionate voice, crying through the pine-woods with such a sobbing sound--"Philip! Philip!" Finding himself thus disposed to linger, he was the more chagrined to perceive that Alice was anxious to have him go; she gave him no invitation to prolong his visit, and said unequivocally, that if he did not wish to be ice-bound for the winter, he would have to depart as soon as his strength would permit. Her father had promised him, when he came up, to take him down the river again when he was ready, as he should be obliged to go down again for his winter stores; and he now waited his visitor's movements. No words had passed between Alice and Pallas on the subject of the attempted murder, yet the former half knew that the truth was guessed by the faithful servant who also hastened the departure of their guest. "I declare, Aunt Pallas, I believe I have worn out my welcome. I've been a troublesome fellow, I know; but it hurts my vanity to see you getting so tired of me," he said, laughingly, one day, when they were alone together, he sitting on the kitchen-steps after the lazy manner of convalescents, trying to get warmth, both from the fire within and the sun without. "Ole folks never gets tired of young, bright faces, masser Philip. But ole folks knows sometimes what's fer de best, more 'n young ones." "Then you think Miss Alice wants to get rid of me, and you second your darling's wishes--eh, Pallas?" and he looked at her, hoping she would contradict him. "I'd do a' mos' any thing for my pickaninny--I lub her better den life; an' dar' never was anudder such a chile, so pretty and so good, as _I_ know as has been wid her sence she drew her firs' bref. If I tought she wanted you to go, I'd want you to go, too, masser, not meanin' any disrespeck--and she _do_ want you to go; but she's got reasons for it;" and she shook her yellow turban reflectively. "Do you think she is getting to dislike me?" "Dat's her own bisness, ef she is; but dat ain't de main reason. She don't like de look of that red scar down your forrid. She knows who made dat ugly scar, and what fer they did it. She tinks dis a _dangerous_ country for you, Masser Moore, and Pallas tink so too. Go way, masser, quick as you can, and nebber come back any more." "But I _shall_ come back, Aunt Pallas, next spring, to bring you something nice for all you've done for me, and because--because--I shan't be able to stay away," he answered, though somewhat startled and puzzled by her revelation. "Why not be able to stay 'way?" queried she, with a sharp glance. "Oh, you can guess, Aunt Pallas. I shan't tell you." "People isn't allers satisfied with guessing--like to have things plain, and no mistake 'bout 'em," observed Pallas. "Just so. _I_ am not satisfied with guessing who tried to kill me, and what their object was. I am going to ask Alice, this evening. She's evidently frightened about me; she won't let me stir a step alone. So you think your pickaninny is the best and the prettiest child alive, do you?" "Dat I do." "So do I. What do you suppose she thinks of such a worthless kind of a person as myself? Do, now, tell me, won't you, auntie?" "You clar out, young masser, and don't bozzer me. I'se busy wid dis ironin'. You'd better ask _her_, if yer want to find out." "But can't you say something to encourage me?" "You go 'long. Better tease somebody hain't got no ironin' on hand." "You'll repent of your unkindness soon, Aunt Pallas; for, be it known to you, to-morrow is set for my departure, and when I'm gone it will be too late to send your answer after me;" and the young man rose, with a very becoming air of injured feeling which delighted her much. "Hi! hi! ef it could only be," she sighed, looking after him. "But we can't smoof tings out in dis yere worl' quite so easy as I smoof out dis table-cloth. He's one ob de family, no mistake; and masser's found it out, too, 'fore dis." That night the family sat up late, Pallas busy in the kitchen putting up her master's changes of linen and cooked provisions for the next day's journey, and the master himself busied about many small affairs demanding attention. The two young people sat before a blazing wood-fire in the front room; the settle had been drawn up to it for Philip's convenience, and his companion at his request had taken a seat by his side. The curtains were closely drawn, yet Alice would frequently look around in a timid, wild way, which he could not but notice. "You did not use to be so timid." "I have more reason now;" and she shuddered. "Until you were hurt, Mr. Moore, I did not think how near we might be to murderers, even in our house." "You should not allow it to make such an impression on your mind. It is passed; and such things scarcely happen twice in one person's experience." "I do not fear for myself--it is for you, Mr. Moore." "Philip, you called me, that night in the woods. Supposing I _was_ in danger, little Alice, what would you risk for me?" She did not answer. "Well, what would you risk for some one you loved--say, your father?" "All things--my life." "There are some people who would rather risk their life than their pride, their family name, or their money. Supposing a man loved a woman very much, and she professed to return his love, but was not willing to share his meager fortunes with him; could not sacrifice splendor and the passion for admiration, for his sake--what would you think of her?" "That she did not love him." "But you do not know, little Alice; you have never been tempted; and you know nothing of the strength of fashion in the world, of the influence of public opinion, of the pride of appearances." "I have guessed it," she answered, sadly. He thought there was a shadow of reproach in those pure eyes, as if she would have added, that she had been made to feel it, too. "I loved a woman once," he continued; "loved her so rashly that I would have let her set her perfect foot upon my neck and press my life out. She knew how I adored her, and she told me she returned my passion. But she would not resign any of her rank and influence for my sake." "Was her name Virginia?" "It was; how did you know?" "You talked of her when you were ill." "I'll warrant. But _she_ wouldn't have sat up one night by my bedside, for fear her eyes would be less brilliant for the next evening's ball. She drove me off to the West to make a fortune for her to spend, in case she did not get hold of somebody else's by that time. Do you think I ought to make it for her?" There was no answer. His companion's head was drooping. He lifted one of her hands, as he went on: "I was so dazzled by her magnificence that, for a long time, I could see nothing in its true light. But my vision is clear now. Virginia shall never have my fortune to spend, nor me to twist around her jeweled finger." The hand he held began to tremble. "Now, little Alice, supposing I had told _you_ of such love, and you had professed to answer it, what sacrifices would you have made? Would you have given me that little gold heart you wear about your neck--your only bit of ornamentation?" "I would have made a sacrifice, full as great in its way, as the decline in pomp and position might have been to the proud lady," she replied, lifting her eyes calmly to his face. "I would have _refused_ the offered happiness if, by accepting it, I thought I should ever, by my ignorance of proprieties, give him cause to blush for me--if I thought my uncultivated tastes would some time disappoint him, that he would grow weary of me as a friend and companion because I was not truly fitted for that place--if I thought I was not worthy of him, I would sacrifice _myself_, and try to wish only for his best happiness." Her eyes sank, as she ceased speaking, and the tears which would come into them, gushed over her cheeks. "Worthy! you are more than worthy of the best man in the world, Alice! far more than worthy of _me_!" cried Philip, in a rapture he could not restrain. "O Alice, if you only loved _me_ in that fashion!" "You know that I do," she replied, with that archness so native to her, smiling through her tears. "Then say no more. There--don't speak--don't speak!" and he shut her mouth with the first kiss of a lover. For a while their hearts beat too high with happiness to recall any of the difficulties of their new relation. "We shall have small time to lay plans for the future, now. But I shall fly to you on the first breezes of spring, Alice. Your father shall know all, on our way down the river. Oh, if there was only a mail through this forlorn region. I could write to you, at least." "I shall have so much to do, the winter will speedily pass; I must study the books you brought me. But I shall not allow myself to hope too much," she added, with a sudden melancholy, such as sometimes is born of prophetic instinct. "_I_ can not hope too highly!" said Philip, with enthusiasm. "Here comes your father. Dear Alice, your cheeks are so rosy, I believe he will read our secret to-night." CHAPTER VII. SUSPENSE. What was the consternation of Alice when her father returned the evening of the day of his departure and told her he had concluded he could not be spared for the trip, and so, when they reached the mill, he had chosen Ben to fill his place! Every vestige of color fled from her face. "O father! how could you trust him with Philip?" burst forth involuntarily. "Trust Ben? Why, child, thar ain't a handier sailor round the place. And if he wan't, I guess Moore could take care of himself--he'll manage a craft equal to an old salt." "Can't you go after them, father? oh, do go, now, this night--this hour!" "Why, child, you're crazy!" replied the raftsman, looking at her in surprise. "I never saw you so foolish before. Go after a couple of young chaps full-grown and able to take care of themselves? They've the only sail-boat there is, besides--and I don't think I shall break my old arms rowing after 'em when they've got a good day's start," and he laughed good-naturedly. "Go along, little one, I'm 'fraid you're love-cracked." Got the only sail-boat there was! There would be no use, then, in making her father the confidant of her suspicions. It seemed as if fate had fashioned this mischance. Several of the men had got into a quarrel, at the mill, that morning; some of the machinery had broken, and so much business pressed upon the owner, that he had been obliged to relinquish his journey. He had selected Ben as his substitute because he was his favorite among all his employees; trusty, quick, honest, would make a good selection of winter stores, and render a fair account of the money spent. Such had been the young man's character; and the little public of Wilde's mill did not know that a stain had come upon it--that the mark of Cain was secretly branded upon the swarthy brow which once could have flashed back honest mirth upon them. They say "the devil is not so black as he is painted;" and surely Ben Perkins was not so utterly depraved as might be thought. He was a heathen; one of those white heathen, found plentifully in this Christian country, not only in the back streets of cities, but in the back depths of sparsely-settled countries. He had grown up without the knowledge of religion, as it is taught, except an occasional half-understood sensation sermon from some travelling missionary--he had never been made to comprehend the beauty of the precepts of Christ--and he had no education which would teach him self-control and the noble principle of self-government. Unschooled, with a high temper and fiery passions, generous and kindly, with a pride of character which would have been fine had it been enlightened, but which degenerated to envy and jealousy of his superiors in this ignorant boy-nature--the good and the bad grew rankly together. From the day upon which he "hired out," a youth of eighteen, to Captain Wilde, and saw Alice Wilde, a child of twelve, looking shyly up at him through her golden curls, he had loved her. He had worked late and early, striven to please his employer, shown himself hardy, courageous, and trustworthy--had done extra jobs that he might accumulate a little sum to invest in property--all in the hope of some time daring to ask her to marry him. Her superior refinement, her innate delicacy, her sweet beauty were felt by him only to make him love her the more desperately. As the sun fills the ether with warmth and light, so she filled his soul. It was not strange that he was infuriated by the sight of another man stepping in and winning so easily what he had striven for so long--he saw inevitably that Alice would love Philip Moore--this perfumed and elegant stranger, with his fine language, his fine clothes, and his fine manners. He conceived a deadly hate for him. All that was wicked in him grew, choking down every thing good. He allowed himself to brood over his wrongs, as he regarded them; growing sullen, imprudent, revengeful. Then the opportunity came, and he fell beneath the temptation. Chance had saved him from the consummation of the deed, though not from the guilt of the intent. He had thought himself, for half a day, to be a murderer,--and during those hours the rash boy had changed into the desperate man. Whether he had suffered so awfully in conscience that he was glad to hear of the escape of his intended victim, or whether he swore still to consummate his wish, his own soul only knew. Everybody at Wilde's mill had remarked the change in him, from a gay youth full of jests and nonsense to a quiet, morose man, working more diligently than ever, but sullenly rejecting all advances of sport or confidence. If he _was_ secretly struggling for the mastery over evil, it was a curious fatality which threw him again upon a temptation so overwhelming in its ease and security of accomplishment. Ah, well did the unhappy Alice realize how easily now he could follow his intent--how fully in his power was that unsuspicious man who had already suffered so much from his hands. Appetite and sleep forsook her; if she slept it was but to dream of a boat gliding down a river, of a strong man raising a weak one in his grasp and hurling him, wounded and helpless, into the waters, where he would sink, sink, till the waves bubbled over his floating hair, and all was gone. Many a night she started from her sleep with terrified shrieks, which alarmed her father. "'Tain't right for a young girl to be having the nightmare so, Pallas. Suthin' or another is wrong about her--hain't no nerves lately. I do hope she ain't goin' to be one of the screechin', faintin' kind of women folks. I detest sech. Her health can't be good. Do try and find out what's the matter with her; she'll tell you quicker 'an she will me. Fix her up some kind of tea." "De chile ain't well, masser; dat's berry plain. She's getting thin every day, and she don't eat 'nuff to keep a bird alive. But it's her _mind_, masser--'pend on it, it's her mind. Dese young gentleum make mischief. Wish I had masser Moore under my thumb--I'd give him a scoldin' would las' him all his life." "Cuss Philip Moore, and all others of his class," muttered the raftsman, moodily. Both Mr. Wilde and Pallas began to lose their high opinion of the young man, as they witnessed the silent suffering of their darling. His going down the river without his expected company had cheated Philip out of the revelation he had desired to make; and Alice, with that excessive delicacy of some timid young girls, had not even confided her secret to her good old nurse. Much better it would have been for her peace of mind, had she told all to her friends--her love and her fears. Then, if they had seen good reason for her apprehensions, they might have chased the matter down, at whatever trouble, and put her out of suspense. But she did not do it. She shut the growing terror in her heart where it fed upon her life day by day. There was no regular communication between Wilde's mill and the lower country, and in the winter what little there had been was cut off. The lovely, lingering Indian-summer days, in the midst of which the two voyagers had set out, were over, and ice closed the river the very day after the return of Ben. A sudden agony of hope and fear convulsed the heart of Alice, when her father entered the house one day, and announced Ben's arrival. "Did he not bring me a letter? was there no letter for you, father?" It would be so natural that he should write, at least to her father, some message of good wishes and announcement of his safe journey--if she could see his own handwriting, she would be satisfied that all was well. "Thar' was none for me. If Ben got a letter for you, I s'pose he'll tell you so, as he's coming in with some things." "Have you any thing for me--any message or letter?" It was the first time she had met Ben, face to face, since that never-to-be-forgotten night of the house-warming; but now he looked her in the eyes, without any shrinking, and it appeared to her as if the shadow which had lain upon him was lifted. He certainly looked more cheerful than he had done since the day of Philip's unexpected arrival at the new house. Was it because he felt that an enemy was out of the way? Alice could not tell; she waited for him to speak, as the prisoner waits for the verdict of a jury. "Thar' ain't any letter, Miss Alice," he replied, "but thar's a package--some presents for you, and some for Pallas, too, from Mr. Moore. He told me to tell you that he was safe and sound, and hoped you'd accept the things he sent." His eyes did not quail as he made this statement, though he knew that she was searching them keenly. Perhaps there was a letter in the bundle. She carried it to her own room and tore it open. No! not a single written word. The gifts for the old servant--silk aprons, gay-colored turbans, and a string of gold beads--were in one bundle. In another was a lady's dressing-case, with brushes, perfumeries, and all those pretty trifles which grace the feminine toilet, a quantity of fine writing materials, paper-folder, gold-pen, some exquisite small engravings, and, in a tiny box, a ring set with a single pure pearl. That ring! was it indeed a betrothal ring, sent to her by her lover, which she should wear to kiss and pray over? or was it intended to help her into a bond with his murderer? Eagerly she scanned every bit of wrapping-paper to find some proof that it was Philip's own hand which had made up the costly and tasteful gifts. She could find nothing to satisfy her. They might have been purchased with his money, but not by him. The ring which she would have worn so joyfully had she been certain it had come from him, she put back in its case without even trying it on her finger. "O God!" she murmured, throwing herself upon her knees, "must I bear this suspense all this endless winter?" Yes, all that endless winter the weight of suspense was not to be lifted--nor for yet more miserable months. December sat in extremely cold, and the winter throughout was one of unusual severity. As the Christmas holidays drew near, that time of feasting so precious to the colored people raised in "ole Virginny," Saturn bestirred himself a little out of his perpetual laziness. If he would give due assistance in beating eggs and grinding spices, chopping suet and picking fowls, as well as "keep his wife in kindling-wood," Pallas promised him rich rewards in the way of dainties, and also to make him his favorite dish a--woodchuck pie. "'Clar' to gracious, I don't feel a bit of heart 'bout fixin' up feastesses dis yere Chris'mas," said she to him, one evening in the midst of the bustle of preparation. "We've allers been Christian folks 'nuff to keep Chris'mas, even in de wilderness; but what's de use of cookin' and cookin' and dar's Miss Alice don't eat as much as dat frozen chick I brought in and put in dat basket by de fire." "But dar's masser, _he_ eat well 'nuff,--and I--I'se mighty hungry dese days. Don't stop cookin', Pallas." "You hain't got no more feelin's den a common nigger, Saturn. Nobody'd tink you was brought up in one de best families. If I could only tink of somethin' new dat would coax up pickaninny's appetite a little!" "P'raps she'll eat some my woodchuck pie," suggested Saturn. It was a great self-denial for him to propose to share a dish which he usually reserved especially to himself, but he, too, felt as tender as his organism would permit, toward his youthful mistress. "Our missus eat woodchuck pie! you go 'long, Saturn; she wouldn't stomach it. Dat's nigger's dish. I declar' our chile begins to look jus' as missus did de year afore she died. I feel worried 'bout her." "Does you? Mebbe she's got de rheumatiz or de neurology. I got de rheumatiz bad myself dis week pas'. Wish you'd fix up some of yer liniment, wife." "Wall, wall, eberybuddy has der troubles, even innocen' ones like our chile. Dis is a wicked and a perwerse generation, and dat is de reason our woods tuk fire and our house burn up; and now our dear chile mus' go break her heart 'bout somebody as won't say wedder he lubs her or not. She'll go of consumption jes' as missus went. Lor'! who'd a thought our family wud ever come to sech an end? I remember when Mortimer Moore kep' up de plantation in gran' style 'fore he sol' ebery buddy but you and I, Saturn, and kep' us cause we wouldn't leab de family, and tuk us to New York. Mebbe it was wicked of me to take sides with my young missus, and help her to get married way she did, and run 'way wid her, and see to her tru thick and thin. But I see her die, and now, likely, I'll be resarbed to see her chile die. Dun know what poor old woman lib for to bury all her children for. When I tink of all de mince-pies and de chicken-pies I use to make, and see eat, for Chris'mas, I don't feel no heart for to lif' dis choppin'-knife anodder time." Yet the preparations progressed, and on Christmas and New Year's day the men at the mill were supplied with a feast; but Alice could not bring herself to decorate the house with wreaths of evergreen, according to custom--it brought back hateful fears too vividly. The unceasing cry of her heart was for the river to open. She counted the hours of the days which must drag on into weeks and months. Ben now came frequently to the house. If Alice would not talk to him, he would make himself agreeable to the old servants; any thing for an excuse to linger about where he could obtain glimpses of the face growing so sad and white. Mr. Wilde had always favored him as a work-hand, and now he invited him often to his home. He hoped that even Ben's company would amuse his daughter and draw her away from her "love-sickness." It was a few weeks after the holidays that, one evening, Mr. Wilde took Alice upon his knee, smoothing her hair as if she were a baby, and looking fondly into her face. "I've some curious news for you, little one," he said, with a smile. "Would you believe that any one had been thinking of my little cub for a wife, and had asked me if he might talk to her about it?" "Was it Ben, father?" "Yes, it was Ben. No doubt you knew of it before, you sly puss!" "I refused him long ago, father. Didn't he tell you that?" "No." "Would you be willing I should marry a person like him?" "No, not willing. Once I'd have set him afloat if he'd had the impudence to mention it. But you're failing so, Alice, and you're so lonesome and so shut up here. I know how it is. The young must have their mates; and if _you_ want him, I shan't make any serious objection. He's the best there is in these parts. He's better than a flattering, deceiving _gentleman_, Alice. I _was_ fool enough once to imagine you'd never marry, but live your lifetime with yer old father; but I ought to have known better. 'Tain't the way of the world. 'Twasn't my way, nor your mother's way. No, Alice, if yer ever in love, and want to marry, unless I know the man's a villain, I shall make no objections. Ben loves you, my dear, desperately. A girl should give two thoughts before she throws away such a love as his. 'Tain't every man is capable of it." "But I'm engaged to Philip Moore, father. _We_ love each other." Her blushing cheek was pressed against his that he might not see it. "Alice, my child," said the raftsman very gently, in a voice full of pity and tenderness; "Mr. Moore is a rascal. He may have told you that he loved you, but he don't. He don't intend to marry you. He's a d---- proud aristocrat!" waxing wrathy as he went on. "There! there! don't you feel hurt; I know all about him. Knew't he made fun of us, after all we'd done for him, in his store down to Center City, when he didn't know Ben was listenin'. Besides, he advised Ben to marry you, to keep you from breakin' your heart about _him_; said you expected him back in the spring, but he was goin' on East to marry a girl there. So you see you must think no more of that rascally fellow, Alice. If he ever does come back here I'll whip him." "Ben told you this?" cried Alice, her eyes flashing fire and her white lips quivering. "And you believed the infamous lie, father? No! no! Ben has _murdered_ him, father--he has murdered my Philip, and has invented this lie to prevent our expecting him. O Philip!"--her excitement overpowered her and she fainted in her father's arms. Now that the tension of suspense had given way, and she deemed herself certain of the fate of her lover, she yielded for a time to the long-smothered agony within her, going from one fainting-fit to another all through that wretched night. The next day, when composed enough to talk, she told her father all--Ben's offer of marriage, his threats, the circumstantial evidence which fixed the guilt of the assault in the woods upon him, and her belief now that Philip had been made away with. The raftsman himself was startled; and to quiet and encourage his child, he promised to set off, by to-morrow, upon the ice, and _skate_ down to Center City, that her fears might be dispelled or confirmed. But that very night the weather, which had been growing warm for a week, melted into rain, and the ice became too rotten to trust. There was nothing to do but to wait. "'Tain't by no means certain he's done sech a horrible thing. And if you'll pick up courage to think so, and make yerself as easy as you can, I'll start the very first day it's possible. Likely in March the spring 'll open. You may go 'long with me, too, if you wish, so as to learn the news as soon as I do. I'll say nothing of my suspicions to young Perkins, but try to treat him the same as ever, till I know he desarves different." CHAPTER VIII. AWAY FROM HOME. A quaint party were to be seen passing through some of the streets of Center City one April day of the following spring. A tall and vigorous man, with a keen, intelligent face, clad in a calico shirt, a blue-woolen hunter's frock and buckskin breeches, strode on as if anxious to reach his destination; or, rather, as if used to making good time over endless prairies and through unsurveyed forests. By his side walked a young girl whose dress, though of the best materials, was antique as our grandmothers'; a broad-brimmed hat shaded a face the loveliest ever beheld in that city; her little slippers with their silver buckles peeped out from beneath her short frock. Those who were fortunate enough to see her as she passed did not know which to admire most--the exquisite, unstudied grace of her manners, which was as peculiar as her beauty, or the seraphic innocence of her expression. She kept pace with her companion, looking gravely forward with those great blue eyes, only occasionally giving the crowd a fawn-like, startled look, when it pressed too near. A few paces behind trudged an ancient colored couple, the man short, and white-eyed, rolling smiles as he passed, evidently supposing all the attention of the lookers-on to be concentrated on his flaming vest, his flowered coat, and bran-new boots; the woman a perfect black Juno, really superb in her air and physique, wearing her neatly-folded yellow turban as if it were a golden crown. She seldom took her eyes off the young mistress whom she followed, except occasionally to frown at some impudent fellow who stared too hard. The group wended their way onward until they read the names of "Raymond & Moore," in gilt letters over a new four-story brick store of this thriving new town, and here they disappeared from the view of outsiders. "Captain Wilde! how do you do? you're down early this spring. Well, the mill's waiting for you to feed it. Come down on a raft?" "Yes, Mr. Raymond, a thundering big one. Brought my family this time to give 'em a chance to pick out a few things for themselves. My daughter, sir." The merchant gave the young lady a chair. She took it, mechanically, but her heart, her eyes, were asking one question of the smiling, curious man, the friend and partner of her own Philip, who for the first time began to suspect the cause which had kept the latter so long, "hunting and fishing" up at Wilde's mill. Could he look so smiling, so assured, and her Philip be dead? The cry: "Where is he?" trembled silently on her lips. "Yes, a thundering big raft we got out this spring. Wood-choppers to work all winter," continued the raftsman, walking along farther from his daughter, and speaking with apparent carelessness. "By the way, where's Mr. Moore? did he get home safe, after his spell of sickness, at our house last fall?" "Oh, yes! he got home safe and in fine spirits. He was soon as well or better than ever. I expect he got pretty good care," and the merchant glanced over at the young girl respectfully. Mr. Raymond was a good-hearted, refined young married man; but if he had been gross or impure, or not over-fastidious, or fond of a jest, there was something about both father and child to suppress all feelings but those of respect and wondering admiration, Alice Wilde's beauty was of a kind to defy criticism. She might have worn sackcloth and ashes, or flannel and thick boots, or a Turkish dress, or a Puritan maiden's, or a queen's robe, it would have made but small difference; her loveliness was of that overmastering kind which draws the hearts of high and low, and makes every man feel in her presence, forgetful of every lesser consideration--lo! here is a beautiful woman! Such charms as hers have had great power whenever they have been found--they have exalted peasant women to thrones, and led men of genius and rank, as if they were children, hither and thither. It is not strange that Alice's personal loveliness, added to her still more unusual unconsciousness of it, and infantile innocence, should at once have commanded the reverence of people of the world, in spite of the quaintness of manner and attire, in themselves pretty and piquant. Although her father had spoken in a low voice, Alice had heard his question and the answer. The splendor of happiness broke over her countenance--blushes rose to her cheeks and smiles to her eyes; she hardly dared to glance in any direction lest she should see her lover unexpectedly, and betray her joy to strangers. "Is he about the store this morning; or will I have to go to the mill to see him?" asked the raftsman. "You will not see him at all, this trip, I'm afraid. Mr. Moore has gone on East; he's been away several weeks now, and I hardly know when to expect him. He was called there quite unexpectedly, upon business connected with his uncle, and their relatives in England. It would not surprise me at all if he should bring a bride home--that is, if he can persuade his fair cousin that the West is not such a terrible savage wilderness as she supposes." Mr. Raymond was perfectly honest in this remark. He knew that Virginia Moore used to be the idol of his friend; and as Philip had not communicated the change in his ideas, he still supposed that Philip was only waiting to get rich enough to go home and marry her; and as Philip was now doing so well with his western enterprises, he had planned it all out in his own imagination--fortune, acceptance, and the happy _finale_ of a grand wedding. He could not help looking over at the pretty forester to see how she received the news, but the portly person of the old colored woman had come between them, and he could not see her face. "Laws, Miss Alice, do see them yere calikers--they're sruperb! Look at that red one with the blue flowers--'tain't so handsome though, as this with the yaller. My! my! thar's a jewerlly shop across the way. Yer fadder ought to take yer in dar', fust place. Young gals likes them places. Laws, darlin', dis don't compare wid New York City. Le's have a drink of water, and step over de street." All this volubility was to screen the young girl from scrutiny. A pitcher of water stood on the counter, near her, and she poured a glass for her mistress. But Alice waved the glass away, and arose without any signs of grief and pain in her face; but the expression had changed--an icy pride composed every feature; she asked the merchant to show her some of his goods in a clear, low tone as sweet as it was passionless. Her hand did not tremble as she turned over silks and laces. "Good for her! She's got her father's grit," thought the raftsman to himself, while his own throat swelled almost to choking with anger and grief, and he felt that if he only had Philip Moore within sight he would have the satisfaction of thrashing a little conscience into him. Neither he nor Alice any longer doubted the statements of Ben Perkins. Mr. Moore _had_ ridiculed them--_had_ mockingly given another permission to console her whom he had forsaken--_had_ said that he was going East to marry a more fit companion. As the raftsman looked in the quiet face of his child which repelled sympathy with a woman's pride--that pride so terrible because it covers such tortured sensibilities--his blood boiled up with ungovernable rage. He was not accustomed to concealing his sentiments upon any subject. "Let them finnified fixin's alone, Alice," he said, taking her hand and drawing her away. "Men that make it a business to handle that sort of thing, grow about as flimsy as their wares. I despise 'em. I want you to understand, Mr. Raymond, that all connection between me and this firm, business or other, is dissolved. I won't even take your cussed money. When Mr. Moore returns, tell him that the laws of hospitality practised by your four-story-bricks ain't known in squatters' cabins, and if he ever comes on my premises again I'll consider myself at liberty to shoot him down for a dog;" and before the surprised merchant could reply he had strode forth. "Come 'long, Saturn! don' stan' dar' starin'; don't yer see masser's gone? I shall be sorry I brought yer 'long ef yer don't behabe wid more propisciousness. What der s'pose folks 'll tink your missus and masser is, ef you don't act like a fust-family nigger? Ef yer don't do credit to Miss Alice, I'll nebber bring you 'way from home agin;" and Pallas took "her nigger" by the elbow and drew him away from the fascinating array of dry-goods and ready-made clothing. That afternoon Captain Wilde and his daughter sat in a little private sitting-room of the hotel, overlooking the street. Every thing was novel to Alice. This was absolutely her first experience away from her forest home. Yet upon all the busy, bustling scene beneath her she gazed with vacant eyes. About the rapid rise and growth of some of our western cities there is an air peculiar to themselves--an experience unique in the history of civilization. Situated amid scenes of unparalleled beauty, they seem to jar upon and disturb the harmony of their surroundings; brick and plaster, new shingles, and glowing white paint, unsubdued by time, rise up in the midst of fairy-land; rude wharves just over the silver waters where erst the silent canoe of the Indian only glided; wild roses flush the hill-sides crowned with sudden dwellings; stately old forests loom up as backgrounds to the busiest of busy streets. The shrill cry of the steam-whistle startles the dreamy whippoorwill; the paddle-wheel of the intrusive steamboat frightens the indolent salmon from his visions of peace. As the landscape, so the people; curiously mixed of rough and refined. Center City was one of the most picturesque of these young towns; and, at present, one of the most prosperous. Broken-down speculators from the East came thither and renewed their fortunes; and enterprising young men began life with flattering prospects. It was upon the principal street that Alice sat and looked. Streams of people hurried by, like the waves of the river past her cabin in the wood. She saw ladies dressed in a fashion differing widely from her own; across the way, in a suite of parlors in the second story, she saw, through the open blind, a young girl of about her own age sitting at a musical instrument, from which she drew, as if by magic, music that held her listener as by golden chains. New thoughts and aims came into the mind of the raftsman's daughter. Pride was struggling to heal the wounds which love had made. "Father, will you send me to school?" For a long time there was no answer; his head was bent upon his hand. She crept upon his knee, in her little-girl way, and drew away the hand. "It'll be undoin' the work of sixteen year to send you to one of them boarding-schools. They'll learn you plenty of vanity and worse things, my child; they'll make you unfit to be happy and contented with yer plain old father. But that you are already. I've made a failure. You're too good for them that's about you, and not good enough for them you wish to be like. Go to school if you want to, child; go, and learn to put on airs and despise those who would give their heart's blood for ye. I shall make no objections." "Do you think I could learn to be so very bad, father? If you can not trust me, I will not go. So let us say no more about it," and she kissed him. "Thar', thar', child, I didn't mean to deny ye. But I feel bitter to-day--hard and bitter--as I used to in days gone by, when your mother died, turned off by them that were ashamed of yer father. If you'll only keep like yer mother, you may do what you will. _She_ went to school, and she knew more than a dozen fine-lady scholars; but it didn't spoil her. May be I've done wrong to bring you up the way I have--to visit my experience and my doubts on your young head. We must all live and learn for ourselves. Go to school, if you want to. I'll try and get along without my little cubbie for a year or two." "It's hard, father--hard for me--but I wish it." Pride was steeling the heart of the forest maiden. "But are you able, father; can you pay the expense." This thought never came to her until after she had his promise. "Yes, I'm able--and if it's done, it shall be done in the best style. I haven't cut down all the pine timber I've set afloat for the last fifteen year, without laying up something for my cub. I want you to dress as well as any you see, and study whatever you like, and play lady to yer heart's content. You'd better find a dress-maker, the first thing, and not be stared at every time you step out of the door. Get yourself silks and satins, girl, and hold your head up like the queen of the prairie." When Captain Wilde returned up the river, he and his sable suite made a melancholy journey; for the light of their eyes, the joy of their hearts, was left behind them. A young ladies' seminary, "a flourishing young institution, beautifully located in a healthy region, with spacious grounds enjoying the salubrious river-breezes," etc., etc., held prisoner, the wild bird of the forest. "Where's your daughter?" asked Ben Perkins of his employer, when he saw the returning party land without Alice. His face was blanched to a dead-white, for he expected certainly to hear that she had been claimed as his bride by Philip Moore. "Yer story was true, Ben, though I did ye the wrong to doubt it. Alice will never be the wife of that counter-jumper. But she'll never be yours, neither; so you might as well give up, first as last. Go off somewhere, Ben, and find somebody else; that's my advice." "Look-a-here, Captain Wilde, I know you mean the best, and that my chance is small; but I tell you, sir, jest as long as Alice is free to choose, and I've got breath and sense to try for her, I shan't give her up. Never, sir! I'll work my fingers off to serve you and her--I'll wait years--I'll do any thing you ask, only so you won't lay any thing in my way." The raftsman looked pityingly in the haggard face of the speaker--the face which a year ago was so bright and boyish. He saw working in those dark lineaments, in the swart blood coursing under the olive skin, in the gleam of the black eyes, passions difficult to check, which might urge him in future years to yet other crimes than the one into which he had already been betrayed. "You're high-tempered, Ben, my boy, and a little too rough to suit a girl like mine. She knows what your temper has already led you to do;" and he looked straight at the youth as he spoke, whose eyes wavered and sunk to the ground--it was the first intimation he had had that his guilt was suspected. "Why not go off, and find some one more like yourself--some pretty, red-cheeked lass who'll think you the best and handsomest fellow on the earth, and be only too happy to marry you? Thar's plenty such chances--and you'd be a deal happier." "Don't, _don't_ talk so!" burst forth Ben, impetuously. "I _can't_ do it, and that's the end on 't. I've tried to get away, but I'm bound here. It's like as if my feet were tied to this ground. I've done bad things in my determination to keep others away. I know it, and I own up to it. I've been desp'rate-crazy! But I ain't a bad fellow. If Miss Alice would smile upon me, 'pears to me I _couldn't_ be bad--'pears to me I'd try to get to be as good as she is. Even if she never would marry me, if she'd let me stay 'round and work for you, and she didn't take up with nobody else, I'd be content. But if I have to give her up entirely, I expect I'll make a pretty bad man, cap'n. I've all kinds of wicked thoughts about it, and I can't help it. I ain't made of milk-and-water. I'd rather fight a bar' than court a girl. I shan't never ask another woman to have me--no, sir! I'd 'ave made you a good son, if all hands had been willin'. But if Miss Alice means to make herself a fine lady to catch some other sweet lady-killer like the one that's given her the mitten, it's her choice. She'll up and marry somebody that won't speak to her old father, I s'pose." "Thar's no telling," answered the raftsman, sadly; for, in truth, the changed manner of his darling before he left her, lay like a weight upon his memory and heart. He felt a chord of sympathy binding him to the young man, as if theirs was a common cause. Alice seemed to have receded from them, as in a dream, growing more cold and reserved, as she glided into the distance. Her trouble, instead of flinging her more closely into her father's arms, had torn her from him, and taught her self-control. She had deserted her home, had left him to care for himself, while she fitted herself for some sphere into which he could not come. That "sharper than a serpent's tooth--a thankless child," he was tempted to call her. Yet his heart refused such an accusation. She had been suddenly shaken in her innocent faith in others, had been wounded in pride and deserted in love--and her present mood was the high reaction of the blow. Presently she would be herself again, would come back to her home and her humble friends with the same modest, affectionate, gentle character as of old. But he would treat her differently; he would gratify her love of the beautiful. She should have books, music, fine furniture, fine clothes. He did not ask himself what all these would be worth without that paramount necessity of the youthful mind--companionship. Alas! the raftsman, bringing up his idol in seclusion, had foolishly and selfishly thought to fix her heart only upon himself; but the little bird had learned to fly and had gone out of the parent nest, fluttering out into the untried world, impelled by the consciousness of wings. CHAPTER IX. A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER. "You are rich, Philip!" "Yes, Virginia, or soon shall be." "How like a fairy-story it all sounds." "Or a modern novel." "_We can be happy now, Philip!_" The two young people were leaning over the balustrade of a balcony of the summer residence of Mortimer Moore. The rich moonlight was still permeated with the rosy tinges of sunset; the early dew called out the fragrance of a near meadow in which the grass had been cut that day, and its odors were mingled with the perfumes of roses and lilies in the garden beneath the balcony. It was an hour to intoxicate the souls of the young and loving. If Virginia had been dressing herself for a ball she would not have used more care than she had shown in the simple afternoon toilet she now wore--simple, and yet the result of consummate tact. A single string of pearls looped up the heavy braids of black hair, an Indian muslin robe, in whose folds lurked precious perfumes, floated about her form, the wide, full sleeves falling away from the ivory arms, gave softness to their rounded outlines. A bunch of violets nestled in the semi-transparent fabric where it was gathered over her bosom. The creamy tint of her low, smooth forehead just deepened in her cheek to that faint flush which you see in the heart of a tea-rose; her straight brows, long lashes, and the deep, dark eyes smiling under them, all showed to wonderful advantage in the delicious light. As she uttered the last words, she laid her hand lightly upon Philip's arm, and looked up into his face. He was fully aware, at that moment, of her attractions; a smile, the meaning of which she could not fully fathom, answered her own, as he said: "I _hope_ we can be happy, my fair cousin. I expect to be very much blessed as soon as a slight suspense which I endure is done away with." "Why should you feel suspense, Philip? every thing smiles upon you." "I see _you_ are smiling upon me, my beautiful cousin; and that is a great deal, if not every thing. You always promised to smile upon me, you know, if I ever got gold enough to make it prudent." "It seems to me as if there was sarcasm in your voice, Philip. You know that I have always thought more of you than any one else; and if I would not marry you when poor, it was because I dared not. Now we are equal--in fortune, youth, health. My father is so much better. He was out walking this afternoon; the country air has benefited him. The doctor thinks it may be years before he has another attack. You've been very kind to him, Philip. When our fortunes are joined, we can live almost as we please--as well as I care to live. Won't it be charming?" The tapering white hand slid down upon his own. "Very. You remember that trite passage in the Lady of Lyons, which the mob, the vulgar crowd, are still disposed to encore. Supposing we change the scene from the Lake of Como to the banks of the Hudson--listen, Virginia! how prettily sentiment sounds in this moonshine: "'A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage, musical with birds, Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder Why earth should be unhappy, while the heavens Still left us youth and love. We'd have no friends That were not lovers; no ambition, save To excel them all in love--that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours. And when night came, amidst the breadthless heavens, We'd guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light Stole through the mist of alabaster lamps, And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange-groves and music of sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth In the midst of roses! Dost thou like the picture?' Go on, Virginia, can't you act your part?" "Let me see, can I recall it?-- "'Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue; Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly-- Who would not love thee like Virginia?'" "A very passable actress you are, cousin. I'd have thought you really meant that, once, you put such fervor in your voice. But-- "'O false one! It is the _prince_ thou lovest, not the _man_.'" "Nay, Philip, like Pauline, I must plead that you wrong me. Already, before my father summoned you, before we heard the whisper of your coming fortune, I had resolved to search you out and take back my cruel resolution--more cruel to myself than to you. I found that I had overrated my powers of endurance--that I did not know my own heart. Dear Philip, will you not forgive me? Remember how I was brought up." Two tears glimmered in the moonlight and plashed upon his hand. They ought to have melted a stonier susceptibility than his. "Willingly, Virginia. I forgive you from my heart--and more, I thank you for that very refusal which you now regret. If that refusal had not driven me into the wilds of the West, I should never have met my perfect ideal of womanhood. But I have found her there. A woman, a child rather, as beautiful as yourself--as much _more_ beautiful, as love is lovelier than pride; an Eve in innocence, with a soul as crystal as a silver lake; graceful as the breezes and the wild fawns; as loving as love itself; and so ignorant that she does not know the worth of money, and didn't inquire about the settlements when I asked her to marry me. Think of that, Virginia!" "Are you in earnest, Philip?" "I am. I am sorry for your disappointment, my sweet cousin, and hope you have not thrown away any eligible chances while waiting for me. I'm going to-morrow, as fast as steam can carry me, to put an end to that suspense of which I spoke. My little bird is deep in the western forests, looking out for me with those blue eyes of hers, so wistfully, for I promised to be back long ago. Your father's affairs are in a tangled condition, I warn you, Virginia; and you'd better make a good match while you've still the reputation of being an heiress. I've been trying to get my uncle's matters into shape for him; but I'm quite discouraged with the result." "Perhaps that's the reason you have forgotten me so easily, Philip." "I should expect you, my disinterested and very charming cousin, to entertain such a suspicion; but my pretty forester lives in a log-cabin, and has neither jewels nor silk dresses. So, you see, I am not mercenary. _Her_ 'loveliness needs not the foreign aid of ornament.' She looks better with a wild-rose in her hair than any other lady I ever saw with a wreath of diamonds." "You are in a very generous mood, this evening, Philip Moore. You might at least spare comparisons to the woman you have refused." "I couldn't inflict any wounds upon your _heart_, cousin; for that's nothing but concentrated carbon--it's yet beyond the fusible state, and it's nothing now but a great diamond--very valuable, no doubt, but altogether too icy cold in its sparkle for me." "Go on, sir. My punishment is just, I know. I remember when _you_ were the pleader--yet I was certainly more merciful than you. I tempered my refusal with tears of regret, while you spice yours with pungent little peppery sarcasms." "Don't pull those violets to pieces so, Virginia, I love those flowers; and that's the reason you wore them to-night. If you'd have followed your own taste, you'd have worn japonicas. But, seriously, I must go to-morrow. I have remained away from my business much longer than I should; but I could not desert my uncle in his sickness and difficulties until I saw him better. He was kind to me in my boyhood, he made me much of what I am, and if he did not think me fitted to carry the honors of his family to the next generation, I can still be grateful for what he did do." "You do not give me credit for the change which has come over me--if you did, you could not leave me so coolly. I'm not so bound up in appearances as I was once. Ah, Philip! this old country-house will be intolerably lonely when you are gone." He looked down into the beautiful face trembling with emotion; he had never seen her when she looked so fair as then, because he had never seen her when her feelings were really so deeply touched. The memory of the deep passion he had once felt for her swept back over him, tumultuous as the waves of a sea. Her cheek, wet with tears, and flushed with feeling, pressed against his arm. It was a dangerous hour for the peace of that other young maiden in the far West. Old dreams, old habits, old hopes, old associates, the glittering of the waves of the Hudson, familiar to him from infancy, the scent of the sea-breeze, and the odors of the lilies in the homestead garden, the beautiful face upon his arm which he had watched since it was a babe's rosy face in its cradle,--all these things had power, and were weaving about him a rapid spell. "What does that childish, ignorant young thing know of love, Philip? If some rustic fellow with rosy cheeks, who could not write his own name, had been the first to ask her, she would have said 'Yes' just as prettily as she did to you. But I have been tried--I know others, myself, and you. My judgment and my pride approve my affection. Then the West is no place for a man like you. You used to be ambitious--to plan out high things for your future. I adore ambition in a man. I would not have him sit at my feet day and night, and make no effort to conquer renown. I would have him great, that I might honor his greatness. I would aspire with and for him. You might be a shining light here, Philip, where it is a glory to shine. Why will you throw yourself away upon a rude and uncultivated community? Stay here a week or two longer, and think better of the mode of life you have chosen." The moon hung in the heavens, high and pure, drawing the tides of the ocean, whose sighs they could almost hear; and like the moon, fair and serene, the memory of Alice Wilde hung in the heaven of Philip's heart, calming the earthly tide of passion which beat and murmured in his breast. He remembered that touching assurance of hers that she would sacrifice _herself_ for him, at any time, and he could not think her love was a chance thing, which would have been given to a commoner man just as readily. "I have tarried too long already, Virginia; I must go to-morrow." He did not go on the morrow; for while they stood there upon the balcony in the summer moonshine, a servant came hastily with word, that the master of the house was again stricken down, in his library, as he sat reading the evening paper. He was carried to his room, and laid upon his bed in an unconscious state. Everybody seemed to feel, from the moment of his attack, that this time there was no hope of his recovery. The family physician had only left him and returned to the city a day or two previously. The evening boat would be at the landing just below in fifteen minutes; Philip ordered a trusty servant to proceed on board of her to New York, and bring back the medical attendant by the return boat in the morning. Meanwhile he did what little he could for the relief of the unconscious man, while Virginia, pale as her dress, the flowers in her bosom withering beneath the tears which fell upon them, sat by the bedside, holding the paralyzed hand which made no response to her clasp. Hours passed in this manner; toward morning, while both sat watching for some sign of returning sensibility to the deathly features, the sufferer's eyes unclosed and he looked about him with a wandering air-- "Where is Alice? Alice! Alice! why don't you come? I've forgiven you, quite, and I want you to come home." "He is thinking of my sister," whispered Virginia, looking with awe into the eyes which did not recognize her, and drawing her cousin nearer to her side. "Don't tell me she is dead--Alice, the pride of my house--not dead!" "Oh, it is terrible to see him in such a state. Philip, can't you do something to relieve him?" "Virginia, poor child! I'm afraid he is beyond mortal aid. Be brave, my dear girl, I will help you to bear it." Philip could not refuse, in that sad hour, his sympathy and tenderness to the frightened, sorrowful woman who had only him to cling to. Presently the wild look faded out of the sick man's eyes. "Virginia, is that you? My poor child, I am dying. Nothing can save me now. I leave you alone, no father, no mother, sister, or brother, or husband to care for you when I am gone. Philip, are you here? will you be all these to Virginia? Do not hesitate, do not let pride control you in this hour. I know that I rejected you once, when you asked to be my son; but I see my mistake now. You have been very kind and unselfish to me since I sent for you. You are a man of prudence and honor. I should die content, if I knew Virginia was your wife, if you had not a thousand dollars to call your own. Poor girl! she will have very little, after all my vain seeking of wealth for her. Gold is nothing--_happiness_ is all. Virginia, take warning by me. I am a witness of the hollowness of pride. I have been a sad and discontented man for years. The memory of my cruelty to my Alice has stood like a specter between me and joy. Choose love--marry for love. Philip is more than worthy of you; try to make him happy. My boy, you do not speak. Take her hand, here, and promise me that you will take good care of my last and only child." He had uttered all this in a low voice, rapidly, as if afraid his strength would not last him to say what he wished. Virginia turned to her cousin and seized his hand. "Philip! Philip! can you refuse--can you desert me, too? O father! I shall be alone in this world." "Why do you not promise me, and let me die in peace?" exclaimed the old man with some of that stern command in his voice which had become a part of him; "do you not love my child?" "Not as I did once. At least--but that's no matter. Do not distress yourself, uncle, about Virginia. I will be to her a true and faithful brother. I promise to care for her and share with her as if she were my sister." "If I could see her your wife, my boy, I should feel repaid for all I have done for you, since you were thrown upon my hands, an orphan and friendless, as my child will soon be. Send for the priest, children, and make it sure." Philip was silent; his cousin, too, was silent and trembling. "Don't you see I'm going?--do you want to let me die unsatisfied?"--the querulous voice was weak and sinking. "I promise to be a brother to Virginia--to care for her as if she were my own, uncle. Is not that enough?" "No--no--no!" fretted the dying man, who, having been unreasonable and exacting all his life, could not change his nature at the hour of death. Distressed and uncertain what to do, tempted by the force of circumstances, Philip wavered; but the moment when his promise would have given his uncle any satisfaction had passed--the awful change was upon his face, the sweat upon his brow, the rattle in his throat. "O, my father!" sobbed Virginia, sinking upon her knees and flinging her arms over the heart which had ceased to beat. The gray morning broke over her as she wept wildly beside the bed. Philip was obliged to draw her away from the room by force, while others came to attend upon the dead. To see her so given up to grief, so desolate, with no one but himself to whom she could turn, touched him with pity and tenderness. "Weep, if you will, poor girl, it will be better than choking back all those tears. Weep in my arms, for I am your brother now," he said, very gently, as he seated her upon a sofa and drew her head to his shoulder, soothing her and quieting her excess of emotion, until, from fatigue and exhaustion, she dropped asleep on his bosom. "How lovely she is, with her arrogance and vanity all melted away by some real sorrow," he thought, as he laid her carefully upon the pillow, and went out to give directions to the disturbed household. During the next week Philip made himself of use to all, overseeing, quietly directing and controlling every thing; and when the funeral was over, the outer excitement subsided, and nothing left but that emptiness and shadow of the house from which the dead has recently been borne, then he had to consult with the orphan girl what should be done for the future. "Will you stay where you are for the summer, while I go back and attend to my affairs at the West? If you will, I can come back again in the autumn, and we can then decide upon some settled plan for the future." "I can stay here, if you think best. But it seems to me as if I shall go wild with fear and loneliness in this great house, with no one but the servants, after you are gone. I don't know _what_ to do, Philip." "Is there no friend of your own sex who would be comfort and company, whom you could invite to stay with you till I come back? You will not wish to go into town this weather. Besides, my dear girl, I must tell you that the town-house will not be long in your hands. When the estate is settled up, this property here, and a small annuity possibly, will be all that I can save for you. Will it not be best for you to break up, dismiss the expensive array of servants, rent your house, and board in some agreeable family?" "Oh, Philip, I don't know. I can't think and I can't decide. I know nothing of business. I wish you to do every thing for me;" her helplessness appealed to him strongly. She could only think of one way with which she should be happy and content; but he did not propose that way. "I can only suggest this, then, for the present: stay where you are now until I go home and arrange matters there. I _must_ go home for a few weeks. In the mean time the affairs of the estate will be closing up. When I return, I will see to them; and when all is settled, if you wish to go to the West with me, you shall go. If I have a home by that time, you shall share it." "How share it, Philip?" He did not reply. He was resolved to see Alice Wilde again, to satisfy himself her character was all he had dreamed it--her love what he hoped; if so, nothing should tempt him from the fulfillment of the sweet promise he had made himself and her--neither gratitude to the dead nor sympathy with the living. CHAPTER X. RECONCILIATION. Alice Wilde had been taught by her father to "read, write, and cipher," and was not ignorant of the rudiments of some of the sciences; for, curiously enough, considering surrounding circumstances, there was quite a little library of books at the cabin-home, and some old-fashioned school-books among the number. If, when she first went into the seminary at Center City, some of the young ladies were disposed to ridicule her extreme ignorance upon some matters, they would be surprised by superior knowledge upon others; and finally were content to let her assert her own individuality, and be, what she was--a puzzle; a charming puzzle, too, for her kindness and sweetness made her beauty so irresistible that they could look upon it without envy. Another thing which helped her along both with teachers and pupils was the excellence of her wardrobe and her lavish supply of pocket-money, for it is tolerably well known that the glitter of gold conceals a great many blemishes. Before the first term was over she was the praise, the wonder, and the pet of the school; flying rumors of her great beauty and her romantic "belongings" having even winged their way over the pickets which sentineled the seminary grounds, and wandered into the city. The evening that Philip Moore reached home, after his eastern journey, chanced to be the same as that upon which the seminary began its annual exhibition, previous to closing for the long August holiday. He would not have thought of attending any thing so tiresome; but, taking tea with his partner, whose pretty wife was going and urged him to accompany them, he was persuaded against his inclination. "As you are already spoken of for mayor, Raymond, and as I am one of the city fathers, I suppose we must show a becoming interest in all the various 'institutions' which do honor to our rising town," laughed Philip, as he consented to attend with his friends. "It will be very encouraging, especially to the young ladies, to see your wise and venerable countenance beaming upon them," remarked Raymond. "But really, Mr. Moore, there's somebody there worth seeing, I'm told--somebody quite above the average of blue-ribbon and white-muslin beauty. I've heard all kinds of romantic stories about her, but I haven't seen her yet," chatted the young wife. "She's the daughter of a fisherman, I believe, who's grown enormously rich selling salmon and white-fish, and who's very proud of her. Or else she's an Indian princess whose father dug up a crock of buried gold--or something out of the common way, nobody knows just what." Philip's heart gave a great bound. "Could it be?" he asked himself. "No--hardly--and yet"--he was now as anxious to be "bored" by the stupid exhibition as he had hitherto been to escape it. They took seats early in the hall, and had leisure to look about them. Philip bowed to acquaintances here and there. After a time he began to feel unpleasantly conscious of some spell fastening upon him--some other influence than his own will magnetizing his thoughts and movements, until he was compelled to look toward a remote part of the room, where, in the shadow of a pillar, he saw two burning eyes fixed upon him. The face was so much in the shade that he could not distinguish it for some time; but the eyes, glowing and steady as those of a rattlesnake, seemed to pierce him through and transfix him. He looked away, and tried to appear indifferent, yet his own eyes would keep wandering back to those singular and disagreeable ones. At last he made out the face: it was that of the young man who had brought him down from Wilde's mill the last autumn. What was Ben Perkins doing in such a place as this? He began to feel certain who the mysterious pupil was. "She has thought to please and surprise me," he mused; "yet I believe I would rather she would have kept herself just as unsophisticated as she was, until she learned the world under _my_ tutelage." Young ladies came on to the stage, there was music and reading--but Philip was deaf, for _she_ was not amid the graceful throng. At last she came. His own timid wild-flower, his fawn of the forest, stole out into the presence of all those eyes. A murmur of admiration could be heard throughout the hall. She blushed, yet she was self-possessed. Philip gazed at her in astonishment. Her dress, of the richest blue silk, the flowers on her breast and in her hair, the bow, the step, the little personal adornments, were all _a la mode_. His woodland sylph had been transformed into a modern young lady. He was almost displeased--and yet she was so supremely fair, such a queen amid the others, that she looked more lovely than ever. He wondered if everybody had been teaching her how beautiful she was. There was nothing of coquetry or vanity in her looks--but a pride, cold and starry, which was entirely new to her. He turned to look at Ben Perkins, who had leaned forward into the light so that his face was plainly visible; and the suspicions he had often entertained that the youth loved Alice were confirmed by his expression at that moment. "Poor boy! how can he help it?" thought the proud and happy gentleman, regarding the untaught lumberman with a kind of generous compassion. He now saw that Mr. Wilde was sitting by Ben's side, his heart and eyes also fixed upon the stage. "I've seen that face before," whispered Mr. Raymond; "where was it? Ah, I remember it well, now. I can tell you who she is, Philip. She's the daughter of Captain Wilde, that queer customer of ours, who hails from the upper country. She's a glorious, remarkable girl! By the way, Phil., did you flirt with her? Because I've a message for you. Capt. Wilde told me to inform you that if you ever set foot on his premises again he should consider himself at liberty to shoot you." "Flirt with her! let me tell you, Raymond, I'm engaged to her, and intend to marry her just as soon as I can persuade her to set a day. I love her as deeply as I honor her. There's something gone wrong, somewhere, or her father would not have left such word--he's a stern, high-tempered man, but he does not threaten lightly. They could not have received my letters." "I presume I made part of the mischief myself," confessed Raymond, "for almost the first thing I told them when they entered my store this spring, was, that you had gone off to marry your elegant cousin. You needn't look so provoked, Phil.; I told them in good faith. You used to love Virginia in the days when you confided in me; and if you'd have kept up your confidence, as you should, I would have been posted, and could have given your friends all the information they were in search of. Don't you see 'twas your own fault?" "I suppose it was," replied Philip, with a smile, but still feeling uneasy, and oh, how intensely anxious to get where he could whisper explanations to the heart, which he now saw, had suffered more in his absence than he could have dreamed. Henceforth his eyes were fixed only upon Alice. Soon she perceived him; as their eyes met, she grew pale for a moment, and then went on with her part more calmly than ever. To him, it seemed as if they both were acting a part; as if they had no business in that hour, to be anywhere but by each other's side; he did not even know what share she had in the performances, except that once she sung, and her voice, full, sweet, melancholy, the expression of the love-song she was singing, seemed to be asking of him why he had been so cruel to her. The two hours of the exercises dragged by. The people arose to go; Philip crowded forward toward the stage, but Alice had disappeared. He lingered, and presently, when she thought the hall was vacated, she came back to see if her father had waited to speak with her. He was there; other parties were scattered about, relatives of the pupils, who wished to speak with them or congratulate them. She did not see him, but hurried down the aisle to where her father and Ben were standing. She looked pale and fatigued--all the pride had gone out of her air as the color had gone out of her cheek. "Alice! dear Alice!" exclaimed Philip, pressing to her side, just as she reached her father. Instantly she turned toward him with haughty calmness. "Mr. Moore. Allow me to congratulate you. Was that your bride sitting by your side during the exercises." "That was Mrs. Raymond, my partner's wife. But what a strange question for _you_ to ask, Alice. I supposed _you_ had consented to take that name, if ever any one. Mr. Wilde, I received your message through Mr. Raymond, but I knew you were once too sincere a friend of mine, and are always too honorable a man, to refuse me a chance of explanation." "Say your say," was the raftsman's curt reply. "You need not speak one word, Philip. It is I who ought to beg _your_ forgiveness, that I have wronged you by doubting you. Love--oh, love, should never doubt--never be deceived!" exclaimed Alice. "It would have taken much to have disturbed my faith in you, Alice." "Because I had every motive for loving you; while you--you had pride, prejudice, rank, fashion, every thing to struggle against in choosing me." "Indeed!" cried Philip. "Yes, every thing, to be sure!" and he cast such an expressive glance over her youthful loveliness that she blushed with the delicious consciousness of her own charms. "Old, ugly, awkward, and ignorant, how ashamed I shall be of my wife!" "But, Philip!" her tearful eyes, with the smiles flashing through them, made the rest of her excuses for her. Holding her hand, which was all the caress the presence of strangers would permit, Philip turned to the raftsman. "I asked you for your daughter's hand, in the letter which I sent you on the return of the young man who brought me from your home, last autumn, since your sudden change of plans prevented my asking you in person. I have not yet had your answer." When he said "letter" Alice's eyes turned to Ben, who had been standing within hearing all this time; he met her questioning look now with one of stubborn despair. "You gave us no letters, Ben." Philip also turned, and the angry blood rushed into his face. "Did you not deliver the letters I sent by you, young man?" "Ha! ha! ha! no, by thunder, I didn't! Did you think a man was such a fool as to help put the halter round his own neck? I didn't give the letters, but I told all the lies I could to hurt you, Philip Moore. You ought to be a dead man now, by good rights. The game's not up yet. Let me tell you that!" and scowling at the party, he strode away into the night. "He ought to be arrested--he is a dangerous fellow," said Mr. Wilde, looking after him uneasily. "I am sorry for him," said Philip, "but that can do him no good." "Look out for him, Philip; you can not be too wary--he will kill you if he gets a chance. Oh, how much trouble that desperate boy has given me. I can not be happy while I know he is about." "Thar', thar', child, don't you go to getting nervous again. We'll take care of Ben. Don't you trouble your head about him." "If you could guess what I have suffered this winter past," whispered Alice, pressing closer to her lover. "My poor little forest-fawn," he murmured. "But we must stop talking here; eavesdroppers are gathering about. I suppose this ogre of a seminary will shut you up to-night; but where shall I see you to-morrow, and how early? I have yet to explain my absence to you and your father--and I'm eager, oh, so eager to talk of the future as well as the past." "Meet us at the Hotel Washington, at my room," replied Mr. Wilde, speaking for her. "We will be there at nine o'clock in the morning. And now good-night, puss. You did bravely to-night. I'm going to see Philip safe home, so you needn't dream of accidents." Alice kissed her father good-night. That she wanted to kiss his companion too, and that he wanted to have her, was evident from the lingering looks of both; but people were looking askance at them, and their reluctant hands were obliged to part. That night the store of Raymond & Moore was discovered to be on fire; the flames were making rapid headway when the alarm was given; it was the hour of night when sleep is soundest, but the alarm spread, and persons were thundering at the door and windows in two minutes. "Does any one sleep in the store?" shouted one. "Yes! yes! young Moore himself--he has a room at the back." "Why don't he come out then? He'll be burned alive. Burst in the doors. Let us see what has happened him." "The fire seems to come from that part of the building. He will surely perish." The crowd shouted, screamed, battered the doors in wild excitement--some ran round to the back, and a ladder was placed at the window of his room, which was in the second story. Light shone from that room. David Wilde, whose hotel was not far distant, mingling with others who rushed out at the alarm, as is the custom in provincial towns, was the first to place his foot upon the ladder; his strength was great, and he broke in the sash with a stroke of his fist, leaped into the building, appearing in a moment with the young man, whom he handed down to the firemen clambering up the ladder after him. "He's nigh about suffocated with the smoke--that's all. Dash water on him, and he'll be all right presently," he cried to those who pressed about. "It's that Ben, I know--cuss me, if I don't believe the boy's crazy," he muttered to himself. Philip soon shook off the stupor which had so nearly resulted in the most horrible of deaths, and was able to help others in rescuing his property. The fire was got under without much loss to the building, though its contents suffered from smoke and water. The young firm was not discouraged by this, as all loss was covered by insurance; they had the promise of a busy time "getting to rights" again, but that was the worst. It was apparent, upon examination, that the fire was the work of an incendiary; Philip felt, in his heart, what the guilty intention was, and shuddered at his narrow escape. It was decided by him and Mr. Wilde to put the authorities upon the proper track; but the perpetrator had fled, and no clue could be got to him in the city. Mr. Wilde at once suspected he had gone up the river, and feeling that they should have no peace until he was apprehended, and not knowing what mischief he might do at the mill, he took the sheriff with him and started for home, leaving Alice, for the present, at the school, with permission of the principal to see her friends when she chose, as it was now vacation. Before he left there was a long consultation between the three--Philip, Alice, and her father. Philip explained his absence. As he went on to speak of Mortimer Moore and his daughter, of his death, the troubled state of the family affairs, etc., the raftsman betrayed a keener interest than his connection with those affairs would seem to warrant. "Poor Virginia! she is all alone, and she is your cousin, Philip," said Alice. "She tried hard to get back her old power over me, Alice. You must beware how you compassionate her too much. But when we are married, and have a home of our own, we will share it with her, if you consent. I've no doubt she can find somebody worthy of her, even in this savage West, as she thinks it. And, by the way, I think we ought to get a home of our own as soon as possible, in order to have a shelter to offer my cousin--don't you, Alice?" "She's tongue-tied. Girls always lose their tongues when they need 'em the most." "Now, father, I should think you might answer for me," said Alice, trying to raise her eyes, but blushes and confusion would get the better of her, and she took refuge in her father's lap. "Well, puss, I s'pose you want to go to school five or six years yet--tell him you've made your cacklations to keep in school till you're twenty-two." "School! I'll be your teacher," said Philip. "Choose for yourself, puss. I s'pose the sooner you shake off yer old father, the better you'll like it." "I shan't shake you off, father. Neither shall I leave you alone up there in the woods. That matter must be settled at the start. I shall never marry, father, to desert you, or be an ungrateful child." "Suppose we arrange it this way then. We will live with your father in the summer, and he shall live with us in the winter. I don't want a prettier place than Wilde's mill to spend my summers in." "Oh, that will be delightful," exclaimed the young girl; and then she blushed more deeply than ever at having betrayed her pleasure. "Then don't keep me in suspense any longer, but tell me if you will get ready to go back to New York with me in the latter part of September. We will be gone but a few weeks, and can be settled in the new mansion I've given orders for, before the winter is here. Shall it be so?" "Say 'yes,' cubbie, and done with it, as long as you don't intend to say 'no.' I see she wants to say 'yes,' Mr. Moore, and since it's got to be, the sooner the suspense is over, the better I'll like it;" and with a great sigh, the raftsman kissed the forehead of his child and put her hand in that of Philip. With that act he had given away to another the most cherished of his possessions. But children never realize the pang which rends the parent heart, when they leave the parent nest and fly to new bowers. "All I shall be good for now, will be to keep you in spending-money, I s'pose. You're going to marry a fashionable young man, you know, cubbie, and he'll want you tricked out in the last style. How much can you spend before I get back?" and he pulled his leather money-bag out of his pocket. "I haven't the least idea, father." "Sure enough, you haven't. You'll have to keep count of the dollars, when you get her, Mr. Moore; for never having been indulged in the pastime of her sex, going a-shopping, she won't know whether she ought to spend ten dollars or a hundred. Like as not, she'll get a passion for the pretty amusement, to pay for having been kept back in her infancy. You'd better get some of your women friends to go 'long with you, puss. Here's, then, for the beginning." He poured a handful or more of gold into her lap. "Nay, Mr. Wilde, you need not indulge her in any thing beyond your means, upon _my_ account, for--although she may have to conform to more modern fashions, as she has already done, since moving among others who do--she will never look so lovely to me in any other dress, as in those quaint, old-fashioned ones she wore when I learned to love her. And Alice, whatever other pretty things you buy or make, I request you to be married in a costume made precisely like that you wore last summer--will you?" The raftsman heard, two or three times, on his way up the river, from boatmen whom he hailed, of Ben's having been seen only a little way ahead of him, and he, with the sheriff, had little doubt but they should capture him immediately upon their arrival at Wilde's mill. But upon reaching their destination they could not find him. The men had seen him hovering about the mill, and Pallas had given him his dinner only a few hours before, when he came to the house, looking, as she said, "like a hungry wild beas', snatching what I give him and trotting off to de woods agin." Help was summoned from the mill and the woods scoured; but no farther trace of the fugitive could be discovered. They kept up the search for a week, when the sheriff was obliged to return. David Wilde wished to believe, with the officer, that Ben had fled the country and gone off to distant parts; but he could not persuade himself to that effect. He still felt as if the unseen enemy was somewhere near. However, nothing further could be done; so cautioning the house-servants to keep a good watch over the premises, and the mill-hands to see that the property was not fired at night, or other mischief done, he returned for his daughter. "Give Pallas this new dress to be made up for the occasion, and tell her to be swift in her preparations, for the time is short. It will be a month, Alice, before I see you again--a whole, long month--and then I hope for no more partings. I shall bring Mr. and Mrs. Raymond to the wedding, with your permission," said Philip, with other parting words, which being whispered we can not relate, as he placed her on the sail-boat, well laden down with boxes and bales containing the necessary "dry-goods and groceries" for the fete. "We'll charter a steam-tug next time," growled the raftsman, looking about him on the various parcels. CHAPTER XI. A MEETING IN THE WOODS. Pallas was in "her elements." There's nothing a genuine cook likes so well as to be given _carte blanche_ for a wedding. If the Wildes had invited a hundred guests to stop with them a fortnight, she would hardly have increased the measure of her preparations. No wonder the old soul was happy in the prospect of the really excellent match her darling was to make, as well as in the promise that she was to go with her and take the culinary department of the new household under her charge. "We's goin' to lib soon whar' de clo'es massa gives us 'll do us some good, Saturn. We can go to meetin' once more like 'spectable colored quality should. An' de house 'll be bran new, and I'm to keep de keys of all de closets myself--and young missus will set at de head ob de table, wid plenty of silber, as my missuses have allers done. An' you'll have to have some pride about you, and get ober bein' so sleepy. Nebber hear nor see any ting so cur'us as we goin' back into dat berry family. Now, Saturn, don't you let me cotch you cookin' or eatin' a single egg, 'cause I want 'em all for cake. Masser only brought home twenty dozen, which ain't near enough. I want ebery one dem pullets lays. An' you feed em chickens up good and fat an' dem wild turkeys in de pen. Dis isn't a bad country for a cook, arter all. I've been reck'nin' up, an' I find we can have wild turkey and partridges and salmon and ven'sen and chicken, and masser's brought home ebery ting from de grocery-stores a pusson could ask. Whar's dat citron now? Saturn, has you been in dat citron? Laws, I cotch you in _dat_, you'll nebber forget it! Stop eatin' dem raisins! I declar' to gracious, ef I trus' you to chop a few raisins for me, you eat half of 'em up. Cl'ar out de kitchen--immejetly! I'd rudder get 'long alone." Poor Saturn had to "fly round" more than was agreeable to his temperament; but he contrived to keep up his strength and his spirits upon stolen sweets, and he tried to be excessively useful. "Wall, wall, his arpetite does beat all; he's gettin' ole and childish, my nigger is and I s'pose I mus' humor him a little. His heart is set on de good tings ob dis worl'. I'se 'fraid he'll hate to gib up eatin' and sleepin' when he comes to die. Dar ain't no eatin' and drinkin' _thar_, Saturn; no marryin' nor givin' in marriage." "Wha' for? is eatin' wicked, Pallas?" "Not on dis yearth, where it is a necessary evil. But _dar_--dar's better tings. We'll sing dar, Saturn," she continued, anxious to rekindle the religious ardor which she was fearful of cooling by her picture of the purely spiritual pleasures of the next world. "We'll set under de tree ob life, by side de beautiful ribber, and sing all de hymns and psalms;" and she struck up, in a voice of rich melody, "O Canaan, my happy home, Oh, how I long for thee!" while her husband joined in the strain with equal fervor. Alice loved to hear them singing at their work; not only because of their musical voices, but the enthusiasm, the joy and expectation swelling through them, awakened her own young soul to hope and prayer. A happier face than hers, as she sat in the little parlor, sewing upon the wedding-garments, it would be difficult to find--a kind of intense radiance from the utter content and love within shone through her features. When a young girl is about to marry the man she loves, with the full approval of her judgment and conscience, the consent of parents and friends, when her heart is full of hopes, when she blushes in solitude at her own happy thoughts, as she sits quietly sewing upon rich and delicate fabrics which are to enhance her beauty in _his_ eyes, then she experiences the most blessed portion of her life. The sunshine of promise rested upon the house. All its delightful activity was pervaded by thrilling anticipations. And yet there was a shadow--a light shadow, which at times would darken and again entirely disappear. It was the dread of Ben. The men at the mill reported having caught glimpses of some one whom they were quite sure was him, at different times, in different lonely places in the forest. Saturn came in, one day, with the whites of his eyes of frightful circumference, averring that a ghost had run after him in the woods. What could be the purpose of a person thus hovering about in concealment? surely nothing good. Alice was not herself, personally, much afraid. She did not think Ben would harm her, but she felt that he was hanging about, that his eyes watched every preparation, that he would know when Philip came, and she was afraid he would have another opportunity to attempt his life. The courage which would not quail on the battle-field will fail before a secret and unknown evil. Even the raftsman, brave and powerful as he was, felt that uneasiness which springs from such a source. Many a time he went out with his rifle on his shoulder, resolved that if he met with the wretched and desperate youth, he would deal with him severely. His search was always in vain. Alice gave up all her rambles, much as she longed to get again into the heart of the whispering pine-forest. One afternoon, when her father was at the mill, and Pallas, as usual, busy in the kitchen, as she sat sewing and singing to herself in a low voice, the bright room suddenly grew dark, and looking up at the open window, she saw Ben standing there gazing at her. If she had not known of his vicinity, she would not have recognized him at the first glance; his face was haggard, his eyes bloodshot, his hair long and tangled, his clothing soiled and worn. "Don't scream!" he begged, as he saw that she perceived him, in a voice so hollow that it checked the cry rising to her lips. "I ain't going to harm you. I wouldn't harm a hair of your head--not to save the neck yer so anxious to see hanging from the gallows. I know where your father is, and I just crept up to have a look at you. You look happy and content, Alice Wilde. See me! how do you like your work?" "It is _not_ my work, Ben, and you know it. Do not blame me. I pity you; I pray for you. But do go away from here--do go! I would rather you would harm me than to harm those I love. Oh, if you really care for me, go away from this spot--leave me to my happiness, and try and be happy yourself. Be a man. Go, Ben--let us alone. If you do _not_ go, you will certainly be taken by others, and perhaps punished." "Catch a weasel asleep, but you can't catch me. You may put twenty men on the watch. How pleasant it must be for you to sit here making your weddin'-clothes; I think of it nights, as I lay on the hemlock boughs, with my eyes wide open, staring up at the stars. What's that song I used to like to hear you sing so well, Alice? "'They made her a grave too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true; And she's gone to the lake of the Dismal Swamp, Where, all night long, by the fire-fly lamp, She paddles her light canoe.'" The maiden shuddered to her heart's core as his voice rose wild and mournful in the sweet tune to which the ballad was set, "Ha! ha! Alice, it's the same little canoe that you used to come up to the mill in so often, in those pleasant old times-- "'And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, Her paddle I soon shall hear; Long and loving our life shall be, And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, When the footstep of death is near.'" Alice seemed to be listening to her own dirge; "'Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds-- His path was rugged and sore: Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before!'"-- and with an unearthly shriek he bounded away through the garden and into the woods, leaving Alice so overcome, that Pallas, who had been attracted to the door by the strange voice, brought her the "camfire" bottle to restore her. "He's a ravin' maniac, that poor boy is, my chile. He ought to be cotch'd and put in de 'sylum at onct 'fore harm's done. Mercy, chile, I was jus' goin' to take down de rifle to 'fend my pickaninny. I was 'fraid he'd t'ar you all to pieces, like a ragin' wild beas'." "You wouldn't have had courage to fire, would you? I'm sure I shouldn't." "In course I should have had courage. S'pose I'd stan' by and see my chile toted off into the woods by a madman? Tush! even a hen'll fight for her chickens. Ef I hadn't a rifle, I'd spring on 'em, tooth and nail, ef he laid a hand on my chile;" and the old negro woman breathed hard, holding herself erect, and looking so determined, that she inspired courage in the one who regarded her. "Then I shall choose you for my body-guard," said Alice, "for I begin to feel like a poor little chick in a big field, with an unseen hawk in the air which might pounce on it at any time. Oh, Pallas, didn't he look fearful?" "Awful, missus, awful! We can't be too kerful of a fanatick--and poor Ben's got to be one, sure 'nuff. Poor Ben! a year ago he was as merry a young pusson as dese yere ole eyes car' for to see; and so willin' and kind, allers lookin' out to do a little sarvice, bringin' us game and berries, and makin' us furnitur' and fixin's about de house,--ready to work all day, jus' to hab you say, 'Tank you, Ben,' or gib him one smile. I jes' wish dis weddin' was safe ober. I has a sense as suthin' is goin' to happen. And you know, chile, when ole Pallas has a sense, it allers comes to suthin'." "Don't tell me of it, if you have, Pallas, for I'm nervous enough already. There comes father now. I feel safe when he is near." Upon hearing her account of Ben's looks and words, the raftsman resolved more firmly than ever to take him into custody if possible. Leaving Pallas, who was a better man than her husband, with a double-barreled gun, to defend the house, if necessary, in their absence, he summoned his full force and hunted the woods for twenty-four hours without success. He then stationed two men in the outskirts, in view of the house, to be relieved every eight hours by two others, and to keep up the watch, on double wages, day and night, till the enemy was taken or the wedding over. On the third day of his watch, one of the men, while standing by the garden-fence, eating his lunch, his rifle leaning against the rails beside him, was suddenly knocked down, and by the time he got upon his feet again, he saw Ben Perkins vanishing into the forest with the weapon on his shoulder. The news of this mishap was any thing but encouraging, for the chances of his doing mischief were increased tenfold by the fact of his having possession of a loaded gun. Yet Alice sung and sewed, praying silently to Heaven that all might be well, and, happy in the faith and hope of youth, went on with her preparations; and Pallas finished shelves full of frosted cake and other niceties; and Saturn hewed wood and brought water, receiving his reward as he went, from his wife's benevolent hand; and Mr. Wilde was alert and vigilant, ready for all emergencies. It was now near the middle of September; the blackberries were gone; and the grapes were yet green and unpalatable. Pallas was in want of wild-plums to pickle, and of wild-mint to flavor some of the dressings for dishes yet to be cooked. She set forth into the woods, having no occasion for personal fears, and not finding what she desired, wandered further into their depths than she had intended. Suddenly she started, with a--"Hi! hi! what's this?" "If you've any thing in that basket a starving man can eat, give it to me." It was Ben Perkins who spoke, from behind a fallen tree, where he was crouching, lifting his emaciated face to her view. "I hab nothin' at all; and ef I had, why should I gib it to you, when you'se makin' us all de trouble you can?" "You've turned against me, too, Aunt Pallas," he said, in so hopeless a tone, that she paused from her purpose of getting away as fast as she could. "I've done you many favors in days gone by; I've never refused to lend you a helpin' hand, and I've never done nothin' to injure you; but you, too, will try to get me on to the gallows. Go and tell 'em where I am, if you want to. I don't know as I've strength to get away any longer. It's a week sence any thing has passed my lips but a nest full of bird's-eggs I climbed up after yesterday. Say, won't you bring me a piece of bread?" "You go home wid me, and behabe yourself, and you shall hab all de bread you want. Nobody's starving you but yourself." "Ha! ha! you're a cute 'un, ain't you now? I don't think I shall put my foot into that trap." "Well, den, you gib me dat gun what you've got thar'. Gib me dat gun and I'll bring you suthin' to eat, and won't tell where you are." "No--no! you can't come that game." "You doesn't s'pose I'd bring you any ting to eat or help keep you alive, when you're tryin' yer bes' to kill my masser's frien's, do ye? It's _you_ is foolish, Ben. What for you be so bad, so wicked for, Ben? You use to be a nice boy. I like you berry much a year ago. I can't bar' to see you hurtin' yerself so--let alone odders. Come, now, yer gib me back dat gun, an' ac' like a man 'stid of a wil' beas', and I'll do all I can for you, sartain sure, Ben." "Pallas, I tell you, I'm starving. I want somethin' to eat. Let that gun alone. I swear to you, I won't use it on any of your family. I wouldn't hurt a hair of Alice's head--nor her father's. But I want that rifle--it's none of your business why. Won't ye give me suthin' to eat, for the sake of old times, Pallas?" That miserable, hungry, beseeching look--how could she refuse it? "You've acted like a crazy man, Ben, and you've done berry wrong to yourself as well as odders. I can't help you, 'less you promise to do better. Gib me dat gun, and take yer Bible oath you'll never try to hurt him that's to be Miss Alice's husband, an' I'll help you all I can." "Why should I promise not to harm him? hasn't he done all he could to injure me? hadn't I _ought_ to kill him if I can? wouldn't it be right and justifiable for me to take his heart's blood?--as he's taken mine, but in a different way. I was a homeless, poor, hard-workin' young man, with nuthin' but my hands to rely on. I hadn't no education, I hadn't no money, but I loved the captain's daughter--I worshiped her shadow. She'd have been mine--I know she would--if he hadn't come along and got her away from me. He, who had every thing, came and robbed me of the only thing I cared to have. He used his education and his money and his fine ways to steal my only hope. As soon as he come hangin' round I was nuthin'--Miss Alice walked right over me to get in his arms. I tell ye, that man has robbed me and wronged me and murdered me, as it were. I _ought_ to be revenged." "You is wuss den crazy, Ben Perkins; and I'll tell ye de trute, if ye get as mad as fire at me for it. 'Tain't noways likely my missus would eber 'ave taken up wid ye, if Philip Moore had neber seen her. She's a lady, born and bred; she came of a high family--and it was in her blood. She wouldn't neber have taken up wid you. She liked you, and we all liked you; but she wouldn't a married you. You'd no business to 'spect she would. It's you is all de wrong. Den when a young man what is suitable to her comes along, and can't no more help fallin' in love wid her sweet face den you can, when he loves her, and wants to marry her, and she loves him, as she naturally would, you get wicked and ugly, and want to kill him. Fie, man! you _don't_ love her! Ef you did, you couldn't neber break her heart, killing her husband as is to be. What would you gain by it? 'Stid of likin' and pityin' you, she'd shudder to hear your name, and she'd wilt away and die, and you'd be her murderer, well as his. For shame! call dat love? Why, ef you _really_ loved her, you'd try to make her happy, and seein' you couldn't hab her, you'd be glad she got de man she like bes'. You is a bad fellow, Ben Perkins, and you jus' show how lucky it is Miss Alice didn't take up wid you." "_She_ thinks I'm so bad, too, doesn't she?--oh, yes, of course she must; she must hate me, and wish me dead. I know it, but I couldn't help it. Oh, Pallas, tell her not to think too hard of me. I was never well brought up. I'd only my wild passions to guide me. I've done wrong only because my heart was so set upon her. Yet I've struggled against temptation--I've tried to wish she could be happy without me. Tell her, when I was on the river alone with Philip Moore, I might have put him out of the way, but for her sake I wouldn't do it. Often and often as we sat together in that little boat, alone on the water, the devil in my heart set me on to strangle him and throw him overboard, I don't know why I didn't do it, 'ceptin' it seemed as if Alice's eyes was lookin' at me and wouldn't let me do it. One night he was asleep, his head on his arm, and I was bending over him--my hand was on his throat, when _she_ took hold of me and held me back. I seen her as plain as I see you now. She had on a long, white dress, and her hair was streamin' down her shoulders, and her feet was bare. She looked at me _so_--I couldn't stand it; and I made up my mind never to lay hands on that person again. And I felt so much more like a man, I could look her straight in the face agin, when I got back. But I told lies, and tried to get in her good graces. Do you think that was so very bad, under the circumstances, Aunt Pallas? I never meant to do nuthin' worse; but when I seen all my plans knocked in the head, and that person meeting her agin and making up, and she lookin' so like an angel, and so proud and happy, and all of 'em casting scornful eyes on me, the devil broke out again worse 'an ever, and I set fire to Philip Moore's store, hopin' to burn him up; and since then I've been about as desp'rate as a man ever gets to be. Part the time I'm as good as crazy, I think such thoughts out here in the woods alone--and agin I'm quite cool and reflect all over my bad conduct. I'd take it all back, if I could, for _her_ sake;" and he burst out weeping. "Yer poor, mis'able soul, I pity you. But I mus' say you did wrong. 'Tain't too late to repent and be saved. Gib up all dose wil', wicked feelin's, be resigned to de will ob Providence which doesn't allow of your having the girl you happen to love fust. 'Tain't for us to hab all we want in dis yere worl'. 'Tain't for us to revenge our enemies. Chris' says do good to dem dat despitefully use yer. And nobody has used you bad. He says love your enemies. O Ben! Ben! ef, instid of bein' de wicked bein' you has, you had prayed to de Lord Jesus to sabe yer from temptation, and sence yer couldn't be happy in dis life, to make yer good, yer wouldn't be hidin' here in dis state. People has had troubles 'fore yer. Don't tink yer de only one, poor boy. Dar's plenty of tears for Chris' to wipe away on dis yearth." "I don't know nuthin about it. I've never been taught. 'Tain't nateral for a man to love his enemies. I can't do it. But if I thought you'd pity me and pray for me--if I thought Miss Alice would pray for me, I'd give up wicked thoughts, and try to govern myself." "She does pray for yer, Ben, wid all her heart every time she prays. I've seen her cry about yer many time. She'd gib her right hand mos', to hab you good and happy. Masser's sorry for yer, too; he tought so much of you once; but course he can't let you kill his friends. Come, now, Ben, you promise to do right, and I'll stan' by yer tru thick and thin." "Some of the time I'm good, and agin I'm bad. I didn't use to be so. It's only wretchedness has made me so ugly. I don't know how to try to be better." "May I pray for you, Ben?" "Yes--if you want to be such a fool," he said, reluctantly. The good old colored woman went down on her knees there upon the mossy cushion of the earth, pouring out her soul in prayer for the haggard being, who sat, with his chin in his hands, listening to her appeal in his behalf. Tears streamed down her cheeks; the earnestness, the pathos of her sincere petitions to that great Father whom she seemed to believe had power to comfort and take care of him and adopt him as a child, touched his lonely, sullen, misanthropic nature--his sobs accompanied her "Amen!" "I shouldn't be such a baby as to cry," he said, when she had finished, "if I wasn't so weak; but when a fellow's fasted a week he ain't none of the bravest. I thank you, though, for your prayer, Aunt Pallas--I'll remember it to my dyin' day. Here's the gun--take it. P'raps if I keep it an hour longer, I'll want to do some mischief with it. Take it, while you can get it; and bring me some food, as you promised. If you break your promise, and bring them men here to take me up, I shan't never have no faith in prayers. If you want to make a Christian of me, you mus'n't fool me." "Neither will I," said Pallas; "I'll be back here in an hour wid bread and meat. You'd better make up your mind, by dat time, to go home wid me, gib yerself up to masser, and let him do as he feels is best wid yer. He'll act for de bes', be sure." She took the gun and hastened off with it, glad to get that means of harm away from him. She was firmly resolved not to break her promise to him, much as she desired that he might be put in safe quarters, and this uncomfortable suspense be done away with. As he had confessed himself so changeable in his moods, she did not rely much upon his present one. Reaching home, she stowed the rifle away, saying nothing about it, and filling her basket with substantial food, she returned to the appointed spot. To her surprise, Ben was not there. She waited a few minutes, but he did not come. "I can't bar to know a human critter is starving to def," she muttered, setting the basket in a branch of the fallen tree. "I'll leave dis here--and now I've kep' my promise I'll go straight home and tell masser all 'bout it, and he can take sech steps as he tinks bes'." She gave a graphic account of the whole interview to the raftsman as soon as he came in to tea. When she came to that part of his confession where he spoke of being about to choke Philip, while on the river, Alice turned pale, saying with a shudder--as she recalled one of those visions which haunted her dreams during that terrible period of the journey of her lover with his deadly enemy: "Yes! yes! I did--but it was in a dream. I beheld the skiff gliding along in the starlight, Philip sleeping, his arm under his head, and his carpet-bag for a pillow; Ben was stooping over him, his face was white as ashes, his teeth were clenched, his hands were creeping toward Philip's throat--I sprang upon him--I held his hands--I drew him back--I screamed--and the scream awoke me, and father rushed into my room to see what was the matter. You ridiculed my nightmare, father, don't you recollect?" "Poor boy," said the raftsman, wiping a tear from his cheek, when his servant had concluded her relation. "I'm right down sorry for the lad. And when you are married and out of the way, puss, I'll take him in hand, and try and reclaim him. He'll make a man yet." "He ain't to blame fer his faults, seeing he's never had no good broughten' up. I'll teach him the New Testament doctrines ef he'll only let me, once Miss Alice is 'way," remarked Pallas. Mr. Wilde went to the spot indicated by Pallas--the basket of food had been taken away, but no one was in the vicinity. CHAPTER XII. FAMILY AFFAIRS. It was the day before the wedding. The house was in order, to the full satisfaction of the sable housekeeper. Viands, worthy of the occasion, filled the store-room to overflowing. Philip, with his suite, including the minister who was to officiate, was expected to arrive by supper-time. The last touches were given to the arrangements, and Alice was dressed to receive her guests, by the middle of the afternoon. The motherly heart of her old nurse was so absorbed in her, that she came very near making fatal mistakes in her dressings and sauces. Every five minutes she would leave her work to speak with the restless young creature, who, beautiful with hopes and fears, fluttered from room to room, trying to occupy herself so that her heart would not beat quite so unreasonably. "They are coming!" she cried, at last, having stolen out for the hundredth time to the top of a little knoll which gave her a farther view of the river. How gladly the ripples sparkled, how lightly the winds danced, to her joyous eyes. "Oh, Pallas, they are coming! what shall I do?" and she hid her face on the old woman's bosom, as if flying from what she yet so eagerly expected. "Do, darlin'? oh, my chile, you got to be a woman now; no more little chile to run away and hide. Masser Moore berry proud of his wife dat is to be. Don't make him 'shamed, darlin'." Ashamed of her! mortify Philip! the thought was death to Alice's sensitive spirit. She lifted her head and became calm at once. "There, nursie, I don't feel so startled any more. I think I can meet them, clergyman and all, without flinching." Her father, who had been on the look-out, took a little skiff and went down to meet the party. Alice stood on the shore, as she had done upon the day of Philip's first arrival. A soft rose glowed in either cheek, which was all the outward sign of the inward tumult as she saw her bridegroom sailing near enough to recognize and salute her. She saw in the boat Philip, the minister, Mr. and Mrs. Raymond, and a young lady whom she had never met, and a strange young gentleman. It was the proudest moment of Philip's life when that young lady turned and grasped his arm, exclaiming in a low voice: "I don't wonder you refused _me_, cousin Philip. I did not know such beings existed except in poetry and painting." Pallas, standing in the door, in an extra fine turban and the new dress sent for the occasion, thought her pickaninny did credit to _her_ "broughten' up," as she saw the manner, quiet, modest, but filled with peculiar grace, with which Alice received her guests. "Alice," said Philip, placing the fair hand of the proud stranger in hers; "this is my cousin Virginia." "I have come to wish you joy, Alice," said Virginia, kissing her cheek lightly, and smiling in a sad, cold kind of way. Her mourning attire, and the evident melancholy of her manner, touched the affectionate heart of her hostess, who returned her kiss with interest. "For de law's sake, Saturn, come here quick--quick! Who be dat comin' up de walk wid masser and de comp'ny? Ef dat ain't little Virginny Moore, growed up, who is it?" "It's Virginny, sure 'nuff!" ejaculated her husband. In the mean time that young lady herself began to look about with quick, inquiring glances; she peered into the raftsman's face anxiously, and again toward the old servants, a perplexed look coming over her face as she neared the house. "You needn't say a word, Miss Virginny--it's us, sartain--Pallas and Saturn, your fadder's people, who had you in our arms ebery day till you was eight year old. You do remember old Pallas, don't you now, honey? My! my! what a han'some, tall girl you is growed--de picture ob your fadder. Yer a Moore tru and tru, Missus. My ole eyes is glad to see you." "Hi! hi! Miss Virginny!" chuckled Saturn, bowing and scraping. "Come 'long and let me get your bunnit off. I want to take a good look at ye, honey. Missus Alice neber was a Moore--she was like _her_ mudder, small and purty and timid-like; but ye's a perfect Moore, Miss Virginny. My! my! I know 'em all, root and branch. I tol' my ole man Masser Philip belonged to our Mooreses, but Masser Wilde he neber let on"--she had the visitor's bonnet off by this time, talking all the time, and oblivious, in her excited state, of the other guests. "Yes, Miss Virginia," said the raftsman, drawing his powerful figure up to its full height, "I am that brother-in-law you have been taught to detest and be ashamed of. You would hardly have come to the wedding, if you had known what poor company you were to get in." All those of the company who knew him looked at him in surprise, for he had dropped his hoosier form of speech and took on the air of a superior man. Virginia looked at him a moment calmly, taking, as it were, an estimate of the mind and heart outside of that athletic frame, and gleaming through those noble though weather-beaten features. "I do not see any thing to be ashamed of," she said, with a smile, giving him her hand, frankly, in a sisterly manner. "I was but a little child, you know, when your connection with our family commenced. Doubtless I have been influenced by what I have heard. If my father wronged you, David Wilde, it is time for you to forgive it--lay up no hard thoughts against the dead." Her lip trembled over the last sentence. "Dear Virginia! is it possible my Alice is to find in you--" "An aunt? yes, Philip,--and you are about to marry your third cousin. It's rather curious, isn't it?" "We'll talk it over after supper," said the host. "Pallas, our guests are hungry. The river breeze sharpens the appetite." Pallas wanted no further hint. Perfectly content that she had the means of satisfying any amount of hunger, she retired, with her subordinate husband, to dish up the feast. "I 'spect I'll spile half dese tings, I'se so flusterated. Did you mind whar' I put dat pepper, Saturn? I declar' I can't say wedder I put it in de gravy or in de coffee. I jes' turn 'round and put it in de _suthin'_ on de stove, wile I was tinkin' how cur'us tings happens. Dear! dear! I put it in de coffee, sure 'nuff, and now dat's all to be trowed away! 'Spect tings won't be fit to eat. Why don' you fly round and grin' more coffee? You is de stupidest nigger!" In spite of small tribulations, however, the supper was served in due season and with due seasoning. Gay conversation prevailed; but Alice, though bright and attentive, felt uneasy. Her glance frequently wandered to the windows and open doors. A certain dark figure had so often started up in unexpected places, and seemed to hover about so when least expected, that she could not be entirely at her ease. It was true that several men were on guard, and that Ben had not been heard of for a week; but he was so sly, so subtle, she felt almost as if he might drop out of the roof or come up out of the earth at any instant. Philip was warned to be on the look-out. He laughed and said he was a match for Ben in a fair fight, and if the other had no fire-arms, he could take care of himself. Long after the rest of the party, fatigued with their journey, had retired for the night, David Wilde, Alice, Philip, and Virginia sat up, talking over the past, present, and future. Alice, who had never known the particulars of her mother's marriage and death, except as she had gathered hints from her old nurse, now listened with tearful eyes to brief explanations of the past. Her father, in his youth, had been a medical student, poor, but possessed of talent--a charity-student, in fact, who, one day had, at the risk of his own life, saved the lovely daughter of Mortimer Moore from the attack of a rabid dog in the street. He had actually choked the ferocious creature to death in his desperate grip. Grateful for the noble and inestimable service, the father invited him to the house to receive a substantial token of his gratitude in the shape of a sum of money sufficient to carry him through his course of study. But the courage, the modesty, the fine address and respectful admiration of her preserver, made a deep impression upon Alice Moore--it was a case of love at first sight upon both sides--they were young and foolish--the father opposed the match with contempt and indignation. His rudeness roused the ire of the proud student; he resolved to marry the woman he loved, in spite of poverty. They fled, accompanied by Pallas, the attendant of the young girl; the father refused to forgive them; and then, when sickness and suffering, untempered by the luxuries of wealth, came upon his delicate wife, the young husband realized what he had done in persuading her away from her home and the habits of her life. If he had first finished his studies and put himself in the way of gaining even a modest living, and she had chosen to share such a lot, he would have done right in following the dictates of his heart. Now he felt that he had been cruelly rash. A year of strange, wild happiness, mixed with sorrow and privation passed, and the wife became a mother. Pallas nursed her with tireless assiduity; her husband, bound to her sick couch, could not exert himself as he might have done alone; they grew desperately poor--he could not see her suffer without humbling his pride, and writing to her father to send _her_, not him, the means necessary to her comfort and recovery. They were coldly denied. Privation somewhat, but care, grief, and trouble more, retarded her recovery,--she fell into a decline, and died in his arms, who swore a great oath over her beloved corpse to forsake a world so unjust, so cruel, so unhappy. Sending a bitter message to her father, he disappeared with their infant child. The old colored nurse, who had also persuaded her husband to accompany them, went with him as foster-mother to the child. They traveled to the far West--much farther in those days than now--and when they first settled where they now were, they were isolated in the wilderness. Mr. Wilde took up his portion of government land. By the time other emigrants had made settlements down the river, he had made enough from it to purchase more. He felled timber with his own hands, and drifted it down to where it was wanted. As years passed, he employed hands, built a mill, and as towns grew up within market-distance, found business increasing upon him. During all this time he had nurtured his spleen against the civilized world; natures strong and wayward like his, are subject to prejudice--and because one haughty old aristocrat had allowed a fair child to perish neglected, he condemned refined society _en masse_. He adopted the conversation and manners, to a great degree, of those by whom he was surrounded. All these things explained to Philip many incongruities in the talk and habits of Mr. Wilde--the possession of books, the knowledge of man--which had hitherto challenged his curiosity. It had been the object of the raftsman to bring up his daughter in strict seclusion from the world he despised; he had not thought of further consequences than to keep her innocent, unselfish, unsuspicious, and free from guile. Chance threw Philip in their way. His frankness, pleasant temper, and sincerity excused his fashionable graces in Mr. Wilde's estimation; more intimate association with him did much to wear away the prejudices he had been heaping up unchallenged for so long; and when it came to the certainty that his daughter must choose between one of the rough and uneducated men around her, or on a man like Philip, he could not conceal from himself that Philip was his choice. "And what do you think brought _me_ out here at this critical moment?" asked Virginia. "I come to throw myself upon Philip's charity--to become a pensioner upon his bounty. Yes, Mr. Wilde, upon closing up my father's estate, there was absolutely nothing left for his only child. He lived up to all that he possessed, hoping, before his poverty became known, that I would make a brilliant match. A fortnight ago my lawyer told me there would be nothing left, but a small annuity from my mother, which they can not touch. It is a sum barely sufficient to dress me plainly--it will not begin to pay my board. So I, unable to bear my discomfiture alone, friendless, sorrowful, thought it less bitter to begin anew among strangers than in the scenes of my former triumph. I came on to beg Philip to find me some little rural school where I might earn my bread and butter in peace, unstung by the coldness of past worshipers. I'll make a good teacher,--don't you think so?--so commanding!" Yet she sighed heavily, despite her attempt at pleasantry. It was easy to be seen that earning her own living would go hard with the accomplished daughter of Mortimer Moore. "But Philip will never let you go away from us, I am sure," said Alice's soft voice, caressingly. "Until she goes to a home of her own," added her cousin, with a mischievous smile. "I wouldn't be guilty of match-making; but I own I had a purpose in asking my friend Irving to stand as groomsman with Virginia. How do you like him, my sweet cousin?--be honest now." "Not as well as I have liked some other man, sir?" "Oh, of course, not yet; but you'll grow to it; and he has no stain upon his escutcheon--he isn't even a flour-merchant or mill-owner." "You haven't told me what he is yet," said Virginia, with a slight show of interest. "He's my book-keeper." "Oh, Philip! you're jesting." "No, indeed, I'm not. He has not a cent, saving his salary; but he's a gentleman and a scholar, and has seen better days." "Well, I like him, anyhow," she remarked, presently. "You ought to encourage him to pay his addresses to you. You could teach school, and he could keep books. You could take a suite of three rooms, and wait upon yourselves. I'll promise to furnish the rooms with dimity, delf, and rag-carpeting." "You are generous, Philip." "And to send you an occasional barrel of flour and load of refuse kindling-wood." "My prospects brighten." "Don't tease the girl," said the raftsman, "she'll do better'n you think for yet. Since my own chick has deserted me for another nest, I don't know but I shall adopt Virginia myself." "I wish you would," and the great black eyes were turned to him with a mournful, lonely look. "Everybody else is so happy and blessed, they do not need me. But I should love to wait upon you, and cheer you, sir." It was a great change which misfortune was working in the spirit of the proud and ambitious girl. Philip, who knew her so well, regarded her present mood with surprise. "Well, well, without joking, I intend to adopt this orphan girl. She's the sister of my own dead wife, and she shall share equally with my little Alice in all that the rough old raftsman has." "Which won't be much, father," said Alice, with a smile, glancing around upon their humble forest home. "Don't be too sure of that, little one. I haven't felled pine logs and sawed lumber for fifteen years to no account. Did you think your two dresses a year, your slippers, and straw-hats had eaten up all the money-bags I brought home with me upon my trips? Here's a check for five thousand dollars, puss, to furnish that new house with; and when Philip gets time to 'tend to it, the cash is ready to put up a steam saw-mill nigh about here, somewhere--the income to be yours. It'll bring you in a nice little bit of pocket-money. And if Virginia concludes to accept that pale-faced book-keeper, thar's an equal sum laid aside for her--and home and money as much as she wants in the mean time. It shan't be said the old raftsman's pretty daughters had no wedding portion." Virginia took his rough hand in her two white ones, and a tear mingled with the kiss which she pressed upon it. CHAPTER XIII. THE TORNADO. When Alice came out of her room dressed for the marriage ceremony she looked quaintly lovely. Old Pallas sobbed as she looked at her, and her father wiped the dimness again and again from his eyes; for it was as if the fair young bride of long ago had come to life. Philip had made it an especial request that she should dress in a costume similar to that she wore when he first loved her; and her father had told her to provide no wedding-robe, as he wished her to wear one of his own choosing. She had been attired in the bridal robe and vail, the high-heeled satin slippers, the long white gloves which had lain so many years in the mysterious trunk. Philip's gift, a bandeau of pearls, shone above a brow not less pure--set in the golden masses of her hair. Virginia laid aside her mourning for that day, appearing in a fleecy muslin robe, as bride-maid, and none the less queenly on account of the simplicity of her dress. Her face had gained an expression of gentleness which added very much to her superb attractions, and which was not unnoticed by her companion in the ceremonies. The words had been said which made the betrothed pair man and wife. A more romantic wedding seldom has occurred than was this, in which wealth and elegance were so intimately combined with the rude simplicity of frontier life. To see those beautiful and richly-dressed ladies flitting in and out the modest house buried in the shadows of the western woods; the luxurious viands of the cook's producing served upon the plainest of delf, to have the delicate and the rough so contrasted, made a pretty and effective picture against the sunshine of that September day. The spirit of the scene was felt and enjoyed by all, even the venerable clergyman--rich voices and gay laughter blent with the murmur of the river--fond, admiring eyes followed every motion of the bride. The bride! where was the bride? She had been standing on the lawn, just in front of the door with Mrs. Raymond, who was saying-- "'Happy is the bride the sun shines on,'" just the previous moment; Mrs. Raymond had run down to the river-bank, and was throwing pebbles in the water. Mr. Wilde, ever apprehensive, ever vigilant, had just missed her, and was turning to inquire of the bridegroom, when a shriek, wild, sharp, agonizing, paralyzed for an instant every faculty of the listeners. "Great God, it is that madman!" burst from the father's lips. Philip and he sprang out-of-doors together, just in time to see her borne into the forest, flung like an infant over the shoulder of her abductor, who was making great leaps along the path with the speed and strength of a panther. The two men appointed as guards were running after him. Mr. Wilde sprang for his rifle--the bridegroom waited for nothing. "Don't shoot!" he shouted to the men; "you will kill the girl!" Philip reached and distanced the men; the raftsman, strong and tall, and accustomed to the woods, passed him even, madly as he exerted himself. "If I only dared to fire," he breathed, between his clenched teeth. "If he would give me just one second's fair and square aim--but my child, she is his shield!" Two or three times the two foremost pursuers came in sight, almost within arm's reach of the terrified girl, crying, "Philip! father!" in such piercing tones of entreaty. "Can not you save me, Philip?" once he was so near, he heard the question distinctly--but the furious creature who grasped her, gave a tremendous whoop and bound, leaping over logs and fallen trees, brooks, and every obstacle with such speed, that his own feet seemed to be loaded with lead, and he to be oppressed with that powerlessness which binds us during terrible dreams. He flew, and yet to his agony of impatience, he seemed to be standing still. "Philip--father--Philip!" How faint, how far away. At length they heard her no more; they had lost the clue--they knew not which way to pursue. The forest grew wilder and denser; it was dim at mid-day under those tall, thick-standing pines; and now the afternoon was wearing toward sunset. "Philip," said the raftsman in a hoarse voice, "we must separate--each man of the party must take a different track. Here is my rifle; I will get another from the men. Use it if you dare--use it, _at all risks_, if that devil seeks to harm her. His strength must give up some time." "Don't despair, father," said the new-made husband, but his own heart was cold in his bosom, and he felt so desperate that he could have turned the rifle upon himself. Not knowing but that he was going farther from instead of nearer to the objects of his search, with every step, he had to pause frequently to listen for some sound to guide him. Wandering on in this wild, unsatisfactory way, his brain growing on fire with horror, suddenly he heard a sharp voice chanting-- "'I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, When the footstep of death is near.'" The next moment he came face to face with Ben Perkins--but no Alice was in his arms now, nor was she anywhere in sight. "Fiend! devil! what have you done with my wife?" His eyes shone like coals out of a face as white as ashes, as he confronted his enemy with a look that would have made any sane man tremble; but the wretch before him only stared him vacantly in the face with a mournful smile, continuing to sing-- "'And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, Her paddle I soon shall hear.'" "Where is she--answer me, devil?" The hand of Philip clutched the lunatic's throat, and with the strength of an anguish as superhuman as the transient power of the other had been, he shook him fiercely as he repeated the question. The madman wilted under his grasp, but as soon as the hold was relaxed, he slid from under it, and sprang away. "'They made her a grave too cold and damp,'" he chanted, darting from tree to tree, as Philip, hopeless of making him tell what he had done with Alice, tried to shoot him down. "He has murdered her," he thought; and getting a momentary chance, he fired, but without effect; Ben climbed a tree, springing from branch to branch like a squirrel, until he reached the top, and like a squirrel, chattering nonsense to himself. "If I had another shot I would put an end to his miserable existence," muttered Philip, turning away to trace, if possible, the track of the man, and find where he had dropped Alice. Soon he came out upon a small, open, elevated space--the river was upon one side, the woods all around. Something strange was in the air--nature seemed to be listening--not a breath rippled the water or made a leaf quiver--he felt hot and suffocated. Despite of all his mental misery, he, too, paused and listened like the elements--his ear caught a far-away murmur. The day had been very warm for that season of the year; it grew, now, oppressive. A low bank of dark clouds lay along the south and west, hanging over the prairie on the opposite side of the stream--it was such a bank of clouds as would seem to threaten rain before midnight; but even while he gazed, a great black column wheeled up from the mass and whirled along the sky with frightful rapidity. The distant murmur grew to a roar, and the roar deepened and increased until it was like the surf-swell of a thousand oceans. Stunned by the tumult, fascinated by the sublime terror of the spectacle, he followed with his gaze the course of the destructive traveler, which flew forward, sweeping down upon the country closer and more close. The air was black--night fell upon every thing--he saw the tornado--holding in its bosom dust, stones, branches of trees, roofs of houses, a dark, whirling mass of objects, which it had caught up as it ran--reach the river, and with an instinct of self-preservation, threw himself flat upon the ground, behind a rock which jutted up near him. He could tell when it smote the forest, for the tremendous roar was pierced through with the snapping, crackling sound of immense trees, broken off like pipe-stems and hurled in a universal crash to the earth. A short time he crouched where he was, held down in fact, pressed, flattened, hurt by the trampling winds; but nothing else struck him, and presently he struggled to his feet. What a spectacle met him, as he looked toward the forest from which he had so lately emerged! A vast and overwhelming ruin, in the midst of which it seemed impossible that any life, animal or vegetable, should have escaped. A desolation, such as poets have pictured as clinging to the "last man," came over the soul of Philip Moore. Where were his friends? where that gay party he had invited from their distant homes to meet this fate? where was Alice, his wife of an hour? His manhood yielded to the blow; he cowered and sobbed like a child. The darkness passed over for a brief time, only to come again with the setting sun, which had sent some lurid gleams of light, like torches to fire the ruin, through the storm, before sinking from sight. A drenching rain fell in torrents, the wind blew chilly and rough. "I will search for her--I will find her, and die beside her mangled remains," murmured Philip, arising and turning toward the forest. The incessant flashes of lightning were his only lamps as he struggled through the intricate mazes of fallen trees. It was a task which despair, not hope, prompted, to toil through rain and wind and darkness, over and under and through splintered trunks and tangled foliage, looking, by the lightning's evanescent glare, for some glimpse of the white bridal robe of his beloved. The hours prolonged themselves into days and weeks to his suffering imagination, and still it was not morning. As if not content with the destruction already wrought, the elements continued to hurl their anger upon the prostrate wilderness; ever and anon the sharp tongue of the lightning would lick up some solitary tree which the wind had left in its hurry; hail cut the fallen foliage, and the rain fell heavily. It was a strange bridal night. Not knowing what moment he might stumble upon the crushed body of some one of his friends, Philip wandered through the storm. He felt more and more as if he were going mad--reason trembled and shuddered at his misfortunes. Two or three times he resolved to dash his brains out against a tree, to prevent himself the misery of going mad and yet living on in those dismal solitudes, till hunger conquered what grief refused to vanquish. Then the lightning would glimmer over some white object, perchance the bark freshly scaled from some shattered trunk, and he would hurry toward it, calling--"Alice!" as once she had called, "Philip," through a less wretched night. It seemed to him that if no other morning began to come before long, the morning of eternity must open its gates upon the world; the strength of the tempest was spent; only fitful gushes of wind swept past; here and there a star looked down hurriedly through the drifting clouds; the solemn roll of the thunder resounded afar, like the drums of an enemy beating a retreat. Exhausted, he sank at the foot of one of those Indian mounds common in western forests. A gleam of the vanishing lightning flickered over the scene. Hardly had it faded into darkness before a voice close to his side whispered his name; a warm hand felt through the night, touching his; a form glowing with life, soft, and tender, albeit its garments were cold and drenched, sank into his outstretched arms. "Yes, Philip, it is I--safe, unhurt. And you--are you uninjured?" He could not answer; his throat was choked with the sweetest tears which ever welled from a man's heart; he could only press her close, close, in the silence of speechless delight. In that hour of reunion they knew not if they had a friend left; but the thought only drew them more near in heart than ever they had or could have been before. Weary and storm-beaten, but filled with a solemn joy, they clasped each other close and sank upon the wet sod, to sleep the sleep of exhaustion, until the morning should dawn upon them to light their search for their friends. CHAPTER XIV. GATHERING TOGETHER. The first ray of morning startled the young couple from their sweet but troubled sleep. "You shiver!" exclaimed Philip, looking at the damp, disordered attire of his wife; "I ought not to have allowed you to fall asleep in those wet garments." "It is but a momentary chill, dear Philip. Oh, let us go and find my father. Certainty will be more endurable than this dreadful suspense." They arose, pursuing their search through the gray dawn which brightened soon into as glorious a September day as ever shone. There was no use in trying to convict Mother Nature of crime and bloodshed; she appeared totally unconscious of the waste and ruin she had spread over the land the previous day. Through the wrecked wilderness they struggled forward, silent, sad, looking in every direction for traces of their friends, and making their way, as correctly as they could discern it, with the river for a guide, toward the home which they expected to find overwhelmed and scattered by the storm. It was four or five hours before they came in sight of the cabin, so toilsome was their course; many times Alice had been obliged to rest, for hunger and fatigue were becoming overpowering, and now Philip had to support her almost entirely, as she clung to his arm. "Take courage, dearest,--there is the house, and standing, as I live!" The storm, sweeping on, had just touched with its scattering edges the house, which was unroofed and the chimney blown down, and otherwise shaken and injured, though not totally demolished. As the two came in sight of it, they perceived old Pallas, sitting on the front step in an attitude of complete despondency, her apron thrown over her face, motionless and silent. She did not hear them nor see them until they stood by her side. "Pallas! what is the news? where is my father?" The old woman flung her apron down with a mingled laugh and groan. "Oh, my chile, my darlin', my pickaninny, is dat you, an' no mistake?" Springing up, she caught her young mistress to her bosom, and holding her there, laughed and sobbed over her together. "Sence I seen you safe agin, and young masser, too, bof of you safe and soun', as I neber 'spected to behold on dis yearth agin, let me go now, 'long wid my ole man--O Lord! let thy serbent depart in peace!" "My father--have you heard from him since the storm?" "No, darlin', not from one single soul, all dis awful night. De ladies dey were wid me till de mornin' broke, den dey set out, cryin' and weepin' and wringin' dere han's, to look for all you who was in de wood. Oh, dis has been a turrible season for a weddin'. I had a sense all de time suthin' was goin' to happen. My poor ole man!" "What's become of him?" asked Philip. "De Lord above alone knows where he be now--oh! oh! He was tuk right up to glory, wid his weddin' garment on. I see him sailin' off, but I couldn't help him. Laws! if missus isn't a goin' to faint dead over." "Give her to me, and get something for her to eat and drink, if you can find it, Pallas. She's worn out." "I've kep' up a fire in de kitchen, which is low, an' not much hurt. I'll spread a bed down dar and lay her down on de floor till I make some right strong tea. Lord be merciful to me a sinner! It's times as make ole Pallas's heart ache. Come 'long wid her, masser--I'll tro a mattress on de floor. Dar, lay her down, I'll hab de tea direckly. Sech sights as I see yesterday is 'nuff to unsettle anybody as sots dar heart on de tings ob dis worl'. When I heard my chile scream, I tought a knife went right tru me--I could n' run, nor do nuthin', I was jes' all weak and trimbling. Dar I stood, lookin' into de woods, wid eberybody out ob sight, when I hear de storm a comin'. First I tought it was de ribber broking loose; I looked round, but _dat_ was jes' as peaceable as a lamb. Here, honey, set up, and drink yer tea. Den I tought de woods on fire, as dey was onct, when dey made sech a roar, but dey wan't. Den I looked up to see if de sky was fallin', which was de fust I saw ob de wind. It war a whirlin' and a roarin' like eber so many tousend, hundred mill-wheels. It look for all de worl' like a big funnel wid water pourin' tru. I was so scart, I run back to de house, hollerin' for my ole man, who was settin' on de fence, lookin' t'odder way. But he didn' hear me. It went right past, holdin' me up agin de wall as ef I war nailed. I seen de air all full ob ebery ting, chickens and pigs and boards and trees, and it tuk my ole man right up off dat fence an' carried him up to de nex' worl'. I see him, wid my own eyes, ridin' off in de chariot ob de wind, way over de woods, way off, off, out ob sight. Oh, missus, when I see him goin' so, I mos' wish I was 'long. I know Saturn was a foolish nigger, and a mighty sleepy-headed. He was n' no use to me much--he was a great cross; but dar neber was a better-hearted husband. He min' me like a chile. And he was so fond of presarbed plums, and such a hand to help 'bout de kitchen--'pears to me I hain't no heart. But laws, what bus'ness I to speak _my_ troubles, and you neber to know where your own fadder is. If masser don't come back, I'll jes' lay down an' die. Poor ole nigger no more use. Dar's Saturn tuk away in de clouds wid his bes' raiment on, as de Bible commands; and neber one moufful ob de weddin' feas' which is standin' on de table, and de rain leaking down upon it--oh! hi! hi!" "Poor Pallas, I'm sorry for you. But, Philip, I must go--I feel stronger now." "No, no, my own darling Alice, you are not fit for further exertion. Remain here in the hands of your nurse. Pallas, I leave my wife to your care. She is in a fever now. Change her clothing and give her hot drinks. I must be off. Keep up heart, dearest, till I get back." He had hastily disposed of a cup of tea and a few mouthful of food, kissed his bride, and was hurrying from the house, to go again into the woods for tidings, when a tumult outside drew all three to the door. Every one of the missing party, except poor old Saturn, whose own case was hopeless, and the raftsman himself, were coming up in a group. Virginia and Mrs. Raymond had encountered them in their search for the clearing, and had led them out of the woods. Mr. Raymond and the clergyman had been together overtaken by the tempest; but it was not so severe where they were, as in that part of the forest reached by Mr. Wilde and Philip. Trees had fallen before and around them, but they had escaped unharmed. Night coming on, and the rain and changed character of the scene bewildering them, they had not been able to make their way out of the woods; and of course had suffered from anxiety, in common with their friends. Their astonishment and joy at beholding the bride and groom in safety were only held in check by the uncertainty which hung about the fate of their host. Not one would enter the house, until that fate was known; taking from Pallas the cakes and cold meat she brought them, they hastened away--all but Alice, who was really too ill from exposure and surpense, to make any further effort. "Yes, you rest yourself, and try to be composed, honey. Ef your dear, good father is really taken away, you hab much to be thankful for, that yer not left unpertected in this bleak worl'. You've a husband dat loves you as his heart's blood--and yer father himself will smile in de heaben above, to tink how glad he is, all was made right, and you with some one to care for you, 'fore he was tooken away. Dar', dar', don't hurt yourself a sobbin' so. I cried all night, and now dese poor ole eyes hab no more tears lef'. When I tought I was lef' all alone--no masser, no missus, no husband--my heart was like a cold stone. I feel better now. Ef masser war here, I could almost rejoice, spite of my 'flictions. I mus' bustle round and get suthin' ready for all dese tired, hungry people to eat, and get dem bed-clo'es dried where de rain beet in. De table sot, jus' as it wos, when I was out here goin' fer to put de coffee on, and herd you scream. My poor ole man. He's gone up, sure, for I saw him go. Saturn 'll neber eat no more woodchuck pie in dis life--hi! hi! Now, now, pickaninny, guess whose comin', and who they're a-bringin'. You needn't jump out of yer skin, chile, if it _is_ yer own father--hurt, too, I'm afraid, by the way he looks." Alice sprang to the door. Philip was lending her father the aid of his strong young arm. Mr. Wilde walked with difficulty, and his arm hung down in a helpless manner. "Oh, father, are you hurt?" "Nothing to speak of--not worth mentioning,--a little bruised, and my left arm broken. Positively, I don't feel a bit of pain, since I see you unharmed, my darling." "But you'll come to a realizing sense of it, by the time we have set it, after its going so long unattended to," said Philip. "If I groan, punish me for it," replied the sturdy raftsman. The broken limb was soon set and splintered, and the friends had time to look in each others' faces, and realize they were altogether and safe. "You have not told us how you escaped so remarkably," said they to Alice. "Not anodder word at presen'," said Pallas, opening the door to the dining-room. "De weddin'-feas' has not been eaten--sech as it is, ye mus' stan' in need of it. 'Tain't what it would have been yesterday,--but I've did my bes' under de circumstances." "Take my place, Philip; I'll lie here on this lounge, and when puss is through, she can feed me." "If missus'll cut up his food, I'll wait on massa." As the declining energies of the party were recruited by the dinner, their spirits rose to something of the hilarity of the previous day;--if it had not been for genuine sympathy with the sorrow of the old servant, mirth would have prevailed in proportion to their past distress. An occasional exclamation, smothered in its birth, told them their host was not quite so easy as he affected to be; but he would let no one pity him, bearing his pain with fortitude. In the center of the table stood the bride's-cake, a snowy pyramid, the triumph of Pallas's skill, wreathed about with garlands. It was fair to look upon, within and without, and sweet to the taste as agreeable to the eyes. "Dar' was de whites of fifty eggs beaten up in dat cake," its maker declared, in an aside to Virginia. "Then I should call it a very egg-spensive and egg-stravagant article," remarked Mr. Raymond, who had heard the assertion. "'Tain't any too nice for de bride it was made fer, masser." "There's a ring in it," said Alice, as she performed the duty of the occasion by cutting the cake. "Who has it?" Everybody took their piece with curiosity, and finally Mr. Irving held up the golden circlet, giving, at the same time, a glance towards Virginia, too expressive to be misunderstood. "You'll be married next, Mr. Irving, and we hold ourselves all invited to the wedding," said Mrs. Raymond. "I hope I may be," replied that gentleman, with a second glance toward the bride-maid; but she was looking to her plate, and did not seem to hear him. Virginia had pursued the art of flirtation too long to abandon it at once. As they lingered over the closing cup of coffee, Alice related the circumstance which had probably saved her life. It seemed she could not endure to dwell upon the terror of her flight in that wild maniac's arms, passing it over as briefly as possible. "When I had given up all hope of rescue, and felt as if actually dying, from the terror of my situation, my abductor suddenly paused, before what seemed to be a small ledge of rock, such as frequently juts out of the ground in these woods, especially near the river. Pushing aside a vine which trailed thickly before it, he thrust me into the mouth of a cave, but instead of following me in, as I expected, he drew the vine carefully over it again, and sprung away, singing,-- "'I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, When the footstep of death is near.' "The feeling of exquisite relief which came to me in that moment was quickly superseded by the thought of his speedy return. While I stood there, trembling, waiting for him to get out of sight and hearing, in the hope that I might creep out and elude him, I heard the roar of the approaching tempest. Peering through the foliage, I felt my rocky shelter tremble, and saw the forest fall prostrate. As soon as the first shock was over, I crept out, thinking nothing but of the destruction of my friends. Too distracted to feel any personal fear, I wandered through the storm, I knew not how many hours, until, by the merest chance, a flash of lightning revealed Philip, not four feet away from me." "The first thing you did, I suppose, was to give him a curtain-lecture, for staying out nights," remarked Mr. Raymond. "And now, dear father, I think the roof blew off, and the house blew to pieces almost, and your arm was broken, on purpose to convince you of the necessity of spending your winter with us. It would be foolish to try to make this comfortable again, this fall. Your men can put a roof on, to protect it from the weather, and we'll leave it to its fate." "Since he's disabled and can't defend himself, we'll take him captive," said Philip. "Have it as you like, children, I expect to be led around by apron-strings after this. Next spring, I'll take Virginia, and come back here, and will put up the handsomest mansion that ever graced this river-side--it shall be large enough to accommodate the whole family, present and prospective. _You_ needn't color up, little girl,--I was only thinking of Virginia's future spouse--eh, Virginia,--what's Mr. Irving blushing for?" "I don't know--men should never blush--it's a weakness." "I wish I could be as unmoved as you," he whispered in her ear, for he sat by her side. "It would be more becoming to me than it is to you. Women were made to blush and tremble." "_Were_ they, Mr. Irving, then you'd better leave those things to them, and not be intruding upon their sphere." "Perhaps I shall obey you, Miss Moore," he said, recovering all his coolness. She felt that he was a man not to be trifled with. Sensitive and full of sensibility as he might be, he was not the man to let a woman put her foot on his neck. He might worship the foot, but he would not submit to be trampled upon by it. He would love, truly and deeply, but he must be respected and loved in return. His was just the spirit fitted to take the reins and curb the too headstrong and wilful disposition of Virginia--under the control of a wise and gentle nature like his, her faults might change into virtues. Philip was secretly regarding them, delighted to see how soon he recovered his self-possession, and how quietly he made his companion feel it. He saw that she fretted under it, and finally, giving up, exerted herself to be friendly and agreeable. "They will be well matched. I never saw a better mate for my naughty cousin. I had an idea of it, when I invited him to act as groomsman. She'll be a good while giving up, though." That Virginia would not yield to this new mastership very soon was evident. When they had left the dining-room, and were standing on the portico, Mr. Irving desired to place the ring which had fallen to him upon her finger--but she refused it with considerable hauteur. "I only desired you to wear it for safe-keeping. It's a lady's ring, and I don't know what to do with it. Mrs. Raymond, will you accept it?" He placed it on the finger of the married lady with as pleasant an air, as if it had been accepted where he first offered it. "I had not ought to wear it; give it to some fair maiden." "There is but one, and she will not have it. If there were others, I should certainly offer it. So you see it is chance only that has left it to you." "Well, I'm not very much flattered Mr. Irving--but the ring is just as pretty, and I ought to be thankful to chance." So the ring was lost to Virginia, without the satisfaction of her having annoyed the one who offered it. CHAPTER XV. BEN AND ALICE. "Now that the wedding-feast is disposed of, I must remind you all that there is yet work to be done. I have not heard from the mill; and poor old Saturn must be searched for, as well as that unfortunate young man who has made us so much trouble. It frets me to think I can do nothing. Philip, you must do service in place of my broken arm." The party were making ready to go out again, when two or three men came from the mill, to inquire after the family, and to relate to the captain the story of the vast damage his property had sustained. "Oh, what is de riches of dis worl', masser," said Pallas, as she, too, paused from her work to hear their interesting narrative of wreck and chaos upon every side, with accounts which had reached them from people farther down, where the tornado had made a yet more terrible visitation. "What is de riches of dis worl', when a bref of de Almighty can sweep 'em away like as dey were dust and trash. My ole masser he turn you 'way, 'cause yer had no riches, and your chile-wife, she die of grief; and you come out here and work and work in de wilderness half as long as de chil'en of Israel--and you set your foot down, _you_ will be rich, and your chile shall have much to gib her husband when she got one--and de storm come, and all yer pine-trees is laid low, and yer mill-wheel is broken at de fountain, and your riches pass 'way in de whirlwind." "It's time for me to begin thinking of these things I suppose, Pallas. But, as to my losses--I can stand 'em. My wood-choppers must work briskly this winter, among this fallen timber--and as for the old mill, I think it has gone to pieces to hasten the fulfillment of my plan of erecting a steam-mill in its place. I've worked for Alice, and now I must work for Virginia." "Let us at least," said the clergyman, who was standing by, "be reminded of our duty by this humble colored woman--let us offer up thanks for our wonderful preservation." All knelt, except the disabled raftsman, while the minister offered up a heartfelt thanksgiving, when the party set forth into the tangled forest again. Alice, who had been overcome more by anxiety than by fatigue, was so recruited, that she insisted upon going with Philip. Her familiarity with the woods she thought would enable her to trace the way to the spot where Ben would doubtless be found a corpse; the fact that he was high up in the branches of a tall tree when the tempest struck the spot, making it almost certain that he was destroyed. Two or three foresters, Raymond, and Philip, followed their guide, as she wound through and climbed over matted branches and fallen trunks, pausing occasionally for some trace of the familiar aspect of yesterday. In many places the forest looked actually as if a band of giant reapers had passed that way and mowed down the trees in mighty swaths. Again, when the tornado had taken a more whirling moment, the great trunks would be twisted and snapped off in long splinters, ten or twelve feet from the ground. An overwhelming sense of the terrific power of their unwelcome visitor oppressed them, as they beheld its ravages in the broad daylight. "And yet, dear Philip, it may have been sent by Providence to save me from a fearful fate--or at least, it _did_ save me, and I am grateful--oh, so grateful," whispered the young wife, as Philip assisted her over a huge tree which lay, torn up by the roots, across their path. "It must have been somewhere about here," she said, presently. "I am sure I have no idea of the locality," answered Philip. "Yes! there is the ledge of rock, and the cavern into which he thrust me. Poor Ben! I forgive him all. I hardly dare go on--I am afraid I shall see some dreadful sight;" and she shuddered. "Perhaps you had better rest yourself, while we search this vicinity closely." "Oh, no! I am too nervous to be left alone. I will keep by your side," and she clung to his arm, growing paler every moment, and scarcely daring to look before her. "Hush!" exclaimed one of the foresters, half-an-hour later, turning back toward the young couple who were some distance behind. "Don't let her come near. We've found him; he's dead as a hammer." Alice sat down upon a fallen tree-trunk, faint and trembling. "Stay here, dearest, a few moments. I will come back to you," and Philip went forward with the men to where, amid the ruins of the forest,--Ben lay, a crushed and senseless human thing. He was dreadfully mutilated, and to every appearance dead. They dragged him out from under the heavy branches, and as they did so, a low groan startled them. One of the men sank down and took the head upon his knee. "Where's Alice?" Ben unclosed his eyes, as he asked the question, moving them about from one face to another with a searching glance. "I'm dying--bring her quick. Oh, do bring her, won't you?" The gasping voice was loud and thrilling in the eagerness of its entreaty. Philip turned away and went for his wife. "Do you think you can bear the sight?" "If he wishes to see me, I shall not deny a dying man. He took many a step for me, in his better days--poor boy." Ben seemed to distinguish her footsteps as she drew near. He could not stir, but his eyes turned in that direction. "Are you cryin' for me?" he asked, as she stood by his side, the tears flowing down her cheeks like rain. "It's enough to make a man die happy to see you cryin' for him, Alice." "O Ben! I wish I could help you," she sobbed. "I'm past earthly help, and I'm glad of it. It's the best thing could happen to a used-up fellow like me. I don't blame you for it, Alice, but I'm to blame for things I've done, and I won't ask you to forgive me. My head's been on fire for weeks--I've been in a strange state--I can't recall what I've did or said. Then I got hurt, I don't know how--and when I could think again, that burning pain in my head was gone. I knew I was dyin', and I wanted to see you. I wanted to carry the pictur' of your face to the next world. I shouldn't be ashamed to show it to the angels--if they'll have any thing to do with a poor, ignorant fellow like me, as Pallas said they would. You're married, ain't you?" "She is my wife," said Philip, gently, taking her hand. "It made me crazy to think of it once; but it's over now. Alice, you've my blessin' and my wishes that you may be happy all your life. Forgive me the trouble I've made ye, and may you and him be happy long after the grass grows over poor Ben Perkins." Alice sobbed aloud, and the rough men standing around were grave and silent. The last sentence had been spoken in a whisper, and it was evident that life was ebbing away rapidly. He closed his eyes, and the sweat gathered on the pallid face, but a short time since, rich with the olive and crimson of health and youth. "I shan't be twenty-two till next month," he whispered, with shut eyes. "Put it on my tombstone, and let 'em put on it-- "'Oh, his heart, his heart was broken For the love of Alice Wilde.'" They stood looking at him. "Alice--good-by. Alice--where are you? Alice!" "Here, Ben--here I am;" but she spoke to a corpse. He died with the name of the woman he had loved with all the power of his passionate nature trembling upon his last breath. The next day they buried him in a lovely spot on the bank of the river; and, spite of all his errors and crimes, he was not unwept and not unmourned. Once he had been gay and frank, kind and honest, handsome and merry--and the memory of his good qualities swept away the judgment passed upon his later actions. Poor Saturn's remains were not discovered; and Pallas, with the superstition of her class, was inclined to believe that he had been translated bodily, in the chariot of the wind, to that better world of which they had spoken so much together. It was a pleasant belief, and afforded her great consolation. "He allers was so fond of dressin' and good clo'es; and he'd been taken up in his new suit as if a-purpose to please him. Ef he'd only a partaken of de weddin'-feas', he couldn't hab been better prepared 'an he was. Hi! hi!" It was a picturesque-looking party which sailed away from Wilde's mill one brilliant day in September. "One doesn't see such a bridal-party every day, or take such a bridal tour," remarked Virginia to the groomsman by her side. "It's better than six fashionable weddings, with the usual routine. I used to have a contempt for the romantic--but I'm beginning to like it." Yes, even the aristocratic Virginia, the beautiful metropolitan, began to be infatuated with the romance of the forest. We may yet hear of more remarkable changes than her change of opinion. We may yet see a villa, charming as those which grace our lordly Hudson, rising amid the elms and beeches on the banks of that fairer Western river--for love, beauty, taste, and money can accomplish wonders more surprising than making the wilderness blossom like a rose--and "out West" Aladdin's lamp is no myth. But, for the present, we will leave this picturesque party sailing down this broad, silver river in the purple and gold of an autumn day--leave it to its joyous light, and leave that one new-made grave to its silence and shadow. THE END. THE GOLDEN BELT CHAPTER V. THE CARIB'S PLEDGE. The next day Hernando mounted his charger, and went forth to the forest. Guarcia's flower had withered, though he had kept its stem in crystal water all night. He was impatient to hear her voice again, athirst for the sweet words that told him of her love. As he galloped through the forest, followed by the hounds that had learned to crouch at Guarcia's feet and play lovingly with her fawns, a figure stepped suddenly across his path and seized his horse by the bit. The horse, restive at feeling a strange hand near his head, made an attempt to rear, but the Carib savage drew him back to the earth with a wrench of his strong arm, and, before Hernando could speak, was looking him gravely in his face. "Come with me, stranger, there is a black cloud over this path." "I am used to danger, chief, as some of your tribe may know," said Hernando, smiling, as he touched the hilt of his sword. "Vipers are not killed with weapons like that," answered the chief; "it is with them you have to deal." "Well, what of them? I prefer an open foe, like the warriors of your tribe. You are an enemy to our people, but now and straightforward what other assailant need I fear?" "We are foes to the Spaniard, but not to you. Come, and I will show you the snares which white men lay for each other." "But what if this were itself a snare?" The Indian drew a knife from his belt, and seizing Hernando's hand in his iron grasp, pierced a vein with the point. Applying his lips to the cut, he drew a mouthful of blood and swallowed it. Then dashing one clenched hand against his broad chest, he exclaimed, with vehemence: "The blood of my pale brother flows here. What Carib ever betrayed his own blood?" Hernando knew that this was a sacred pledge, and turning to the Indian, with a smile, bade him lead on. The Indian did not smile, but his eyes broke into a blaze of delight, and, with a gesture, he plunged into the forest. Some four or five miles from the place of the encounter lay a stretch of swampy land, dark and dismal as stagnant water and the slimy growth of swamp vegetation could render it. Many a rough passage and deep gully lay between the broad savannas and this dreary spot; but the savage passed them without halting, and Hernando followed, though his good steed grew restive with the broken path. At last they came out on a precipice which it was impossible that the horse could descend. "Leave your beast here--he will be safe," said the Indian pointing to a footpath which wound like a black serpent down the precipice. Hernando dismounted, tied his horse to a sapling, and prepared to follow his guide on foot. With a step as firm and more rapid than a wild goat's, the savage took to the path. Hernando followed. With a fearless and steady step, they wound their way still on the edge of the precipice, till the moon had risen, and flung her luxuriant gilding upon every object. They now walked more rapidly, and soon took a southern course, and began to descend. Hernando now understood where he was going. The continual and monotonous cries of the frogs, and the tall trees with their long festoons of Spanish moss--which hung over the alluvial bottom, like the curtains of a funeral pall--indicated sufficiently that they were approximating, or had already reached the Cypress Swamp. Many a slimy toad hopped croaking out of their way, as they advanced in the swamps, and the angry scream of some huge "swamp owl," as it flapped its broad wings, and malignantly snapped its bill at them, gave him a hint that it was time to tread warily in the tracks of his guide, or he might suddenly be precipitated headlong into the mud and slime, for they were approaching the interior of the swamp. After walking for some time, till even the Indian, whose knowledge of that country was unlimited, was constrained to step with extreme caution, for fear of sinking into the deceptive mud, they stopped. The scene around bore a terrifying appearance--not one step further could they advance, without being overwhelmed in mud and water. As far as the eye could see, by the imperfect light which penetrated that dismal spot, was but one sickening sight of the green mud and water, where no human foot could tread without sinking ten feet or more, to find death at the bottom. "Look upon that spot," said the savage, pointing with his finger to a pool of stagnant water; it had the appearance of being deep, and a large green frog sat on a broken stump that floated there, with his gray eyes fixed upon them, and with his hind legs drawn under him, as if preparing to leap into their faces. Hernando turned his eyes away from this loathsome sight. "That spot," continued the savage, still pointing toward it--"that spot was to have been my white brother's grave." "What!" exclaimed Hernando, recoiling; "what you say can not be true--who could make that spot my grave? Is this a time for trifling with me, chief?" "It is not, my white brother! I did not bring you here to play with your feelings, but to save your life; you look at me,--you would inquire what interest I have in saving your life. Listen: It was a great many summers ago, when a Carib chief went out to shoot deer; he walked all day--no deer--he sat on a log, tired and hungry; while he sat there, weak and tired, almost asleep, a crouching panther sprang upon him and bore him to the earth; the Carib fought hard, for he was fighting for his life, but he was weak and hungry, and the panther seized him and was bearing him off, when a white man, who heard the noise, came running to the spot. He, drawing his knife like a true warrior, jumped upon the enraged animal's back, and stabbed him to the heart. The Indian was saved. The white man had a warrior's heart--he took from his wallet some provisions, which he gave to his starving brother, and bade him eat, then he walked off. The Carib's heart swelled, and when the pale man had disappeared, he fell upon one knee, and called the Great Spirit to witness, and he swore an oath; he swore in the presence of that mighty Spirit to protect all in whom that pale man's blood flowed." "That man was my father," interrupted Hernando; "I have heard him tell that story many times; and what became of the Carib?" "He stands before you! Now will my pale brother suspect me of playing with his feelings? But stay. The Carib became a great chief in his nation, and sat in the councils of Caonabo. He still hunted in these woods, and as he hunted three suns ago, sounds came to his ears, more terrific than the swamp owl's, for it was not the sound of defiance, but of cowardly murder. Two men advanced; your brother, who did not wish to be seen, stepped behind a tree. It was a big Captain of the fort, and a man whom I have seen taking care of the horses at the fort--a slim-faced Spaniard, with eyes like a snake's; their looks were black, and they talked of murder; your brother understood, for he had learned their language in trading with them; they struck upon the track that we have just passed--what would they in this track, for no game can live here? Your brother followed them cautiously, and the slim one cursed my white brother, because he loved a daughter of the Spaniard whose mother was a Carib princess, and he swore he should be killed, and hid from his comrades in the black heart of the cypress swamp. I left them, and hunted you--here we are!" Hernando was thunderstruck at what he heard; a feeling of horror pervaded his frame, as he looked around on that dismal spot. The tall trees above them bore no other verdure than the rank Spanish moss, which swept the swamp far and wide, and the dark green water, with its thousand loathsome reptiles, was horrible to look upon. "My brother must keep a sharp eye about him--he must play the fox, and if the Spaniards are too strong, send this belt to Orazimbo, and he will find your brother, who will come to your help though he must bring as many warriors as there are leaves on the trees." Hernando took the belt, which glittered richly even in that murky light; for it was a girdle of virgin gold, flexible, from its own purity, with a rivulet of burning opal stones, rough emeralds, and rude gems running through it like a rainbow. READY AUGUST 15TH. BEADLE'S DIME NOVELS, NO. 5.--"THE GOLDEN BELT; OR, THE CARIB'S PLEDGE," COMPLETE. Transcriber's Notes: Added table of contents. Italics are represented with _underscores_. Retained some unusual (presumed archaic) spellings (e.g. "musquitoes"). Page 10, added missing quote after "no older." Page 13, added missing quote after "new clo'es." Page 15, changed "a a watchin'" to "a watchin'" and added missing period after "right away." Page 32, the line "The sun went down in a clear sky; there were no clouds to" appeared several lines above its intended position; it has been moved down. Page 51, changed "your love-cracked" to "you're love-cracked." Page 54, added missing period after "her fears." Page 63, changed "of of thrashing" to "of thrashing." Page 65, changed "somethimg" to "something." Page 88, added missing period after "dis worl'." Page 91, removed extra quote after "sure 'nuff." Page 96, changed period to question mark in "May I pray for you, Ben?" Page 104, changed comma to period after "groomsman with Virginia." Added missing period after "rag-carpeting." Page 105, changed period to question mark after "upon my trips?" Page 113, changed comma to period after "in de wood." Page 124, changed "begining" to "beginning." 
6988	----	HISTORY OF THE OTTAWA AND CHIPPEWA INDIANS OF MICHIGAN; A GRAMMAR OF THEIR LANGUAGE, AND PERSONAL AND FAMILY HISTORY OF THE AUTHOR, BY ANDREW J. BLACKBIRD, LATE U.S. INTERPRETER, HARBOR SPRINGS, EMMET CO., MICH. INTRODUCTION Andrew J. Blackbird, the author of this little book, is an educated Indian, son of the Ottawa Chief. His Indian name is Mack-aw-de-be-nessy (Black Hawk), but he generally goes by the name of "Blackbird," taken from the interpretation of the French "L'Oiseau noir." Mr. Blackbird's wife is an educated and intelligent white woman of English descent, and they have four children. He is a friend of the white people, as well as of his own people. Brought up as an Indian, with no opportunity for learning during his boyhood, when he came to think for himself, he started out blindly for an education, without any means but his brains and his hands. He was loyal to the Government during the rebellion in the United States, for which cause he met much opposition by designing white people, who had full sway among the Indians, and who tried to mislead them and cause them to be disloyal; and he broke up one or two rebellious councils amongst his people during the progress of the rebellion. When Hon. D. C. Leach, of Traverse City, Mich., was Indian Agent, Mr. Blackbird was appointed United States Interpreter and continued in this office with other subsequent Agents of the Department for many years. Before he was fairly out of this office, he was appointed postmaster of Little Traverse, now Harbor Springs, Mich., and faithfully discharged his duties as such for over eleven years with but very little salary. He has also for several years looked after the soldiers' claims for widows and orphans, both for the whites as well as for his own people, in many instances without the least compensation, not even his stamps and paper paid. He is now decrepit with old age and failing health, and unable to perform hard manual labor. We therefore recommend this work of Mr. A. J. Blackbird as interesting and reliable. JAMES L. MORRICE, Treasurer of Emmet County. C. P. NEWKIRK, Principal Harbor Springs Public Schools. CHARLES R. WRIGHT, Ex-President Harbor Springs. CHARLES W. INGALLS, Notary Public for Emmet Co. ALBERT L. HATHAWAY, County Clerk, Emmet County. WM. H. LEE, Probate Clerk and Abstractor of Titles. ARCH. D. METZ, Deputy Register of Deeds. WILLARD P. GIBSON, Pastor Presbyterian Church. WILLIAM H. MILLER, U.S.A. PREFACE. I deem it not improper to present the history of the last race of Indians now existing in the State of Michigan, called the Ottawa and Chippewa Nations of Indians. There were many other tribes of Indians in this region prior to the occupancy of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians of this State, who have long ago gone out of existence. Not a page of their history is on record; but only an allusion to them in our traditions. I have herewith recorded the earliest history of the Ottawa tribe of Indians in particular, according to their traditions. I have related where they formerly lived, the names of their leaders, and what tribes they contended with before and after they came to Michigan, and how they came to be the inhabitants of this State. Also the earliest history of the Island of Mackinac, and why it is called "Michilimackinac"--which name has never been correctly translated by white historians, but which is here given according to our knowledge of this matter long before we came in contact with white races. I have also recorded some of the most important legends, which resemble the Bible history; particularly the legends with regard to the great flood, which has been in our language for many centuries, and the legend of the great fish which swallowed the prophet Ne-naw-bo-zhoo, who came out again alive, which might be considered as corresponding to the story of Jonah in the Sacred History. Beside my own personal and our family history, I have also, quite extensively, translated our language into English and added many other items which might be interesting to all who may wish to inquire into our history and language. ANDREW J. BLACKBIRD. ACKNOWLEDGMENT. The Ypsilanti Auxiliary of the Women's National Indian Association, by whose efforts this book is published, take this opportunity to express earnest thanks to those who have aided in this work. Most generous donations of money from friends of Indians and equally valuable liberality from publishers and papermakers have made possible the preservation of this most rare and important history. This is the only instance where a native Indian has recorded the story of his people and given a grammar of their language; thus producing a work whose immense value, as an account of a race and a language already passing into oblivion, will become even more inestimable with the lapse of time. Ypsilanti, Mich., Oct., 1887. CHAPTER I. History of the Ottawa of Michigan--Preliminary Remarks in Regard to Other Histories, Concerning the Massacre of the Old British Fort on the Straits of Mackinac--British Promise to the Ottawas--Ravages of Small Pox--First Recollection of the Country of Arbor-Croche and Its Definition--Uprightness and Former Character of the Indians. I have seen a number of writings by different men who attempted to give an account of the Indians who formerly occupied the Straits of Mackinac and Mackinac Island, (that historic little island which stands at the entrance of the strait,) also giving an account of the Indians who lived and are yet living in Michigan, scattered through the counties of Emmet, Cheboygan, Charlevoix, Antrim, Grand Traverse, and in the region of Thunder Bay, on the west shore of Lake Huron. But I see no very correct account of the Ottawa and Chippewa tribes of Indians, according to our knowledge of ourselves, past and present. Many points are far from being credible. They are either misstated by persons who were not versed in the traditions of these Indians, or exaggerated. An instance of this is found in the history of the life of Pontiac (pronounced Bwon-diac), the Odjebwe (or Chippewa) chief of St. Clair, the instigator of the massacre of the old fort on the Straits of Mackinac, written by a noted historian. In his account of the massacre, he says there was at this time no known surviving Ottawa Chief living on the south side of the Straits. This point of the history is incorrect, as there were several Ottawa chiefs living on the south side of the Straits at this particular time, who took no part in this massacre, but took by force the few survivors of this great, disastrous catastrophe, and protected them for a while and afterwards took them to Montreal, presenting them to the British Government; at the same time praying that their brother Odjebwes should not be retaliated upon on account of their rash act against the British people, but that they might be pardoned, as this terrible tragedy was committed through mistake, and through the evil counsel of one of their leaders by the name of Bwondiac (known in history as Pontiac). They told the British Government that their brother Odjebwes were few in number, while the British were in great numbers and daily increasing from an unknown part of the world across the ocean. They said, "Oh, my father, you are like the trees of the forest, and if one of the forest trees should be wounded with a hatchet, in a few years its wound will be entirely healed. Now, my father, compare with this: this is what my brother Odjebwe did to some of your children on the Straits of Mackinac, whose survivors we now bring back and present to your arms. O my father, have mercy upon my brothers and pardon them; for with your long arms and many, but a few strokes of retaliation would cause our brother to be entirely annihilated from the face of the earth!" According to our understanding in our traditions, that was the time the British Government made such extraordinary promises to the Ottawa tribe of Indians, at the same time thanking them for their humane action upon those British remnants of the massacre. She promised them that her long arms will perpetually extend around them from generation to generation, or so long as there should be rolling sun. They should receive gifts from her sovereign in shape of goods, provisions, firearms, ammunition, and intoxicating liquors! Her sovereign's beneficent arm should be even extended unto the dogs belonging to the Ottawa tribe of Indians. And what place soever she should meet them, she would freely unfasten the faucet which contains her living water--whisky, which she will also cause to run perpetually and freely unto the Ottawas as the fountain of perpetual spring! And furthermore: she said, "I am as many as the stars in the heavens; and when you get up in the morning, look to the east; you will see that the sun, as it will peep through the earth, will be as red as my coat, to remind you why I am likened unto the sun, and my promises will be as perpetual as the rolling sun!" Ego-me-nay--Corn-hanger--was the head counselor and speaker of the Ottawa tribe of Indians at that time, and, according to our knowledge, Ego-me-nay was the leading one who went with those survivors of the massacre, and he was the man who made the speech before the august assembly in the British council hall at Montreal at that time. Ne-saw- key--Down-the-hill--the head chief of the Ottawa Nation, did not go with the party, but sent his message, and instructed their counselor in what manner he should appear before the British Government. My father was a little boy at that time, and my grandfather and my great- grandfather were both living then, and both held the first royal rank among the Ottawas. My grandfather was then a sub-chief and my great- grandfather was a war chief, whose name was Pun-go-wish: And several other chiefs of the tribe I could mention who existed at that time, but this is ample evidence that the historian was mistaken in asserting that there was no known Ottawa chief existing at the time of the massacre. However it was a notable fact that by this time the Ottawas were greatly reduced in numbers from what they were in former times, on account of the small-pox which they brought from Montreal during the French war with Great Britain. This small pox was sold to them shut up in a tin box, with the strict injunction not to open the box on their way homeward, but only when they should reach their country; and that this box contained something that would do them great good, and their people! The foolish people believed really there was something in the box supernatural, that would do them great good. Accordingly, after they reached home they opened the box; but behold there was another tin box inside, smaller. They took it cut and opened the second box, and behold, still there was another box inside of the second box, smaller yet. So they kept on this way till they came to a very small box, which was not more than an inch long; and when they opened the last one they found nothing but mouldy particles in this last little box! They wondered very much what it was, and a great many closely inspected to try to find out what it meant. But alas, alas! pretty soon burst out a terrible sickness among them. The great Indian doctors themselves were taken sick and died. The tradition says it was indeed awful and terrible. Every one taken with it was sure to die. Lodge after lodge was totally vacated--nothing but the dead bodies lying here and there in their lodges--entire families being swept off with the ravages of this terrible disease. The whole coast of Arbor Croche, or Waw-gaw-naw- ke-zee, where their principal village was situated, on the west shore of the peninsula near the Straits, which is said to have been a continuous village some fifteen or sixteen miles long and extending from what is now called Cross Village to Seven-Mile Point (that is, seven miles from Little Traverse, now Harbor Springs), was entirely depopulated and laid waste. It is generally believed among the Indians of Arbor Croche that this wholesale murder of the Ottawas by this terrible disease sent by the British people, was actuated through hatred, and expressly to kill off the Ottawas and Chippewas because they were friends of the French Government or French King, whom they called "Their Great Father." The reason that to-day we see no full- grown trees standing along the coast of Arbor Croche, a mile or more in width along the shore, is because the trees were entirely cleared away for this famous long village, which existed before the small-pox raged among the Ottawas. In my first recollection of the country of Arbor Croche, which is sixty years ago, there was nothing but small shrubbery here and there in small patches, such as wild cherry trees, but the most of it was grassy plain; and such an abundance of wild strawberries, raspberries and blackberries that they fairly perfumed the air of the whole coast with fragrant scent of ripe fruit. The wild pigeons and every variety of feathered songsters filled all the groves, warbling their songs joyfully and feasting upon these wild fruits of nature; and in these waters the fishes were so plentiful that as you lift up the anchor- stone of your net in the morning, your net would be so loaded with delicious whitefish as to fairly float with all its weight of the sinkers. As you look towards the course of your net, you see the fins of the fishes sticking out of the water in every way. Then I never knew my people to want for anything to eat or to wear, as we always had plenty of wild meat and plenty of fish, corn, vegetables, and wild fruits. I thought (and yet I may be mistaken) that my people were very happy in those days, at least I was as happy myself as a lark, or as the brown thrush that sat daily on the uppermost branches of the stubby growth of a basswood tree which stood near by upon the hill where we often played under its shade, lodging our little arrows among the thick branches of the tree and then shooting them down again for sport. [Footnote: The word Arbor Croche is derived from two French words: Arbre, a tree; and Croche, something very crooked or hook-like. The tradition says when the Ottawas first came to that part of the country a great pine tree stood very near the shore where Middle Village now is, whose top was very crooked, almost hook-like. Therefore the Ottawas called the place "Waw-gaw-naw-ke-zee"--meaning the crooked top of the tree. But by and by the whole coast from Little Traverse to Tehin-gaw- beng, now Cross Village, became denominated as Waw-gaw-naw-ke-zee.] Early in the morning as the sun peeped from the east, as I would yet be lying close to my mother's bosom, this brown thrush would begin his warbling songs perched upon the uppermost branches of the basswood tree that stood close to our lodge. I would then say to myself, as I listened to him, "here comes again my little orator," and I used to try to understand what he had to say; and sometimes thought I understood some of its utterances as follows: "Good morning, good morning! arise, arise! shoot, shoot! come along, come along!" etc., every word repeated twice. Even then, and so young as I was, I used to think that little bird had a language which God or the Great Spirit had given him, and every bird of the forest understood what he had to say, and that he was appointed to preach to other birds, to tell them to be happy, to be thankful for the blessings they enjoy among the summer green branches of the forest, and the plenty of wild fruits to eat. The larger boys used to amuse themselves by playing a ball called Paw-kaw-do-way, foot- racing, wrestling, bow-arrow shooting, and trying to beat one another shooting the greatest number of chipmunks and squirrels in a day, etc. I never heard any boy or any grown person utter any bad language, even if they were out of patience with anything. Swearing or profanity was never heard among the Ottawa and Chippewa tribes of Indians, and not even found in their language. Scarcely any drunkenness, only once in a great while the old folks used to have a kind of short spree, particularly when there was any special occasion of a great feast going on. But all the young folks did not drink intoxicating liquors as a beverage in those days. And we always rested in perfect safety at night in our dwellings, and the doorways of our lodges had no fastenings to them, but simply a frail mat or a blanket was hung over our doorways which might be easily pushed or thrown one side without any noise if theft or any other mischief was intended. But we were not afraid for any such thing to happen us, because we knew that every child of the forest was observing and living under the precepts which their forefathers taught them, and the children were taught almost daily by their parents from infancy unto manhood and womanhood, or until they were separated from their families. These precepts or moral commandments by which the Ottawa and Chippewa nations of Indians were governed in their primitive state, were almost the same as the ten commandments which the God Almighty himself delivered to Moses on Mount Sinai on tables of stone. Very few of these divine precepts are not found among the precepts of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians, except with regard to the Sabbath day to keep it holy; almost every other commandment can be found, only there are more, as there were about twenty of these "uncivilized" precepts. They also believed, in their primitive state, that the eye of this Great Being is the sun by day, and by night the moon and stars, and, therefore, that God or the Great Spirit sees all things everywhere, night and day, and it would be impossible to hide our actions, either good or bad, from the eye of this Great Being. Even the very threshold or crevice of your wigwam will be a witness against you, if you should commit any criminal action when no human eye could observe your criminal doings, but surely your criminal actions will be revealed in some future time to your disgrace and shame. These were continual inculcations to the children by their parents, and in every feast and council, by the "Instructors of the Precepts" to the people or to the audience of the council. For these reasons the Ottawas and Chippewas in their primitive state were strictly honest and upright in their dealings with their fellow-beings. Their word of promise was as good as a promissory note, even better, as these notes sometimes are neglected and not performed according to their promises; but the Indian promise was very sure and punctual, although, as they had no timepieces, they measured their time by the sun. If an Indian promised to execute a certain obligation at such time, at so many days, and at such height of the sun, when that time comes he would be there punctually to fulfill this obligation. This was formerly the character of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians of Michigan. But now, our living is altogether different, as we are continually suffering under great anxiety and perplexity, and continually being robbed and cheated in various ways. Our houses have been forcibly entered for thieving purposes and murder; people have been knocked down and robbed; great safes have been blown open with powder in our little town and their contents carried away, and even children of the Caucasian race are heard cursing and blaspheming the name of their Great Creator, upon whose pleasure we depended for our existence. According to my recollection of the mode of living in our village, so soon as darkness came in the evening, the young boys and girls were not allowed to be out of their lodges. Every one of them must be called in to his own lodge for the rest of the night. And this rule of the Indians in their wild state was implicitly observed. Ottawa and Chippewa Indians were not what we would call entirely infidels and idolaters; for they believed that there is a Supreme Ruler of the Universe, the Creator of all things, the Great Spirit, to which they offer worship and sacrifices in a certain form. It was customary among them, every spring of the year, to gather all the cast off garments that had been worn during the winter and rear them up on a long pole while they were having festivals and jubilees to the Great Spirit. The object of doing this was that the Great Spirit might look down from heaven and have compassion on his red children. Only this, that they foolishly believe that there are certain deities all over the lands who to a certain extent govern or preside over certain places, as a deity who presides over this river, over this lake, or this mountain, or island, or country, and they were careful not to express anything which might displease such deities; but that they were not supreme rulers, only to a certain extent they had power over the land where they presided. These deities were supposed to be governed by the Great Spirit above. CHAPTER II. Cases of Murders Among the Ottawas and Chippewas Exceedingly Scarce --Ceding the Grand Traverse Region to the Chippewas on Account of Murder--Immorality Among the Ottawas not Common--Marriage in Former Times. The murders in cold blood among the Ottawa and Chippewa nations of Indians in their primitive state were exceedingly few, at least there was only one account in our old tradition where a murder had been committed, a young Ottawa having stabbed a young Chippewa while in dispute over their nets when they were fishing for herrings on the Straits of Mackinac. This nearly caused a terrible bloody war between the two powerful tribes of Indians (as they were numerous then) so closely related. The tradition says they had council after council upon this subject, and many speeches were delivered on both sides. The Chippewas proposed war to settle the question of murder, while the Ottawas proposed compromise and restitution for the murder. Finally the Ottawas succeeded in settling the difficulty by ceding part of their country to the Chippewa nation, which is now known and distinguished as the Grand Traverse Region. A strip of land which I believe to have extended from a point near Sleeping Bear, down to the eastern shore of the Grand Traverse Bay, some thirty or forty miles wide, thence between two parallel lines running southeasterly until they strike the head waters of Muskegon River, which empties into Lake Michigan not very far below Grand Haven. They were also allowed access to all the rivers and streams in the Lower Peninsula of Michigan, to trap the beavers, minks, otters and muskrats. The Indians used their furs in former times for garments and blankets. This is the reason that to this day the Odjebwes (Chippewas) are found in that section of the country. It may be said, this is not true; it is a mistake. We have known several cases of murders among the Ottawas and Chippewas. I admit it to be true, that there have been cases of murders among the Ottawas and Chippewas since the white people knew them. But these cases of murders occurred some time after they came in contact with the white races in their country; but I am speaking now of the primitive condition of Indians, particularly of the Ottawas and Chippewas, and I believe most of those cases of murders were brought on through the bad influence of white men, by introducing into the tribes this great destroyer of mankind, soul and body, intoxicating liquors! Yet, during sixty years of my existence among the Ottawas and Chippewas, I have never witnessed one case of murder of this kind, but I heard there were a few cases in other parts of the country, when in their fury from the influence of intoxicating liquors. There was one case of sober murder happened about fifty years ago at Arbor Croche, where one young man disposed of his lover by killing, which no Indian ever knew the actual cause of. He was arrested and committed to the Council and tried according to the Indian style; and after a long council, or trial, it was determined the murderer should be banished from the tribe. Therefore, he was banished. Also, about this time, one case of sober murder transpired among the Chippewas of Sault Ste. Marie, committed by one of the young Chippewas whose name was Wau-bau-ne-me-kee (White-thunder), who might have been released if he had been properly tried and impartial judgment exercised over the case, but we believe it was not. This Indian killed a white man, when he was perfectly sober, by stabbing. He was arrested, of course, and tried and sentenced to be hung at the Island of Mackinac. I distinctly remember the time. This poor Indian was very happy when he was about to be hung on the gallows. He told the people that he was very happy to die, for he felt that he was innocent. He did not deny killing the man, but he thought he was justifiable in the sight of the Great Spirit, as such wicked monsters ought to be killed from off the earth; as this white man came to the Indian's wigwam in the dead of night, and dragged the mother of his children from his very bosom for licentious purpose. He remonstrated, but his remonstrances were not heeded, as this ruffian was encouraged by others who stood around his wigwam, and ready to fall upon this poor Indian and help their fellow-ruffian; and he therefore stabbed the principal party, in defence of his beloved wife, for which cause the white man died. If an Indian should go to the white man's house and commit that crime, he would be killed; and what man is there who would say that is too bad, this Indian to be killed in that manner? But every man will say amen, only he ought to have been tortured before he was killed; and let the man who killed this bad and wicked Indian be rewarded! This is what would be the result if the Indian would have done the same thing as this white man did. The Ottawas and Chippewas were quite virtuous in their primitive state, as there were no illegitimate children reported in our old traditions. But very lately this evil came to exist among the Ottawas--so lately that the second case among the Ottawas of Arbor Croche is yet living. And from that time this evil came to be quite frequent, for immorality has been introduced among these people by evil white persons who bring their vices into the tribes. In the former times or before the Indians were christianized, when a young man came to be a fit age to get married, he did not trouble himself about what girl he should have for his wife; but the parents of the young man did this part of the business When the parents thought best that their son should be separated from their family by marriage, it was their business to decide what woman their son should have as his wife; and after selecting some particular girl among their neigbors, they would take up quite large package of presents and then go to the parents of the girl and demand the daughter for their son's wife at the same time delivering the presents to the parents of the girl. If the old folks say yes, then they would fetch the girl right along to their son and tell him, We have brought this girl as your wife so long as you live; now take her, cherish her, and be kind to her so long as you live. The young man and girl did not dare to say aught against it, as it was the law and custom amongst their people, but all they had to do was to take each other as man and wife. This was all the rules and ceremony of getting married in former times among the Ottawas and Chippewas of Michigan: they must not marry their cousins nor second cousins. CHAPTER III. Earliest Possible Known History of Mackinac Island--Its Historical Definition--Who Resided at the Island--Massacre at the Island by Senecas--Where the Ottawas were Living at That Time--Only Two Escape the Massacre--What Became of Them--The Legends of the Two Who Escaped --Occupants of the Island Afterwards--Who Killed Warrior Tecumseh? Again, most every historian, or annalist so-called, who writes about the Island of Mackinac and the Straits and vicinity, tells us that the definition or the meaning of the word "Michilimackinac" in the Ottawa and Chippewa language, is "large turtle," derived from the word Mi-she- mi-ki-nock in the Chippewa language. That is, "Mi-she" as one of the adnominals or adjectives in the Ottawa and Chippewa languages, which would signify tremendous in size; and "Mikinock" is the name of mud turtle--meaning, therefore, "monstrous large turtle," as the historians would have it. But we consider this to be a clear error. Whereever those annalists, or those who write about the Island of Mackinac, obtain their information as to the definition of the word Michilimackinac, I don't know, when our tradition is so direct and so clear with regard to the historical definition of that word, and is far from being derived from the word "Michimikinock," as the historians have told us. Our tradition says that when the Island was first discovered by the Ottawas, which was some time before America was known as an existing country by the white man, there was a small independent tribe, a remnant race of Indians who occupied this island, who became confederated with the Ottawas when the Ottawas were living at Manitoulin, formerly called Ottawa Island, which is situated north of Lake Huron. The Ottawas thought a good deal of this unfortunate race of people, as they were kind of interesting sort of people; but, unfortunately, they had most powerful enemies, who every now and then would come among them to make war with them. Their enemies were of the Iroquois of New York. Therefore, once in the dead of the winter while the Ottawas were having a great jubilee and war dances at their island, now Manitoulin, on account of the great conquest over the We-ne-be-goes of Wisconsin, of which I will speak more fully in subsequent chapters, during which time the Senecas of New York, of the Iroquois family of Indians, came upon the remnant race and fought them, and almost entirely annihilated them. But two escaped to tell the story, who effected their escape by flight and by hiding in one of the natural caves at the island, and therefore that was the end of this race. And according to our understanding and traditions the tribal name of those disastrous people was "Mi-shi-ne-macki naw-go," which is still existing to this day as a monument of their former existence; for the Ottawas and Chippewas named this little island "Mi-shi-ne-macki-nong" for memorial sake of those their former confederates, which word is the locative case of the Indian noun "Michinemackinawgo." Therefore, we contend, this is properly where the name Michilimackinac is originated. This is the earliest possible history of this little Island, as I have related, according to the Ottawa traditions; and from that time forward there have been many changes in its history, as other tribes of Indians took possession of the island, such as the Hurons and Chippewas; and still later by the whites--French, English, and Americans; and numbers of battles have been fought from time to time there, by both Indians and whites, of which I need not relate as other historians have already given us the accounts of them. But only this I would relate, because I have never yet seen the account of it: It is related in our traditions that at the time when the Chippewas occupied the island they ceded it to the United States Government, but reserved a strip of land all around the island as far as a stone throw from its water's edge as their encampment grounds when they might come to the island to trade or for other business. Perhaps the reader would like to know what became of those two persons who escaped from the lamented tribe Michinemackinawgoes. I will here give it just as it is related in our traditions, although this may be considered, at this age, as a fictitious story; but every Ottawa and Chippewa to this day believes it to be positively so. It is related that the two persons escaped were two young people, male and female, and they were lovers. After everything got quieted down, they fixed their snow-shoes inverted and crossed the lake on the ice, as snow was quite deep on the ice, and they went towards the north shore of Lake Huron. The object of inverting their snow-shoes was that in case any person should happen to come across their track on the ice, their track would appear as if going towards the island. They became so disgusted with human nature, it is related, that they shunned every mortal being, and just lived by themselves, selecting the wildest part of the country. Therefore, the Ottawas and Chippewas called them "Paw-gwa- tchaw-nish-naw-boy." The last time they were seen by the Ottawas, they had ten children--all boys, and all living and well. And every Ottawa and Chippewa believes to this day that they are still in existence and roaming in the wildest part of the land, but as supernatural beings --that is, they can be seen or unseen, just as they see fit to be; and sometimes they simply manifested themselves as being present by throwing a club or a stone at a person walking in a solitude, or by striking a dog belonging to the person walking; and sometimes by throwing a club at the lodge, night or day, or hearing their footsteps walking around the wigwam when the Indians would be camping out in an unsettled part of the country, and the dogs would bark, just as they would bark at any strange person approaching the door. And sometimes they would be tracked on snow by hunters, and if followed on their track, however recently passed, they never could be overtaken. Sometimes when an Indian would be hunting or walking in solitude, he would suddenly be seized with an unearthly fright, terribly awe stricken, apprehending some great evil. He feels very peculiar sensation from head to foot--the hair of his head standing and feeling stiff like a porcupine quill. He feels almost benumbed with fright, and yet he does not know what it is; and looking in every direction to see something, but nothing to be seen which might cause sensation of terror. Collecting himself, he would then say, "Pshaw! its nothing here to be afraid of. It's nobody else but Paw-gwa-tchaw-nish-naw-boy is approaching me. Perhaps he wanted something of me." They would then leave something on their tracks--tobacco, powder, or something else. Once in a great while they would appear, and approach the person to talk with him, and in this case, it is said, they would always begin with the sad story of their great catastrophe at the Island of Mackinac. And whoever would be so fortunate as to meet and see them and to talk with them, such person would always become a prophet to his people, either Ottawa or Chippewa. Therefore, Ottawas and Chippewas called these supernatural beings "Paw-gwa-tchaw-nish-naw-boy," which is, strictly, "Wild roaming supernatural being." Pine river country, in Charlevoix County, Michigan, when this country was all wild, especially near Pine Lake, was once considered as the most famous resort of these kind of unnatural beings. I was once conversing with one of the first white settlers of that portion of the country, who settled near to the place now called Boyne City, at the extreme end of the east arm of Pine Lake. In the conversation he told me that many times they had been frightened, particularly during the nights, by hearing what sounded like human footsteps around outside of their cabin; and their dog would be terrified, crouching at the doorway, snarling and growling, and sometimes fearfully barking. When daylight came, the old man would go out in order to discover what it was or if he could track anything around his cabin, but he never could discover a track of any kind. These remarkable, mischievous, audible, fanciful, appalling apprehensions were of very frequent occurrence before any other inhabitants or settlers came near to his place; but now, they do not have such apprehensions since many settlers came. That massacre of Mishinimackinawgoes by Seneca Indians of New York happened probably more than five or six hundred years ago. I could say much more which would be contradictory of other writers of the history of the Indians in this country. Even in the history of the United States I think there are some mistakes concerning the accounts of the Indians, particularly the accounts of our brave Tecumseh, as it is claimed that he was killed by a soldier named Johnson, upon whom they conferred the honor of having disposed of the dreaded Tecumseh. Even pictured out as being coming up with his tomahawk to strike a man who was on horseback, but being instantly shot dead with the pistol. Now I have repeatedly heard our oldest Indians, both male and female, who were present at the defeat of the British and Indians, all tell a unanimous story, saying that they came to a clearing or opening spot, and it was there where Tecumseh ordered his warriors to rally and fight the Americans once more, and in this very spot one of the American musket balls took effect in Tecumseh's leg so as to break the bone of his leg, that he could not stand up. He was sitting on the ground when he told his warriors to flee as well as they could, and furthermore said, "One of my leg is shot off! But leave me one or two guns loaded; I am going to have a last shot. Be quick and go!" That was the last word spoken by Tecumseh. As they look back, they saw the soldiers thick as swarm of bees around where Tecumseh was sitting on the ground with his broken leg, and so they did not see him any more; and, therefore, we always believe that the Indians or Americans know not who made the fatal shot on Tecumseh's leg, or what the soldiers did with him when they came up to him as he was sitting on the ground. CHAPTER IV. The Author's Reasons for Recording the History of His People, and Their Language--History of His Nationality--A Sketch of His Father's History --How the Indians Were Treated in Manitoba Country One Hundred Years Ago--His Father's Banishment to Die on a Lonely Island by the White Traders--Second Misfortune of the Ottawas on Account of the Shawanee Prophet--The Earthquake. The Indian tribes are continnually diminishing on the face of this continent. Some have already passed entirely out of existence and are forgotten, who once inhabited this part of the country; such as the Mawsh-ko-desh, Urons, Ossaw-gees--who formerly occupied Saw-gi-naw bay; and the Odaw gaw-mees, whose principal habitation was about the vicinity of Detroit River. They are entirely vanished into nothingness. Not a single page of their history can be found on record in the history of this country, or hardly an allusion to their existence. My own race, once a very numerous, powerful and warlike tribe of Indians, who proudly trod upon this soil, is also near the end of existence. In a few more generations they will be so intermingled with the Caucasian race as to be hardly distinguished as descended from the Indian nations, and their language will be lost. I myself was brought up in a pure Indian style, and lived in a wigwam, and have partaken of every kind of the wild jubilees of my people, and was once considered one of the best "Pipe" dancers of the tribe. But when nearly grown up, I was invited by a traveling Protestant Missionary, whose name was Alvin Coe, to go home with him to the State of Ohio, with the assurance that he would give me a good education like the white man, and the idea struck me that I could be really educated and be able to converse with the white people. And although at that time (in the fall of 1840) I missed the opportunity, the idea was never after off of my mind. So some time afterwards I started out voluntarily to obtain an education; and I had nearly succeeded in completing my professional studies when I called away to come home and look after my aged father, in 1850. And now I have four children, but not one of them can speak the Indian language. And every one of the little Indian urchins who are now running about in our town can speak to each other quite fluently in the English language; but I am very sorry to add that they have also learned profanity like the white children. For these reasons it seems desirable that the history of my people should not be lost, like that of other tribes who previously existed in this country, and who have left no record of their ancient legends and their traditions. Before proceeding to record the history of the Ottawas of the State of Michigan, to whom I am immediately connected in their common interests and their future destinies, I propose to rehearse in a summary manner my nationality and family history. Our tradition says that long ago, when the Ottawa tribes of Indians used to go on a warpath either towards the south or towards the west, even as far as to the Rocky Mountains, on one of these expeditions towards the Rocky Mountains my remote ancestors were captured and brought to this country as prisoners of war. But they were afterwards adopted as children of the Ottawas, and intermarried with the nation in which they were captives. Subsequently these captives' posterity became so famous among the Ottawas on account of their exploits and bravery on the warpath and being great hunters that they became closely connected with the royal families, and were considered as the best counselors, best chieftains and best warriors among the Ottawas. Thus I am not regularly descended from the Ottawa nations of Indians, but I am descended, as tradition says, from the tribe in the far west known as the Underground race of people. They were so called on account of making their habitations in the ground by making holes large enough for dwelling purposes. It is related that they even made caves in the ground in which to keep their horses every night to prevent them from being stolen by other tribes who were their enemies. It is also related that they were quite an intelligent class of people. By cultivating the soil they raised corn and other vegetables to aid in sustaining life beside hunting and fishing. They were entirely independent, having their own government and language, and possessing their own national emblem which distinguished them as distinct and separate from all other tribes. This symbolical ensign of my ancestors was represented by a species of small hawk, which the Ottawas called the "Pe-pe-gwen." So we were sometimes called in this country in which we live the "Pe-pe-gwen tribe," instead of the "Undergrounds." And it was customary among the Ottawas, that if any one of our number, a descendant of the Undergrounds, should commit any punishable crime, all the Pe-pe-gwen tribe or descendants of the Undergrounds would be called together in a grand council and requested to make restitution for the crime or to punish the guilty one, according to the final decision of the council. There were several great chieftains of the Undergrounds among the Ottawas who were living within my time, and some are here mentioned who were most known by the American people, particularly during the war with Great Britain in 1812. Most of these chieftains were my own uncles. One was called Late Wing, who took a very active part for the cause of the United States in the war of 1812, and he was a great friend to Governor Lewis Cass of Michigan. Wing was pensioned for life for his good services to the United States. He was one of my father's own brothers. Shaw-be-nee was an uncle of mine on my mother's side, who also served bravely for the United States in the war of 1812. He traveled free all over the United States during his lifetime. This privilege was granted to him by the Government of the United States for his patriotism and bravery. He died in the State of Illinois about twenty years ago from this writing, and a monument was raised for him by the people in that State. Wa-ke-zoo was another great chieftain who died before my time in the country of Manitoba, out north. He was also one of my father's brothers. It is related that he was also a prophet and a great magician. My own dear father was one of the head chiefs at Arbor Croche, now called Middle Village or Good Heart, which latter name was given at my suggestion by the Postoffice Department at Washington. My father died in June, 1861. His Indian name was Macka-de-pe-nessy, [Footnote: This name is written variously, the letters d, b, t, and p, being considered identical in the Ottawa language.--Ed.] which means Black Hawk; but somehow it has been mistranslated into Blackbird, so we now go by this latter name. My father was a very brave man. He has led his warriors several times on the warpath, and he was noted as one who was most daring and adventurous in his younger days. He stayed about twenty years in the country of Manitoba with his brother Wa-ke-zoo, among other tribes of Indians and white fur-traders in that section of the country. Many times he has grappled with and narrowly escaped from the grizzly bear and treacherous buffalo which were then very numerous in that portion of the country. This was about one hundred years ago. He has seen there things that would be almost incredible at this present age: liquor sold to the Indians measured with a woman's thimble, a thimbleful for one dollar; one wooden coarse comb for two beaver skins; a double handful of salt for one beaver skin--and so on in proportion in everything else; the poor Indian had to give pile upon pile of beaver skins, which might be worth two or three hundred dollars, for a few yards of flimsy cloth. Englishmen and Frenchman who went there expressly to traffic with the Indians, generally started from Quebec and Montreal, leaving their families at home; but so soon as they reached this wild country, they would take Indian wives. When they left the country, they would leave their Indian wives and children there to shift for themselves. Consequently there are in this region thousands of half breeds, most beautiful men and beautiful women, but they are as savage as the rest of the Indians. No white man there ever told these poor Indians anything about Christianity, but only added unto them their degradations and robbed them. My father was once there left to perish on a lonely island by the fur traders, not because he had done any crime, but simply from inhuman cruelty and disregard of Indians by these white men. He was traveling with these traders from place to place in a long bark canoe, which was the only means of conveyance on the water in those days. It appears that there were two parties, and two of these long bark canoes were going in the same direction, one of which my father was paddling for them. He was not hired, but simply had joined them in his travels. But these two parties were thrown into a great quarrel about who should have my father to paddle their canoe. Therefore they landed on this little island expressly to fight amongst themselves; and after fighting long and desperately, they left my poor father on this little island to die, for they concluded that neither of them should take him into their canoe. He was left to die! What must be the feelings of this poor Indian, to whom life was as sweet as to any human creature? What revenge should he take upon those traders? He had a gun, which he leveled at them as they started off in their canoes. His fingers were on the trigger, when suddenly a thought flashed across his mind-- "Perhaps the Great Spirit will be displeased." So he dropped his gun, and raised a fervent prayer to the Almighty Ruler for deliverance from this awful situation. After being several days on this little island, when almost dying from starvation, fortunately deliverance came. He spied a small canoe with two persons in it within hail. They came and took him off from his dying situation. It was an Indian woman with her little son who happened to travel in that direction who saved my father's life. From this time hence my father lost all confidence in white men, whatever the position or profession of the white man might be, whether a priest, preacher, lawyer, doctor, merchant, or common white man. He told us to beware of them, as they all were after one great object, namely, to grasp the world's wealth. And in order to obtain this, they would lie, steal, rob, or murder, if it need be; therefore he instructed us to beware how the white man would approach us with very smooth tongue, while his heart is full of deceit and far from intending to do us any good. He left Manitoba country about 1800, or about the time when the Shawanee prophet, "Waw-wo-yaw-ge-she-maw," who was one of Tecumseh's own brothers, sent his emissaries to preach to the Ottawas and Chippewas in the Lower and Upper Peninsulas of Michigan, who advised the Ottawas and Chippewas to confess their sins and avow their wrongs and go west, and there to worship the Great Spirit according to the old style as their forefathers did, [Footnote: The worship of the Great Spirit consisted mostly in songs and dancing accompanied with an Indian drum, which has a very deep and solemn sound, alnot very large, about a foot in diameter. I used to think that the sound of it must reach to the heaven where the Great Spirit is.] and to abandon everything else which the white man had introduced into the tribes of Indians, to abandon even the mode of making fire, which was by flint and steel, and to start their fires by friction between the two pieces of dry wood as their forefathers made their fires before the white people came to this country, and to eat no flesh of domestic animals, but to eat nothing but wild game, and use their skins for their wearing apparel and robes as the Great Spirit designed them to be when He created them. He taught them that the Great Spirit was angry with them because they conformed to the habits of the white man, and that if they did not believe and practice the old habits, the Great Spirit would shake the earth as an evidence that he tells them the truth. A great many Ottawas believed and went far west accordingly. And it happened about this time the earth did quake in Michigan; I think, if I am not mistaken, the earth shook twice within a year, which is recorded in the annals of this country. At the earthquake many Indians were frightened, and consequently many more believed and went west; but nearly all of them died out there because the climate did not agree with them. Saw-gaw- kee--Growing-plant--was the head chief of the Ottawa nation of Indians at that time, and was one of the believers who went with the parties out west, and he also died there. [Footnote: This Chief Saw-gaw-kee was Ne-saw-wa-quat's father, the last head chief of Little Traverse. Ne- saw-wa-quat was the only child remaining alive of the whole family of Saw-gaw-kee. Therefore the child was brought back to this country and was the last head chief of Little Traverse, now Harbor Springs.] This is the second time that the Ottawas were terribly reduced in numbers in the country of Arbor Croche. CHAPTER V. The Author's Father Appointed Speaker for the Ottawas and Chippewas-- The Only Ottawa Who was Friendly to Education--Making Alphabet--Acting as School Teacher--Moving Disposition of the Ottawas--Mode of Traveling--Tradition of William Blackbird Being Fed by Angelic Beings in the Wilderness--His being Put into Mission School by His Father-- Studying to be a Priest--His Assassination in the City of Rome, Italy, Almost the Day When He was to be Ordained--Memorial Poem--The Author's Remarks on the Death of His Brother. After my father's return to Arbor Croche, he became quite an orator, and consequently he was appointed as the head speaker in the council of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians. He continued to hold this office until his frame was beginning to totter with age, his memory became disconnected and inactive, and he therefore gave up his office to his own messenger, whose name was Joseph As-saw-gon, who died during the late rebellion in the United States while Hon. D. C. Leach, of Traverse City, was the Michigan Indian Agent. As-saw-gon was indeed quite an orator, considering his scanty opportunities. He had no education at all, but was naturally gifted as an orator. He was quite logical and allegorical in his manner of speaking. I have heard several white people remark, who had listened to his speeches through the imperfect interpreters, that he was as good a speaker as any orator who had been thoroughly educated. My father was the only man who was friendly to education. When I was a little boy, I remember distinctly his making his own alphabet, which he called "Paw-pa-pe-po." With this he learned how to read and write; and afterwards he taught other Indians to read and write according to his alphabet. He taught no children, but only the grown persons. Our wigwam, which was about sixty or seventy feet long, where we lived in the summer time, was like a regular school-house, with my father as teacher of the school, and they had merry times in it. Many Indians came there to learn his Paw-pa-pe-po, and some of them were very easy to learn, while others found learning extremely difficult. We were ten of us children in the family, six boys and four girls. I was the youngest of all who were living at that time. The eldest boy was one of the greatest hunters among the Ottawas. His name was Pung-o- wish, named after our great-grandfather, but he was afterwards called Peter by the Catholic missionaries when he was baptised into the Catholic religion. One of my brothers who was five or six years younger than my eldest brother was a remarkably interesting boy. His name was Pe-taw-wan-e-quot, though he was afterwards called William. He was quick to learn Paw-pa-pe-po, and very curious and interesting questions he would often ask of his father, which would greatly puzzle the old man to answer. All the Indians of Arbor Croche used only to stay there during the summer time, to plant their corn, potatoes, and other vegetables. As soon as their crops were put away in the ground, [Footnote: The mode of securing their corn was first to dry the ears by fire. When perfectly dry, they would then beat them with a flail and pick all the cobs out. The grain was then winnowed and put into sacks. These were put in the ground in a large cylinder made out of elm bark, set in deep in the ground and made very dry, filling this cylinder full and then covering it to stay there for winter and summer use.] they would start all together towards the south, going to different points, some going as far as Chicago expressly to trap the muskrats, beavers, and many other kinds of furs, and others to the St. Joe River, Black River, Grand River, or Muskegon River, there to trap and hunt all winter, and make sugar in the spring. After sugar making they would come back again to Waw-gaw-naw-ke-zee, or Arbor Croche, to spend the summer and to raise their crops again as before. In navigating Lake Michigan they used long bark canoes in which they carried their whole families and enough provisions to last them all winter. These canoes were made very light, out of white birch bark, and with a fair wind they could skip very lightly on the waters, going very fast, and could stand a very heavy sea. In one day they could sail quite a long distance along the coast of Lake Michigan. When night overtook them they would land and make wigwams with light poles of cedar which they always carried in their canoes. These wigwams were covered with mats made for that purpose out of prepared marsh reeds or flags sewed together, which made very good shelter from rain and wind, and were very warm after making fires inside of them. They had another kind of mat to spread on the ground to sit and sleep on. These mats are quite beautifully made out of different colors, and closely woven, of well prepared bull-rushes. [Footnote: To prepare these bull-rushes for mats, they are cut when very green, and then they go through the process of steaming, after bleaching by the sun; they are colored before they are woven. They are generally made about six or eight feet long and about four feet wide.] After breakfast in the morning they are off again in the big canoes. My father's favorite winter quarters were somewhere above Big Rapids on Muskegon River. He hunted and trapped there all winter and made sugar. A very mysterious event happened to my brother William while my folks were making sugar there. One beautiful morning after the snow had entirely disappeared in the woods, my brother William, then at the age of about eight or nine years, was shooting around with his little bow and arrows among the sugar trees, but that day he never came home. At sundown, our parents were beginning to feel very uneasy about their little boy, and yet they thought he must have gone to some neighboring sugar bush, as there were quite a number of families also making sugar in the vicinity. Early in the morning, my father went to all the neighboring sugar camps, but William was nowhere to be found. So at once a search was instituted. Men and boys were out in search for the boy, calling and shooting their guns far and near, but not a trace of him anywhere could be found. Our parents were almost distracted with anxiety and fear about their boy, and they continued the search three days in vain. On the fourth day, one of our cousins, whose name was Oge-maw-we-ne-ne, came to a very deep gully between two hills. He went up to the top of the highest hill in order to be heard a long distance. When he reached the top, he began to halloo as loud as he could, calling the child by name, Pe-taw-on-e-quot. At the end of his shouting he thought he heard some one responding to his call, "Wau?" This word is one of the interrogatives in the Indian language, and is equivalent to "what" in the English language. He listened a few minutes, and again he called as before, and again heard distinctly the same response, "Wau?" It came from above, right over his head, and as he looked upwards he saw the boy, almost at the top of a tree, standing on a small limb in a very dangerous situation. He said, "Hello, what are you doing up there? Can't you come down?" "Yes, I can," was the answer; "I came up here to find out where I am, and which way is our sugar camp." "Come down, then; I will show you which way is your home." After he came down from the tree, our cousin offered him food, but the child would not touch a morsel, saying that, he was not hungry as he had eaten only a little while ago. "Ah, you have been fed then. Who fed you? We have been looking for you now over three days." The boy replied, "I had every thing that I wanted to eat in the great festival of the Wa-me-te-go-zhe-wog." which is "the white people." "Where are they now?" asked our cousin. "That is just what I would like to know, too," said the boy; "I had just come out of their nice house between the two hills, and as I looked back after I came out of their door I saw no more of their house, and heard no more of them nor their music." Our cousin again questioned the boy, "How did you come to find these Wa-me-te-go-zhe-wog here?" And little William replied, "Those Wa-me-te- go-zhe-wog came to our sugar camp and invited me to go with them, but I thought it was very close by. I thought we walked only just a few steps to come to their door." Our cousin believed it was some supernatural event and hastened to take the boy to his anxious parents. Again and again little William told the same story when interrogated by any person, and it is firmly believed by all our family and friends that he was cherished and fed three days in succession by angelic beings. When he was about twelve or thirteen years of age the Protestant Mission School started at Mackinac Island, and my father thought best to put him to that school. After being there less than a year, he was going around with his teachers, acting as interpreter among the Indian camps at the Island of Mackinac. I was perfectly astonished to see how quick he had acquired the English language. After the mission broke up at the island, about the time the Catholic mission was established at Little Traverse, William came home and stayed with us for about two years, when he was again taken by Bishop Reese with his little sister, a very lovely girl, whom the white people call Auntie Margaret, or Queen of the Ottawas. They were taken down to Cincinnati, Ohio, where they were put into higher schools, and there my brother attained the highest degree of education, or graduation as it is called. From thence he was taken across the ocean to the city of Rome, Italy, to study for the priesthood, leaving his little sister in Cincinnati. It is related that he was a very eloquent and powerful orator, and was considered a very promising man by the people of the city of Rome, and received great attention from the noble families, on account of his wisdom and talent and his being a native American; and yet he had a much lighter complexion than his cousin Aug Hamlin, who was also taken over there and represented as half French. While he was at Rome, the proposition arose in this country to buy out the Michigan Indians by the Government of the United States, and he wrote to his people at Arbor Croche and to Little Traverse on this very subject, advising them not to sell out nor make any contract with the United States Government, but to hold on until he could return to America, when he would endeavor to aid them in making out the contract or treaty with the United States. Never to give up, not even if they should be threatened with annihilation or to be driven away at the point of the bayonet from their native soil. I wish I could produce some of this correspondence, but only one letter from him can now be found, which is here given: ROME, April 17, 1833 MY DEAR SISTER: It is a long time since I wrote you a few lines. I would write oftener if the time would permit, but I have very few leisure moments. However, as we have a holiday to-day, I determine to write a line or two. I have to attend to my studies from morning till sunset. I thank you very much for your kind letter which I received some time ago by politeness of Rev. Mr. Seajean. My dearest sister, you may have felt lost after I left you; you must consider who loves you with all the affection of parents. What can we return to those who have done us much good, but humble prayers for them that the Almighty may reward them for the benefit they have done in this poor mortal world. I was very happy when informed by Father Mullen that you had received six premiums at the examination; nothing else would more impress my heart than to hear of the success of your scholastic studies. I entreat you, dearest sister, to learn what is good and to despise the evil, and offer your prayers to the Almighty God and rely on Him alone, and by His blessing you may continue to improve your time well. You can have no idea how the people here are devoted to the Virgin Mary. At every corner of the streets there is the image of her, and some of these have lights burning day and night. I think of you very often: perhaps I shall never have the pleasure of seeing you again. I have been unwell ever since I came to this country. However, I am yet able to attend my school and studies. I hope I will not be worse, so that I may be unable to follow my intention. There are really fine things to be seen in Rome. On the feast of SS. Sebastian and Fabian we visited the Catacombs, two or three miles out of the city, where is a church dedicated to those saints, which I have already mentioned in previous letters. Perhaps our countrymen would not believe that there was such a place as that place which I saw myself with my own naked eyes. We entered in with lights and saw the scene before us. As soon as we entered we saw coffins on the top of each other, in one of which we saw some of the remains. The cave runs in every direction, sometimes is ascended by steps, and sometimes runs deeper, and one would be very easily lost in it. There are some large places and a chapel; I am told by the students that the chapel is where Pope Gregory was accustomed to say mass. I assure you it would excite any human heart to behold the place where the ancient Christians were concealed under the earth from the persecution of the anti-christians. Indeed they were concealed by the power of God. They sought Jesus and Him alone they loved. It is the custom of the College of the Propaganda, on the feast of Epiphany each year, that the students should deliver a discourse in their own respective languages. This year there were thirty-one different languages delivered by the students, so you may judge what kind of a college this is. At present it is quite full; there are ninety-three, of which thirteen are from the United States. On Easter Sunday the Holy Father celebrated mass in the church of St. Peter. It is very seldom that his holiness is seen personally celebrating mass in public except on great festivals. The church was crowded with spectators, both citizens of Rome and foreigners. On the front part of the church there was an elevated place beautifully ornamented. After the solemn ceremonies the Holy Father went up and gave his paternal benediction to the people. There is a large square before St. Peter's, and it was crowded so that it was impossible to kneel down to receive the benediction. This week we are quite merry; we seem to employ our minds on the merriment which is always displayed amongst us on such occasions. Our secretary is now Cardinal, and to-morrow he will be crowned with the dignity of the Cardinal. Our college has been illuminated these two evenings. The congregational halls of the Propaganda were opened on this occasion. The new Cardinal then received all the compliments of the Cardinals, Bishops, Prelates, Ambassadors, Princes, and other distinguished dignities. There are two large beautiful rooms, in one of which the new Cardinal was seated and received all those who came to pay him compliments. The visitors all came through the same passage, and there was a man posted in each room who received them and cried out to others that such man was coming, and so on through all those that were placed for the purpose, and one called the Cardinal gentleman introduced them to the new Cardinal. If there were such a thing in America it would be quite a novelty. It is time for me to close, and I hope you will write me sometimes. My respects to the Sisters and Father Mullen. Farewell, dear sister; pray for your Superior and for me. I remain your most affectionate brother, WILLIAM MACCATEBINESSI. After his death, some one at Cincinnati wrote the following, to be repeated before a large audience in that city by his little sister Margaret, who was there at school. The poetry was impressively recited and listened to by many people with wet eyes. This gifted child of nature died June 25, 1833. The morning breaks; see how the glorious sun, Slow wheeling from the east, new lustre sheds O'er the soft clime of Italy. The flower That kept its perfume in the dewy night, Now breathes it forth again. Hill, vale and grove, Clad in rich verdure, bloom, and from the rocks The joyous waters leap. O! meet it is That thou, imperial Rome, should lift thy head, Decked with the triple crown, where cloudless skies And lands rejoicing in the summer sun, Rich blessings yield. But there is grief to-day. A voice is heard within thy marble walls, A voice lamenting for the youthful dead; For o'er the relics of her forest boy The mother of dead Empires weeps. And lo! Clad in white robes the long procession moves; Youths throng around the bier, and high in front, Star of our hope, the glorious cross is reared, Triumphant sign. The low, sweet voice of prayer, Flowing spontaneous from the spirit's depths, Pours its rich tones; and now the requiem swells, Now dies upon the ear. But there is one [Footnote: His cousin Hamlin.] Who stands beside my brother's grave, and tho' no tear Dims his dark eye, yet does his spirit weep. With beating heart he gazes on the spot Where his young comrade shall forever rest. For they together left their forest home, Led by Father Reese, who to their fathers preached Glad tiding of great joy; the holy man my brother, Who sleeps beneath the soil the Father Reese's labors blessed. How must the spirit mourn, the bosom heave, Of that lone Indian boy! No tongue can speak The accents of his tribe, and as he bends In melancholy mood above the dead, Imagination clothes his tearful thoughts In rude but plaintive cadences. Soft be my brother's sleep! At nature's call the cypress here shall wave, The wailing winds lament above the grave, The dewy night shall weep. And he thou leavest forlorn, Oh, he shall come to shade my brother's grave with moss, To plant what thou didst love--the mystic cross, To hope, to pray, to mourn. No marble here shall rise; But o'er thy grave he'll teach the forest tree To lift its glorious head and point to thee, Rejoicing in the skies. And when it feels the breeze, I'll think thy spirit wakes that gentle sound Such as our fathers thought when all around Shook the old forest leaves. Dost thou forget the hour, my brother, When first we heard the Christian's hope revealed, When fearless warriors felt their bosoms yield Beneath Almighty power? Then truths came o'er us fast, Whilst on the mound the missionary stood And thro' the list'ning silence of the wood His words like spirits passed. And oh, hadst thou been spared, We two had gone to bless our fathers' land, To spread rich stores around, and hand in hand Each holy labor shared. But here the relics of my brother lie, Where nature's flowers shall bloom o'er nature's child, Where ruins stretch, and classic art has piled Her monuments on high. Sleep on, my brother, sleep peaceful here The traveler from thy land will claim this spot, And give to thee what kingly tombs have not-- The tribute of a tear with me, my brother. He died almost the very day when he was to be ordained a priest. He received a long visit from his cousin Hamlin that evening, and they sat late in the night, talking on various subjects, and particularly on American matters and his ordination. My brother was perfectly well and robust at that time, and full of lively spirits. He told his cousin that night, that if he ever set his foot again on American soil, his people, the Ottawas and Chippewas of Michigan, should always remain where they were. The United States would never be able to compel them to go west of the Mississippi, for he knew the way to prevent them from being driven off from their native land. He also told his cousin that as soon as he was ordained and relieved from Rome, he would at once start for America, and go right straight to Washington to see the President of the United States, in order to hold conference with him on the subject of his people and their lands. There was a great preparation for the occasion of his ordination. A great ceremony was to be in St. Peter's Church, because a native American Indian, son of the chief of the Ottawa tribe of Indians, a prince of the forests of Michigan, was to be ordained a priest, which had never before happened since the discovery of the Aborigines in America. In the morning, at the breakfast table, my brother William did not appear, and every one was surprised not to see him at the table. After breakfast, a messenger was sent to his room. He soon returned with the shocking news that he was dead. Then the authorities of the college arose and rushed to the scene, and there they found him on the floor, lying in his own blood. When Hamlin, his cousin heard of it, he too rushed to the room; and after his cousin's body was taken out, wrapped up in a cloth, he went in, and saw at once enough to tell him that it was the work of the assassin. When the news reached to Little Traverse, now Harbor Springs, all the country of Arbor Croche was enveloped in deep mourning, and a great lamentation took place among the Ottawas and Chippewas in this country with the expression, "All our hope is gone." Many people came to our dwelling to learn full particulars of my brother's death, and to console and mourn with his father in his great bereavement. No motive for the assassination has ever been developed, and it remains to this day a mystery. It was related that there was no known enemy in the institution previous to his death; but he was much thought of and beloved by every one in the college. It was an honor to be with him and to converse with him, as it is related that his conversation was always most noble and instructive. It was even considered a great honor to sit by him at the tables; as it is related that the students of the college used to have a strife amongst themselves who should be the first to sit by him. There were several American students at Rome at that time, and it was claimed by the Italians that my brother's death came through some of the American students from a secret plot originating in this country to remove this Indian youth who had attained the highest pinnacle of science and who had become their equal in wisdom, and in all the important questions of the day, both in temporal and spiritual matters. He was slain, it has been said, because it was found out that he was counseling his people on the subject of their lands and their treaties with the Government of the United States. His death deprived the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians of a wise counselor and adviser, one of their own native countrymen; but it seems that it would be impossible for the American people in this Christian land to make such a wicked conspiracy against this poor son of the forest who had become as wise as any of them and a great statesman for his country. Yet it might be possible, for we have learned that we cannot always trust the American people as to their integrity and stability in well doing with us. It is said the stains of my brother's blood can be seen to this day in Rome, as the room has been kept as a memorial, and is shown to travelers from this country. His statue in full size can also be seen there, which is said to be a perfect image of him. His trunk containing his books and clothing was sent from Rome to this country, and it came all right until it reached Detroit. There it was lost, or exchanged for another, which was sent to Little Traverse. It was sent back with a request to forward the right one, but that was the end of it, and no explanation was ever received. Soon after the death of my brother William, my sister Margaret left Cincinnati, Ohio, and came to Detroit, Mich., where she was employed as teacher of the orphan children at a Catholic institution. She left Detroit about 1835, and came to Little Traverse, where she at once began lo teach the Indian children for the Catholic mission. She has ever since been very useful to her people, but is now a decrepit old lady and sometimes goes by the name of Aunty Margaret, or Queen of the Ottawas. She is constantly employed in making Indian curiosities-- wearing out her fingers and eyes to make her living and keep her home. Like many others of her race, she has been made the victim of fraud and extortion. Some years ago a white man came to the Indian country and committed many crimes, for some of which he is now in prison. Soon after he came here, this wicked man pretended he was gored by an ox-- although there were no marks of violence--which he claimed belonged to Mr. Boyd, Aunty Margaret's husband, and he therefore sued Mr. Boyd for damages for several hundred dollars; and although the ox which he claimed had injured him did not belong to Mr. Boyd, and there was no eye witness in the case, yet he obtained judgment for damages against him, and a mortgage had to be given on the land which the Government had given her. The Indian's oath and evidence are not regarded in this country, and he stands a very poor chance before the law. Although they are citizens of the State, they are continually being taken advantage of by the attorneys of the land; they are continually being robbed and cheated out of their property, and they can obtain no protection nor redress whatever. Before Mr. Hamlin, my cousin, left Italy, he was asked by the authorities if William had any younger brother in America of a fit age to attend school. He told the authorities that the deceased had one brother just the right age to begin school--that was myself. Then there was an order for me to be sent to Rome to take the place of my brother; but when my father heard of it, he said, "No; they have killed one of my sons after they have educated him, and they will kill another." Hamlin came home soon after my brother's death, and some time after the Treaty of 1836 he was appointed U.S. Interpreter and continued to hold this office until 1861, at which time I succeeded him. CHAPTER VI. Account of the Indians' Roving Disposition, Their Feasts and Their Customs--Saluting Arbor Croche Every Spring of the Year--How the Catholic Religion was Introduced Among the Ottawas--The Missions-- Signing of the Treaty, March 8, 1836. I will again return to my narrative respecting how the Ottawas used to live and travel to and fro in the State of Michigan, and how they came to join the Catholic religion at Arbor Croche. Early in the spring we used to come down this beautiful stream of water (Muskegon River) in our long bark canoes, loaded with sugar, furs, deer skins, prepared venison for summer use, bear's oil, and bear meat prepared in oil, deer tallow, and sometimes a lot of honey, etc. On reaching the mouth of this river we halted for five or six days, when all the other Indians gathered, as was customary, expressly to feast for the dead. All the Indians and children used to go around among the camps and salute one another with the words, "Ne-baw-baw-tche-baw-yew," that is to say, "I am or we are going around as spirits," feasting and throwing food into the fire--as they believe the spirits of the dead take the victuals and eat as they are consumed in the fire. After the feast of the dead, we would all start for Arbor Croche, our summer resort, to plant our corn and other vegetables. At the crossing of Little Traverse Bay at the point called "Ki-tche-ossening," that is to say, "on the big rock," all the Indians waited until all the canoes arrived, after which they would all start together in crossing the bay. When about half way across they would begin to salute Arbor Croche by shooting with guns, holding them close to the water in order that the sound might reach to each side of the bay, to be heard by those few who always made their winter quarters around Little Traverse Bay. Arriving at Arbor Croche, where our big wigwam would be waiting for us--of which I have spoken in previous chapters--the very first thing my parents would do would be to go and examine their stores of corn and beans. After all the Indians arrived and had settled down, they would again have a prolonged merriment and another feasting of the dead and peace offerings. Grand medicine dances, fire dances, and many other jubilant performances my people would have before they would go to work again to plant their corn. I distinctly remember the time, and I have seen my brothers and myself dancing around the fires in our great wigwam, which had two fireplaces inside of it. About in 1824, there was an Indian came from Montreal whose name was Andowish, and who formerly belonged to Arbor Croche. He was among the Stockbridge Indians somewhere near Montreal, and this tribe speak a dialect of the Ottawa and Chippewa languages, and most of them by this time had joined the Catholic church. So Andowish, by their influence, also joined the Catholic religion out there with the Stockbridge Indians. Coming back to Arbor Croche, where he formerly belonged, he began to teach some of his own relatives the faith of the Catholic religion, which some of them were very ready to receive, but he could not baptize them. Therefore, parties of Indians went to Mackinac Island, headed by the principal chief of the Seven Mile Point band of Indians, whose name was A-paw-kau-se-gun, to see some of their half- breed relations at the island, relating to them how they felt with regard to Christianity, and asking advice as to what they should do in the matter. These half-breed relatives promised they would do all they could to cause the priest to come up to Arbor Croche and baptize all those Indians who felt disposed to receive the religion. Therefore in 1825 Rev. Father Baden, an old priest, came up with his interpreters and landed at Seven Mile Point, and baptized quite a number of grown folks, and a great many children were taken into the Catholic religion. At this time, I was also baptized by Rev. Father Baden; I was small, but I distinctly remember having the water poured over my head and putting some salt in my mouth, and changing my name from Pe-ness-wi- qua-am to Amable. The mission was then established at Seven Mile Point, where a church was built with poles and covered with cedar bark. This was the very way that the first religion was introduced among the Ottawas, although everybody supposes that some white people or missionary societies brought the Christian religion among the Ottawa tribes of Indians at Arbor Croche. My uncle, Au-se-go-nock, had before this joined the Catholic religion. He was living at that time at Drummond's Island with the British people, where all the Ottawas and Chippewas used to go every summer to receive presents from the British Government. And when he learned that his people had joined the Catholic faith, he left his home at Drummond's Island and came to Arbor Croche expressly to act as missionary in the absence of the priest. Every Sunday he preached to his people and taught them how to pray to God and to the Virgin Mary and all the saints and angels in heaven. At that time printed books containing prayers and hymns in the Stockbridge Indian language, which is a dialect of the Ottawa and Chippewa languages, were brought from Montreal, and could be quite intelligently understood by the Ottawas. By this time many Indians began to be stationary; they did not go south, as heretofore, but remained and made their winter quarters at Arbor Croche. About 1827, after several councils, it was determined to remove the Mission from Seven Mile Point to Little Traverse, and a French priest whose name was Dejan arrived expressly to remain there and carry on the new mission established at Little Traverse. A log church was built at the new mission, which stood very near where the present church is now standing, and a log school house was built just where the Star Hotel now stands, and also a log house for the priest to live in, which is standing to this day nearest the church, but it has been covered with siding boards since. In the fall of 1827, my father left his subjects at Arbor Croche proper, now Middle Village, in charge of his brother, Kaw-me-no-te-a, which means Good-heart, as he was persuaded by other chiefs to come and establish himself where the mission was and send his children to school. There were only three Indian log houses at that time in Little Traverse, one belonging to my uncle, Au-se-ge-nock, one for Joseph Au-saw-gon, my father's messenger, and another to Peter Sho- min. But we and all other Indians lived in wigwams, and all the Indians were dressed in Indian style. Rev. Mr. Dejan brought with him one Frenchman from Detroit named Joseph Letorenue as school teacher, and two girls from Mackinac Island as domestic servants, and an old nun, whose real name I never learned, and knew only as "Sister." She was exceedingly kind to Indian children and we all liked her very much. The log school house was used as a dwelling as well as a school house, as all the boys and girls who attended school were kept there continually, same as boarding school. The larger boys and girls were taught household duties and to cook for the scholars. The children were kept quite clean. The French teacher took very great pains to teach them good manners, and they were taught no other but the French language. In the spring of the year each family of Indians contributed one large mocok [Footnote: A kind of box made of birch bark.] of sugar which weighed from eighty to one hundred pounds, which Priest Dejan would empty into barrels, and then go down to Detroit with it to buy dry goods, returning with cloth with which to clothe his Indian children. Rev. Mr. Dejan did not say mass on week days, only on Sundays. He visited the Indians a good deal during the week days, purposely to instruct them in the manners and customs of the white man, ordering things generally how to be done, and how the women should do towards their domestic callings, not to work out of doors, and to take good care of what belonged to their household. Mr. Dejan was a great friend of Col. Boyd, Indian Agent at Mackinac, and in the second year of the school, Mr. Boyd's two sons, James and George, wintered with the priest at the mission, and were very great friends to the Indians. In two years schooling the children progressed very much, both in reading the French language, and in learning the manners and customs of the white man. But, alas, this was carried on only two years. There was some trouble between Rev. Mr. Dejan and Bishop Reese of Detroit, consequently Mr. Dejan was removed from the mission, and Rev. Mr. Baraga was put in instead in the year 1830. He promised to do the same as his predecessor in regard to carrying on the Indian school at Little Traverse; but he did not. He did not give as good care to the children as his predecessor, and he did not teach them anything but Indian and the catechism. He, however, made and published a prayer book in the Ottawa language and a short Bible History. Before two years the boarding school was out of existence at Little Traverse, and Mr. Baraga went away to Lake Superior, where some time afterwards he was made Bishop. After he was in the Lake Superior country he published some more books, such as Odjebwe dictionary and Odjebwe grammar, which were very hard to understand to one unacquainted with the Indian language, and he also made a new catechism. Father Simon succeeded Mr. Baraga, and did about the same thing with regard to educating the Indian youths, as did also Father Pierce after Simon, and many others from time to time up to this day. The Indians were very strict in their religion at this time. They did not allow any drunkenness in their village, nor allow any one to bring intoxicating liquors within the Harbor. If any person, white or Indian, brought any liquor into the Harbor, by the barrel or in small quantities, and it came to the knowledge of the old chief, Au-paw-ko- si-gan, who was the war chief, but was acting as principal chief at Little Traverse, he would call out his men to go and search for the liquor, and if found he would order him men to spill the whisky on the ground by knocking the head of a barrel with an ax, telling them not to bring any more whisky into the Harbor, or wherever the Ottawas are, along the coast of Arbor Croche. This was the end of it, there being no law suit for the whisky. They used to observe many holidays, particularly Christmas, New Years and Corpus Christi. At the New Year's eve, every one of the Indians used to go around visiting the principal men of the tribe, shooting their guns close to their doors after screaming three times, "Happy New Year," then bang, bang, altogether, blowing their tin horns and beating their drums, etc. Early on the New Year's morning, they would go around among their neighbors expressly to shake hands one with another, with the words of salutation, "Bozhoo," children and all. This practice was kept up for a long time, or until the white people came and intermingled with the tribes. I thought my people were very happy in those days, when they were all by themselves and possessed a wide spread of land, and no one to quarrel with them as to where they should make their gardens, or take timber, or make sugar. And fishes of all kinds were so plentiful in the Harbor. A hook anywheres in the bay, and at any time of the year, would catch Mackinaw trout, many as one would want. And if a net were set anywheres in the harbor on shallow water, in the morning it would be loaded with fishes of all kinds. Truly this was a beautiful location for the mission. Every big council of the Indians was transacted in the village of Little Traverse. I will mention one or two more things which it might be interesting to my readers to know. Up to 1835 and some time afterwards, there was a very large double cedar tree, which appeared to have been stuck together while they were growing, but were two separate trees of the same size and height growing very close together, standing very near the edge of the water, and leaning very much towards the bay, almost like a staircase projecting far out into the bay. Under the roots of these trees issued a perpetual spring of water, which is now called Mr. Carlow's Spring, near the present depot. In the fall of 1835, I was clear at the top of those trees, with my little chums, watching our people as they were about going off in a long bark canoe, and, as we understood, they were going to Washington to see the Great Father, the President of the United States, to tell him to have mercy on the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians in Michigan, not to take all the land away from them. I saw some of our old Indian women weeping as they watched our principal men going off in the canoe. I suppose they were feeling bad on account of not knowing their future destinies respecting their possession of the land. After they all got in the canoe, just as they were going to start, they all took off their hats, crossed themselves and repeated the Lord's prayer; at the end of the prayer, they crossed themselves again, and then away they went towards the Harbor Point. We watched them until they disappeared in rounding the point. March 28th, 1836, a treaty was signed at Washington, not with the free will of the Indians, but by compulsion. That same year we received the first annuity at Mackinac Island, our trading post, $10 cash per head, beside dry goods and provisions. There was a stipulation expressed in the 7th clause of the 4th article of said treaty, that there was to be given to the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians of Michigan $150,000 worth of dry goods until all was paid out. There is said to have been paid out on the first payment in 1836, about $10,000, which would then leave a balance of $140,000. At this time the Ottawas and Chippewas held a big council and concluded to ask the Government for cash instead of dry goods; because they saw that there was a great deal of waste in distributing the goods among them, as there were lots of remnants, and much of it left after distribution which they never knew what became of. Therefore their belief respecting it was that the Government officials had appropriated to themselves some of these dry goods and given away freely to their white friends and relatives. After conclusion of the council, they came before the Indian agent, Hon. H. Schoolcraft, and presented their views and their request in this matter. He told them that he could not give them any conclusive reply upon this subject, but that he would make known their wishes to their Great Father at Washington, and would inform them thereafter. That was the last of it. In the next payment there were neither goods nor money instead, as they requested, and no reply ever came to this day. It was also stipulated that at the expiration of twenty-one years, $20,000 was to be given to the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians, that is, one year after the expiration of the payment of their annuities. And where are those lawful promises gone to now? Alas! when we inquire of them to the head department they refer us to the third article of the Treaty of 1855, where it is worded, "That the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians hereby release and discharge the United States from all liability on account of former treaty stipulations, either land or money," etc. But this part of the stipulation was never explained to them at the Council of Detroit, as they would never have consented to it, and would not have signed the contract. We did not know anything about it, but some time after we saw it with our own eyes, printed in the pamphlet form of the contract, where our names had been already subscribed to it. Then it was too late to make any remedy in the matter. CHAPTER VII. More Personal History--Suffering and Trials in Early Life--Missing the Opportunity to Go to School--Learning Trade as a Blacksmith--A New Start to Seek for Education--Arriving at Cleveland, O., to Find His Old Friend, Rev. Alvin Coe--Visit with Rev. Samuel Bissell, of Twinsburg, O., Principal of the Twinsburg Institute--Attending School--Returning Home--Advocating Citizenship for His People--Delegated to Detroit and to the State Legislature--His Pleasant Visit with State Authorities-- Again Delegated as Councilor to the New Treaty, 1855. The first winter we lived at Little Traverse as a permanent home was in the year 1828, and in the following spring my own dear mother died very suddenly, as she was burned while they were making sugar in the woods. She was burned so badly that she only lived four days after. I was small, but I was old enough to know and mourn for my dear mother. I felt as though I had lost everything dear to me and every friend; there was no one that I could place such confidence in, not even my own father. So my father's household was broken up: we were pretty well scattered after that. He could not very well keep us together; being the least one in the family, I became a perfect wild rover. At last I left Little Traverse when about 13 or 14 years age. I went to Green Bay, Wis., with the expectation of living with an older sister who had married a Scotchman named Gibson and had gone there to make a home somewhere in Green Bay. I found them, but I did not stay with them long. I left them and went to live with a farmer close by whose name was Sylvester. From this place I was persuaded by another man to go with him on the fishing ground, to a place called Sturgeon Bay, Wis. From there I sailed with Mr. Robert Campbell. Mr. Campbell was a good man and Christian. His father had a nice farm at Bay Settlement, near Green Bay, Wis., where also my sister settled down. I sailed with him one summer. We came to Mackinac Island in the fall of 1840, and there I met my father and all my relations, and great many Indians as they were about receiving their annual payment from the Government. So I left the vessel and hired out in the store to act as clerk during the payment time. After all the Indians had gone away from the island, I was still working in the store and thought to make my winter quarters there, but did not. One day I met my father's old friend, the Rev. Mr. Alvin Coe, the traveling missionary of whom I have already spoken as having asked me to go with him to the State of Ohio where I might have an opportunity to go to school and be educated like the white man. I told him I will go with him, provided he will take an interest to watch over me, that no one would abuse me out there after getting into the strange country. He faithfully promised that he would do all this, and would also do all he could to help me along to obtain my education. He said he was going that night and I must be on hand when the boat arrived; but I failed to tell him my stopping place. So when the boat arrived I was too sound asleep to hear it. Poor old man! I was told that he felt disappointed to have to go with, out me. As I woke in the morning I inquired if any boat had arrived during the night. I was told there was. I was also told there was an old man who seemed to be very anxious, and was looking for me all over the crowd on the dock, but he could not find me there. When the boat was pushing out he jumped on board and then turned to the crowd, saying, "Tell my little boy, Jackson, son of the old chief Macka-de-be-nessy, of Arbor Croche, that I have gone on this boat." Thus I was left, and missed the opportunity when I might have been educated while I was yet much younger. A few days afterwards, as I walked out from the store one evening, I met two young men in the street, one of whom I frequently saw during the payment time, but the other was entirely a stranger to me. He was a most noble-looking and tall young man, but, behold, he spoke perfectly and freely the Indian language, saying to me, "My boy, would you be willing to take us to that vessel out there?" at the same time pointing to a vessel which was already outside of the harbor, sails up, but in a perfectly dead calm, as there was not a breath of wind. I told them I would, provided I could get the boat to get there; in which he replied that they will do all that part of the business, but they wanted some one to bring the boat back. As I was walking with another mate of mine, I ask him to go with me to take these folks on board. The next thing we were on the way towards the vessel. As we went along this noble young man said to me, "My boy, would you like to come with us to Grand Traverse?" I replied, "I would like to see Grand Traverse, but am not prepared to go just now." "Would you not like to learn the blacksmith trade? This man is a government blacksmith in Grand Traverse," referring to his companion, "and he needs an assistant in the business. We will give you position as an assistant and a salary of $240 yearly, or $20 per month." I replied, "I will go, for I would be very glad to find a chance to learn a trade and at the same time to get my living." Therefore I also got on board, and my friend had to come back alone with the boat we borrowed. This was the same vessel that I had sailed on that season. We arrived at the place now called "The Old Mission," where there was a nice harbor. [Footnote: The Mission was already established by this time, 1840, conducted by the Presbyterian Board of missions. Rev. P. Dougherty, who was indeed a true Christian, and good to Indians, was a preacher for the Mission. Daniel Rod, the half-breed from St. Clair River, Mich., was his interpreter. Mr. Bradley acted as teacher, who afterwards proved himself unworthy for the position, which produced a bad effect among the Indians. The Mission is now out of existence.] This young man, whose name I now learned was John M. Johnstone, of Sault Ste. Marie, the brother-in-law of Henry Schoolcraft, our Indian agent, said when we arrived, "You have no commission yet to work in the shop; you will therefore have to go back to Mackinac with this letter which you will take to Indian agent yourself and nobody else. Then come back at the first opportunity if he tells you to come." So I had to return to Mackinac on the same vessel with which we went away. At Mackinac I received my commission without any trouble. On arriving at Grand Traverse the Indians were having a big council which was concocted, I was told, by the brother of my benefactor, who was trading there among the Indians. They were getting up remonstrances and petitioning the Government against my appointment, setting forth as reason of their complaint that I did not belong to that tribe of Indians, and was therefore not entitled to the position, and they would rather have one of their own boys belonging to the tribe put to this trade. But my friend Johnstone told me "not to mind anything, but go about my business. The blacksmith shop had been established here for more than two years, and they should have thought of putting their boy in the shop long before this." So accordingly I continued working and minding my own business for five years, when I quit of my own accord. There were no white people there at that time, only such as were employed by the Government, and the missionaries and teachers, and the Indians were very happy in those days. I have told my readers in the previous chapters of this little book, that from the time I was invited by our most estimable friend, Rev. Alvin Coe, to go with him to the State of Ohio in order to receive an education, "that it was never blotted out of my mind," and therefore the very day I quit the blacksmith shop at Grand Traverse, I turned my face toward the State of Ohio, for that object alone. I came to Little Traverse to bid a good-by to my father and relations late in October, 1845. I did not even stay half a day at Little Traverse. I started for Arbor Croche the same day I bid the last farewell to my folks, in order to obtain an opportunity there to get to Mackinac Island, from which I intended to take my passage for Cleveland. Arriving at Arbor Croche, which is fourteen miles from Little Traverse, I met an orphan boy, Paul Naw-o-ga-de by name, a distant relative, and proposed to pay his passage to Cleveland. The brother of this little boy had a boat of his own, and offered to take us to Mackinac Island, and I was vary glad of the opportunity. So the next day we started for Mackinac, not knowing what would become of us if my little means were exhausted and we should be unsuccessful in finding our old friend, Mr. Alvin Coe. The day we arrived at Mackinac we took passage for Cleveland. Arriving there we were scared at seeing so many people coming to us who wanted us to get into their cabs to take us to some hotel which might cost us two or three dollars a day. We went to Farmer's Hotel. In the evening the landlady was somewhat curious to know where we hailed from and where we were going to. I told her we came from Michigan, but we did not know yet where we should go to. I asked her if she ever knew or heard of a minister named Alvin Coe. "What,"--she seemed to be very much surprised--"Mr. Alvin Coe the traveling missionary?" I said, "Yes, the same." "Why, that is my own uncle. What is it about him?" "O, nothing; only I would like to know where he lives, and how far." I was equally surprised to think that we happened to meet one of his relatives, and thought at this moment, God must be with us in our undertaking. "You know my uncle, then," she said. I said, "Yes; he is my particular friend, and I am going to look for him." Of course, she told us the name of the town in which he lived, and how far and which road to take to get there. It also happened that there was one gentleman at Farmer's Hotel, who had been out west and came on the same boat on which we came, and he was going the next day in that direction on foot, and said he would guide us as far as he would go, which would be about twenty miles, and there was thirty miles to go after that. So the next day we started. Arriving late in the afternoon at the outskirts of the little village called Twinsburg, our white companion told us this is the place where he intended to stop for a while, and said, "You better stop with me for the night, and after supper you could visit the institution in the village and see the principal of the school here; you might possibly get a chance to attend that school, as you say that was your object in coming to this part of the country." I was very much surprised, as he had not said one word about it as we came along on the road. After supper, I went as he directed. As I approached the seminary I saw a good many boys playing on the square of the village, and I went and stood close by. Very soon one of the young men came up to me, saying, "Are you going to attend our school here?" I told him, "No, sir; I am going thirty miles further to attend some school there." "This is the best school that I know of anywhere about this country," he said. I asked him if he would introduce me to the proprietor of the school. "Most cheerfully," said he; "will you please to tell me what place you came from, and your name." "I came from Michigan, and my name is Blackbird." "All right, I will go with you." So we came to the professor's room, and he introduced me. "Well, Mr. Blackbird, do you wish to attend our school?" I said, "I do not know, sir, how that might be, as I have not much means to pay my way, but I am seeking for a man who invited me to come to come to Ohio some five years ago, and promised that he would help me all he could for my education. His name is Alvin Coe, a traveling missionary, my father's old friend." "We have two Indian boys here attending school, and I think you will not be very lonesome if you should conclude to stay with us." "What are their names?" I asked. "One is Francis Petoskey, and the other is Paul Ka-gwe-tosong." I said, "I know them both; I came from the same place they did, but I did not know they were here, I only knew they were attending school somewhere among the whites." "Can you do any kind of work?" "I am a blacksmith by trade, sir, and besides I can do most every other kind of work." He said, "If you conclude to stay, I will try to aid you in finding a place where you could work to pay for your lodging and board; and in the meantime we will cause Mr. Alvin Coe to come and see you, and if he sees fit to take you away he can do so, provided you would be willing to go with him." I told him I would stay, if I found a place to work to pay for my board, and provided that I could make some arrangement for the little companion who came with me. After considering a few moments, he proposed to take my little companion to his boarding house until a better arrangment could be made. This was the end of my conversation with this noble hearted professor and proprietor of this Institution, whose name was Rev. Samuel Bissell, of Twinsburg, Ohio. In the morning, after breakfast, I went back to the village and found arrangments were already made for both of us, and all we had to do was just to shift our quarters. I came to live with a young blacksmith in the village and work two hours in the morning and two hours in the evening, and many times I finished my hours at sunrise. Some time during the winter, my friend Mr. Alvin Coe came and took me off, with the understanding, however, that if I did not like the school where he was, I was to come back to Twinsburg. So in about two weeks I came back to the old institution, as I did not like the place. At last Dr. Brainsmade, of Newark, New Jersey, took a deep interest in my welfare and education, and he proposed to aid me and take me through the medical college. Therefore I quit working my hours in the shop and boarded at the institution, attending solely to my studies for over four years. I have already told my readers in previous chapters how bad I felt when I had to return to Michigan. After I came home I did everything towards the welfare and happiness of my people, beside attending to my aged father, as I found my people to be very different then from what they were, as they were beginning to have a free use of intoxicating liquors. I immediately caused the pledge to be signed in every village of the Indians, in which I was quite successful, as almost everyone pledged themselves never again to touch intoxicating drinks. I also advocated the right of citizenship for my people in the State of Michigan, although we were repeatedly told by our white neighbors that we could not very well be adopted as citizens of the State as long as we were receiving annuities from the general government on account of our former treaties. My object of promulgating this cause was, I thought it would be the only salvation of my people from being sent off to the west of the Mississippi, where perhaps, more than one-half would have died before they could be acclimated to the country to which they would be driven. I have suffered very great hardships for this cause, as I had to walk from Little Traverse through the dense forest, and almost the entire length of the southern peninsula of Michigan, in order to reach the authorities of the State to hold conference with them upon the subject of the citizenship of the Ottawas and Chippewas, and walked on snow-shoes in the middle of winter in company with one of our young chieftains from Cross Village. [Footnote: Mr. Wardsworth also accompanied us from Elk Rapids, on his way to Detroit to obtain a commission as surveyor on some part of the Grand Traverse region.] We were subjected to great exposure with only a camp fire for several days in the month of February. After crossing Houghton Lake, which is the head waters of the Muskegon river, that evening we swallowed the last morsel of food, and actually we traveled and camped out with empty stomachs for two days and a half before we came to any inhabited place. At last we struck the Te-ti-pe- wa-say (Tittabawassee), one of the principal branches of Saginaw river, and following down that stream on the ice we came to an Indian camp which stood by the river side, and also saw many human foot-prints on the ice, but the camp was deserted and we found nothing to eat. We left the place and once more followed the river, and after walking about half a mile we came to another Indian camp, and saw blue smoke coming out of it. As we came up to the camp we found nothing but women and children (all the men were out hunting). They gave us food, and we went on our journey the next day. We went to Detroit to see Judge Wing to obtain his legal opinion on the subject of the citizenship of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians of Michigan. We had a very pleasant visit with him, and he gave us as his legal opinion of this matter, that he did not think that it would debar us from being citizens of the State, because the Government owed us a little money on account of our former treaties, provided we should renounce our allegiance to our chiefs and recognize no other chief authority than the President of the United States; and that we would not be required to have any writ of naturalization as we are already naturalized by being American born. After a pleasant visit with Hon. Judge Wing, we next turned our faces to the State Legislature and Governor. In this also we thought we were very successful, for the Governor received us very kindly and gave us much good counsel on the subject of citizenship, giving us some instructions as to how we should live under the rule of the State if we should become the children of the same. He talked to us as though he was talking to his own son who had just come from a far country and asked his father's permission to stay in the household. After a pleasant visit with the Governor, and seeing some of the members of the State Legislature, receiving full assurance that our undertaking and object would be well looked after, we retraced our steps back to Little Traverse, to report the result of our visit. After that, not many Indians believed these flying reports gotten up by our white neighbors. In that year, the clause was put in the revised statutes of the State of Michigan, that every male person of Indian descent in Michigan not members of any tribe shall be entitled to vote. In the year 1855, I was again delegated to attend the council of Detroit for the treaty of 1855, and in that council I made several speeches before the Hon. Commissioner of Indian Affairs, Mr. Manypenny, of Washington, on the subject of our educational fund, $8000 per annum, which had been expended for the education of the Indian youths for the last nineteen years, and which was to be continued ten years longer. This sum had never been used directly for any scholars, but it was stated that it was given to the religious societies which had missions among the Michigan Indians. In that council I advocated that the said fund be retained in the hands of the general Government for the benefit of those Indian youths who really intended to be educated and who went among the whites or in civilized communities to be educated, and if it need be, to be used for the collegiate education of those Indian youths, but let the children at home be educated at home by taxation, and giving fully my reasons in advancing such proposition. The Hon. Commissioner was much taken up with my remarks on this subject, I being the youngest member, and told the older members of the council that he would like to hear some of them on this subject. "The young man who has been making remarks on this matter has a very good idea with regard to your educational funds; now let us hear farther remarks on this subject by some other members of the council." But not one Indian stirred. And again and again the next day, I tried to urge this matter to the Hon. Commissioner and the Indians to cooperate with me, but they would not, because my people were so ignorant they did not know the value of education, or else they misunderstood the whole subject. On the third day, as I was about getting up to make further remarks upon this subject, one of the old members, who was the most unworthy of all the company, as he got very drunk the day we arrived in Detroit and was locked up in jail as disorderly two or three days, arose and said to the Commissioner that I was not authorized by any of the council to get up here and make such remarks. "We did not come here to talk about education, but came expressly to form a treaty." Then burst into a great laughter all the spectators of the council and some of the members too. I was told afterwards that it was a put up job to prevent any change by the persons who had been handling for years this Indian educational fund, as there were a number of them in the council hall. Thus was lost one of the most noble objects which ought to have been first looked after. After the council dispersed and came home, I sat down and wrote a long article, giving the full history of the past in regard to this matter; how our educational fund, $8000 per annum, had been handled and conducted for nearly twenty years, and yet not one Indian youth could spell the simplest word in the English language, and these writings I had published in the Detroit Tribune for public inspection. CHAPTER VIII. Becoming Protestant--Persecutions--Second Attempt to go to School-- Trials With Indian Agent--Governor Lewis Cass--Struggle During Education--Getting Married--Coming Home--Government Interpreter and Postmaster. The next five years were passed among my people, doing a little of everything, laboring, teaching, and interpreting sermons among the Protestant missions--for there were by this time two Protestant missions established among the Ottawas of Arbor Croche, one at Bear River, now Petoskey, and another at Middle Village or Arbor Croche proper, where I acted as an assistant teacher and interpreter. I met much opposition from the Catholic community, because I had already become a Protestant and left the Romish church, not by any personal persuasion, however, but by terrible conviction on reading the word of God--"That there is no mediator between God and man but one, which is Christ Jesus, who was crucified for the remission of sins." One Sunday, some friend persuaded me to come to the church, but when the priest saw me he came and forcibly ejected me out of the room. The same priest left the Indian country soon afterwards, and it seems he went to England, and just before he died he wrote to my sister a very touching epistle, in which he said nothing about himself or any one in Little Traverse, but from the beginning to the end of the letter he expressed himself full of sorrow for what he had done to me when in this country among the Indians, and asking of me forgivness for his wrongs towards me. Soon after the council of Detroit, I became very discontented, for I felt that I ought to have gone through with my medical studies, or go to some college and receive a degree and then go and study some profession. But where is the means to take me through for completing my education? was the question every day. So, after one payment of the treaty of 1855, late in the fall of 1856, I went up to Mr. Gilbert, who was then Indian agent, and made known to him my intention, and asked him if he would aid me towards completing my education, by arranging for me to receive the benefit of our educational fund, which was set apart at the last council for the education of the Indians in this State. But he would not. He bluffed me off by saying he was sorry I had voted the "black republican ticket," at the general election, which took place that fall of 1856. This was the first time that the Indians ever voted on general election. Mr. Gilbert was at North Port, Grand Traverse, on election day, managing the Indian votes there, and he sent a young man to Little Traverse to manage the voting there and sit as one of the Board at the Little Traverse election. He sent the message to Indians to vote no other ticket but the democratic ticket. At this election there were only two republican votes in Little Traverse, one of which was cast by myself. As I was depositing my ballot, this young man was so furiously enraged at me he fairly gnashed his teeth, at which I was very much surprised, and from my companion they tried to take away the ticket. Then they tried to make him exchange his ticket, but he refused. We went out quickly, as we did not wish to stay in this excitement. At that time I felt almost sorry for my people, the Indians, for ever being citizens of the State, as I thought they were much happier without these elections. After payment of our annuities, as the vessel was about starting off to take the Indian agent to Mackinac, they had already hoisted the sails, although there was not much wind, and I thought, this was the last chance to get to Mackinac. As I looked toward the vessel I wept, for I felt terribly downcast. As they were going very slowly toward the harbor point, I asked one of the Indian youngsters to take me and my trunk in a canoe to the vessel out there. I had now determined to go, in defiance of every opposition, to seek my education. [Footnote: Indians are now forbidden to leave their reservations without permission from the agent, so no ambitious and determined youth can now escape from the Indian Bureau machine.--ED.] I hurried to our house with the boy, to get my trunk and bid good bye to my aged father, and told him I was going again to some school outside, and if God permitted I hoped to return again to Little Traverse. All my father said was, "Well, my son, if you think it is best, go." And away we went. We overtook the vessel somewhere opposite Little Portage, and as I came aboard the agent's face turned red. He said, "Are you going?" I said, "Yes sir, I am going." So nothing more was said. The greater part of the night was spent by the agent and the captain gambling with cards, by which the agent lost considerable money. We arrived the next day at Mackinac, and again I approached the Indian agent with request if he could possibly arrange for me to have the benefit of our Indian educational fund, set apart for that purpose at the council of Detroit, 1855; and again he brought up the subject of my voting. Then I was beginning to feel out of humor, and I spoke rather abruptly to him, saying, "Well, sir, I now see clearly that you don't care about doing anything for my welfare because I voted for the republican party. But politics have nothing to do with my education; for the Government of the United States owes us that amount of money, not politics. I was one of the councilors when that treaty was made, and I will see some other men about this matter, sir." His face turned all purple, and as I was turning about to keep away from him, he called me back, saying, "Mr. Blackbird, how far do you intend to go to get your education?" I said, "I intend to go to Ann Arbor University, sir." "Well, I will do this much for you: I will pay your fare to Detroit. I am going by way of Chicago, but you can go down by the next boat, which will be here soon from Chicago." I thanked him, and he handed me money enough to pay my fare to Detroit. So I reached Detroit, and went to Dr. Stuben's house and inquired my way to Governor Cass' residence; and when I knocked at the door, behold it was he himself came to the door. I shook hands with him and said, "My friend, I would like to speak to you a few moments." "Is it for business?" he asked. "Yes sir, it is." "Well, my boy, I will listen to what you have to say." I therefore began, saying, "Well, my friend, I come from Arbor Croche. I am the nephew of your old friend, 'Warrior Wing,' am seeking for education, but I have no means; and I come to see you expressly to acquaint you with my object, and to ask you the favor of interceding for me to the Government to see if they could possibly do something towards defraying my expenses in this object. That is all I have to say." The old man raised his spectacles and said, "Why, why! your object is a very good one. I was well acquainted with your uncle in the frontier of Michigan during the war of 1812. Have you seen and told the Indian agent of this matter?" "Yes sir, I have asked him twice, but he would not do anything for me." "Why, why! it seems to me there is ample provision for your people for that object, and has been for the last twenty years. What is the matter with him?" I said, "I don't know, sir." "Well, well; I am going to Washington in a few days, and shall see the Indian Commissioner about this matter, and will write to you from there on the subject. I know they can do something toward defraying your expenses. Where do you intend to go?" I said, "I don't know, yet, sir, but I thought of going to the University at Ann Arbor." "Is it possible? are you prepared to enter such a college?" I told him I thought I was. "Well, sir, I think you had better go to Ypsilanti State Normal School instead of Ann Arbor: it is one of the best colleges in the State." This was the first time I ever heard of that school, and it sounded quite big to me; so I told him that I would gladly attend that school, provided I had means to do so. "Well, then, it is settled. You shall go to Ypsilanti, and I will direct my letter to Ypsilanti when I write to you; and now mind nobody, but just go about your business." After thanking him for his good counsel I shook hands with the old man and left. The next day was a terrible snow storm, but, however, I started out for Ypsilanti, which is only about thirty miles from Detroit. Of course, as I was totally a stranger in the place, I put up at a hotel, although my means were getting very short. The next day I went about to find out all about the institution, cost of tuition, and private board, etc., and saw some of the professors of the institution, but I did not dare to make any arrangements for a steady boarding place and begin school for fear Governor Cass should fail of getting help from the Goverment. Therefore, instead of beginning to go to school, I went and hired out on a farm about three miles from the city, and continued to work there for about three weeks before I heard from Governor Cass. At last the old farmer brought a package of letters from the post-office, one of which was post marked at Washington, D. C., and another from Detroit. I fairly trembled as I opened the one which I thought was from Governor Cass, as between doubt and hope, but my fears were suddenly changed into gladness, and quickly as possible I settled with the farmer, and away I went towards the city, singing as I went along. By intercession of Governor Cass, it was proposed to pay my whole expenses--board, clothes, books, tuition, etc. The other letter was from the Indian Agent, calling me to come down to Detroit, as he had already received some instructions from the Commissioner of Indian Affairs to look after me and to arrange the matters of my schooling at Ypsilanti State Normal School. O, how I did hate to have to meet the Indian Agent again on this subject; to stand before him, and to have him think that I had overcome him, and succeeded in spite of his opposition to my desire. O, how I wished this matter could have been arranged without his assistance. However, I started out for Detroit the same evening I received these communications, and went to the agent. He never even said, "How do you do?" but immediately began, saying, "Well, sir, how much do you think that it will cost for your schooling at Ypsilanti?" "I don't know, sir," I responded. "Well, who knows? I think you ought to know, as you have been there," he said, in a gruff voice. "I have not been to school at all, sir," I said, "but have been working on a farm up to this morning." "Working on a farm, eh? I thought you came here on purpose to attend school?" "I did, sir; but you know I was very short of means, so I had to do something to keep me alive." "Can't you tell me the cost for your board per week?" "The private board is from $3.50 to $4 per week, sir, as according to accommodation." "How much for books and clothing?" "I don't know, sir; but I think I have enough clothing for at least one year." In the morning I went back to Ypsilanti, and with the aid of the professors of the institution I got a good boarding place. I attended this institution almost two years and a half, when I could not hold out any longer, as my allowance for support from the Government was so scanty it did not pay for all my necessary expenses. I have always attributed this small allowance to the Indian Agent who was so much against me. I tried to board myself and to live on bread and water; and therefore hired a room which cost me 75 cents a week, and bought bread from the bakeries, which cost me about 50 cents a week, and once in a while I had fire-wood as I did not keep much fire. I stood it pretty well for three months, but I could not stand it any longer. I was very much reduced in flesh, and on the least exertion I would be trembling, and I began to be discouraged in the prosecution of my studies. By this time I was in the D class, but class F was the graduating class in that institution, which I was exceedingly anxious to attain; but I imagined that I was beginning to be sick on account of so much privation, or that I would starve to death before I could be graduated, and therefore I was forced to abandon my studies and leave the institution. As I did not have any money to pay my passage homeward, I wept about working and occasionally lecturing on the subject of the Indians of Michigan, and at last I had enough means to return home and try to live once more according to the means and strength of my education. September 4th, 1858, I was joined in wedlock to the young lady who is still my beloved wife, and now we have four active children for whom I ever feel much anxiety that they might be educated and brought up in a Christian manner. Soon after I came to my country my father died at a great age. The first year we lived in Little Traverse we struggled quite hard to get along, but in another year I was appointed U. S. Interpreter by the Hon. D. C. Leach, U. S. Indian Agent for Mackinac Indian Agency, to whom I ever feel largely indebted, and I continued to hold this situation under several of his successors in office. During the Rebellion I was loyal to the Government, and opposed the bad white men who were then living in the Indian country, who tried to mislead my people as to the question of the war, to cause them to be disloyal. After the war was over, I was appointed as an auxiliary prosecutor of the Indian soldier claims, as quite a number of our people also helped to put down this rebellion, and many were killed and wounded. But most of this kind of business I performed without reward. Before I was fairly out as Interpreter, I was appointed with a very small salary as postmaster at Little Traverse, now Harbor Springs, where I discharged my duties faithfully and honestly for eleven years. But the ingress of the white population in this Indian country increased much from 1872-73 and onward. The office was beginning to be a paying one, and I was beginning to think that I was getting over the bridge, when others wanted the office, my opponents being the most prominent persons. Petitions were forwarded to Washington to have me removed, although no one ever had any occasion to complain of having lost his money or letter through this office during my administration. At last, the third assistant postmaster general at Washington wrote me a kind of private letter, stating that the main ground of the complaint was, that my office was too small and inconvenient for the public, and advising me to try and please the public as well as I could. And consequently I took what little money I had saved and built a comfortable office, but before the building was thoroughly completed I was removed. This left me penniless in this cold world, to battle on and to struggle for my existence; and from that time hence I have not held any office, nor do I care to. I only wish I could do a little more for the welfare of my fellow-beings before I depart for another world, as I am now nearly seventy years old, and will soon pass away. I wish my readers to remember that the above history of my existence is only a short outline. If time and means permitted, many more interesting things might be related. CHAPTER IX. Some of the Legends of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians Respecting the Great Flood of the World--A Person Swallowed Up Alive Like a Prophet Jonah. Before proceeding with the history of the Ottawas and Chippewas some of their most important and peculiar legends will be given. They have a tradition of a great flood, as is recorded it the Bible History, and many other tribes of Indians who speak dialect of the Ottawa and Chippewa languages have the same story. The legends say it was caused, not by a rain, but by the great Ne-naw-bo-zhoo, who was the most remarkable, wonderful, and supernatural being that ever trod upon the earth. He could transfigure himself into the shape of all animals and live with them for a great length of time. He has done much mischief and also many benefits to the inhabitants of the earth whom he called "his nephews;" and he shaped almost everything, teaching his nephews what materials they should take for their future utensils. This mischievous Ne-naw-bo-zhoo spoiled the sugar trees by diluting their sap with water. The legends say, that once upon a time the sugar trees did produce sap at certain season of the year which was almost like a pure syrup; but when this mischievous Ne-naw-bo-zhoo had tasted it, he said to himself, "Ah, that is too cheap. It will not do. My nephews will obtain this sugar too easily in the future time and the sugar will be worthless." And therefore he diluted the sap until he could not taste any sweetness therein. Then he said, "Now my nephews will have to labor hard to make the sugar out of this sap, and the sugar will be much more valuable to them in the future time." In former times the heart of every tree contained fat from which all inhabitants of the earth obtained delicious oil to eat; but this mischievous Ne-naw-bo- zhoo, in his supernatural way, pushed his staff into the heart of every tree; and this is the reason why the heart of every tree has a different color. There was no great ark in which to float during the great flood, but when Ne-naw-bo-zhoo could not find any more dry land to run to when he was pursued with mountains of water, he said, "let there be a great canoe." So there was a great canoe which he entered with his animals and floated. As to the origin of Ne-naw-bo-zhoo, the legend says, that once upon a time there lived a maiden with her grandmother, who was a very dutiful and obedient child, observing every precept which was taught her by her grandmother, and she spent much time fasting; during which time she had wonderful dreams which she related to her grandmother every morning during her fast days. She very often had a vision of holding conversation with some deities and finally she was assured in a vision, that her children would be terrible and would redeem all the inhabitants of the earth from their various calamities; and accordingly, she bore two sons. The first born was like any other human child, but the last one was a monster which caused the death of its mother, and, although shaped like a human being, as soon as born ran off in the wilderness and was never again seen by any person; but the first child was nourished and reared by the grandmother. When this child grew to be playful and talkative by the side of its grandmother, he was so strange that very often she would say to him, "Your actions are like a Ne-naw-bo-zhoo." Then the child would reply, "I am the great Ne-naw-bo-zhoo on this earth." The meaning of this word in the Algonquin language is "a clown" and therefore he meant that he was the great "clown" of the world. When Ne-naw-bo-zhoo became a man he was a great prophet for his nephews and an expert hunter. His hunting dog was a great black wolf. When he learned from his grandmother, that his mother was dead and that his brother was a monster with a body like flint stone which caused her death, Ne-naw-bo-zhoo was in a great rage after hearing the story and he determined to seek for this evil being and slay him. Then he immediately prepared for a long journey, and trimmed his ponderous war club nicely and prepared to be in a great battle. So off he went with his great black wolf on the war path. As he passed through the forest, for a trial of his strength and the strength of his war club, he simply made motions with it toward one of the tallest pines of the forest and the gigantic tree came down all into slivers. "Ah," said Ne-naw- bo-zhoo, "who could stand against my strength and the strength of my war club." After many days journey going into every nook and loop hole of the earth, he succeeded at last in having a glimpse of the object of his search. Ne-naw-bo-zhoo ran to overtake him, and chased him all over the world; and every now and then he would be close enough to reach him with his war-club and to strike at him, but he would only break a piece of the monster's stony body, which was like a mountain of hard flintstone. So the legend says that whenever we find a pile of hard flints lying on the face of the earth, there is where Ne-naw-bo-zhoo overtook his brother monster and struck him with his tremendous war-club. At last he vanquished him on the east shore of Grand Traverse Bay, Michigan, near the place now called Antrim City, but formerly by the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians, it was called "Pe-wa-na-go-ing," meaning "Flinty Point," so called because there were great rocks of flint lying near the edge of the lake shore. And so the Ottawas and Chippewas say it is there where the old carcass of the monster is now lying--the brother of the great Ne-naw-bo-zhoo. After that he traveled over almost every part of this continent sometimes in the shape of an animal and then again in human shape. There is an impression of human foot tracks on a very smooth rock some where along the Ottawa river in Canada, and also a round hole about as large and deep as a common brass kettle on this flat rock near where the track is and every Ottawa and Chippewa calls these "Ne-naw-bo-zhoo's track" and "Ne-naw-bo-zhoo's kettle where he dropped it when chasing his brother," and then they would drop a piece of tobacco in the kettle as a sacrifice, at the same time praying for luck and a prosperous journey to Montreal and back again to Michigan, their native home, when passing this place. Now the cause of the great flood was this: The god of the deep was exceedingly jealous about Ne-naw-bo-zhoo's hunting dog (the great black wolf) and therefore, he killed it and made a feast with it and invited many guests, which were represented as sea-serpents, water-tigers, and every kind of monster of the deep, and they had a great feast. When Ne- naw-bo-zhoo found out what had become of his hunting dog, he was furiously enraged, and determined to kill this god of the deep. There was a certain place where he was accustomed to come on the shore with his hosts, particularly on very fine days, to sun themselves and enjoy the pleasure of being on a dry land. Ne-naw-bo-zhoo knew this lovely spot very well. So right away he strung up his bow and trimmed his arrows nicely, and went there to watch, transforming himself into a black stump, near where these water gods usually lay down to enjoy themselves. And therefore, one very fine day the sea-serpents and water-tigers were very anxious to come on shore as usual and asked their master to accompany them, but he replied: "I fear the great Ne- naw-bo-zhoo might be lurking about there, and he will kill me because I have killed and eaten up his black wolf." But he at last told them to go on shore and examine the place and report if it was all clear; but they found nothing unusual about the place except the old black stump, which they never before observed to be there. Therefore, they went back to their master and reported that nothing was there to be afraid of except the old black stump which they never noticed before. "Go again," said their master "and closely examine the stump; peradventure, it was he transfigured into the shape of the stump." So again they came ashore and one of the water-tigers climbed upon it, inserting his long, sharp claws as he went up, but he saw nothing strange. So, also the sea- serpent went up to it and coiled himself around the stump so tight that Ne-naw-bo-zhoo nearly screamed with pain. At last the serpent uncoiled himself and they went back to their master and reported to him that it was nothing but an old stump. So the god of the sea concluded to come ashore with all his hosts, slowly and cautiously looking in every direction as he was still afraid that Ne-naw-bo-zhoo might be lurking around there and watching. Soon they were dozing upon the hot sand of the beach, then Ne-naw-bo-zhoo unmasked himself and fixed one of his best arrows into his bow and shot the god of the deep right through the heart. Then all the host started to pursue the slayer of their master. Ne-naw-bo-zhoo fled for his life; but he was pursued by the host with mountains of water. He ran all over the earth, still pursued with the mountains of water. So when he could not find any more dry land to run to he commanded a great canoe to be formed in which he and the animals who were fleeing before the water, were saved. After they floated, Ne- naw-bo-zhoo wondered very much how deep was the water. Therefore, he ordered one of the beavers to go down to the bottom of the deep and bring up some earth if he could, as evidence that he did go to the bottom. So the beaver obeyed, and he went down, but the water was so deep the beaver died before he reached the bottom, and therefore, he came up floating as a dead beaver. Ne-naw-bo-zhoo drew him up into his canoe and resuscitated the beaver by blowing into his nostrils. So he waited a little while longer, and afterwards he ordered the muskrat to go down; but the muskrat did not like the idea, for he had seen the beaver coming up lifeless. So he had to flatter him a little in order to induce him to go down, by telling him, "Now, muskrat, I know that thou art one of the best divers of all the animal creation; will you please go down and ascertain the depth of the water, and bring up some earth in your little paws, if you can, with which I shall try to make another world? Now go my little brother,"--the legend says that he called all the animal creation his little brothers,--"for we cannot always live on the waters." At last the muskrat obeyed. He went down, and descended clear to the bottom of the water, and grabbed the earth and returned. But the water was yet so deep that before he reached the surface of the water, he expired. As Ne-naw-bo-zhoo drew him up into his great canoe to resuscitate him, he observed the muskrat still grasping something in his little paws, and behold, it was a piece of earth. Then Ne-naw-bo-zhoo knew that the muskrat went clear to the bottom of the deep. He took this piece of earth and fixed it into a small parcel; which he fastened to the neck of the raven which was with him. Now, with this parcel, Ne-naw-bo-zhoo told the raven to fly to and fro all over the face of the waters; then the waters began to recede very fast, and soon the earth came back to its natural shape, just as it was before. Again this same Ne-naw-bo-zhoo was once swallowed by a fish, and after being carried about in the midst of the deep, he came out again and lived as well as ever, like the Prophet Jonah. This Ottawa and Chippewa legend is, that once upon a time there was a great fish that resided in a certain lake, and as the people passed through this lake in their canoes, this great fish was accustomed to come after those crossing the lake and if he overtook them he would swallow them up, canoe and all, like swallowing a little clam in its shell. So Ne-naw-bo-zhoo said to himself, "This great fish will eat up all my nephews. Now I must somehow dispose of him." And he went to the lake in his canoe expressly to look for the fish, singing daring songs as he went along. After he came in the midst of it, there he stopped, but kept on singing the following words: "Mishe-la-me-gwe Pe-le-wi-ko-lishim, Pe-la-wi-ko- lishim"--daring the fish to come and swallow him up. So at last the great fish, Mishi-la-me-gwe, did come and swallow the great Ne-naw-bo- zhoo. But this was just what he wanted. After being swallowed, he was able to dispose of this big fish, for with his weapons he caused the fish such pain that he ran on the shore and died. After which, Ne-naw- bo-zhoo came out like the Prophet Jonah, and he went home and sat down to smoke his pipe, perfectly satisfied that he had saved many people by disposing of this great fish. These are some of the legends told among the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians, as related in their own language, which are in some things quite similar to the records of the Bible. CHAPTER X. Traditions of the Ottawas Regarding Their Early History--Their Wars and Their Confederations With Other Tribes of Indians. Very many centuries ago, before the discovery of the American continent by the white people, the traditions of the Ottawas say they lived along the banks of one of the largest tributaries of the St. Lawrence, now known as the Ottawa river. The Ottawas spread over the country around the head waters of this stream, subduing all other tribes of Indians which they happened to encounter, except the Chippewas and Stockbridge Indians. They have been always friendly and closely related with these tribes, and consequently no war-club was ever raised by either of these against the other. Their language is of the same root, as they could quite intelligently understand each other. Their manners and customs in every way correspond. Their legends, particularly respecting the flood, and their belief in the Supreme Being, the great creator of all things --Ketchi-mat-ne-do--is very much the same; also their belief in the evil spirit, whose habitation was under the earth. To this deity they offered sacrifices as well as to the other gods or deities. These offerings were called in those days peace-offerings and down-offerings. They never sacrificed flesh of animals to the evil spirit. Their offering to this deity was parched corn pounded, then cooked into hominy; this was sacrificed to the evil spirit, not because they loved him, but to appease his wrath. Although the Chippewas speak almost the same language as the Ottawas and Stockbridge Indians, yet they seem to belong to another family of Indians, as they are much taller than the Ottawas and Stockbridges, and broader across the shoulders--having a full chest, very erect and striding firmly in their walking. They were much more numerous than the Ottawa Indians. They extended from lower Canada north-westward up to Manitoba county. There are three kinds of Chippewas, each kind having a different dialect. The Chippewas in Canada, around the Straits of Mackinaw, the islands in Lake Michigan, Sault Ste. Marie, and west of Lake Superior, are much more enlightened and intelligent, and these, we called common Chippewas; but those on the plains further north or northwest of Lake Superior, "the wild Chippewas;" and those on the north side of Lake Superior going toward Hudson Bay; we called "the Backwoodsmen." This latter race lived entirely by hunting and fishing and endured very great hardships sometimes, particularly, when there was scarcity of game. The Chippewas were very brave people on the war path, and their principal foes were Sioux Indians on the plains. These were called in the Ottawa language "Naw-do-wa-see," and in the Chippewa "Au-bwan." The plurals are "Naw-do-wa-see-wog" and "Au-bwan-og." The "Naw-do-wa-see-wog" are deadly enemies of the Ottawas and Chippewas, and they are the most careless of their lives, for they taught their children from infancy not to fear death. But the Ottawas were, however, considered as the most ancient tribe of Indians and were called by the other tribe "their big brother." Although they are a smaller race, in stature, then many other tribes, they were known as the most wise and sagacious people. Every tribe belonging to all the Algonquin family of Indians looked up to the Ottawas for good counsel; and they were as brave as the Chippewas and very expert on the warpath. Every tribe of Indians has a different coat of arms, or symbolical sign by which they are known to one another. The emblem of the Ottawas is a moose; of the Chippewas, a sea gull; of the Backswoodsmen, a rabbit; that of the underground tribe, to which I belong, is a species of hawk; and that of the Seneca tribe of Indians is a crotch of a tree. The Ottawa Indians are very nearly extinct in the state of Michigan as there are only two or three families in the state, whose national emblem is a moose, showing them to be descended from pure Ottawa blood; but those who represented themselves as the Ottawas in this state are descendants from various tribes of Indians, even some are Senecas, of the Iroquois family--formerly deadly enemies of the Ottawas. The cause of this mixture is by intermarriage, and by prisoners of war in former times. The first man who signed the treaty of 1886, one of the Chippewas of the Grand River Indians, whose name was "Mixinene," was a descendant of the Backwoodsmen, whose emblem was a rabbit. Therefore, all the rest of those Chippewas who went to Washington to form a treaty with the Government felt displeased about this matter and tried to ignore the signature of Mixinene, because they thought that the first signature should have been made by a pure Ottawa or a pure Chippewa, because they had the first right to the land of Michigan. But the "Backwoodsmen," they considered, had no claim nor title to this land which they ceded to the Government of the United States. But the Government did not know the difference, however,--all she wanted was the land. So all the Chiefs of the Ottawas and Chippewas signed this said treaty, not with free will, but by compulsion. The tradition gives no reason why the Ottawas continually moved towards the northwest at this early period; but it is, however, supposed that it was on account of their deadly enemies, the Iroquois of New York, as they were continually at war with the six nations of Indians. Quite often, the Iroquois would attack them, but the tradition says that in almost every battle the Ottawas would come out victorious over the Iroquois. The Ottawas too, in retaliation, would go to the Iroquois country to scalp some of the Iroquois; then have their jubilees over these scalps by feasting and dancing around them. At this stage of their existence they were an exceedingly fierce and warlike people, not only contending with these tribes, but also with many others out west and south, even to the Chocktaw and Cherokee country and to the Flatheads, Sioux Indians and the Underground race of people out west. As the Ottawas continued moving up on this beautiful stream of water, they at last came to a large lake, the head waters of the river. The surrounding scenery of the lake was most surprisingly beautiful. They immediately named this lake Ke-tchi-ne-bissing, which name it bears to this day. Here the Ottawas concluded to stop and occupy the surrounding country. Therefore, they pitched their tents and formed a great village. They continued to reside around the lake for untold ages. And here too they had many hard battles with the Iroquois; but the Iroquois were not able to conquer them or drive them from the country. But at last the Ottawas became discontented with the place. They concluded that the place was haunted by some presiding deity who was not favorable to them. They probably obtained this idea through having sometimes great disasters in war with the Iroquois at this place. I will here relate an incident which happened to the Ottawas at about this time, and which was the origin of their belief that the deity of the place was unfavorable to them. It may be considered as purely fictitious, but every Ottawa and Chippewa to this day believes it to have actually occurred. A woman went down to the beach of lake Ke-tchi-ne-bissing to wash some of her clothing, taking along her infant child, which was tied up on a board, according to the fashion of the Indians. When she reached the beach, she set her child down very near the edge of the water that it might watch its mother while at work. Her wigwam stood not far from the lake, and in a few moments she ran to it for something. On her return to the spot she was terribly surprised not to find her child where she had left it but a few minutes before. She ran frantically through the village, crying and screaming, and saying that some one had stolen her baby. A few days after this, two lovers sat upon the top of the highest hillock which stood back of the village. While they were talking very much love to each other, they heard an infant crying bitterly, in the ground directly under them. Every one who heard the report said at once that it must be the same baby who was mysteriously missing on the beach a few days before. The next day all the magicians were called together and requested to divine this mystery. Some went and put themselves into the state of clairvoyance, which was a very common practice among the Ottawas and Chippewas within my time, and is still practiced to-day where there is no Christianity predominating among the Indians. Other magicians built themselves lodges in which to call their favorite spirits in order to commune with them. This, which we might call Spiritualism, was practiced among the Indians much as among the whites at the present day. The form of these lodges was like a tower in circular form built with long poles set deep in the ground ten or twelve feet high, then covered tight all around with canvass or skins of animals, except the top is left open. Now the magician or the performer comes with the little flat magician's rattle like a tamborine. They always build a fire close to the lodge so that the attendants and spectators could light their pipes, as they generally smoke much during the performance. The magician sits by the fire also, and begins to talk to the people, telling them that he could call up various spirits, even the spirit of those who are yet living in the world, and that they should hear them and ask them any questions they wish. After which he begins to sing a peculiar song which scarcely any one could understand. Then he either goes into the lodge by crawling under, or sits out side with the rest of the audience, and simply throws something of his wear in the lodge--his blanket or his robe or coat. And immediately the lodge begins to tremble, appearing to be full of wind. Then voices of various kinds are heard from top to bottom, some speaking in unknown tongues, and when the spectators ask any questions they would receive replies sometimes with unknown tongues, but among the spirits there is always a special interpreter to make known what other spirits says. After the magicians had finished their incantations, one of them, whom they thought greatest of all, went down to the beach to the place where the child had been missing. The water was very deep there along the beach quite close to the shore. He plunged in the lake and was gone under water for a long time. At last he came up and reported that he had discovered a doorway under deep water for a passage which seemed to lead toward the top of the hill. He believed through this passage the child was conveyed to the top of the hill by some evil monster, and all the rest of the magicians agreed with this opinion. Therefore, they returned to their village to hold another council and they concluded to dig down wherever the magicians would direct and try to find the passage. They found the passage after making a very deep hole which to this day is said to be yet visible at Ke-tchi-ne-bissing. While they were digging, two supernatural monsters ran out of the place; and at last at the top of the hill they found a cavern where the dead form of the child was discovered. CHAPTER XI. The Ottawas Moving Again Towards the Setting Sun--Coming to Manitoulin, or Ottawa Island--The Names of Their Leaders--The Wenebago Warriors Coming to Ottawa Island in a Hostile Manner, Headed by O-saw-wah-ne-me- kee, "The Yellow Thunder"--Death of Kaw-be-naw, one of the Greatest Prophets and Warriors of the Ottawas--Massacre in the Country of Waw- gaw-na-ke-zhe, or Arbor Croche, Emmet County, Michigan. Soon after the loss of the child, the Ottawas abandoned the country and again moved toward the setting sun until they came to Lake Huron. Here they discovered a great island which is now called Manitoulin, but formerly, the Ottawa Island. Here the Ottawas remained for many more centuries. Here too, was born one of the greatest warriors and prophets that the Ottawas ever had, whose name was Kaw-be-naw. This word is accented on the last syllable,--its definition is--"He would be brought out." There are many curious and interesting adventures related of this great warrior and prophet, a record of which would require a large book. But I will here give one of the last acts of his life. It is related that he became tired of living and killing so many people. He desired to die; but he could not. It is also related that the We-ne-be- go tribe of Indians had also one man who was almost equal in power to Kaw-be-naw whose name was "O-saw-wa-ne-me-kee"--the "Yellow Thunder." Having heard the fame of Kaw-be-naw, he was very anxious to meet him on the warpath, that he might have an opportunity to contend with him in battle. And consequently he formed a most enormous expedition to the Island with his numerous warriors expressly to meet Kaw-be-naw. But Kaw-be-naw knowing everything that was going on in the Wenebago country, told his people to prepare for a great war, for numerous Wenebagoes were coming to the Island headed with O-saw-wah-ne-me-kee in a very hostile manner. At last O-saw-wah-ne-me-kee landed with his warriors on the Island, and marched towards the largest village of the Ottawas, which was situated in the interior of the Island where there was a lake. So Kaw-be-naw starts with his wife, pretending that he was going after cedar bark, but his real object was to meet the Wenebagoes on their march toward the village. When he saw the Wenebagoes coming, he told his wife to run home quickly and tell nobody what she had seen, and he alone went to meet them. When they saw him he did not try to get away, so they easily captured him. Of course the Wenebagoes knew not that he was the very man they were seeking. They asked him many questions as to the condition of the Ottawas, how many there were in the village, and whether Kaw-be-naw was at home or not. He told them the Ottawas were in good condition to fight, but Kaw-be-naw was not at home just then, but would probably be home by to-morrow or day after, as he was gone only to get cedar bark somewhere. The Wenebagoes made a deep pit in the ground and after tieing Kaw-be-naw they threw him in the pit and covered him with heavy stones and dirt and then marched on. When they came in view of the village they halted. They concluded that they would not make the attack until morning. Kaw-be-naw, after lying awhile in the pit, magically released himself and went home, and told his people that the Wenebagoes were very close at hand; and by to- morrow there would be a great battle, so every man must be well prepared. The village was in terrible anxiety that night, the women and children were all gathered in one place and the warriors in another, and the village was well guarded. Early in the morning the war cry was heard, and every warrior went forward to meet the Wenebagoes, but Kaw- be-naw remained in his lodge while his warriors were fighting. The old O-saw-wah-ne-me-kee was nearly naked and frightfully painted from head to foot, so that he looked more like a demon than a human being. Of course he did not know who might be Kaw-be-naw among the Ottawas, therefore he sang out, saying, "Where is your great Kaw-be-naw? I should like to meet him in this battle." So one of the warriors replied, "Don't you know that you have buried our great Kaw-be-naw in the pit yesterday?" "Thanks to the Great Spirit for delivering the Ottawas into my hands," said old O-saw-wah-ne-me-kee triumphantly. Just then, Kaw-be-naw came out of his lodge in full uniform of black bear skins, with his ponderous war club in his hand, and mocked his antagonist by saying, "Thanks to the Great Spirit, here I am; and now meet me all you want." Kaw-be-naw looked so grand and noble, and was such an extraordinary personage that O-saw-wah-ne-me-kee did not know what to do with himself, whether to yield or to fight. But remembering his previous threats, he made out to face him. However Kaw-be-naw did not take long to dispose of him; O-saw-wah-ne-me-kee was soon slain. When the Wenebagoes saw that their great warrior was no more, they immediately raised a flag of truce, and requested that they might acknowledge themselves as conquered and depart in peace. During the affray with O-saw-wah-ne-me-kee, Kaw-be-naw received a little scratch on his nose which drew a few drops of his blood, and therefore when he saw a flag of truce he disarmed himself and went to the Wenebagoes, saying, "O, you have killed me." The Wenebagoes said, "How and where?" "Don't you see the blood on my nose?" "Pshaw, that is only a scratch," said the Wenebagoes. "Well, that very thing will cause me to die." The Wenebagoes tried to send him away, but he would not leave them. At last they took him prisoner. They tied him with small strong cord which every warrior generally carries in case of capture. As they journeyed towards their home one fine day, they began to council about him, saying, "This man will never die. When we get him into our country, he will make a terrible slaughter among our women and children. We better dispose of him before we reach home." So they concluded to sink him into deep water. Therefore they tied a big stone about his neck and put him overboard. They went on rejoicing and traveled all day in their canoes, thinking that they had disposed of the greatest man in the world and were very much elated at the idea; forgetting how he had once escaped after being buried in a deep pit. When evening came, they encamped for the night. While they were preparing their food, they saw a man coming along on the beach toward them who appeared to them like Kaw-be-naw. The Wenebagoes were in terrible consternation. Soon he came up to them, and behold it was he. Then the Wenebagoes were in great terror. But as he came up to them he spoke very pleasently, saying, "Ho, what a pleasant journey we have had to-day. Well, children, have you any meat? I am getting quite hungry after traveling all day." Of course they had to treat him as well as they could, and Kaw-be-naw came into the midst of them. That night the Wenebagoes lay awake all night, and they thought every moment they would be slaughtered by Kaw-be-naw in revenge for trying to drown him. In the morning after breakfast as they were preparing to go Kaw-be-naw spoke to them saying, "Children, if you want to kill me, I will tell you how. You must take all the flesh from off my body by cutting it piece by piece with your knives, and leave no flesh upon my bones; for this is the only way that I can be killed." The Wenebagoes were terribly frightened as they thought that so soon as any one would touch him he would kill every Wenebago. So they held a council to determine what they should do. But the majority were in favor of performing this dreadful act, as Kaw-be-naw ordered, for he desired to die. When they came back, Kaw-be-naw persisted that they should begin, and assured them that he would never resist. At last, one of the bravest Wenebagoes went up to him and cut a piece of his flesh. Kaw-be-naw never stirred but simply smiled and said, "That is the way you must do. What are you afraid of? Come all ye who have sharp knives." Pretty soon they were all around him taking his flesh piece after piece. When it was all done he said, "It is finished; now I shall surely die. But as recompense for my flesh and life a great battle will be made against you by my successor, and as many of your best young men shall fall in this battle as pieces have been cut from my flesh." At the end of this sentence, he fell backwards and died. Thus ended the career of the great Kaw-be-naw, the Ottawa warrior and prophet. "Shaw-ko-we-sy" was the successor of Kaw-be-naw and was almost equal in power to his predecessor. It is related that in the following year, he went to the Wenebago country with his numerous warriors and killed many Wenebagoes, as many as Kaw-be-naw predicted, and returned late in the fall to their Island with many of the Wenebagoes' scalps. While they were having jubilees, festivities, and war dances over these scalps of the Wenebagoes, in the dead of winter, the tribe of Michilimacki- nawgoes, the remnant race of Indians who resided at the Island now called Mackinac, whose fate has been given in a previous chapter, were destroyed. This is the time, according to the Ottawa traditions, that the Iroquois of New York came upon this race of people and almost entirely annihilated them, and the Ottawas and Chippewas called this Island Michilimackinong in order to perpetuate the name of these unfortunate Indians. There were also a small tribe of Indians, beside the Chippewas, that resided on the north side of the strait whose principal village, was situated at the place now called St. Ignace, but the Ottawas and Chippewas call this place to this day "Naw-do-we-que-yah-mi-shen-ing," which is a compound name from "Naw-do-we," the name of the tribe who resided there, and "Na-yah-me-shen," point of land in water. And afterwards part of the Ottawas came over from their Island and resided with them, during the days of old Saw-ge-maw, who was one of the great warriors and leaders of the Ottawas. But afterwards Saw-ge-maw quarreled with them and broke up the confederacy and drove them off. Here, too, at about this time, part of the Ottawas left the country in anger because they were cheated out of one of the great feasts they were having on some particular occasion. Those went far west and joined the Sho-sho-nee tribe of Indians, whose country lies on the side of the Rocky Mountains, and consequently the Ottawa language is quite extensively spoken among that tribe of Indians to this day. The south side of the straits, which now constitutes Emmet, Cheboygan and Charlevoix counties, our tradition says, was exceedingly thickly populated by another race of Indians, whom the Ottawas called Mush-co- desh, which means, "the Prairie tribe." They were so called on account of being great cultivators of the soil, and making the woodland into prairie as they abandoned their old worn out gardens which formed grassy plains. It is related, this tribe was quite peaceable, and were never known to go on a warpath. The Ottawas of Manitoulin had joined hands with them as their confederates. They called each other "brothers." But on one of the western war trips of the great Saw-ge- maw, who existed about the time America was first discovered by white men, he met with great disaster, as many of his warriors were killed; so on returning homeward with his remaining survivors, they crossed Little Traverse Bay in a canoe and approached the shores of Arbor Croche at the place now called Seven Mile Point, where there was a large village of Mush-co-desh. Saw-ge-maw said to his few warriors, "Let us take our sad news to our relations the Mush-co-desh." So as they approached the shore they began to make an unearthly wailing noise, according to the custom of the Ottawas, which was called the death song of the warriors. When the Mush-co-desh heard them they said to one another, "Hark, the Ottawas are crying. They have been marauding among some tribes in the west; but this time they have been worsted-- good enough for them. See, they are coming ashore. Let us not permit them to land." So instead of preparing to join in their mourning, as would have been proper, they rashly determined to express their disapproval of the marauding expeditions and their contempt for those who engaged in them. Before Saw-ge-maw had fairly touched the beach, parties of Mush-co-desh ran down to the shore with balls of ashes wrapped up in forest leaves and with these they pelted Saw-ge-maw and his party as they came ashore. This treatment dreadfully provoked Saw- ge-maw, and the insult was such as could only be wiped out with blood. He told his warriors to pull homeward as quickly as possible. "We will come back here in a few days; we will not have to go so far again to look for our enemies." Arriving at Manitoulin Island, he immediately prepared for a great war. After they were completely equipped, they came back to the southern peninsula of Michigan, stealthily and carefully landing at the most uninhabited part of the shore. They then marched to one of the largest villages of Mush-co-desh, which was situated between Cross Village and Little Traverse, in a beautiful valley in the northern part of the township now called Friendship. Arriving late in the afternoon within view of the village, the Ottawas hid in ambush. One of the old women of the Mush-co-desh was going through the bushes looking for young basswood bark from which to manufacture twine or cord. She came right where the Ottawas were lying in ambush. She was terribly surprised, but the Ottawas persuaded her not to reveal their presence by telling her they would give her a young man as her husband, pointing to one of the best looking young warriors there. They told her, early in the morning they were going to fall upon the village and kill every one of the Mush-co-desh, but when she heard the war-whoop she must run to them and she should not be killed but be protected. The foolish woman believed and kept the secret. Early in the morning the war cry was heard, and she ran to the Ottawas to be protected, but she was the first one to be slain. It was indeed a terrible calamity for the Mush-co-desh. At the begining of the noise of massacre, the chief of the Mush-co-desh ran forward and screamed loud as he could, saying, "O! My father, Saw-ge-maw, what is the cause of your coming upon us so suddenly with death, as we have never wronged your race?" "Have you already forgotten" said Saw-ge-maw triumphantly, "that you have greatly insulted me on your borders? You have pelted me with ashes when I was lamenting over the loss of my braves." When the Mush-co-desh saw they could not prevail on Saw-ge-maw, nor could withstand an adversary so formidable and such well prepared warriors, they endeavored to flee, but they were overtaken and slaughtered. Only the swift-footed young men escaped, taking the sad message to other villages of Mush-co-desh, and as fast as the news reached them they fled with their women and children toward the south along the shore of Lake Michigan, and continued to fly, although they were not pursued by the Ottawas, till they reached the St. Joseph River, and there they stopped, and formed a union village, and began to cultivate the soil again. The tradition says this was the greatest slaughter or massacre the Ottawas ever committed. The inhabitants of this village were probably from forty to fifty thousand. There were many other villages of Mush- co-desh of minor importance everywhere scattered through the northern part of the southern peninsula of Michigan. Where this doomed village was situated is yet to this day distinctly visible, as there are some little openings and trails not overgrown by the forest. Soon after this the Ottawas abandoned their island and came over and took possession of the country of the Mush-co-desh. Most of them settled at the place now called Magulpin's Point, where the present lighthouse is situated, near old Mackinac. At the time the French settled in Montreal, Au-tche-a, one of the Ottawa prophets, told his people there were some strange persons living in this continent, who were far superior to any other inhabitants upon the earth. So Au-tche-a determined to search for these wonderful people and he persuaded five of his neighbors to accompany him in his undertaking. They started out, but they went a very roundabout way, and it was a long time before they came to the Ottawa river; then floating down they came out on the St. Lawrence. They were gone for more than a year. When they came where the white men were, they first saw a vessel or ship anchored in the middle of the St. Lawrence, which they thought was a monster waiting to devour them as they came along. But as they neared it they saw some people on the back of the monster. So Au-tche-a and his party were taken on board, and his little frail canoe was hoisted into the ship. They found some Stockbridge Indians there also, who spoke a dialect of their language. After exchanging all they had, and learning how to handle firearms, they started back again to the straits of Mackinac. The tradition says, they arrived at their village on an exceedingly calm day, and the water was in perfect stillness in the straits. The Indians saw the canoe coming towards the shore of the village, when suddenly a puff of smoke was seen and a terrific clash of sound followed immediately. All the inhabitants were panic stricken, and thought it was something supernatural approaching the shore. But again and again they witnessed the same thing, as it came nearer and nearer. At last they recognized the great prophet Au-tche-a and his party coming back from his long trip, having found his "Manitou" that he was looking after. The reader may imagine how it was, when Au-tche-a landed and exhibited his strange articles--his gun with its belongings, his axes, his knives, his new mode of making fire, his cooking utensils, his clothing and his blankets. It was no small curiosity to the aborigines. The Ottawas gradually extended their settlements towards the south, along the shore of Lake Michigan. The word Michigan is an Indian name, which we pronounce Mi-chi-gum, and simply means "monstrous lake." My own ancestors, the Undergrounds, settled at Detroit, and they considered this was the extent of their possessions. But the greatest part of the Ottawas settled at Arbor Croche, which I have already related as being a continuous village some fifteen miles long. But in the forest of this country were not many deer, and consequently when the winter approached most of the Indians went south to hunt, returning again in the spring loaded with dry meat. The Mush-co-desh were not long in safety in the southern part of the state. Intercourse had been opened between the French and the Ottawas and Chippewas on the straits of Mackinac and being supplied with firearms and axes by the French people, it occurred to the Ottawas that these impliments would be effective in battle. Anxious to put them to the test, they resolved to try them on their old enemies, the Mush-co- desh, who had not yet seen the white man and were unacquainted with firearms. Accordingly an expedition was fitted out. As the Ottawas approached the village of their enemies, each carrying a gun, the Mush- co-desh thought they were nothing but clubs, so came out with their bows and arrows, anticipating an easy victory. But they soon found out that they were mistaken. As the Ottawas came up they suddenly halted, not near enough to be reached by any arrows of Mush-co-desh, but the Ottawas began to fire away with their guns. Poor Mush-co-desh; they suffered more than ever in this second crushing defeat. The Ottawas left only one family of Mush-co-desh at this time and these went west somewhere to find a new home. My father and my uncles in their younger days while they were making a tour out west, happened to come across the descendants of this nearly anihilated tribe of Indians. They had grown to nine lodges only at that time, and they visited them in a friendly manner. The old warriors wept as they were conversing with them on their terrible calamities and misfortunes and their being once powerful allies and closely related; for these few still remembered the past, and what had become of their ancestors. After the Ottawas took complete possession of the southern peninsula of Michigan, they fought some more tribes of Indians, subdued them, and compelled them to form confederation with them as their allies. Such as Po-to-wa-to-mies, Mano-me-mis, O-daw-gaw-mies, Urons and Assawgies, who formerly occupied Saw-ge-naw-bay. Therefore the word Saginaw is derived from the name Os-saw-gees, who formerly lived there. They have been always closely united with the Chippewas and very often they went together on the warpath, except at one time they nearly fought on account of a murder, as has been herein related. Also the Shaw-wa-nee tribe of Indians were always closely related to them. But the Ottawa nation of Indians are always considered as the oldest and most expert on the warpath and wise councilors; and consequently every tribe of Indians far and near, even as far as the Manitoba country, out north, deposited their pipe of peace with the head chief of the Ottawa nation as a pledge of continual peace and friendship. Every pipe of peace contained a short friendly address which must be committed to memory by every speaker in the council of the Ottawas. If there was ever any outbreak among these tribes who deposited their pipe of peace with the head chief of the Ottawa nation, a general council would be called by the chiefs of the Ottawas, and the pipe of peace belonging to the tribe who caused the trouble would be lighted up, and the short address contained in the pipe would be repeated in the council by one of the speakers. When the cause of the outbreak or trouble was ascertained, then reconciliation must be had, and friendly relation must be restored, in which case they almost invariably succeeded in making some kind of reasonable settlement. This was the custom of all these people; and this is what formerly constituted the great Algonquin family of Indians. There are many theories as to the origin of the Indian race in America, but nothing but speculation can be given on this subject. But we believe there must have been people living in this country before those tribes who were driven out by the Ottawas and Chippewas, who were much more advanced in art and in civilization, for many evidences of their work have been discovered. About two hundred and fifty years ago, We- me-gen-de-bay, one of our noted chiefs, discovered while hunting in the wilderness a great copper kettle, which was partly in the ground. The roots of trees had grown around it and over it, and when it was taken up it appeared as if it had never been used, but seemed to be just as it came from the maker, as there was yet a round bright spot in the center of the bottom of it. This kettle was large enough to cook a whole deer or bear in it. For a long time the Indians kept it as a sacred relic. They did not keep it near their premises, but securely hidden in a place most unfrequented by any human being. They did not use it for anything except for great feasts. Their idea with regard to this kettle was that it was made by some deity who presided over the country where it was found, and that the copper mine must be very close by where the kettle was discovered. One peculiarity of its manufacture was that it had no iron rim around it, nor bail for hanging while in use, as kettles are usually made, but the edge of the upper part was much thicker than the rest and was turned out square about three- fourths of an inch, as if made to rest on some support while in use. When the Indians came to be civilized in Grand Traverse country, they began to use this "Mani-tou-au-kick," as they called it, in common to boil the sugar sap in it, instead of cooking bear for the feast. And while I was yet in the government blacksmith shop at the Old Mission in Grand Traverse, they brought this magical kettle to our shop with an order to put an iron rim and bail on it so that it could be hanged in boiling sugar, and I did the work of fixing the kettle according to the order. From this evidence of working in metals and from the many other relics of former occupants, it is evident that this country has been inhabited for many ages, but whether by descendants of the Jews or of other Eastern races there is no way for us to determine. CHAPTER XII. The Present Condition of the Indians of this State. Some histories have been written by white men of events since the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians came in contact with white people in this part of the country, but here is given the history of this race of Indians before that time. This account of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians is of as much interest to every inquirer into the histories of nations, as that of any other people; and all philanthropic people, and those who are endeavoring to enlighten and Christianize the Indians, will feel deeply interested in becoming acquainted with the past history as well as the present condition of these once numerous and warlike people. There are now but comparatively few living in the State of Michigan, trying to become civilized and to imitate their white neighbors in agricultural industries and other civilized labors. The greater part of them are being Christianized and are members of various Christian churches of the country, erecting houses of worship with their own hands in which to worship the true God in spirit and in truth. A few of them are becoming native preachers and expounders of the Gospel. A treaty was concluded in the city of Washington in the year 1836, to which my people--the Ottawas and Chippewas--were unwilling parties, but they were compelled to sign blindly and ignorant of the true spirit of the treaty and the true import of some of its conditions. They thought when signing the treaty that they were securing reservations of lands in different localities as permanent homes for themselves and their children in the future; but before six months had elapsed from the time of signing this treaty, or soon after it had been put in pamphlet form so that all persons could read it and know its terms, they were told by their white neighbors that their reservations of land would expire in five years, instead of being perpetual, as they believed. At the end of this time, they would be compelled to leave their homes, and if they should refuse they would be driven at the point of the bayonet into a strange land, where, as is almost always the case, more than one-half would die before they could be acclimated. At this most startling intelligence more than half of my people fled into Canada; fled to the protection of the British government; fled, many of them, even before receiving a single copper of the promised annuities; fled to a latitude like that in which they had been accustomed to live. The balance of them determined to remain and await whatever the consequences might be, and receive the annuities which they were promised for twenty years. But fortunately their expulsion from the State was suddenly stayed, in the years 1850 and '51. By the kindness of the people of the State of Michigan, they were adopted as citizens and made equal in rights with their white neighbors. Their voice was to be recognized in the ballot box in every election; and I thought, this is what ought to be, for the same God who created the white man created the red man of the forest, and therefore they are equally entitled to the benefits of civilization, education and Christianity. At that time I was one of the principal ones who advocated this cause, for I had already received a partial education, and in my understanding of this matter, I thought that was the only salvation of my people from being sent off to the west of the Mississippi. In laboring for the object, I suffered very great hardship and many struggles, but was at last successful. But in order that my people can enjoy every privilege of civilisation, they must be thoroughly educated; they must become acquainted with the arts and sciences, as well as the white man. Soon as the Indian youths receive an education, they should be allowed to have some employment among the whites, in order to encourage them in the pursuit of civilization and to exercise their ability according to the means and extent of their education, instead of being a class of persons continually persecuted and cheated and robbed of their little possessions. They should have been educated amongst the civilized communities in order to learn the manners and customs of the white people. If this method could have been pursued in the first instance, the aborigines of this country would have secured all the advantages of civilization, education and Christianity. This was my plan and my proposition at the council of Detroit, in the treaty of 1855, as there was quite a large sum of money set apart and appropriated by the Government for the education of Indian youth of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians of Michigan, and I made the proposition at this council that the sum for that purpose be retained in the hands of the Government solely to pay for the education of those Indian youths who should be educated in a civilized community, instead of committing this sum of money to the hands of the preachers and teachers in the missions among the Ottawas and Chippewas. If my plan could have been adopted, even as late as thirty-two years ago, we should have had, by this time, many well-educated Indians in this State, and probably some good farmers, and perhaps some noted professors of sciences would have been developed, and consequently happiness, blessings and prosperity would have been everywhere among the aborigines of the State of Michigan. CHAPTER XIII. The Lamentation of the Overflowing Heart of the Red Man of the Forest. Hark! What is that I hear, So mournfully ringing in my ear, Like a death song of warriors, For those who fell by their brave sires? Is this the wail now sounding For my unhappy future? O my destiny, my destiny! How sinks my heart, as I behold my inheritance all in ruins and desolation. Yes, desolation; the land the Great Spirit has given us in which to live, to roam, to hunt, and build our council fires, is no more to behold. Where once so many brave Algonquins and the daughters of the forest danced with joy, danced with gratitude to the Great Spirit for their homes, they are no more seen. Our forests are gone, and our game is destroyed. Hills, groves and dales once clad in rich mantle of verdure are stripped. Where is this promised land which the Great Spirit had given to his red children as the perpetual inheritance of their posterity from generation to generation? Ah, the pale-faces who have left their fathers' land, far beyond the ocean, have now come and dispossessed us of our heritage with cruel deceit and force of arms. Still are they rolling on, and rolling on, like a mighty spray from the deep ocean, overwhelming the habitations of nature's children. Is it for the deeds of Pocahontas, of Massasoit, of Logan, and hosts of others who have met and welcomed the white men in their frail cabin doors when they were few in numbers, cold and hungry? Is it for this that we have been plundered, and expelled at the point of the bayonet from the hallowed graves of our brothers and sires? O, my father, thou hast taught me from my infancy to love this land of my birth; thou hast even taught me to say that "it is the gift of the Great Spirit," when yet my beloved mother clasped me close to her peaceful breast while she sang of the warlike deeds of the great Algonquins. O, my father, our happiest days are o'er, and never again shall we enjoy our forest home. The eagle's eye could not even discover where once stood thy wigwam and thy peaceful council fire. Ah, once it was the happy land, and all the charms were there which made every Indian heart swell with thanks to the Great Spirit for their happy homes. Melodious music was heard in every grove, sung by the wild birds of the forest, who mingled their notes sweetly with the wild chant of my beloved sisters at eve. They sang the song of lullaby to the pawpose of the red man whilst swinging in the cradle from the shady trees, wafted gracefully to and fro by the restless wind. The beautiful old basswood tree bending so gracefully stood there, and the brown thrush sang with her musical voice. That tree was planted there by the Great Spirit for me to sport under, when I could scarcely bend my little bow. Ah, I watched that tree from childhood to manhood, and it was the dearest spot to me in this wide world. Many happy youthful days have I spent under this beautiful shady tree. But alas, alas, the white man's ax has been there! The tree that my good spirit had planted for me, where once the pretty brown thrush daily sat with her musical voice, is cut down by the ruthless hands of the white man. 'Tis gone; gone forever and mingled with the dust. Oh, my happy little bird, thy warbling songs have ceased, and thy voice shall never again be heard on that beautiful shady tree. My charming bird, how oft thou hast aroused me from my slumber at early morn with thy melodious song. Ah, could we but once more return to our forest glade and tread as formerly upon the soil with proud and happy heart! On the hills with bended bow, while nature's flowers bloomed all around the habitation of nature's child, our brothers once abounded, free as the mountain air, and their glad shouts resounded from vale to vale, as they chased o'er the hills the mountain roe and followed in the otter's track. Oh return, return! Ah, never again shall this time return. It is gone, and gone forever like a spirit passed. The red man will never live happy nor die happy here any more. 'Tis passed, 'tis done. The bow and quiver with which I have shot many thousands of game is useless to me now, for the game is destroyed. When the white man took every foot of my inheritance, he thought to him I should be the slave. Ah, never, never! I would sooner plunge the dagger into my beating heart, and follow the footsteps of my forefathers, than be slave to the white man. MACK-E-TE-BE-NESSY. CHAPTER XIV. The Twenty-one Precepts or Moral Commandments of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians, by Which They Were Governed in Their Primitive State, Before They Came in Contact With White Races in Their Country--The Ten Commandments, The Creed, and The Lord's Prayer in the Ottawa Language as Translated by the Author. 1st. Thou shalt fear the Great Creator, who is the over ruler of all things. 2d. Thou shalt not commit any crime, either by night or by day, or in a covered place: for the Great Spirit is looking upon thee always, and thy crime shall be manifested in time, thou knowest not when, which shall be to thy disgrace and shame. 3d. Look up to the skies often, by day and by night, and see the son, moon and stars which shineth in the firmament, and think that the Great Spirit is looking upon thee continually. 4th. Thou shalt not mimic or mock the thunders of the cloud, for they were specially created to water the earth and to keep down all the evil monsters that are under the earth, which would eat up and devour the inhabitants of the earth if they were set at liberty. 5th. Thou shalt not mimic or mock any mountains or rivers, or any prominent formation of the earth, for it is the habitation of some deity or spirit of the earth, and thy life shall be continually in hazard if thou shouldst provoke the anger of these deities. 6th. Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land. 7th. Honor the gray-head persons, that thy head may also be like unto theirs. 8th. Thou shalt not mimic or ridicule the cripple, the lame, or deformed, for thou shall be crippled thyself like unto them if them shouldst provoke the Great Spirit. 9th. Hold thy peace, and answer not back, when thy father or thy mother or any aged person should chastise thee for thy wrong. 10th. Thou shalt never tell a falsehood to thy parents, nor to thy neighbors, but be always upright in thy words and in thy dealings with thy neighbors. 11th. Thou shalt not steal anything from thy neighbor, nor covet anything that is his. 12th. Thou shalt always feed the hungry and the stranger. 13th. Thou shalt keep away from licentiousness and all other lascivious habits, nor utter indecent language before thy neighbor and the stranger. 14th. Thou shalt not commit murder while thou art in dispute with thy neighbor, unless it be whilst on the warpath. 15th. Thou shalt chastise thy children with the rod whilst they are in thy power. 16th. Thou shalt disfigure thy face with charcoals, and fast at least ten days or more of each year, whilst thou are yet young, or before thou reachest twenty, that thou mayest dream of thy future destiny. 17th. Thou shalt immerse thy body into the lake or river at least ten days in succession in the early part of the spring of the year, that thy body may be strong and swift of foot to chase the game and on the warpath. 18th. At certain times with thy wife or thy daughters, thou shalt clean out thy fireplaces and make thyself a new fire with thy fire-sticks for the sake of thyself and for the sake of thy children's health. 19th. Thou shalt not eat with thy wife and daughters at such time, of food cooked on a new fire, but they shall be provided with a separate kettle and cook their victuals therein with an old fire and out of their wigwam, until the time is passed, then thou shalt eat with them. [Footnote: See Dr. Bondinot's work, "The Star in the West," pp. 216 and 225.] 20th. Thou shalt not be lazy, nor be a vagabond of the earth, to be hated by all men. 21st. Thou shalt be brave, and not fear any death. If thou shouldst observe all these commandments, when thou diest thy spirit shall go straightway to that happy land where all the good spirits are, and shall there continually dance with the beating of the drum of Tchi-baw-yaw-booz, the head spirit in the spirit land. But if thou shouldst not observe them, thy spirit shall be a vagabond of the earth always, and go hungry, and will never be able to find this road, "Tchi-bay-kon," in which all the good spirits travel. THE TEN COMMANDMENTS. 1st. Pay-zhe-go ke-zhe-maw-nito me-so-de kay-go kaw-ge-zhe-tod; ke-gaw- pay-zhe-go gwaw-nawdji-aw ane-go-ko-day-a-you ke-gaw-pay-zhe-go saw-ge- aw. 2d. Kaw-we aw-nesh ke-zhe-maw-nito ke-gaw-wo-we nossi. 3d. Au-nwe-be-we-ne-ge-zhe-got ke-gaw-kwaw-nawdji-ton. 4th. Kouss kanie ke-gaw-she ke-gaw-me-naw-tene-mawg ke-nwezh tchi-we- pe-maw-deze-yan aw-zhon-daw aw-king. 5th. Ke-go au-we-yaw me-saw-wa-ne-maw-gay. 6th. Ke-go nau-nawe e-nau-de-se-kay. 7th. Ke-go ke-mou-de-kay. 8th. Ke-go kawie ke-no-wish-ke-kay tche-baw-taw-maw-de-baw au-we-ya. 9th. Ke-go mes-sau-we-naw-mau-we-ye-gay ke-dji-pe-maw-de-si o-we-de- gay-maw-gaw-non. 10th. Ke-go kauie au-we-yaw mes-saw-wendau mau-we-ye-gay ke-go andaw- nedji. THE CREED. Men da-bwe-taw-waw Pa-zhe-go maw-nito we-osse-mind, me-zo-day ke-go nay-taw-we-tod, kaw-ge-zhe-tod wau-kwee aw-ke kanie. Men day-bwe-taw- we-mon kaice ogwisson paw-ye-zhe-go-nedjin Jesus Krist te-bay-ne-me- nong. We-ne-zhe-she-nedjin maw-niton o-ge-aw-neshe-naw-bay-we-egoun, Mari-yon kaw-gaw-ge we-nedjin oge-ne-ge-egoun. Ke-go-daw-ge-to me-gwaw o-ge-maw-wit Ponce Pila-tawn, ke-baw-daw-kaw-ko-wou tche-baw-yaw-te- gong, ke-ne-bon ke-naw-gwo-wau kauie au-naw-maw-kaw-mig ke-e-zhaw, waw- ne-so-ke-zhe-te-nig Ke-au-be-tchi-baw. Waw-kwing ke-e-zhaw, naw-maw- daw-be o-day-baw-ne-we-kaw-ning ke-zle-maw-niton way-osse me-medjin me- zo-day ke-go nay tau-we-to-nedjin me-dawst waw-de-be ke-be-ondji-bawd, tche-be-te-baw-ko-nod pay-maw-de-ze-nedjin, nay-bo-nedjin kauie. Men day-bwe-taw-waw Way-ne-zhe-shed maw-nito, men day-bwe-tawn kitche-two kaw-to-lic au-naw-me-a-we-gaw-mig, kay-tchi-two-wendaw-go-ze-djig o-we- do-ko-daw-de-we-ne-wau paw-taw-do-wene kawss-au-maw-gay-win aw-bedji- baw-win ezhe-owe-yossing kaw-go-ne pe-maw-de-se-win. Aw-pe-lege. THE LORD'S PRAYER. Nossinaw wau-kwing e-be-you au-pe-gwish ke-tchi-twaw-wend-oming ke-daw- no-zo-win, au-pe-gish pe-daw-gwe-she-no-maw-gok ke-do-gimaw-o-win, ena- daw-mon au-pe-gish ezhe-wa-bawk, ti-bish-wau-kwing mego kauie au-king. Me-zhe-she-nong nongo au-gi-zhe-gawk nin baw-kwe-zhe-gaw-ne-me-naw menik e-you-yong en-daw-so ke-zhe-gok. Po-ne-ge-tay-taw-we-shi-nong kauie kaw-nish ki-e-nange te-bish-kon ezhe-pone-ge-day-taw-wou-ge-dwaw kaw-neshke-e-yo-mendjig, ke-go kauie ezhe-we-zhe-she-kong-gay kaw-gwe ti-bandji-gay-we-ning, au-tchi-tchaw-yo-ing dansh etaw eni-naw-maw-we- she-nong maw-tchaw-go-e-wish. Ken maw-ke-daw-yon o-ge-maw-owen, mawsh- kaw-we-se-win kauie pe-she-gain-daw-go-se-win, kaw-ge-gay-kow-mig au- pe-nay dash kau-e-go kaw-ge-nig. Amen. GRAMMAR OF THE OTTAWA AND CHIPPEWA LANGUAGE. NOUNS. Common nouns in the Ottawa and Chippewa language are divided into two classes, animate and inanimate. Animate nouns are those which signify living objects or objects supposed to have life, as persons, animals and plants. Inanimate nouns signify objects without life. A third form of nouns is derived from these two classes, called diminutive nouns. These are formed by the termination "ens" or "na" placed upon other nouns. The plural of animate nouns is usually formed by adding the syllable "wog" to the singular; if the word ends in a vowel, only the letter "g" is added; and sometimes the syllables "yog," "ag," or "og." All words are pronounced with accent on the last syllable. Sing. Pl. Eng. Pe-nay, Pe-nay-wog, Partridge. Aw-dje-djawk, Aw-dje-djaw-wog, Crane. Waw-mawsh-kay-she, Waw-mawsh-kay-she-wog, Deer. Waw-goosh, Waw-goosh-og, Fox. Pezhe-kee, Pezhe-kee-wog, Cattle. Pezhe-keens, (dim.) Pezhe-keens-og, Calf. Aw-ni-moush, Aw-ni-moush-og, Dog. Aw-ni-mouns, (dim.), Aw-ni-mouns-og, Puppy. The plural of inanimate nouns usually terminates in an, en, on, or n. Sing. Pl. Eng. We-ok-won, We-ok-won-an, Hat. Wig-wom, Wig-wom-an, House. Mo-ke-sin, Mo-ke-sin-an, Shoe. Maw-kok, Maw-kok-on, Box. Maw-kok-ons, (dim.), Maw-kok-on-son, Small box. Tchi-mawn, Tchi-mawn-an, Boat. Tchi-maw-nes, (dim.), Tchi maw-nes-on, Small boat. Nouns have three cases, nominative, locative and objective. The locative case denotes the relation usually expressed in English by the use of a preposition, or by the genitive, dative and ablative in Latin. Nom. Aw-kick, Kettle. Loc. Aw-kick-ong, In the kettle. Obj. E-naw-bin aw-kick-ong, Do look in the kettle. This relation can be expressed by the word "pin-je," as "Pin-je aw- kick,"--in the kettle; "E-naw-bin pin-je aw-kick,"--do look in the kettle; but this form is seldom used. It is employed only for great emphasis or formality. The locative termination is "ong," "eng," or "ing." The objective case is like the nominative when the subject is in the 1st or 2d person, but when the subject is in the 3d person the object takes the termination "won." Example of locative and objective cases: Chicago is derived from she- gog-ong, the locative case of the Ottawa word she-gog, meaning skunk; nominative, she-gog; locative, she-gog-ong; objective, she-gog or she- gog-won. Locative case-- She-gog-ong ne-de-zhaw, I am going to Chicago. She-gog-ong ne-do-je-baw, I come from Chicago. She-gog-ong e-zhawn, Go to Chicago. Objective case-- 1st p.--She-gog ne-ne-saw, I kill the skunk. 2d p.--She-gog ke-ne-saw, You kill the skunk. 3d p.--She-gog-won o-ne-sawn, He kills the skunk. Gender is distinguished by the word "quay," either prefixed or added to nouns, to indicate the feminine. Aw-ne-ne, pl. wog; Man. Aw-quay, pl. wog; Woman. Aw-nish-naw-bay; Indian man. Aw-nesh-naw-bay-quay; I. woman. Osh-kee-naw-way; Young man. Osh-kee-ne-ge-quay; Y. woman. Que-we-zayns, pl. og; Boy. Quay-zayns, pl. og; Girl. Aw-yaw-bay-pe-zhe-kee; Bull. Quay-pe-zhe-kee; Cow. Proper names always form the feminine by adding "quay." Ce-naw-day; Irishman. Ce-naw-day-quay; Irishwoman. Some genders are irregular. Aw-ke-wa-zee; Old man. Me-de-mo-gay; Old woman. Aw-be-non-tchi, an infant, has no distinction of gender. Os-see-maw, pl. g; Father. O-gaw-shi-maw, pl. g; Mother. Me-kaw-ne-see-maw; Brother. O-me-say-e-maw; Sister. O-me-shaw-mes-se-maw; Gr.father. O-kee-mes-se-maw; Grandmother. O-me-shaw-way-e-maw; Uncle. O-nou-shay-e-maw; Aunt. We-taw-wis-see-maw; Male cousin. We-ne-mo-shay-e-maw; Fem. cous. Diminutive nouns take the same modifications as the nouns from which they are derived. Verbs and adjectives are modified to agree with the animate or inanimate nouns to which they belong, as will be illustrated hereafter. PRONOUNS. Personal pronouns have no distinction of gender in the third person singular. A peculiarity of this language is the two forms for the first person plural. These two forms for pronouns, and for verbs in all moods and tenses, are like each other except in the first syllable. In one form the first syllable is always "Ke," and in the other "Ne." The form commencing with Ke is used only when speaking to one person, and that commencing with Ne, which might be called the multiple form, is used whenever more than one person is addressed, even though no word may appear in the sentence indicating how many. This is an idiosyncracy which perhaps would never have been developed, certainly would not be perpetuated, in any except an unwritten language. It is of no effect except in a language always colloquial. The multiple form will be given in this grammar as the first person plural, and, whether indicated or not, the other may be understood as being the same with the change of the first syllable from Ne to Ke. PERSONAL PRONOUNS. Sing. Pl. 1st. p.--Neen or nin, I, ( Ne-naw-wind, (mult.), We. ( Ke-naw-wind,) We. 2d p.--Keen or kin, Thou or you, Ke-naw-waw, You. 3d p.--Ween or win, He or she, We-naw-waw, They. When these personal pronouns are connected with other words, or when they become subjects or objects of verbs, the first syllable only is used, or pronounced. In the third person of verbs the pronoun is entirely omitted. Sing. Pl. Ne wob, I see, Ne wob-me, We see. Ke wob, You see, Ke wob-em, You see. Wo-be, He or she sees, Wo-be-wog, They see. The whole pronoun is sometimes used when the emphatic or intensive form is desired, as, Sing.--Neen-ne wob, I myself see. Keen-ke wob, You yourself see. Ween wo-be, He himself, or she herself sees. Pl.--Ne-naw-wind ne-wob-me, We ourselves see. Ke-naw-waw ke-wob-em, You yourself see. We-naw-waw wo-be-wog, They themselves see. POSSESSIVE PRONOUNS.. Ne-daw-yo-em, Mine, Ne-daw-yo-em-e-naw, Ours. Ke-daw-yo-em, Thine, Ke-daw-yo-em-e-waw, Yours. O-daw-yo-em, His or hers, O-daw-yo-em-e-waw, Theirs. Emphatic form--nin ne-daw-yo-em, etc., throughout all the different persons. When these possessive pronouns are used with nouns, nearly all the syllables are omitted, except the first, which is added to the noun in the plural; as-- Sing. Pl. Ne we-ok-won, My hat, Ne we-ok-won-e-naw, Our hat. Ke we-ok-won, Your hat, Ke we-ok-won-e-waw, Your hat. O we ok-won, His hat, O we-ok-won-e-waw, Their hat. The emphatic form, "my own hat," is made by prefixing the personal pronouns, as-- Sing. Pl. Neen ne we-ok-won, Ne-naw-wind ne we-ok-won-e-naw, Keen ke we-ok-won, Ke-naw-waw ke we-ok-won-e-waw, Ween o we-ok-won, We-naw-waw o we-ok-won-e-waw. THE IMPERSONAL PRONOUN. The impersonal pronoun "maw-got," plural "maw-got-on," may be represented by the English impersonal or neuter pronoun It, but it has a wider significance. The inanimate subject of a verb is also represented by maw-got or maw-got-on. Wa-po-tchin-ga maw-got, or wa-po- tchin-ga-sa maw-got, it strikes; plural, wa-po-tchin-ga maw-got-on, or wa-po-tchin-ga-sa maw-got-on, they strike. Au-no-ke maw-got, It works. Pe-me-say maw-got, It walks. Ne-bo-we maw-got, It stands. Wo-be maw-got, It sees. Pe-me-baw-to maw-got, It runs. Au-nish, interrogative pronoun what; au-naw-tchi, relative pronoun what; e-we, relative pronoun that. ADJECTIVES. Adjectives take two forms, to agree with the animate or inanimate nouns to which they belong. Comparison of adjectives is made by other words: O-ne-zhe-she (inanimate o-ne-zhe-shin), good; Maw-maw-me (or ne-go-ne) o-ne-zhe (or -shin), better; Au-pe-tchi o-ne-zhe-she (or -shin), best. A fourth degree is sometimes used: Maw-mo-me o-ne-zhe-she (or -shin), very best. The words "Me-no" and "Maw-tchi" or "Mau-tchi," do not change when used with other words, and they are the most common adjectives in the Ottawa and Chippewa languages; they are used as adverbs, as well as adjectives. "Me-no," is equivalent to good, right, and well; and "Man-tchi," is equivalent to bad, wicked, evil; as Me-no au-ne-ne, good man; Me-no au- quay, good woman; Me-no au-way-sin, good animal; Me-no au-ky, good land; Me-no waw-bo-yon, good blanket; Me-no e-zhe-wa-be-sy, good behavior, or kind; Me-no au-no-ky, he works well, or doing good business; Me-no pe-maw-de-sy, he is well; Me-no au-yaw, he is getting well, or convalescent from sickness; Me-no au-no-kaw-so-win, good utensil, or handy instrument; Me-no wau-gaw-quat, good ax; Me-no ke- zhi-gut, good day, or pleasant weather; Me-no au-no-kaw-tchi-gon, good goods, or nice goods; Me-no e-zhe-wa-be-sy, he or she is kind or good; Me-no maw-tchaw maw-got, it goes well, etc. The word "Mau-tchi" is equally useful; as, Mau-tchi an-ne-ne, bad man; Mau-tchi au-quay, bad woman; Mau-tchi e-zhe-wa-be-sy, bad behavior, or wicked person; Mau-tchi mau-ne-to, evil spirit, or the devil; Mau-tchi ke-ge-to, wicked language, or profanity; Mau-tchi wau-gaw-quat, bad ax; Mau-tchi ke-zhwa, vulgar speaker; Man-tchi no-din, bad wind; Mau-tchi au-naw-quot, bad cloud; Mau-tchi ke-zhe-got, bad day, or rough weather; Mau-tchi wig-wom, bad house, or wicked house; Mau-tchi au-no-ke-win, bad business, etc. Another adjective equally comprehensive is Kwaw-notch: Kwaw-notch au- ne-ne, well-behaved man; Kwaw-notch au-quay, pretty woman; Kwaw-notch au-no-ke-win, good business; Kwaw-notch au-no-kaw-tchi-gon, nice goods; Kwaw-notchi-won, pretty or nice (inanimate); Kwaw-notchi-we, pretty (animate); Au-pe-tchi kwaw-notchi-we au-quay, very pretty woman. The following illustrate the changes of form in adjectives for animate and inanimate: Animate. Inanimate. Me-no-e-zhe-wa-be-sy, Me-no-e-zhe-wa-bawt, Kind, mild. Ke-no-sy, Ke-nwa, Long, tall. Ke-zhe-we-sy, Ke-zhe-waw, Hard. Mush-kaw-we-sy, Mush-kaw-waw, Strong. Ke-zhe-kaw, or ke-zhe-be-so, Ke-zhe-be-ta, Swift, fleet. Ko-se-gwan-ny, Ko-se-gwan, Heavy. Maw-tchi-e-zhe-wa-be-sy, Maw-tchi-e-zhe-wa-bot, Bad. Ma-tchaw-yaw-au-wish, Ma-tchaw-yaw-e-wish, Wicked. We-saw-ge-sy, We-saw-gun, Bitter. Wish-ko-be-sy, Wish-ko-bun, Sweet. Sou-ge-sy, Sou-gun, Tough. Se-we-sy, Se-won, Sour. Maw-kaw-te-we-sy, Maw-kaw-te-waw Black. Ozaw-we-sy, Ozaw-waw, Yellow. Ozhaw-wash-ko-sy, Ozhaw-wash-kwaw, Green. Mis-ko-sy, Mis-kwa, Red We-bin-go-sy, We-bin-gwaw, Blue. O-zaw won-so O-zaw won-day, Yellow color. Maw-kaw-te won-so Maw-kaw-te won-day Black color. Maw-kaw-te-au-ne-ne, black man Maw-kaw-te-mo-kok, Black box. Mis-ko au-ne, red man Mis-ko wau-bo-yon, Red blanket. It will be observed that the last one or two syllables of the adjective are dropped when in connection with a noun. VERBS. Ottawa and Chippewa verbs are changed in their conjugations, to indicate-- 1st. Whether their subjects are animate, or inanimate; 2d. Whether their objects are animate, or inanimate; 3d. Whether they are transitive, or intransitive; 4th. Whether they are active, or passive, or reflective; 5th. Whether the expression is common, or emphatic. They also express by their forms all of the distinctions of mood and tense, person and number, found in the English, and form their participles, and are changed into verbal or participial nouns; and these modifications are for, the most part regular in form. I. Verbs with inanimate subjects correspond to English impersonal or neuter verbs, but are much more extensively used. They are usually formed by adding the impersonal pronoun, maw-got--it; as, Animate Subject. Inanimate Subject Sing-Au-nou-kee, he works. Au-nou-ke-maw-got, it works. Ke-au-nou-ke, he worked. Ke-an-non-ke-maw-got, it worked. Au-non-ke-wog, they work. Au-nou-ke-maw-go-toun, things work Ke-au-nou-ke-wog, they worked. Ke-an-nou-ke-maw-go-toun, things worked. Standing trees, as well as all living creatures and personified things, are regarded as animate. II, III. The distinctions for animate and inanimate objects, and for transitive and intransitive, are illustrated by the following: Singular--I kill, Thou killest, etc. Intransitive. Transitive. Pers. Animate Object Inanimate Object. 1 Ne-ne-taw-gay Ne-ne-saw Ne-ne-ton 2 Ke-ne-taw-gay Ke-ne-saw Ke-ne-toun 3 Ne-taw-gay O-ne-sawn, or son O-ne-toun Plural--We kill, You kill, etc. 1 Ne-ne-taw-gay-me Ne-ne-saw-naw Ne-ne-tou-naw 2 Ke-ne-taw-gaym Ke-ne-saw-waw Ke-ne-tou-naw-waw 3 Ne-taw-gay-wog O-ne-saw-wawn or won O-ne-tou-naw-waw Singular--I see, Thou seest, etc. 1 Ne-waub Ne-waub-maw Ne-waub-don, or dawn 2 Ke-waub Ke-waub-maw Ke-waub-don, or dawn 3 Wau-be O-waub-mon or mawn O-waub-don, or dawn Plural--We see, You see, etc. 1 Ne-waub-me Ne-waub-maw-naw Ne-waub-daw-naw 2 Ke-wau-bem Ke-waub-maw-waw Ke-waub-daw-naw-wan 3 Wau-be-wog O-Waub-naw-won O-waub-daw-naw-wan IV. What is denominated the reflective form of the verb, is where the subject and the object are the same person or thing; as, in English, He hates himself. The passive and reflective forms are illustrated in the verb, To See, thus: Passive. Reflective. Ne-wob-me-go, I am seen. Ne-wau-baw-dis, I see myself. Ke-wob-me-go, thou art seen. Ke-wau-baw-dis, thou seest thyself. Wob-maw, he is seen. Wau-baw-de-so, he sees himself. Ne-wob-me-go-me, we are seen, Ne-wau-baw-de-so-me, we see ourselves Ko-wob-me-gom, you are seen. Ke-wan-baw-de-som, you see yourselves Wob-maw-wag, they are seen. Wau-baw-de-so-wag, they see themselves V. The emphatic form repeats the first part of the pronoun; as, Ne- waub, I see; Nin-ne-waub, I do see (literally, I myself see). Intransitive. Common Form--I eat, etc. Emphatic Form--I do eat, etc. 1 Ne-we-sin Nin-ne-we-sin 2 Ke-we-sin Kin-ke-we-sin 3 We-se-ne Win-we-we-sin Transitive--Animate Object 1 Ne-daw-mwaw Nin-ne-daw-mwaw 2 Ke-daw-mwaw Kin-ke-daw-mwaw 3 O-daw-mwaw Win-o-daw-mwaw Transitive--Inanimate Object. 1 Ne-me-djin Nin-ne-me-djin 2 Ke-me-djin Kin-ke-me-djin 3 O-me-djin Win-o-me-djin The object is frequently placed before the verb--always when in answer to a question. Thus, the answer to the question, What is he eating? would be, Ke-goon-yan o-daw-mwawn--Fish he is eating. Nouns are formed from verbs by adding "win"; as, waub, to see, wau-be- win, sight; paw-pe, to laugh, paw-pe-win, laughter; au-no-ke, to work, au-no-ke-win, labor. NOTE.--A verb susceptible of both the transitive and intransitive office, and of both animate and inanimate subjects, as for instance, the verb To Blow, may have no less than fifteen forms for the indicative present third person singular. The intransitive may be both animate and inanimate as to subject, and the former both common and emphatic; the transitive would have the same, multiplied by animate and inanimate objects; and the passive and reflective would each have inanimate, and common and emphatic animate--fifteen. Double these for the plural, and we have thirty forms; and that multiplied by the sixteen tenses of the indicative, potential and subjunctive moods gives 480 forms of third person. The first and second persons have the same, minus the inanimate subject, or 20 each for each tense, making 640 more, or 1120 all together in those three moods. The imperative singular and plural, and the infinitive present and past, and the participles, add 25. Then there is the additional form for the first person plural treated under "Pronouns," running through all the sixteen tenses, common and emphatic, animate and inanimate and intransitive, 96 more--making the astonishing number of 1241 forms of a single verb!-- EDITOR. _Conjugation of the Verb To Be._ INDICATIVE MOOD. Pers. Singular. Plural. Present Tense--I am, etc. 1 Ne-daw-yaw Ne-daw-yaw-me 2 Ke-daw-yaw Ke-daw-yaw-me 3 Aw-yaw Aw-yaw-waug or wog Imperfect Tense--I was, etc. 1 Ne-ge-au-yaw Ne-ge-au-yaw-me 2 Ke-ge-au-yaw Ke-ge-au-yawm 3 Ke-au-yaw Ke-au-yaw-wog Perfect Tense--I have been, etc. 1 Au-zhe-gwaw ne-ge-au-yaw Au-zhe-gwaw ne-ge-au-yaw-me 2 Au-zhe-gwaw ke-ge-au-yaw Au-zhe-gwaw ke-ge-au-yawm 3 Au-zhe-gwaw ke-au-yaw Au-zhe-gwaw ke-au-yaw-wog Pluperfect Tense--I had been, etc. 1 Ne-ge-au-yaw-naw-baw Ne-ge-au-me-naw-baw 2 Ke-ge-au-yaw-naw-baw Ke-ge-au-me-naw-baw 3 Ke-au-yaw-baw Ke-au-yaw-baw-neg Future Tense--I shall or will be, etc. 1 Ne-gaw-au-yaw Ne-gaw-au-yaw-me 2 Ke-gaw-au-yaw Ke-gaw-au-yawm 3 Taw-au-yaw Taw-au-yaw-wag POTENTIAL MOOD. Present Tense--I may or can be, etc. 1 Ko-maw ne-taw-au-yaw Ko-maw ne-taw-au-yaw-me 2 Ko-maw ke-taw-au-yaw Ko-maw ke-taw-au-yawm 3 Ko-maw tau-yaw Ko-maw taw-au-yo-wog Imperfect Tense--I might be, etc. 1 Ko-maw ne-ge-au-yaw Ko-maw ne-ge-au-yaw-me 2 Ko-maw ke-ge-au-yaw Ko-maw ke-ge-au-yom 3 Ko-maw ke-au-yaw Ko-maw ke-au-yaw-wog Perfect Tense--I may have been, etc. 1 Au-zhe-gwau ne-tau-ge-au-yaw Au-zhe-gwau ne-tau-ge-au-yaw-me 2 Au-zhe-gwau ke-tau-ge-au-yaw Au-zhe-gwau ke-tau-ge-au-yawm 3 Au-zhe-gwan tau-ge-au-yaw Au-zhe-gwau tau-ge-au-yaw-og Pluperfect Tense--I might have been, etc. 1 Ko-maw au-yaw-yom-baw Ko maw au-yaw-wong-ge-baw 2 Ko-maw ke-au-yaw-yom-baw Ko-maw au-yaw-ye-go-baw 3 Ko-maw au-yaw-go-baw-nay Ko-maw au-yaw-wo-go-baw-nay SUBJUNCTIVE MOOD. Present Tense--If I be, etc. 1 Tchish-pin au-yaw-yaw Tchish-pin au-yaw-wong 2 Tchish-pin au-yaw-yon Tchish-pin au-yaw-yeg 3 Tchish-pin au-yawd Tchish-pin au-yaw-wod Imperfect Tense--If I were, etc, 1 Tchish-pin ke-au-yaw-yaw Tchish-pin ke-au-yaw-wong 2 Tchish-pin ke-au-yaw-yon Tchish-pin ke-au-yaw-yeg 3 Tchish-pin ke-au-yawd Tchish-pin ke-au-yaw-wod Perfect Tense--If I have been, etc. 1 Tchish-pin au-zhe-gaw ke-au-yaw-yaw 2 Tchish-pin au-zhe-gaw ke-au-yaw-yon 3 Tchish-pin au-zhe-gwa ke-au-yawd Tchish-pin au-zhe-gwa ke-aw-yaw-wog Tchish-pin au-zhe-gwa ke-au-yaw-yeg Tchish-pin au-zhe-gwa ke-au-yaw-wod [The syllable "gwa" is often omitted, merely saying, "au-zhe."]. Pluperfect Tense--If I had been, etc. 1 Au-zhe ke-au-yaw-yaw-baw Au-zhe ke-au-yaw-wong-o-baw 2 Au-zhe ke-au-yaw-yawm-baw Au-zhe ke-au-yaw-ye-go-baw 3 Au-zhe ke-au-yaw-paw Au-zhe ke-au-yaw-wau-paw Future Tense--If I shall or will be, etc. 1 Tchish-pin we-au-yaw-yaw Tchish-pin we-au-yaw-wong 2 Tchish-pin we-au-yaw-yon Tchish-pin we-au-yaw-yeg 3 Tchish-pin we-au-yawd Tchish-pin we-au-yaw-wod IMPERATIVE MOOD--Be thou, Do you be. 2 Au-yawm Au-yawg INFINITIVE MOOD--To be, To have been. Present--Tchi-au-yong Perfect--Au-zhe tchi-ke-au-yong PARTICIPLES--Being, Been, Having been. Au-zhaw-yong Tchi-ge-au-yong Au-zhe-gwaw tchi-ge-au-yong _Synopsis of the Verb To See._ I see, Ne-wob. I saw, Ne-ge-wob. I have seen, Au-zhe-gwaw ne-ge-wob. I had seen, Ne-ge-wob-naw-baw I shall see, Ne-gaw-wob. I shall have seen, Au-zhe-ge-wob. I may see, Ko-maw ne-taw-wob. I might see, Ko-maw ne-ge-wob. I may-have seen, Au-zhe-gwaw ne-taw-ge-wob. I might have seen, Ko-maw wob-yawm-baw. If I see, Tchish-pin wob-yon. If I saw, Tchish-pin ke-wob-yon-baw. If I have seen, Tchish-pin au-zhe-gwa wob-yon. If I had seen, Tchish-pin ke-wob yon-baw. If I shall see, Tchish-pin we-wob-yon. If I shall have seen, Tchish-pin we-wob-yon-baw. See thou, Wob-ben. To see, Tchi-wob-bing. To have seen, Tchi-ge-wob-bing. Seeing, Au-wob-bing. Having seen, Au-zhe-gwaw au-ge-wob-biog. Having been seen, Au-ge-wob-bing-e-baw. I am seen, Ne-wob-me-go. I was seen, Ne-ge-wob-me-go; I have been seen, Au-zhe ne-ge-wob-me-go. I had been seen, Ne-ge-wob-me-go-naw-baw. I shall be seen, Ne-gaw-wob-me-go. I shall have been seen, She-gwa-we-wob-me-go-yon. I may be seen, Ko-maw wob-me-go-yon. I might be seen, Ko-maw ke-wob-me-go-yon. I may have been seen, Ko-maw au-zhe ke-wob-me-go-yon. I might have been seen, Ko-maw au-zhe ke-wob-me-go-yon-baw. If I be seen, Tchish-pin wob-em-go-yon. If I have been seen, Tchish-pin au-zhe ke-wob-me-go-yon. If I had been seen, Tchish-pin ke-wob-me-go-yon-baw. If I shall be seen, Tchish-pin we-wob-me-go-yon. If I shall have been seen, Tchish-pin she-gwa-we-wob-me-go-yon. I see myself, Ne-wau-baw-dis. I saw myself, Ne-ge-wau-baw-dis. I shall see myself, Ne-gaw-wau-baw-dis. I may see myself, Ko-maw ne-daw-wau-baw-dis. See thyself, Wau-baw-de-son. To see thyself, Tchi-wob-on-di-song. MINOR PARTS OF SPEECH. Adverbs: When, au-pe, au-ne-nish; where, au-ne-pe, au-ne-zhaw; there, e-wo-te, au-zhe-we. [The significance of the double forms is not clear; and comparison, as with Adjectives, seems to be by different words.-- ED.] Prepositions are few, and are oftener embraced in the form of the verb, as in the Latin. The most important are, pin-je, in; tchish-pin, or kish-pin, if. Po-taw-wen pin-je ke-zhap ke-ze-gun, make some fire in the stove; Tchish-pin maw-tchawt, if he go away. Or the same may be expressed, Po-taw-wen ke-zhap ke-ze-gun-ing ("ing" forming locative ease, with the preposition implied); and, Maw-yaw-tchaw-gwen (the latter form of verb expressing subjunctive mood). The employment of the preposition makes the expression more emphatic. The most important Conjunctions are, haw-yea, gaw-ya, ka-ie, and; and ke-maw, or. [Three forms of "and" doubtless due to imperfect orthography.] Interjections embrace, yaw! exclamation of danger; au-to-yo! surprise; a-te-way! disappointment; taw-wot-to! disgust; ke-yo-o! disgust (used only by females). There is no Article; but the words, mendaw, that, and maw-baw, this, are often used before nouns as specifying terms, and are always emphatic. E-we is common for that, directed to things at a distance. A peculiarity, of uncertain significance, is the termination, sh, or esh, employed in connection with the possessive case. It does not change the interpretation, and is perhaps an expression of familiarity, or intimate relationship. Illustration: Ne-gwiss, my son; Ne-gwisa-esh, my son. Ne-daw-niss, my daughter; Ne-daw-niss-esh, my daughter. Ne-dib, my head; Ne-dib-awsh, my head. Ne-wau-bo-yon, my blanket; Ne-wau bo-yon-esh, my blanket. Ne-gwiss-og, my sons; Ne-gwiss-es-shog, my sons. Ne-daw-niss-og, my daughters; Ne-daw-niss-es-shog, my daughters. One, Pa-zhig. Ten, Me-toss-we. Two, Nezh. Twenty, Nezh-to-naw. Three, Ness-we. Thirty, Ne-se-me-to-naw. Four, Ne-win. Forty, Ne-me-to-naw. Five, Naw-non. Fifty, Naw-ne-me-to-naw. Six, Ne-go-twos-we. Sixty, Ne-go-twa-se-me-to-naw. Seven, Nezh-was-we. Seventy, Nezh-wo-se-me-to-naw. Eight, Nish-shwas-we. Eighty, Nish-wo-se-me-to-naw. Nine, Shong-swe. Ninety, Shong-gaw-se-me-to-naw. One hundred, Go-twok. Father, Os-se-maw, pl. g. Mother, O-gaw-shi-maw, pl. g. Brother, We-kaw-ne-se-maw. Sister, O-me-say-e-maw. Grandfather, O-me-shaw-mes-e-maw. Grandmother, O-ko-mes-se-maw. Cousin, male, We-taw-wis-e-maw. Cousin, female, We-ne-mo-shay-e-maw. Uncle, O-me-shaw-may-e-maw. Aunt, O-nou-shay-e-maw. Boy, Que-we-zayns, pl. og. Girl, Quay-zayns, pl. og. Man, Au-ne-ne, pl. wog. Woman, Au-quay, pl. wog. Old man, Au-ke-wa-ze, pl. yog. Old woman, Me-de-mo-yay, pl. yog. Ae, yes. Kau, no. Nau-go, now. Ka-ge-te, truly so. Kau-win, no (emphatic). Au-zhon-daw, here. Pe-nau! hark! Ka-go, don't. E-wo-te, there. Pa-kau, stop. Kaw-ga-go, none. Ne-gon, before. Aush-kwe-yong, behind. Ne-se-wo-yaw-ing, between. Pe-tchi-naw-go, yesterday. Wau-bung, to-morrow. Pe-tchi-nog, just now. Wau-e-baw, soon. Au-no-maw-yaw, lately. Way-wib, quickly. Au-gaw-won, hardly. Naw-a-gotch, slowly. Au-pe-tchi, very. O-je-daw, purposely. Kay-gaw, almost. Saw-kou, for example. Mou-zhawg, always. Me-naw-gay-kaw! to be sure! Ne-sawb, alike. Kaw-maw-me-daw, can't. Pin-dig, inside. Pin-di-gayn, come in. We-yaw, The Body. Pe-nay-shen, Bird. (Pl. yog) O-dib, Head. Wing-ge-zee, Eagle. O-te-gwan, Face. Pe-nay-se, Hawk. O-don, Mouth. Mong, Loon. Osh-ke-zheg, Eye. Me-zhe-say, Turkey. O-no-wau-e, Cheek. She-sheb, Duck. (P. og; others an.) Otch-awsh, Nose. Kaw-yawshk, Gull. O-daw-me-kon, Jaw. Tchin-dees, Bluejay. O-da-naw-naw, Tongue. May-may, Woodcock. We-bid, Tooth. Pe-nay, Partridge. We-ne-zes, Hair. Au-dje-djawk, Crane. O-kaw-tig, Forehead. O-me-me, Pigeon. O-maw-maw, Eyebrow. Au-pe-tchi, Robin. Kaw-gaw-ge, Palate. Awn-dayg, Crow. (P. og; others an.) O-kaw-gun, Neck. Au-nawk, Thrasher. O-do-daw-gun, Throat. Paw-paw-say, Woodpecker. O pe-kwawn, Back. Ke-wo-nee, Prairie hen. O-pe-gay-gun, Rib. Maw-kwa, Bear. O-me-gawt, Stomach. Mooz, Moose. O-naw-gish, Bowel. Me-shay-wog, Elk. Osh-kawt, Belly. Maw-in-gawn, Wolf. O-kwan, Liver. Au-mick, Beaver. O-kun, Bone. Maw-boos, Rabbit. O-nenj, Hand. Pe-zhen, Lynx. O-neek, Arm. Au-ni-moosh, Dog. O-dos-kwon, Elbow. Au-ni-mouns, Puppy. O-kawd, Leg. Au-zhawshk, Muskrat. O-ge-dig, Knee. Wau-goosh, Fox. (P. og; others an.) O bwom, Thigh. Shaw-gway-she, Mink. O-zeet, Foot. A-se-bou, Raccoon. O-don-dim, Heel. Me-she-be-zhe, Panther. (eg; others wog, og, g.) O-ge-tchi-zeet, Big toe. She-gos-se, Weasel. O-ge-tchi-nenj, Thumb. Au-saw-naw-go, Squirrel. Ke-gon, Fish. Maw-ne-tons, insect. (Pl. yog) Ke-gons (dim.), minnow. O-jee, house fly. (Pl. sog) Naw-me-gons, trout. Me-ze-zawk, horse fly. Maw-zhaw-me-gons, brook trout. Au-mon, bumblebee. Maw-may, sturgeon. Au-moans (dim.), bee, hornet. O-gaw, pickerel. May-may-gwan, butterfly. (Pl. yog) She-gwaw-meg, dog fish. Au-kou-jeah, louse. Au-saw-way, perch. Paw-big, flea. O-kay-yaw-wis, herring. O-ze-gog, woodtick. Au-she-gun, black bass. A-naw-go, ant. Au-de-kaw-meg, whitefish. A-a-big, spider. Ke-no-zhay, pike. Saw-ge-may, mosquito. Paw-zhe-toua, sheep head. Mo-say, cut worm. (Pl. yog) Maw-maw-bin, sucker. O-quay, maggot. Paw-gawn, nut; (dim. paw-gaw-nays, hazelnut or other small nut) Au-zhaw-way-mish, pl. eg; beech tree. Au-zhaw-way-min, pl. on; beech nut. Me-te-gwaw-bawk, pl. og; hickory tree. Me-gwaw-baw-ko paw-gon, pl. on; hickory nut. Paw-gaw-naw-ko paw-gon, pl. on; walnut. Me-she-me-naw-gaw-wosh, pl. eg; apple tree. Me-she-min, pl. og; apple. Shaw-bo-me-naw-gaw-wosh, pl. eg; gooseberry bush. Shaw-bo-min, pl. og; gooseberry. Paw-gay-saw-ne-mish, pl. eg; plum tree. Paw-gay-son, pl. og; plum. Aw-nib, pl. eg; elm. Aw-doup, pl. eg; willow. Shin-gwawk, pl. wog; pine. Ke-zhek, pl. og; cedar. Au-bo-yawk, pl. wog; ash. We-aaw-gawk, pl. og; black ash. Me-daw-min, pl. og; corn. O-zaw-o-min, pl. og; yellow corn. Mis-kou-min, pl. og; red raspberry. Wau-be-mis-kou-min, pl. og; white raspberry. Wau-kaw-tay-mis-kou-min, pl. eg; black raspberry. AU-KEE; the world, the earth, land, country, soil. Pay-maw-te-se-jeg au-king, the people of the world. Taw-naw-ke-win, country or native land. Ke-taw-kee-me-naw, our country. Maw-kaw-te au-kee, black earth or soil. Me-daw-keem, my land. Au-ke-won, soiled; also applied to rich land. Ne-besh, water; ne-be-kaw, wet land. Wau-bawsh-ko-kee, marsh land. An-ke-kaw-daw-go-kee, tamarack swamp. Ke-zhe-ke-kee, cedar swamp. Au-tay yaw-ko-kee, swamp, swampy land. Shen-gwaw-ko-kee, pine land. Ne-gaw-we-kee, sand; ne-gaw-we-kaw, sandy. Kong-ke-tchi-gaw-me, the ocean. Ke-tchi-au-gaw-ming, across the ocean. Se-be (pl. won), river; se-be-wens (dim). (pl. an.) brook. Ke-te-gawn (pl. on), farm; ke-te-gaw-nes (dim.), garden. Ke-te-gay we-ne-ne, (pl. wog), farmer. Ke-zes, sun; te-bik-ke-zes, moon; au-nong (pl. wog), star. Ke-zhe-gut, day; te-be-kut, night. Ne-bin, summer; pe-boon, winter. Ne-be-nong, last summer; me-no-pe-boon, pleasant winter. Tau-gwan-gee, fall; me-nou-kaw-me, spring. Au-won-se-me-nou-kaw-ming, year ago last spring. Maw-tchi taw-gwan-ge, bad or unpleasant fall. No-din, wind; no-wau-yaw, the air. No-de-naw-ne-mot, windy. To-ke-sin, calm; ne-tche-wod, stormy. Au-pe-tchi ne-tche-wod, very stormy. Wig-wom, house; wig-wom-an, houses. Au-sin wig-worn, stone house. Au-naw-me-a-we-gaw-mig, a church. Te-baw-ko-we-ga we-gaw-mig, a court house. Me-no-say, handy. Me-no-sayg, that which is handy. Au-no-ke, work. A-no-ket, he that is working. Wo-be, he sees. Wau-yaw-bet, he that sees. Pe-mo-say, he walks. Pe-mo-sayt, he that is walking. Pe-me-bot-to, he runs. Pe-me-bot-tot, he that runs. Get him, nawzh. Get it, naw-din. Help him, naw-daw-maw. Help it, naw-daw-maw-don. Call him, naw-doum. Ask for it, naw-don-don. Go to him, naw-zhe-kow. Go to it, naw-zhe-kon. Meet him, naw-kwesh-kow. Meet it, naw-kwesh-kon. Ne-dje-mon, my boat. Ne-dje-may, I paddle. Ne-dje-bawm, my soul. Ne-do-ge-mom, my master. Ne-gwes, my son. Ne-daw-nes, my daughter. Ne-taw-wes, my cousin. Ne-kaw-nes, my brother. Ne-daw-kim, my land. Ne-ne-tehaw-nes, my child. He sleeps, ne-baw. He is dead, ne-bou. He is sleepy, au-kon-gwa-she. He died, ke-ne-bou. He is white, wau-besh-ke-zee. He is afraid, sa-ge-ze. He is lonely, aush-ken-dom. He is lazy, ke-te-mesk-ke. He is killed, nes-saw. He is well, me-no-pe-maw-de-ze. Ne-tawn, first. Ne-tawn ke-taw-gwe-shin, he came first. Ne-gon, before. Ne-gon-ne, he goes before. Au-ko-zee, sick. Au-ko-zi-we-gaw-mig, hospital. Au-gaw-saw, small. O-gaw-sawg o-naw-gun pe-ton, bring small Au-gaw-won, scarcely. Au-gaw-won ne-wob, I scarcely see. Once, ne-go-ting. Only once, ne-go-ting a-taw. Not there, ne-go-tchi. Look elsewhere, ne-go-tchi ne-naw-bin. Change, mesh-kwot. He is elsewhere, ne-go-tchi e-zhaw. Full, mosh-ken. It is elsewhere, ne-go-tchi au-tay. Fill it, mosh-ke-naw-don. Change it, mes-kwo-to-non. Saw-kon, go out. Pe-saw-kon, come out. Maw-tchawn, go away. Pe-maw-tchawn, come away. Pe-to, to bring. Pe-ton, fetch it. Ash-kom, more and more. Nos, my father. Ash-kom so-ge-po, more and more snow. Kos, your father. Ash-kom ke-me-wau, more and more rain. O-sawn, his father. Ash-kom ke-zhaw-tay, hotter and hotter. Ne-gaw-she, my mother. Ash-kom ke-se-naw, colder and colder. Ke-gaw-she, your mother. E-ke-to, saying. E-ke-ton, say it. E-ke-to, he says. Ke-e-ke-to, he said. Kay-go mon-daw e-ke-to-kay, do not say that. E-wau, he says [the same as e-ke-to, but used only in third person and cannot be conjugated]. E-naw-bin, look; e-naw-bin au-zhon-daw, look here. A-zhawd, going; au-ne-pe a-zhawd? where did he go? E-wo-te, there; me-saw e-wo-te au-daw-yon, there is your home. Au-zhe-me, there; au-zhe-me au-ton, set it there. Au-ne-me-kee, thunder; au-ne-me-ke-kaw, it thundered. Awsh-kon-tay, fire; awsh-kon-tay o-zhe-ton, make some fire. On-je-gaw, leaked; on-je-gaw tchi-mon, the boat leaked. Kaw-ke-naw, all; kaw-ke-naw ke-ge-way-wog, all gone home. Ke-wen, go home. [This verb always implies home, but the emphatic expression is ke-wen en-daw-yawn.] Son-gon (inanimate), son-ge-ze (animate), tough. Se-gwan, spring; se-gwa-nong, last spring (Chippewa dialect). Me-gwetch, thanks; me-gwe-tchi-me-au, he is thanked. Taw-kwo, short; on-sawm taw-kwo, too short. Ke-me-no-pe-maw-tis naw? Are you well? Ae, ne-me-no-pe-maw-tis. Yes, I am well. Ke-taw-kos naw? Are you sick? Kau-win ne-taw-ko-si-sy. No, I am not sick. Au-ne-pish kos e-zhat? Where did your father go? O-day-naw-wing ezhaw. He is gone to town. Ke-ge-we-sin naw? Have you eaten? Ae, ne-ge-aush-kwaw-we-sin. Yes, I have done eating. Ke-baw-kaw-tay naw? Are you hungry? Kaw-win, ne-baw-kaw-tay-sy. No, I am not hungry. Pe-mo-say-win, walking (noun); ne-pe-mo-say, I walk. Aum-bay paw-baw-mo-say-taw, let us go walking. Ne-ge-paw-baw-mo-say, I have been walking. Ne-ge-paw-baw-mish-kaw, I have been boat riding. Aum-bay paw-baw-mish-kaw-daw, let us go boat riding. Maw-tchawn, go on, or go away. Maw-tchawn we-wib, go on quickly. Ke-maw-tchaw-wog, they have gone. Aum-bay maw-tchaw-taw, let us go. Wan-saw e-zhaw, he is gone far away. We-kau-de-win, a feast; we-koum, I invite him (to a feast). We-kau-maw-wog, they are invited (to a feast). Maw-zhe-aw, overpowered; maw-zhe-twaw, victorious. Mou-dje-ge-ze-win, or, me-naw-wo-ze-win, rejoicing. Mou-dje-ge-ze, or, me-naw-wo-ze, he rejoices. Au-no-maw-yaw ke-daw-gwe-shin, he came lately. Au-pe-tchi ke-zhaw-tay, it is very hot Ke-tchi no-din, it is blowing hard. Paw-ze-gwin we-wib, get up quickly. Me-no e-naw-kaw-me-got, good news. Me-no e-naw-kaw-me-got naw? Is it good news? She-kaw-gong ne-de-zhaw-me, we are going to Chicago. She-kaw-gong on-je-baw, he came from Chicago Saw-naw-got, difficult to overcome. Saw-naw-ge-ze, he is in difficulty. Saw-naw-ge-ze-wog, they are in difficulty. Sa-ge-ze, he is frightened; sa-ge-ze-win, fright. Ke-gus-kaw-naw-baw-gwe naw? Are you thirsty? Au-pe-tchi ne-gus-kaw-naw-gwe. I am very thirsty. Me-naw au-we, give him drink. Ke-bish me-naw, give him water to drink. O-daw-kim o-ge-au-taw-wen, he sold his land. O-da paw-gaw-awn, the heart beats. O-da me-tchaw-ne, he has a big heart Ke-ne-se-to-tom naw? Do you understand? Ke-ne-se-to-tow naw? Do you understand me? Kau-win, ke-ne-se to-tos-no. No, I do not understand you. Ke-no-dom naw? Do you hear? Ae, ne-no-doin. Yes, I hear. Ke-pe-sen-dom naw? Do you listen? Ke-maw-ne-say naw? Are you chopping? Maw-tchi e-naw-kaw-me-got naw? Is it bad news? We-go-nash wau-au-yaw mon? What do you want? Au-nish au-pe-daw-taw-gwe-she non? When did you come? Au-ne-pesh a-zhaw yon? Where are you going? Au-ne-pesh wen-dje-baw yon? Where are you from? Au-ne-dosh wau-e-ke-to yon? What shall you say? Au-nish mon-daw e-naw-gen deg? What is the price? Maw-ne-say, he chops; ma-ne-sayt, he that chops. Ne-bwa-kaw, wise; ne-bwa-kawt, he that is wise. Na-bwa-kaw-tchig, they that are wise. Wa-zhe-tou-tchig awsh-kou-te, they that make fire. O-zhe-tou aush-ko-tay pin-je ke-zhaw-be-ke-se-gun, Make fire in the stove. Wen-daw-mow way-naw-paw-nod au-zhon-daw, Tell him the cheap place is here. Wen-daw-mow e-naw-kaw-me-gok, tell him the news. Taw-bes-kaw-be. Taw-be-e-shaw au-zhon-daw. He will come back. He will come here. On-je-baw. Wow-kwing on-je-baw. Coming from. He comes from heaven. Nau-go, now; nau-go a-ge-zhe-gok, to-day. Te-besh-kou, same, even; ta-te-besh-kon, even with the other. To-dawn mon-daw e-ne-taw, do that as I tell you. Pe-sen-dow, listen to him; pe-sen-do-we-shin, listen to me. Me-saw-wett-dje-gay. Me-saw-me-dje-gay-win. He covets. Coveting. E-zhaw-yon gaw-ya ne-ne-gaw e-zhaw. If you will go and also I will go. O-je-daw ne-ge-to-tem tchi-baw-ping. Purposely I did it to make laughter. Kaw-win ke-taw-gawsh-ke-to-se tchi-gaw-ke-so-taw-wod mau-ni-to, you cannot hide from God. Maw-no-a-na-dong taw-e-zhe-tchi-gay, let him do what he thinks. A-naw-bid. E-naw-bin a-naw-bid. In the way he looks. Do look in the way he looks. Au-nish a-zhe-wa-bawk mon-daw? What is the matter with that? Au-nish a-zhe-we-be-sit au-we? What is the matter with him? Au-nish a-naw-tchi-moo-tawk? What did he tell you? E-zhaw. Au-ne-pish kaw-e-zhawd? He went. Where did he go? E-zhaw-wog. Harbor Springs ke-e-zhaw-wog. They went. They went to Harbor Springs. Ne-daw-yaw-naw e-naw-ko-ne-ga-win. We have a rule, or, a law. O-we-o-kwon o-ge-au-taw-son. His hat he pawned. Ne-be-me-baw-to-naw-baw au-pe pen-ge-she-naw. I was running when I fell. NOTE.--Except some condensation and arrangement in the grammar, this work is printed almost verbatim as written by the author.--EDITOR. 
22550	----	[Transcriber's note: Obvious printer's errors have been corrected, all other inconsistencies are as in the original. Author's spelling has been maintained. Page 312: The amount of barrels is obviously an error of the typographer, but the proper amount not being known, it has been left in place. "It is probable that they are now capable of manufacturing 1,25,000 barrels of flour annually, and this quantity would require 5,625,000 bushels of wheat." The inconsistencies of the typographer or author for punctuation (or lack of) in amount have not been corrected. The illustration of the frontispiece did not have any caption, the text has been added while processing this file.] [Illustration of an Indian woman near a river.] OLD MACKINAW; OR, THE FORTRESS OF THE LAKES AND ITS SURROUNDINGS. BY W. P. STRICKLAND. Philadelphia: James Challen & Son, New York: CARLTON & PORTER.--Cincinnati: POE & HITCHCOCK. Chicago: W. H. DOUGHTY.--Detroit: PUTNAM, SMITH & CO. Nashville: J. B. McFERRIN. 1860. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year, 1860, by JAMES CHALLEN & SON, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. PHILADELPHIA: STEREOTYPED BY S. A. GEORGE, 607 SANSOM STREET. PREFACE. In the preparation of this volume a large number of works have been consulted, among which the author desires to acknowledge his indebtedness to the following: "The Travels of Baron La Hontan," published in English and French, 1705; "Relations des Jesuits," in three vols., octavo; "Marquette's Journal;" Schoolcraft's works, in three volumes; "Shea's Catholic Missions and Discovery of the Mississippi" "American Annals;" "Lanman's History of Michigan;" "Parkman's Siege of Pontiac;" "Annals of the West;" "Foster and Whitney's Geological Report;" "Ferris' Great West;" "Disturnell's Trip to the Lakes;" "Lanman's Summer in the Wilderness;" "Pietzell's Lights and Shades of Missionary Life;" "Life of Rev. John Clark;" "Lectures before the Historical Society of Michigan;" "Mansfield's Mackinaw City;" "Andrews' Report of Lake Trade;" "Heriot's Canada;" "Presbyterian Missions," &c., &c. He desires particularly to mention the works of Schoolcraft, which have thrown more light on Indian history than the productions of any other author. He also desires to acknowledge his indebtedness to Wm. M. Johnson, Esq., of Mackinac Island, for his valuable contributions to the history of that interesting locality. The statistics in relation to that portion of the country embraced in the work are taken from the most recent sources, and are believed to be perfectly reliable. We are indebted to J. W. Bradley, of Philadelphia, the publisher of "The North American Indians," for the beautiful frontispiece in this work. Mr. Catlin, the author, visited every noted tribe, and, by residing among them, was initiated into many of their secret and hidden mysteries. It is a valuable work. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Page Mackinaw and its surroundings -- Indian legends -- Hiawatha -- Ottawas and Ojibwas -- Pau-pau-ke-wis -- San-ge-man -- Kau-be-man -- An Indian custom -- Dedication to the spirits -- Au-se-gum-ugs -- Exploits of San-ge-man -- Point St. Ignatius -- Magic lance -- Council of peace -- Conquests of San-ge-man. 9 CHAPTER II. Indian spiritualists -- Medicine men -- Legends -- The spirit-world -- Difference between Indian and modern spiritualists -- Chusco the spiritualist -- Schoolcraft's testimony of -- Mode of communicating with spirits -- Belief in Satanic agency -- Interesting account of clairvoyance. 19 CHAPTER III. Marquette's visit to Iroquois Point -- Chapel and Fort -- Old Mackinaw -- The French settlement in the Northwest -- Erection of chapel and Fort -- The gateway of commerce -- The rendezvous of traders, trappers, soldiers, missionaries, and Indians -- Description of fort -- Courriers des Bois -- Expedition of Marquette and Joliet to explore the Mississippi -- Green Bay -- Fox River -- Wisconsin -- Mississippi -- Peoria Indians -- Return trip -- Kaskaskia Indians -- St. Xavier Missions -- Mission to "the Illinois" -- Marquette's health declines -- Starts out on return trip to Mackinaw -- Dies and is buried at mouth of Marquette River -- Indians remove his remains to Mackinaw -- Funeral cortege -- Ceremonies -- Burial in the chapel -- Changes of time -- Schoolcraft on the place of Marquette's burial -- Missilimackinac -- Name of Jesuit missions. 39 CHAPTER IV. La Salle's visit to Mackinaw -- English traders -- La Hontan's visit -- Mackinaw an English fort -- Speech of a Chippewa chief -- Indian stratagem -- Massacre of the English at the fort -- Escape of Mr. Alexander Henry -- Early white settlement of Mackinaw -- Present description -- Relations of the Jesuits -- Remarkable Phenomena -- Parhelia -- Subterranean river. 61 CHAPTER V. Island of the giant fairies -- Possession by the English -- Erection of government house -- French remain at Old Mackinaw -- Finally abandoned -- Extent of the island -- History -- Description -- Natural curiosities -- Arch Rock -- Sugar Loaf Rock -- Scull Rock -- Dousman's farm -- Davenport's farm -- Robinson's folly -- The Devil's Punch Bowl -- Healthful atmosphere -- Transparency of the waters -- Compared with Saratoga, Cape May, and Mt. Washington as a point for health and recreation -- Description of a traveler in 1854 -- Arrival of steamers and sailing vessels at the port during the year -- Mr. Johnson's reminiscences -- Indian name of island -- Mythology -- Three brothers of the great genii -- Visit to the subterranean abode of the genii -- Vision -- Apostrophe of an old Indian chief -- Old buildings -- Door of Marquette's chapel -- John Jacob Astor and the fur trade -- Present support of the place -- Fort Mackinaw -- Fort Holmes -- Fine view -- Interesting localities -- War of 1812 -- Death of Major Holmes -- Soil of the island. 83 CHAPTER VI. Lake Superior -- Scenery -- Transparency of its waters -- Climate -- Isle Royale -- Apostles' Islands -- La Point -- Thunder Cape -- Cariboo Point -- A wonderful lake -- Romantic scenery -- Pictured rocks -- Rock Castle -- The Grand Portal -- The chapel -- Fluctuations in the waters of Lake Superior -- Curious phenomena -- Retrocession of the waters -- Mirage -- Iron mountains and mines -- Description of -- Products -- Shipments -- Copper -- Immense boulders -- Produce of the mines for 1857 -- Shipment of copper from the Lake for 1858 -- Centre of the mining country -- Iron mountains -- Copper mines of Great Britain -- Coal -- Mackinaw a great manufacturing point -- Key to the Upper Lakes -- Commerce of lakes -- Growth of cities. 105 CHAPTER VII. Lake Huron -- Eastern shore of Michigan -- Face of the country -- Picturesque view -- Rivers -- Grand -- Saginaw -- Cheboy-e-gun -- Natural scenery -- Fort Gratiot -- White Rock -- Saginaw Bay -- Thunder Bay -- Bois Blanc Island -- Drummond's Island -- British troops -- St. Helena Island -- Iroquois Woman's Point -- Point La Barbe -- Point aux Sable -- Point St. Vital -- Wreck of the Queen City -- St. Martin's Island -- Fox Point -- Moneto pa-maw -- Mille au Coquin -- Great fishing places -- Cross village -- Catholic convent. 127 CHAPTER VIII. Three epochs -- The romantic -- The military -- The agricultural and commercial -- An inviting region -- Jesuit and Protestant Missions -- First Protestant mission -- First missionary -- Islands of Mackinac and Green Bay -- La Pointe -- Saut St. Mary -- Presbyterians -- Baptists -- Methodists -- Revival at Fort Brady -- Ke-wee-naw -- Fon du Lac -- Shawnees -- Pottawatimies -- Eagle River -- Ontonagon -- Camp River -- Iroquois Point -- Saginaw Indians -- Melancholy reflections -- Number of Indians in the States and Territories. 143 CHAPTER IX. Indian name of Michigan -- Islands -- Lanman's Summer in the Wilderness -- Plains -- Trees -- Rivers -- A traditionary land -- Beautiful description -- Official report in relation to the trade of the lakes -- Green Bay -- Grand Traverse Bay -- Beaver Islands -- L'Arbre Croche -- Boundaries of Lake Michigan -- Its connections -- Railroad from Fort Wayne to Mackinaw -- Recent report of -- Amount completed -- Land grants. 159 CHAPTER X. Mackinaw, the site for a great central city -- The Venice of the lakes -- Early importance as a central position -- Nicolet -- Compared geographically with other points -- Immense chain of coast -- Future prospects -- Temperature -- Testimony of the Jesuit fathers -- Healthfulness of the climate -- Dr. Drake on Mackinaw -- Resort for invalids -- Water currents of commerce -- Surface drained by them -- Soil of the northern and southern peninsulas of Michigan -- Physical resources -- Present proprietors of Mackinaw -- Plan of the city -- Streets -- Avenues -- Park -- Lots and blocks for churches and public purposes -- Institutions of learning and objects of benevolence -- Fortifications -- Docks and ferries -- Materials for building -- Harbors -- Natural beauty of the site for a city -- Mountain ranges -- Interior lakes -- Fish -- Game. 173 CHAPTER XI. The entrepot of a vast commerce -- Surface drained -- Superiority of Mackinaw over Chicago as a commercial point -- Exports and imports -- Michigan the greatest lumber-growing region in the world -- Interminable forests of the choicest pine -- Facilities for market -- Annual product of the pineries -- Lumbering, mining, and fishing interests -- Independent of financial crises -- Mackinaw the centre of a great railroad system -- Lines terminating at this point -- North and South National Line -- Canada grants -- Growth of Northwestern cities -- Future growth and prosperity of Mackinaw -- Chicago -- Legislative provision for opening roads in Michigan -- The Forty Acre Homestead Bill -- Its provisions. 205 CHAPTER XII. The Great Western Valley -- Its growth and population -- Comparison of Atlantic with interior cities -- Relative growth of river and lake cities -- Centre of population -- Lake tonnage -- Progress of the principal centres of population. 228 CHAPTER XIII. Michigan Agricultural Reports for 1854 -- Prof. Thomas' report -- Report of J. S. Dixon -- Products of States -- Climate -- Army Meteorological Reports. 255 CHAPTER XIV. Agricultural interest -- Means of transportation -- Railways and vessels -- Lumber -- Vessels cleared -- Lake cities and Atlantic ports -- Home-market -- Breadstuffs -- Michigan flour -- Monetary panics -- Wheat -- Importations -- Provisions -- Fruit -- Live stock -- Wool -- Shipping business -- Railroads -- Lake Superior trade -- Pine lumber trade -- Copper interest -- Iron interest -- Fisheries -- Coal mines -- Salt -- Plaster beds. 272 CHAPTER XV. Desirableness of a trip to the Lakes -- Routes of travel -- Interesting localities -- Scenery -- Southern coast -- Portage Lake -- Dr. Houghton -- Ontonagon -- Apostles' Islands -- Return trip -- Points of interest -- St. Mary's River -- Lake St. George -- Point de Tour -- Lake Michigan -- Points of interest -- Chicago. 395 CHAPTER I. Mackinaw and its surroundings -- Indian legends -- Hiawatha -- Ottawas and Ojibwas -- Paw-pau-ke-wis -- San-ge-man -- Kau-be-man -- An Indian custom -- Dedication to the spirits -- Au-se-gum-ugs -- Exploits of San-ge-man -- Point St. Ignatius -- Magic lance -- Council of Peace -- Conquests of San-ge-man. Mackinaw, with its surroundings, has an interesting and romantic history, going back to the earliest times. The whole region of the Northwest, with its vast wildernesses and mighty lakes, has been traditionally invested with a mystery. The very name of Mackinaw, in the Indian tongue, signifies the dwelling-place of the Great Genii, and many are the legends written and unwritten connected with its history. If the testimony of an old Indian chief at Thunder Bay can be credited, it was at old Mackinaw that Mud-je-ke-wis, the father of Hiawatha, lived and died. Traditional history informs us that away back in a remote period of time, the Ottawas and the Ojibwas took up their journey from the Great Salt Lake towards the setting sun. These tribes were never stationary, but were constantly roving about. They were compared by the neighboring tribes to Paw-pau-ke-wis, a name given by the Indians to the light-drifting snow, which blows over the frozen ground in the month of March, now whirling and eddying into gigantic and anon into diminutive drifts. Paw-pau-ke-wis signifies running away. The name was given to a noted Indian chief, fully equal in bravery and daring to Hiawatha, Plu-re-busta, or Man-a-bosho. The Ottawas and Ojibwas dwelt for a time on the Manitoulin Island in Lake Huron. While the tribes dwelt here, two distinguished Indian youths, by the name of San-ge-man and Kau-be-man, remarkable for their sprightliness, attracted the attention of their particular tribes. Both were the youngest children of their respective families. It was the custom of the Indians to send their boys, when young, to some retired place a short distance from their village, where they were to fast until the manitoes or spirits of the invisible world should appear to them. Temporary lodges were constructed for their accommodation. Those who could not endure the fast enjoined upon them by the Metais or Medicine-men, never rose to any eminence, but were to remain in obscurity. Comparatively few were able to bear the ordeal; but to all who waited the appointed time, and endured the fast, the spiritual guardian appeared and took the direction and control of their subsequent lives. San-ge-man in his first trial fasted seven days, and on the next he tasted food, having been reduced to extreme debility by his long abstinence, during which his mind became exceedingly elevated. In this exaltation his spiritual guide appeared to him. He was the spirit of the serpent who rules in the centre of the earth, and under the dark and mighty waters. This spirit revealed to him his future destiny, and promised him his guardianship through life. San-ge-man grew up and became remarkably strong and powerful. From his brave and reckless daring he was both an object of love and fear to the Ottawas. About this time, as the legend runs, the former inhabitants of the Manitoulin Island and the adjoining country, who have the name of the Au-se-gum-a-ugs, commenced making inroads upon the settlements of the combined bands, and killed several of their number. Upon this the Ojibwas and Ottawas mustered a war party. San-ge-man, though young, offered himself as a warrior; and, full of heroic daring, went out with the expedition which left the Island in great numbers in their canoes, and crossed over to the main land on the northeast. After traveling a few days they fell upon the war path of their enemies, and soon surprised them. Terrified, they fled before the combined forces; and in the chase, the brave and daring youth outstripped all the rest and succeeded in taking a prisoner in sight of the enemies' village. On their return the Ojibwas and Ottawas were pursued, and being apprised of it by San-ge-man, they made good their escape, while the young brave, being instructed by his guardian spirit, allowed himself to be taken prisoner. His hands were tied, and he was made to walk in the midst of the warriors. At night they encamped, and after partaking of their evening meal, commenced their Indian ceremonies of drumming and shaking the rattle, accompanied with war songs. San-ge-man was asked by the chief of the party, if he could che-qwon-dum, at the same time giving him the rattle. He took it and commenced singing in a low, plaintive tone, which made the warriors exclaim, "He is weak-hearted, a coward, an old woman". Feigning great weakness and cowardice, he stepped up to the Indian to whom he had surrendered his war club; and taking it, he commenced shaking the rattle, and as he danced round the watch-fire, increasing his speed, and, gradually raising the tone of his voice, he ended the dance by felling a warrior with his club, exclaiming, "a coward, ugh!" Then with terrific yells and the power of a giant, he continued his work of death at every blow. Affrighted, the whole party fled from the watch-fire and left him alone with the slain, all of which he scalped, and returned laden with these terrible trophies of victory to join his companions who returned to the Island. San-ge-man having by his valor obtained a chieftainship over the Ottawas, started out on the war path and conquered all the country east and north of Lake Huron. The drum and rattle were now heard resounding through all the villages of the combined forces, and they extended their conquests to Saut St. Mary. For the purpose of bettering their condition they removed from the Island to the Detour, or the mouth of the St. Mary's river, where they occupied a deserted village, and there separated, part going up to the Saut, which had also been deserted, and the other portion tarrying in the above village for a year. At the expiration of this time San-ge-man led a war party towards the west, and reached the present point St. Ignatius, on the north side of the straits where he found a large village. There was also another village a little east of Point St. Ignatius, at a place now called Moran's Bay, and still another at Point Au Chenes on the north shore of Lake Michigan, northeast of the Island of Mackinaw. At these places, old mounds, ditches, and gardens were found, which had existed from an unknown period. From this point a trail led to the Saut through an open country, and these ancient works can be distinctly traced to this day though covered with a heavy growth of timber. After a hard fight with the inhabitants of these villages, San-ge-man at length succeeded in conquering them, and after expelling them burned all their lodges with the exception of a few at Point St. Ignatius. The inhabitants of this village fled across the straits southward from Point St. Ignatius and located at the point now known as Old Mackinaw, or Mackinaw City. In the mean time, San-ge-man had returned to the Detour and removed his entire band to Point St. Ignatius. In the following spring while the Ottawas were out in their fields planting corn, a party of Au-se-gum-ugs crossed over from Old Mackinaw, on the south side of the straits, and killed two of the Ottawa women. San-ge-man at once selected a party of tried warriors, and going down the straits pursued the Au-se-gum-ugs to the River Cheboy-e-gun, whither they had gone on a war expedition against the Mush-co-dan-she-ugs. On a sandy bay a little west of the mouth of the river, they found their enemies' canoes drawn up, they having gone into the interior. Believing that they would soon return, San-ge-man ordered his party to lie in ambush until their return. They were not long in waiting, for on the following day they made their appearance, being heated and weary with their marches, they all stripped and went into the Lake to bathe previous to embarking for Mackinaw. Unsuspicious of danger they played with the sportive waves as they dashed upon the shore, and were swimming and diving in all directions, when the terrific yell of armed warriors broke upon their ears. It was but the work of a moment and one hundred defenseless Indians perished in the waters. When the sad intelligence came to the remainder of the tribe at Mackinaw, they fled towards the Grand River country. The village now deserted possessing superior attractions to San-ge-man and his warriors, the Ottawas crossed the straits and took possession, and here he remained until after he unfairly succeeded in obtaining the magic lance. It was while here that a large delegation of Indians of the Mush-co-dan-she-ugs from the Middle village, Bear River, and Grand Traverse came to shake hands and smoke the pipe of peace with him. They had heard of his fame as a mighty warrior. The occasion was one of great rejoicing to the inhabitants of Mackinaw, and all turned out to witness the gathering. San-ge-man and his warriors appeared in council, dressed in richest furs, their heads decorated with eagle feathers, and tufts of hair of many colors. Among all the chiefs there assembled, for proud and noble bearing none excelled the Ottawa. A fur robe covered with scalp-locks hung carelessly over his left shoulder leaving his right arm free while speaking. As the result of these deliberations the bands became united and thus the territory of the Ottawa chief was enlarged. It was from this point that he sallied forth every summer in war excursions toward the south, conquering the country along the eastern shore of Lake Michigan, extending his conquests to Grand River, and overrunning the country about the present site of Chicago. It was here that he received reinforcements from his old allies the Ojibwas, and extended his conquests down the Illinois River until he reached the "father of waters." From this place he went forth to the slaughter of the Iroquois at the Detour, and expelled them from the Island of Mackinaw and Point St. Ignatius. From hence he went armed to wage an unnatural war against his relatives the Ojibwas, and was slain by the noble chief Kau-be-man, and it was to this place that the sad news came back of his fate. Thus much for the Indian history of Old Mackinaw. Equally romantic is the history of the early missionaries and voyagers to this great centre of the Indian tribes. On the far-off shores of the northwestern lakes the Jesuit Missionaries planted the cross, erected their chapels, repeated their _pater nosters_ and _ave marias_, and sung their _Te Deums_, before the cavaliers landed at Jamestown or the Puritans at Plymouth. Among the Ottawas of Saut St. Marie and the Ojibwas and Hurons of Old Mackinaw, these devoted self-sacrificing followers of Ignatius Loyola commenced their ministrations upwards of two hundred years ago. They were not only the first missionaries among the savages of this northwestern wilderness, but they were the first discoverers and explorers of the mighty lakes and rivers of that region. In advance of civilization they penetrated the dense unbroken wilderness, and launched their canoes upon unknown rivers, breaking the silence of their shores with their vesper hymns and matin prayers. The first to visit the ancient seats of heathenism in the old world, they were the first to preach the Gospel among the heathen of the new. CHAPTER II. Indian Spiritualists -- Medicine men -- Legends -- The Spirit-world -- Difference between Indian and Modern Spiritualists -- Chusco the Spiritualist -- Schoolcraft's testimony of -- Mode of communicating with spirits -- Belief in Satanic agency -- Interesting account of Clairvoyance. The earliest traditions of the various Indian tribes inhabiting this country prove that they have practiced jugglery and all other things pertaining to the secret arts of the old uncivilized nations of the world. Among all the tribes have been found the priests of the occult sciences, and to this day we find Metais, Waubonos, Chees-a-kees and others bearing the common designation of Medicine men. In modern parlance we would call them Professors of Natural Magic, or of Magnetism, or Spiritualism. The difference however between these Indian professors of magic and those of modern date is, that while the latter travel round the country exhibiting their wonderful performances to gaping crowds, at a shilling a head, the former generally shrink from notoriety, and, instead of being anxious to display their marvelous feats, have only been constrained, after urgent entreaty and in particular cases, to exhibit their powers. The Indian magicians have shown more conclusively their power as clairvoyants and spiritualists, than all the rapping, table-tipping mediums of the present day. Numerous interesting and beautiful Indian legends show their belief in a spiritual world--of a shadowy land beyond the great river. Whether this was obtained by revelations from their spiritual mediums, or derived from a higher source of inspiration, we know not; but most certain it is, that in no belief is the Indian more firmly grounded than that of a spirit-world. The Indian Chees-a-kees or spiritualists had a different and far more satisfactory mode of communicating with departed spirits than ever modern spiritualists have attained to, or perhaps ever will. Forming, as they did, a connecting link or channel of communication between this world and the world of spirits, they did not affect to speak what the spirit had communicated; or, perhaps, to state it more fully, their organs of speech were not employed by the spirits to communicate revelations from the spirit world; but the spirits themselves spoke, and the responses to inquiries were perfectly audible to them and to all present. In this case all possibility of collusion was out of the question, and the inquirer could tell by the tones of the voice as as well as the manner of the communication, whether the response was genuine or not. Chusco, a noted old Indian who died on Bound Island several years ago, was a spiritualist. He was converted through the labors of Protestant Missionaries, led for many years an exemplary Christian life, and was a communicant in the Presbyterian Church on the Island up to the time of his death. Mr. Schoolcraft in his "Personal Memoirs," in which he gives most interesting reminiscences, running through a period of thirty years among numerous Indian tribes of the northwest, and who has kindly consented to allow us to make what extracts we may desire from his many interesting works, says that "Chusco was the Ottawa spiritualist, and up to his death he believed that he had, while in his heathen state, communication with spirits". Whenever it was deemed proper to obtain this communication, a pyramidal lodge was constructed of poles, eight in number, four inches in diameter, and from twelve to sixteen feet in height. These poles were set firmly in the ground to the depth of two feet, the earth being beaten around them. The poles being securely imbedded, were then wound tightly with three rows of withes. The lodge was then covered with ap-puck-wois, securely lashed on. The structure was so stoutly and compactly built, that four strong Indians could scarcely move it by their mightiest efforts. The lodge being ready, the spiritualist was taken and covered all over, with the exception of his head, with a canoe sail which was lashed with bois-blanc cords and knotted. This being done, his feet and hands were secured in a like firm manner, causing him to resemble a bundle more than anything else. He would then request the bystanders to place him in the lodge. In a few minutes after entering, the lodge would commence swaying to and fro, with a tremulous motion, accompanied with the sound of a drum and rattle. The spiritualist then commenced chanting in a low, melancholy tone, gradually raising his voice, while the lodge, as if keeping time with his chant, vibrated to and fro with greater violence, and seemed at times as if the force would tear it to pieces. In the midst of this shaking and singing, the sail and the cords, with which the spiritualist was bound, would be seen to fly out of the top of the lodge with great violence. A silence would then ensue for a short time, the lodge still continuing its tremulous vibrations. Soon a rustling sound would be heard at the top of the lodge indicating the presence of the spirit. The person or persons at whose instance the medium of the spiritualist was invoked, would then propose the question or questions they had to ask of the departed. An Indian spiritualist, residing at Little Traverse Bay, was once requested to enter a lodge for the purpose of affording a neighboring Indian an opportunity to converse with a departed spirit about his child who was then very sick. The sound of a voice, unfamiliar to the persons assembled, was heard at the top of the lodge, accompanied by singing. The Indian, who recognized the voice, asked if his child would die. The reply was, "It will die the day after to-morrow. You are treated just as you treated a person a few years ago. Do you wish the matter revealed." The inquirer immediately dropped his head and asked no further questions. His child died at the time the spirit stated, and reports, years after, hinted that it had been poisoned, as the father of the deceased child had poisoned a young squaw, and that it was this same person who made the responses. Old Chusco, after he became a Christian, could not, according to the testimony of Schoolcraft, be made to waver in his belief, that he was visited by spirits in the exhibitions connected with the tight-wound pyramidal, oracular lodge; but he believed they were evil spirits. No cross-questioning could bring out any other testimony. He avowed that, aside from his incantations, he had no part in the shaking of the lodge, never touching the poles at any time, and that the drumming, rattling, singing, and responses were all produced by these spirits. The following account of Chusco, or Wau-chus-co, from the pen of William M. Johnson, Esq., of Mackinaw Island, will be found to be deeply interesting: * * * * * "Wau-chus-co was a noted Indian spiritualist and Clairvoyant, and was born near the head of Lake Michigan--the year not known. He was eight or ten years old, he informed me, when the English garrison was massacred at Old Fort Missilimackinac. He died on Round Island, opposite the village and island of Mackinaw, at an advanced age. "As he grew up from childhood, he found that he was an orphan, and lived with his uncle, but under the care of his grandmother. Upon attaining the age of fifteen his grandmother and uncle urged him to comply with the ancient custom of their people, which was to fast, and wait for the manifestations of the Gitchey-monedo,--whether he would grant him a guardian spirit or not, to guide and direct him through life. He was told that many young men of his tribe tried to fast, but that hunger overpowered their wishes to obtain a spiritual guardian; he was urged to do his best, and not to yield as others had done. "Wau-chus-co died in 1839 or '40. He had, for more than ten years previous to his death, led an exemplary Christian life, and was a communicant of the Presbyterian Church on this Island, up to the time of his death. A few days previous to his death, I paid him a visit. 'Come in, come in, nosis!' (grandson) said he. After being seated, and we had lit our pipes; I said to him, 'Ne-me-sho-miss, (my grandfather,) you are now very old and feeble; you cannot expect to live many days; now, tell me the truth, who was it that moved your chees-a-kee lodge when you practiced your spiritual art?' A pause ensued before he answered:--'Nosis, as you are in part of my nation, I will tell you the truth: I know that I will die soon. I fasted ten days when I was a young man, in compliance with the custom of my tribe. While my body was feeble from long fasting, my soul increased in its powers; it appeared to embrace a vast extent of space, and the country within this space, was brought plainly before my vision, with its misty forms and beings--I speak of my spiritual vision. It was, while I was thus lying in a trance, my soul wandering in space, that animals, some of frightful size and form, serpents of monstrous size, and birds of different varieties and plumage, appeared to me and addressed me in human language, proposing to act as my guardian spirits. While my mind embraced these various moving forms, a superior intelligence in the form of man, surrounded by a wild, brilliant light, influenced my soul to select one of the bird-spirits, resembling the kite in look and form, to be the emblem of my guardian spirit, upon whose aid I was to call in time of need, and that he would be always prepared to render me assistance whenever my body and soul should be prepared to receive manifestations. My grandmother roused me to earth again, by inquiring if I needed food: I ate, and with feeble steps, soon returned to our lodge. "'The first time that I ever chees-a-keed, was on a war expedition toward Chicago, or where it is now located--upon an urgent occasion. We were afraid that our foes would attack us unawares, and as we were also short of provisions, our chief urged me incessantly, until I consented. After preparing my soul and body, by fasting on bitter herbs, &c., I entered the Chees-a-kee lodge, which had been prepared for me:--the presence of my guardian spirit was soon indicated by a violent swaying of the lodge to and fro. "Tell us! tell us! where our enemies are?" cried out the chief and warriors. Soon, the vision of my soul embraced a large extent of country, which I had never before seen--every object was plainly before me--our enemies were in their villages, unsuspicious of danger; their movements and acts I could plainly see; and mentally or spiritually, I could hear their conversation. Game abounded in another direction. Next day we procured provisions, and a few days afterward a dozen scalps graced our triumphant return to the village of the Cross. I exerted my powers again frequently among my tribe, and, to satisfy them, I permitted them to tie my feet and hands, and lash me round with ropes, as they thought proper. They would then place me in the Chees-a-kee lodge, which would immediately commence shaking and swaying to and fro, indicating the presence of my guardian spirit: frequently I saw a bright, luminous light at the top of the lodge, and the words of the spirit would be audible to the spectators outside, who could not understand what was said; while mentally, I understood the words and language spoken. "'In the year 1815, the American garrison at this post expected a vessel from Detroit, with supplies for the winter--a month had elapsed beyond the time for her arrival, and apprehensions of starvation were entertained; finally, a call was made to me by the commanding officer, through the traders. After due preparation I consented; the Chees-a-kee lodge was surrounded by Indians and whites; I had no sooner commenced shaking my rattle and chanting, than the spirits arrived; the rustling noise they made through the air, was heard, and the sound of their voices was audible to all. "'The spirits directed my mind toward the southern end of Lake Huron--it lay before me with its bays and islands; the atmosphere looked hazy, resembling our Indian Summer; my vision terminated a little below the mouth of the St. Clair River--there lay the vessel, disabled! the sailors were busy in repairing spars and sails. My soul knew that they would be ready in two days, and that in seven days she would reach this Island, (Mackinaw,) by the south channel, [at that time an unusual route,] and I so revealed it to the inquirers. On the day I mentioned the schooner hove in sight, by the south channel. The captain of the vessel corroborated all I had stated. "'I am now a praying Indian (Christian). I expect soon to die, Nosis. This is the truth: I possessed a power, or a power possessed me, which I cannot explain or fully describe to you. I never attempted to move the lodge by my own physical powers--I held communion with supernatural beings or souls, who acted upon my soul or mind, revealing to me the knowledge which I have related to you.' "The foregoing merely gives a few acts of the power exhibited by this remarkable, half-civilized Indian. I could enumerate many instances in which this power has been exhibited among our Indians. These Chees-a-kees had the power of influencing the mind of an Indian at a distance for good or evil, even to the deprivation of life among them: so also in cases of rivalship, as hunters or warriors. This influence has even extended to things material, while in the hands of those influenced. The soul or mind--perhaps nervous system of the individual, being powerfully acted upon by a spiritual battery, greater than the one possessed more or less by all human beings." * * * * * In Schoolcraft's "American Indians" an interesting account is given of a woman-spiritualist, who bore the name of the "Prophetess of Che-moi-che-goi-me-gou." Among the Indians she was called "The woman of the blue-robed cloud." The account was given by herself after she had become a member of the Methodist Church and renounced all connection with spirits. The following is her narrative:-- * * * * * "When I was a girl of about twelve or thirteen years of age, my mother told me to look out for something that would happen to me. Accordingly, one morning early, in the middle of winter, I found an unusual sign, and ran off, as far from the lodge as I could, and remained there until my mother came and found me out. She knew what was the matter, and brought me nearer to the family lodge, and bade me help her in making a small lodge of branches of the spruce tree. She told me to remain there, and keep away from every one, and as a diversion, to keep myself employed in chopping wood, and that she would bring me plenty of prepared bass-wood bark to twist into twine. She told me she would come to see me, in two days, and that in the mean time I must not even taste snow. "I did as directed; at the end of two days she came to see me. I thought she would surely bring me something to eat, but to my disappointment she brought nothing. I suffered more from _thirst_ than hunger, though I felt my stomach gnawing. My mother sat quietly down and said (after ascertaining that I had not tasted anything), 'My child, you are the youngest of your sisters, and none are now left me of all my sons and children, but you _four_' (alluding to her two elder sisters, herself and a little son, still a mere lad). 'Who,' she continued, 'will take care of us poor women? Now, my daughter, listen to me, and try to obey. Blacken your face and fast _really_, that the Master of Life may have pity on you and me, and on us all. Do not, in the least, deviate from my counsels, and in two days more, I will come to you. He will help you, if you are determined to do what is right, and tell me, whether you are favored or not, by the _true_ Great Spirit; and if your visions are not good, reject them.' So saying, she departed. "I took my little hatchet and cut plenty of wood, and twisted the cord that was to be used in sewing _ap-puk-way-oon-un_, or mats for the use of the family. Gradually I began to feel less appetite, but my thirst continued; still I was fearful of touching the snow to allay it, by sucking it, as my mother had told me that if I did so, though secretly, the Great Spirit would see me, and the lesser spirits also, and that my fasting would be of no use. So I continued to fast till the fourth day, when my mother came with a little tin dish, and filling it with snow, she came to my lodge, and was well pleased to find that I had followed her injunctions. She melted the snow, and told me to drink it. I did so, and felt refreshed, but had a desire for more, which she told me would not do, and I contented myself with what she had given me. She again told me to get and follow a good vision--a vision that might not only do us good, but also benefit mankind, if I could. She then left me, and for two days she did not come near me, nor any human being, and I was left to my own reflections. The night of the sixth day, I fancied a voice called to me, and said: 'Poor child! I pity your condition; come, you are invited this way;' and I thought the voice proceeded from a certain distance from my lodge. I obeyed the summons, and going to the spot from which the voice came, found a thin, shining path, like a silver cord, which I followed. It led straight forward, and, it seemed, upward. After going a short distance I stood still and saw on my right hand the new moon, with a flame rising from the top like a candle, which threw around a broad light. On the left appeared the sun, near the point of its setting. I went on, and I beheld on my right the face of Kau-ge-gag-be-qua, or the everlasting woman, who told me her name, and said to me, 'I give you my name, and you may give it to another. I also give you that which I have, life everlasting. I give you long life on the earth, and skill in saving life in others. Go, you are called on high.' "I went on, and saw a man standing with a large, circular body, and rays from his head, like horns. He said, 'Fear not, my name is Monedo Wininees, or the Little man Spirit. I give this name to your first son. It is my life. Go to the place you are called to visit.' I followed the path till I could see that it led up to an opening in the sky, when I heard a voice, and standing still, saw the figure of a man standing near the path, whose head was surrounded with a brilliant halo, and his breast was covered with squares. He said to me: 'Look at me, my name is O-shau-wau-e-geeghick, or the Bright Blue Sky. I am the veil that covers the opening into the sky. Stand and listen to me. Do not be afraid. I am going to endow you with gifts of life, and put you in array that you may withstand and endure.' Immediately I saw myself encircled with bright points which rested against me like needles, but gave me no pain, and they fell at my feet. This was repeated several times, and at each time they fell to the ground. He said, 'wait and do not fear, till I have said and done all I am about to do.' I then felt different instruments, first like awls, and then like nails stuck into my flesh, but neither did they give me pain, but, like the needles, fell at my feet as often as they appeared. He then said, 'that is good,' meaning my trial by these points. 'You will see length of days. Advance a little further,' said he. I did so, and stood at the commencement of the opening. 'You have arrived,' said he, 'at the limit you cannot pass. I give you my name, you can give it to another. Now, return! Look around you. There is a conveyance for you. Do not be afraid to get on its back, and when you get to your lodge, you must take that which sustains the human body.' I turned, and saw a kind of fish swimming in the air, and getting upon it as directed, was carried back with celerity, my hair floating behind me in the air. And as soon as I got back, my vision ceased. "In the morning, being the sixth day of my fast, my mother came with a little bit of dried trout. But such was my sensitiveness to all sounds, and my increased power of scent, produced by fasting, that before she came in sight I heard her, while a great way off, and when she came in, I could not bear the smell of the fish or herself either. She said, 'I have brought something for you to eat, only a mouthful, to prevent your dying.' She prepared to cook it, but I said, 'Mother, forbear, I do not wish to eat it--the smell is offensive to me.' She accordingly left off preparing to cook the fish, and again encouraged me to persevere, and try to become a comfort to her in her old age, and bereaved state, and left me. "I attempted to cut wood, as usual, but in the effort I fell back on the snow, from weariness, and lay some time; at last I made an effort and rose, and went to my lodge and lay down. I again saw the vision, and each person who had before spoken to me, and heard the promises of different kinds made to me, and the songs. I went the same path which I had pursued before, and met with the same reception. I also had another vision, or celestial visit, which I shall presently relate. My mother came again on the seventh day, and brought me some pounded corn boiled in _snow-water_, for she said I must not drink water from lake or river. After taking it, I related my vision to her. She said it was good, and spoke to me to continue my fast three days longer. I did so; at the end of which she took me home, and made a feast in honor of my success, and invited a great many guests. I was told to eat sparingly, and to take nothing too hearty or substantial; but this was unnecessary, for my abstinence had made my senses so acute, that all animal food had a gross and disagreeable odor. "After the seventh day of my fast (she continued), while I was lying in my lodge, I saw a dark, round object descending from the sky like a round stone, and enter my lodge. As it came near, I saw that it had small feet and hands like a human body. It spoke to me and said, 'I give you the gift of seeing into futurity, that you may use it for the benefit of yourself and the Indians--your relations and tribes-people.' It then departed, but as it went away, it assumed wings, and looked to me like the red-headed woodpecker. "In consequence of being thus favored, I assumed the arts of a medicine-woman and a prophetess: but never those of a Wabeno. The first time I exercised the prophetical art, was at the strong and repeated solicitations of my friends. It was in the winter season, and they were then encamped west of the Wisacoda, or Brule River, of Lake Superior, and between it and the plains west. There were, beside my mother's family and relatives, a considerable number of families. They had been some time at the place, and were near starving, as they could find no game. One evening the chief of the party came into my mother's lodge. I had lain down, and was supposed to be asleep, and he requested of my mother that she would allow me to try my skill to relieve them. My mother spoke to me, and after some conversation, she gave her consent. I told them to build the _Jee-suk-aun_, or prophet's lodge _strong_, and gave particular directions for it. I directed that it should consist of ten posts or saplings, each of a different kind of wood, which I named. When it was finished, and tightly wound with skins, the entire population of the encampment assembled around it, and I went in, taking only a small drum. I immediately knelt down, and holding my head near the ground, in a position as near as may be prostrate, began beating my drum, and reciting my songs or incantations. The lodge commenced shaking violently, by supernatural means. I knew this by the compressed current of air above, and the noise of motion. This being regarded by me, and by all without, as a proof of the presence of the spirits I consulted, I ceased beating and singing, and lay still, waiting for questions in the position I at first assumed. "The first question put to me was in relation to the game, and _where_ it was to be found. The response was given by the orbicular spirit, who had appeared to me. He said, 'How short-sighted you are! If you will go in a _west_ direction, you will find game in abundance.' Next day the camp was broken up, and they all moved westward, the hunters, as usual, going far ahead. They had not proceeded far beyond the bounds of their former hunting circle, when they came upon tracks of moose, and that day they killed a female and two young moose, nearly full-grown. They pitched their encampment anew, and had abundance of animal food in this new position. "My reputation was established by this success, and I was afterward noted in the tribe, in the art of a medicine-woman, and sung the songs which I have given to you." CHAPTER III. Marquette's visit to Iroquois Point -- Chapel and Fort -- Old Mackinaw -- The French Settlement in the Northwest -- Erection of Chapel and Fort -- The Gateway of Commerce -- The Rendezvous of Traders, Trappers, Soldiers, Missionaries, and Indians -- Description of Fort -- Courriers des Bois -- Expedition of Marquette and Joliet to Explore the Mississippi -- Green Bay -- Fox River -- Wisconsin -- Mississippi -- Peoria Indians -- Return Trip -- Kaskaskia Indians -- St. Xavier Missions -- Mission to "the Illinois" -- Marquette's Health declines -- Starts out on Return trip to Mackinaw -- Dies and is Buried at mouth of Marquette River -- Indians remove his Remains to Mackinaw -- Funeral Cortege -- Ceremonies -- Burial in the Chapel -- Changes of time -- Schoolcraft on the Place of Marquette's Burial -- Missilimackinac -- Name of Jesuit Missions. In the year 1670, the devoted and self-sacrificing missionary, Jean Marquette, with a company of Indians of the Huron tribe, subsequently known as the Wyandots from the Georgian Bay, on the northeastern extremity of Lake Huron, entered for the first time the old Indian town on the northern side of the Mackinaw Straits. During the time he was planting his colony, and erecting his chapel at Iroquois Point, which he afterward designated St. Ignace, he resided on the Mackinaw Island. In 1671, he furnished an account of the island and its surroundings, which was published in "The Relations Des Jesuits". He says: "Missilimackinac is an island famous in these regions, of more than a league in diameter, and elevated in some places by such high cliffs as to be seen more than twelve leagues off. It is situated just in the strait forming the communication between Lakes Huron and Illinois (Michigan). It is the key, and, and as it were, the gate for all the tribes from the south, as the Saut, (St. Marie) is for those of the north, there being in this section of country only those two passages by water, for a great number of nations have to go by one or other of these channels, in order to reach the French settlements. "This presents a peculiarly favorable opportunity, both for instructing those who pass here, and also for obtaining easy access and conveyance to their places of abode. "This place is the most noted in these regions for the abundance of its fisheries; for, according to the Indian saying, 'this is the home of the fishes.' Elsewhere, although they exist in large numbers, it is not properly their 'home,' which is in the neighborhood of Missilimackinac. "In fact, beside the fish common to all the other tribes, as the herring, carp, pike, gold-fish, white-fish and sturgeon, there are found three varieties of the trout--one common; the second of a larger size, three feet long and one foot thick; the third monstrous, for we cannot otherwise describe it--it being so fat that the Indians, who have a peculiar relish for fats, can scarcely eat it. Besides, the supply is such that a single Indian will take forty or fifty of them through the ice, with a single spear, in three hours. "It is this attraction which has heretofore drawn to a point so advantageous, the greater part of the savages, in this country driven away by fear of the Iroquois. The three tribes at present living on the _Baye des Puans_ (Green Bay) as strangers, formerly dwelt on the main land near the middle of this island--some on the borders of Lake Illinois, others on the borders of Lake Huron. A part of them, called _Sauteurs_, had their abode on the main land at the West, and the others look upon this place as their country for passing the winter, when there are no fish at the _Saut_. The Hurons, called _Etonontathronnons_, have lived for some years in the same island, to escape the Iroquois. Four villages of Ottawas had also their abode in this quarter. "It is worthy of notice that those who bore the name of the island, and called themselves Missilimackinac, were so numerous, that some of the survivors yet living here assure us that they once had thirty villages, all inclosed in a fortification of a league and a half in circuit, when the Iroquois came and defeated them, inflated by a victory they had gained over three thousand men of that nation, who had carried their hostilities as far as the country of the _Agnichronnons_. "In one word, the quantity of fish, united with the excellence of the soil for Indian corn, has always been a powerful attraction to the tribes in these regions, of which the greater part subsist only on fish, but some on Indian corn. On this account many of these same tribes, perceiving that the peace is likely to be established with the Iroquois, have turned their attention to this point so convenient for a return to their own country, and will follow the examples of those who have made a beginning on the islands of Lake Huron, which by this means will soon be peopled from one end to the other, an event highly desirable to facilitate the instruction of the Indian race, whom it would not be necessary to seek by journeys of two or three hundred leagues on these great lakes, with inconceivable danger and hardships. "In order to aid the execution of the design, signified to us by many of the savages, of taking up their abode at this point, where some have already passed the winter, hunting in the neighborhood, we ourselves have also wintered here, in order to make arrangements for establishing the mission of _St. Ignace_, from whence it will be easy to have access to all the Indians of Lake Huron, when the several tribes shall have settled each on its own lands. "With these advantages, the place has also its inconveniences, particularly for the French, who are not yet familiar, as are the savages, with the different kinds of fishery, in which the latter are trained from their birth; the winds and the tides occasion no small embarrassment to the fishermen. "The winds: For this is the central point between the three great lakes which surround it, and which seem incessantly tossing ball at each other. For no sooner has the wind ceased blowing from Lake Michigan than Lake Huron hurls back the gale it has received, and Lake Superior in its turn, sends forth its blasts from another quarter, and thus the game is played from one to the other--and as these lakes are of vast extent, the winds cannot be otherwise than boisterous, especially during the autumn." "Old Mackinaw," the Indian name of which is Pe-quod-e-non-ge, an Indian town on the south side of the Straits, became the place of the first French settlement northwest of Fort Frontenac, or Cadaraeque on Lake Ontario. The settlement was made by father Marquette, in 1671. Pe-quod-e-non-ge, as we have seen in a previous Chapter, with its coasts and islands before it, has been the theatre of some of the most exciting and interesting events in Indian history, previous to the arrival of the "white man." It was the Metropolis of a portion of the Ojibwa, and Ottawa nations. It was there that their Congresses met, to adopt a policy which terminated in the conquest of the country south of it--it was there that the tramping feet of thousands of plumed and painted warriors shook Pe-quod-e-non-ge, while dancing their war dances--it was from there that the startling sound of the war yell of these thousands was wafted to the adjacent coast and islands, making the peaceful welkin ring with their unearthly shouts of victory or death. In process of time a Chapel and Fort were erected, and it became a strong-hold and trading post of the greatest importance to the entire region of the northwest, being the gateway of commerce between the St. Lawrence and the Mississippi, and also the grand avenue to the Upper Lakes of the north, and the rendezvous of the traders, merchants, trappers, soldiers, missionaries and Indians of the whole northwest. Villages of Hurons and Ottawas were located in the vicinity of the Fort and Chapel. The Fort inclosed an area of about several acres, and was surrounded with cedar pickets. The remains of the fort and buildings can still be seen. On an eminence not far from the fort, the Ottawas erected a fortification. Within the inclosure of the Fort and adjoining the Chapel, the Jesuits erected a College, the first institution of the kind in the Western country. It was also the great depot for the _Courriers des Bois_, or rangers of the woods, who, from their distant excursions, would congregate here. The goods which they had brought from Canada, for the purpose of exchanging for furs with the Indians of Green Bay and Illinois, and along the shores of Lake Superior, and the region lying between that and the banks of the Mississippi, had to be deposited here, and they were usually on hand a long time before they could be disposed of and transferred to the distant marts of trade. In the year 1672, while Marquette was engaged in his duties as priest at the Chapel, the site of which now bears the name of St. Ignatius, and also employed in instructing the Indian youth of the villages, he was visited by Joliet, a member of the same order who bore a commission from Frontenac, then Governor of Canada, empowering him to select Marquette as a companion and enter upon a voyage of discovery. The winter was spent by these men in making preparations to carry out the commands of their superiors. The specific object of their mission was to explore the Mississippi, which was supposed to empty into the Gulf of California. That all possible information might be gained in regard to this unknown river, Marquette held conversations with all the noted Indian explorers and trappers, as well as the rangers of the woods within his reach. From the information thus gained he made out a map of the river, including its source and direction, and all the streams known to empty into it. Spring at length came, and on a bright, beautiful morning in the month of May, having bid adieu to his charge at his mission, and commended his flock to God, Marquette and his companion, with five others selected for the purpose, entered their bark canoes with paddles in hand, and St. Ignatius was soon lost to the sight of the devoted missionary forever. After sailing along the Straits they entered Lake Michigan, and continued their voyage until they arrived at Green Bay, passed the mouth of the Menominee River, finally reaching that of the Fox River. On the 7th of June, having sailed upwards of two hundred miles, the voyagers reached the mission of St. Francis Xavier. They had now reached the limit of all former French or English discoveries. The new and unknown West spread out before them, and the thousand dangers and hardships by river and land, heightened by tales of horror related to them by the Indians, were presented to their imagination. Resolutely determined to prosecute the enterprise committed to their charge, they knelt upon the shore of Fox River to renew their devotions and obtain the divine guidance and protection. Encouraged by past success, and urged on by a strong faith, they launched their canoes upon the bosom of the Fox River, and breaking the silence of its shores by the dip of their paddles, they sailed up its current. When they reached the rapids of that river, it was with difficulty they were enabled to proceed. There was not power enough in the paddles of the two canoes to stem the current, and they were obliged to wade up the rapids on the jagged rocks, and thus tow them along. Having made the voyage of the Fox they arrived at the portage, and taking their canoes containing their provision and clothes upon their shoulders, they reached the Wisconsin and launched them upon that stream. They had no longer to breast a rapid current, as the waters of the Wisconsin flowed west. With renewed courage they prosecuted their voyage, and after ten days their hearts were made glad at the sight of the broad and beautiful river which they were entering, and which they supposed would bear them to the far-off western sea. They had reached the "father of waters." No sight could be more charming than that which presented itself to their vision as they beheld on either side, alternately stretching away to a vast distance, immense forests of mountain and plain. At length, on the 25th of June, as they were sailing along near the eastern shore, they discovered foot-prints in the sand. At sight of these they landed and fastening their canoes, that they might again look upon the face of human beings, they followed an Indian path which led up the bank. They were not long in finding two Indian villages, which proved to be those of the "Pewa-rias" and "Moing-wenas." In answer to a question proposed by Marquette, who addressed them in Indian, and inquired who they were; they answered, "We are Illinois." After an exchange of friendly greetings with these peaceable Indians, the voyagers re-embarked and passed on down the river. They continued on their downward passage until they reached the mouth of the Missouri, which poured its turbid flood into the Mississippi; and still further until they passed the mouth of the Ohio, and then on down until they passed the Arkansas, and arrived within thirty miles of the mouth of the Mississippi. It was not necessary to proceed any further to satisfy the explorers that the river entered into the Gulf of Mexico, instead of that of California. Having accomplished the end of the expedition, the company started out upon their return trip on the 17th of July. When they reached the mouth of the Illinois river, they determined on returning by that route to Mackinaw. Arriving at the portage of that river they fell in with a tribe of Indians who called themselves the Kaskaskias, who kindly volunteered to conduct them to Lake Michigan, where in due time they arrived. After sailing along the western shore of the lake they again found themselves at Green Bay, and were heartily welcomed by the brethren at the mission of St. Francis Xavier. Worn down with fatigue, Marquette determined to remain here to recruit his health before returning to his missionary labors. He spent his time at this mission post in copying his journal of the voyage down the Mississippi and back, which he accompanied by a map of the river and country, and sent by the Ottawa flotilla to his superiors at Montreal. The return of this flotilla brought him orders for the establishment of a mission among the Illinois, with whom he had so friendly an interview on his exploring voyage. Having passed the winter and succeeding summer at the St. Xavier mission, he started out in the fall for Kaskaskia. The difficulties of the journey were such, it having to be accomplished by land and water, that his health, which had been greatly enfeebled by his former voyage, was not sufficient to enable him to endure the cold winds of winter which had set in before the completion of the journey. On reaching the Chicago River it was found closed, and he did not consider it prudent to undertake an over-land journey. He therefore resolved to winter at that point, and giving his Indian companions who accompanied him the proper instructions and pious counsel, he sent them back to Green Bay. Two Frenchmen made an arrangement to remain with him during the winter. The nearest persons to their lodge were fifty miles distant. They were French trappers and traders, one of whom bore the title of a doctor. This latter person being informed of Marquette's ill-health paid him a visit, and did what he could for his relief. He also received friendly offices from the Indians in the neighborhood, a party of whom proposed to carry him and all his baggage to the contemplated mission at Kaskaskia. His health, however, was such that it did not allow him to accept their kind offer, and he was obliged to remain in his camp during the winter. Spring at length returned after a long and dreary winter, and Marquette, with some Indian companions, started out for the upper waters of the Illinois River. In about two weeks he reached Kaskaskia, and at once entered upon the duties of his mission. After having instructed the Indians, so as to enable them to understand the objects of his mission to them, he called them all together in the open prairie, where he had erected a rude altar surmounted by the cross, and adorned with pictures of the Virgin Mary. The chiefs and warriors, and the whole tribe, were addressed by him in their native tongue. He made a number of presents to them, the more effectually to gain their affections and confidence, and then related to them the simple story of the cross, after which he celebrated mass. The scene was truly impressive, and the effect upon the sons of the forest was all that the missionary could desire. Bright and cheering were the prospects of converting the Kaskaskias to Christianity, but the devoted missionary was doomed to disappointment. His former malady returned, and assumed a type of so alarming a nature, that he was satisfied his labors on earth would soon come to an end. Thoughts of his beloved mission at Mackinaw, where he had spent so many days in preaching to Ottawas and Hurons, and in teaching their youth Christian science, filled his mind; and the Christian, not to say natural, desire of his heart, was again to bow in the Chapel of St. Ignatius, and again behold the parents and children of his former charge. Having received the last rites of the church he set out to the lake, accompanied by the Kaskaskias who sorrowed much at his departure, but who were comforted by the dying missionary, who assured them that another would soon be sent to take his place. When they reached the shore of Lake Michigan the Indians returned, and with his two French companions Marquette embarked in a canoe upon its waters. As they coasted along the eastern shore of the lake the health of Marquette continued to fail, and he at last became so weak that when they landed to encamp for the night they had to lift him out of the canoe. Much further they could not proceed, as the journey of life with the missionary was rapidly drawing to a close. Conscious of his approaching dissolution, as they were gently gliding along the shore, he directed his companions to paddle into the mouth of a small river which they were nearing, and pointing to an eminence not far from the bank, he languidly said, "Bury me there." That river, to this day, bears the name of the lamented Marquette. On landing they erected a bark cabin, and stretched the dying missionary as comfortably as they could beneath its humble roof. Having blessed some water with the usual ceremonies of the Catholic Church, he gave his companions directions how to proceed in his last moments. He instructed them also in regard to the manner in which they were to arrange his body when dead, and the ceremonies to be performed when it was committed to the earth. He then, for the last time, heard the confessions of his companions, encouraging them to rely on the mercy and protection of God, and then sent them away to take the repose they so much needed. After a few hours he felt that he was about taking his last sleep, and calling them, he took his crucifix and placing it in their hands, pronounced in a clear voice his profession of faith, thanking the Almighty for the favor of permitting him to die a Jesuit Missionary. Then calmly folding his arms upon his breast with the name of Jesus on his lips, and his eyes raised to heaven, while over his face beamed the radiance of immortality, he passed away to the land of the blest. In conformity with the directions of the deceased, in due time his companions prepared the body for burial, and to the sound of his Chapel bell bore it slowly and solemnly to the place designated, where they committed it to the dust, and erected a rude cross to point out to the passing traveler the place of his grave. James Marquette was of a most ancient and honorable family of the city of Laon, France. Born at the ancient seat of his family, in the year 1637, he was, through his pious mother, Rose de la Salle, allied to the venerable John Baptist de la Salle, the founder of the institute known as the Brothers of the Christian Schools. At the age of seventeen he entered the Society of Jesus, and after two years of study and self-examination had passed away, he was, as is usual with the young Jesuits, employed in teaching, which position he held for twelve years. No sooner had he been invested with the priesthood, than his desire to become in all things an imitator of his chosen patron, St. Francis Xavier, induced him to seek a mission in some land that knew not God, that he might labor there to his latest breath, and die unaided and alone. His desire was gratified. For nine years he labored among the Indians, and was able to preach to them in ten different languages; but he rests from his labors, and his works follow him. He died, May 18, 1675. The Indians of Mackinaw and vicinity, and also those of Kaskaskia, were in great sorrow when the tidings of Marquette's death reached them. Not long after this melancholy event, a large company of Ojibwas, Ottawas, and Hurons, who had been out on a hunting expedition, landed their canoes at the mouth of the Marquette river, with the intention of removing his remains to Mackinaw. They had heard of his desire to have his body interred in the consecrated ground of St. Ignatius, and they had resolved that the dying wish of the missionary should be fulfilled. As they stood around in silence and gazed upon the cross that marked the place of his burial, the hearts of the stern warriors were moved. The bones of the missionary were dug up and placed in a neat box of bark made for the occasion, and the numerous canoes which formed a large fleet started from the mouth of the river with nothing but the sighs of the Indians, and the dip of the paddles to break the silence of the scene. As they advanced towards Mackinaw, the funeral cortege was met by a large number of canoes bearing Ottawas, Hurons, and Iroquois, and still others shot out ever and anon to join the fleet. When they arrived in sight of the Point, and beheld the cross of St. Ignatius as if painted against the northern sky, the missionaries in charge came out to the beach clad in vestments adapted to the occasion. How was the scene heightened when the priests commenced, as the canoe bearing the remains of Marquette neared the shore, to chant the requiem for the dead. The whole population was out, entirely covering the beach, and as the procession marched up to the Chapel with cross and prayer, and tapers burning, and laid the bark box beneath a pall made in the form of a coffin, the sons and daughters of the forest wept. After the funeral service was ended, the coffin was placed in a vault in the middle of the church, where the Catholic historian says, "Marquette reposes as the guardian angel of the Ottawa missions." "He was the first and last white man who ever had such an assembly of the wild sons of the forest to attend him to his grave. "So many stirring events succeeded each other after this period--first, the war between the English Colonists, and the French; then the Colonists with the Indians, the Revolutionary War, the Indian Wars, and finally the War of 1812, with the death of all those who witnessed his burial, including the Fathers who officiated at the time, whose papers were lost, together with the total destruction and evacuation of this mission station for many years, naturally obliterated all recollections of the transaction, which accounts for the total ignorance of the present inhabitants of Point St. Ignatius respecting it. The locality of his grave is lost; but only until the Archangel's trump, at the last, shall summon him from his narrow grave, with those plumed and painted warriors who now lie around him." The Missionaries who succeeded Marquette, at Mackinaw, continued their labors until 1706, when, finding it useless to continue the mission, or struggle any longer with superstition and vice, they burned down their College and Chapel, and returned to Quebec. The governor, alarmed at this step, at last promised to enforce the laws against the dissolute French, and prevailed on Father Marest to return. Soon after the Ottawas, discontented at Detroit, a French post, which was served by the Recollects, and where the blood of a Recollect had been shed in a riot, began to move back to Mackinaw, and the mission was renewed. In 1721, Charlevoix visited this mission, and this is the last we hear of it. Nearly two hundred years have passed away since that event. The Chapel of St. Ignatius has passed away, and with it the Chapel, and Fort, and College at Old Mackinaw. Nothing is left but the stone walls and stumps of the pickets which surrounded them, and which may be seen to this day. To the Catholic, this consecrated spot, the site of one of their first Chapels, and their first College in the great northwest, must possess unusual interest. As there is a difference of opinion in relation to the burial place of Marquette, whether it was on the north or south side of the Straits, we give the following from "Schoolcraft's Discovery of the Sources of the Mississippi." He says: "They carried his body to the Mission of Old Mackinaw, of which he was the founder, where it was interred. It is known that the Mission of Mackinaw fell on the downfall of the Jesuits. When the post of Mackinaw was removed from the peninsula to the island, which was about 1780, the bones of the Missionary were transferred to the old Catholic burial ground, in the village on the island. There they remained till a land or property question arose to agitate the Church, and when the crisis happened the whole grave-yard was disturbed, and his bones, with others, were transferred to the Indian village of La Crosse, which is in the vicinity of L'Arbre Croche, Michigan." There is a difference of opinion also as to the point from whence Marquette and his companions started for the discovery of the Mississippi. Schoolcraft says: "Wherever Missilimackinac is mentioned in the Missionary letters, or in the history of this period, it is the ancient Fort on the apex of the Michigan peninsula that is alluded to." In his Introduction to the above work, he says, that "Father Marquette, after laying the foundation of Missilimackinac, proceeded in company with Sieur Joliet, up the Fox River of Green Bay, and crossing the portage into the Wisconsin, entered the Mississippi in 1673." It is an established fact, that Marquette organized the Mission at Old Mackinaw, in the year 1671, subsequently to that at the opposite point, and that he remained there until the year 1673, when he embarked with Joliet on his exploring tour of the Mississippi. Charlevoix places the Mission of St. Ignace, on the south side of the Straits, adjoining the Fort, and has made no such designation on the north side, showing at least that this mission was more modern than the other. Nearly all the Jesuit Missions bore the name of St. Ignatius, in honor of their founder, as those of the Franciscans bore the name of St. Francis. Ignatius Loyola and Francis Xavier were the founders of these sects. CHAPTER IV. La Salle's visit to Mackinaw -- English traders -- La Hontan's visit -- Mackinaw an English fort -- Speech of a Chippewa Chief -- Indian stratagem -- Massacre of the English at the fort -- Escape of Mr. Alexander Henry -- Early white settlement of Mackinaw -- Present description -- Relations of the Jesuits -- Remarkable phenomena -- Parhelia -- Subterranean river. In the summer of 1679 the Griffin, built by La Salle and his company on the shore of Lake Erie, at the present site of the town of Erie, passed up the St. Clair, sailed over the Huron, and entering the Straits, found a safe harbor at Old Mackinaw. La Salle's expedition passed eight or nine years at this place, and from hence they penetrated the country in all directions. At the same time it continued to be the summer resort of numerous Indian tribes who came here to trade and engage in the wild sports and recreations peculiar to the savage race. As a city of peace, it was regarded in the same light that the ancient Hebrews regarded their cities of Refuge, and among those who congregated here all animosities were forgotten. The smoke of the calumet of peace always ascended, and the war cry never as yet has been heard in its streets. In Heriot's Travels, published in 1807, we find the following interesting item: 'In 1671 Father Marquette came hither with a party of Hurons, whom he prevailed on to form a settlement. A fort was constructed, and it afterward became an important spot. It was the place of general assemblage for all the French who went to traffic with the distant nations. It was the asylum of all savages who came to exchange their furs for merchandise. When individuals belonging to tribes at war with each other came thither, and met on commercial adventure, their animosities were suspended.' Notwithstanding San-ge-man and his warriors had braved the dangers of the Straits and had slain a hundred of their enemies whose residence was here, yet it was not in the town that they were slain. No blood was ever shed by Indian hands within its precincts up to this period, and had it remained in possession of the French the terrible scenes subsequently enacted within its streets would in all probability never have occurred, and Old Mackinaw would have been a city of Refuge to this day. The English, excited by the emoluments derived from the fur trade, desired to secure a share in this lucrative traffic of the northwestern Lakes. They, accordingly, in the year 1686, fitted out an expedition, and through the interposition of the Fox Indians, whose friendship they secured by valuable presents; the expedition reached Old Mackinaw, the "Queen of the Lakes," and found the El Dorado they had so long desired. The following interesting description, from Parkman's "History of the Conspiracy of Pontiac," of a voyage by an English merchant to Old Mackinaw about this time, will be in place here: "Passing the fort and settlement of Detroit, he soon enters Lake St. Clair, which seems like a broad basin filled to overflowing, while along its far distant verge a faint line of forests separates the water from the sky. He crosses the lake, and his voyagers next urge his canoe against the current of the great river above. At length Lake Huron opens before him, stretching its liquid expanse like an ocean to the furthest horizon. His canoe skirts the eastern shore of Michigan, where the forest rises like a wall from the water's edge, and as he advances onward, an endless line of stiff and shaggy fir trees hung with long mosses, fringe the shore with an aspect of desolation. Passing on his right the extensive Island of Bois Blanc, he sees nearly in front the beautiful Island of Mackinaw rising with its white cliffs and green foliage from the broad breast of waters. He does not steer toward it, for at that day the Indians were its only tenants, but keeps along the main shore to the left, while his voyagers raise their song and chorus. Doubling a point he sees before him the red flag of England swelling lazily in the wind, and the palisades and wooden bastions of Fort Mackinaw standing close upon the margin of the lake. On the beach canoes are drawn up, and Canadians and Indians are idly lounging. A little beyond the fort is a cluster of white Canadian houses roofed with bark and protected by fences of strong round pickets. The trader enters the gate and sees before him an extensive square area, surrounded by high palisades. Numerous houses, barracks, and other buildings form a smaller square within, and in the vacant place which they enclose appear the red uniforms of British soldiers, the grey coats of the Canadians, and the gaudy Indian blankets mingled in picturesque confusion, while a multitude of squaws with children of every hue stroll restlessly about the place. Such was old fort Mackinaw in 1763." La Hontan, who visited Mackinaw in 1688, says: "It is a place of great importance. It is not above half a league distant from the Illinese (Michigan) Lake. Here the Hurons and Ottawas have each of them a village, the one being severed from the other by a single palisade, but the Ottawas are beginning to build a fort upon a hill that stands but one thousand or twelve hundred paces off. In this place the Jesuits have a little house or college adjoining to a church, and inclosed with pales that separate it from the village of the Hurons. The Courriers de Bois have but a very small settlement here, at the same time it is not inconsiderable, as being the staple of all the goods that they truck with the south and west savages; for they cannot avoid passing this way when they go to the seats of the Illinese and the Oumamis on to the Bay des Puanto, and to the River Mississippi. Missilimackinac is situated very advantageously, for the Iroquese dare not venture with their sorry canoes to cross the stright of the Illinese Lake, which is two leagues over; besides that the Lake of the Hurons is too rough for such slender boats, and as they cannot come to it by water, so they cannot approach it by land by reason of the marshes, fens, and little rivers which it would be very difficult to cross, not to mention that the stright of the Illinese Lake lies still in their way." As rivals of the French, the English were never regarded with favor by the various Indian tribes. Constant encroachments by the English from year to year, though they were lavish of their gifts did not tend to soften the hostility of the tribes. Thus matters continued until Mackinaw passed into the hands of the English, which event took place after the fall of Quebec in the year 1759. This transfer of jurisdiction from a people that the Indians loved to one that they experienced a growing hate for during three-quarters of a century, filled them with a spirit of revenge. Such was the dislike of the Indians of Mackinaw to the English, that when Alexander Henry visited that place in 1761, he was obliged to conceal the fact that he was an Englishman and disguise himself as a Canadian voyager. On the way he was frequently warned by the Indians to turn back, as he would not be received at Mackinaw, and as there were no British soldiers there as yet, he was assured that his visit would be attend with great hazard. He still persisted, however, and finally, with his canoes laden with goods he reached the fort, which, we have before remarked, was surrounded with palisades, and occupied the high ground immediately back from the beach. When he entered the village he met with a cold reception, and the inhabitants did all in their power to alarm and discourage him. Soon after his arrival he received the very unpleasant intelligence, that a large number of Chippewas were coming from the neighboring villages in their canoes to call upon him. Under ordinary circumstances this information would not have excited any alarm, but as the French of Mackinaw as well as the Indians were alike hostile to the English trader, it was no difficult matter to apprehend danger. At length the Indians, about sixty in number, arrived, each with a tomahawk in one hand and a scalping knife in the other. The garrison at this time contained about ninety soldiers, a commander and two officers. Beside the small arms, on the bastions were mounted two small pieces of brass cannon. Beside Henry, there were four English merchants at the fort. After the Indians were introduced to Henry and his English brethren, their chief presented him with a few strings of wampum and addressed them as follows: "Englishmen, it is to you that I speak, and I demand your attention. You know that the French King is our father. He promised to be such, and we in turn promised to be his children. This promise we have kept. It is you that have made war with this our father. You are his enemy, and how then could you have the boldness to venture among us, his children. You know that his enemies are ours. We are informed that our father, the King of France, is old and infirm, and that being fatigued with making war upon your nation, he has fallen asleep. During this sleep you have taken advantage of him and possessed yourselves of Canada. But his nap is almost at an end. I think I hear him already stirring and inquiring for his children, and when he does awake what must become of you? He will utterly destroy you. Although you have conquered the French you have not conquered us. We are not your slaves. These lakes, these woods and mountains are left to us by our ancestors, they are our inheritance and we will part with them to none. Your nation supposes that we, like the white people, cannot live without bread, and pork, and beef, but you ought to know that He, the Great Spirit and Master of Life, has provided food for us in these spacious lakes and on these woody mountains. "Our father, the King of France, employed our young men to make war upon your nation. In this warfare many of them have been killed, and it is our custom to retaliate until such time as the spirits of the slain are satisfied. But the spirits of the slain are to be satisfied in one of two ways; the first is by the spilling the blood of the nation by which they fell, the other by covering the bodies of the dead, and thus allaying the resentment of their relations. This is done by making presents. Your king has never sent us any presents, nor entered into any treaty with us, wherefore he and we are still at war, and until he does these things we must consider that we have no other father or friend among the white men than the King of France. But for you, we have taken into consideration that you have ventured among us in the expectation that we would not molest you. You do not come around with the intention to make war. You come in peace to trade with us, and supply us with necessaries, of which we are in much need. We shall regard you, therefore, as a brother, and you may sleep tranquilly without fear of the Chippewas. As a token of friendship we present you with this pipe to smoke." Henry was afterwards visited by a party of two hundred Ottawa warriors from _L'Arbre Croche_, about seventy miles southwest of Mackinaw. One of the Chiefs addressed him thus:-- "Englishmen: We, the Ottawas, were some time since informed of your arrival in this country, and of your having brought with you the goods we so much need. At this news we were greatly pleased, believing that, through your assistance, our wives and children would be able to pass another winter; but, what was our surprise, when a few days ago we were informed the goods which we had expected were intended for us were on the eve of departure for distant countries, some of which are inhabited by our enemies. These accounts being spread, our wives and children came to us crying, and desiring that we should go to the Fort to learn with our ears the truth or falsehood. We accordingly embarked, almost naked as you see, and on our arrival here we have inquired into the accounts, and found them true. We see your canoes ready to depart, and find your men engaged for the Mississippi and other distant regions. Under these circumstances we have considered the affair, and you are now sent for that you may hear our determination, which is, that you shall give each of our men, young and old, merchandise and ammunition to the amount of fifty beaver skins on credit, and for which I have no doubt of their paying you in the summer, on their return from their wintering." The demands of the Indians upon the English, and their dissatisfaction arising therefrom, had the effect to rouse the different tribes, and they were noticed assembling from the surrounding country in great numbers, and gathering in the vicinity of Mackinaw. One night four hundred Indians lay around the Fort, evidently plotting mischief. A Chippewa chief apprised Henry of the impending danger; but when the suspicions were communicated to the Commandant of the Fort, Major Etherington, he took no notice of it, supposing that the Indians only resorted to this for the purpose of intimidation. The next day being the King's birthday, the Indians proposed to celebrate it by a game of _baggatiway_. It was played with bat and ball, and the contestants were the Chippewas and Sacs. Major Etherington was present at the game, and bet largely on the side of the Chippewas. In the midst of the game, when all were in a high state of excitement, a warrior struck the ball and sent it whizzing over the palisade into the Fort. Instantly the Indian war yell was heard, and the savages rushed within the gate, not however for the ball, but to tomahawk and scalp every Englishman within the Fort. The French stood by as silent spectators of the bloody scene, and were not attacked. Henry witnessed the dreadful slaughter from his window, and being unarmed he hastened out, and springing over a low fence which divided his house from that of M. Langlade, the French Interpreter, entered the latter, and requested some one to direct him to a place of safety. Langlade hearing the request, replied that he could do nothing for him. At that moment a slave belonging to Langlade, of the Pawnee tribe of Indians, took him to a door which she opened, and informed him that it led to the garret where he might conceal himself. She then locked the door and took away the key. Through a hole in the wall Henry could have a complete view of the Fort. He beheld the heaps of the slain, and heard the savage yells, until the last victim was dispatched. Having finished the work of death in the Fort, the Indians went out to search the houses. Some Indians entered Langlade's house and asked if there were any Englishmen concealed in it. He replied that he did not know, they might search for themselves. At length they opened the garret door and ascended the stairs, but Henry had concealed himself among a heap of birch-bark vessels, which had been used in making maple sugar, and thus escaped. Fatigued and exhausted, he lay down on a mat and went to sleep, and while in this condition he was surprised by the wife of Langlade, who remarked that the Indians had killed all the English, but she hoped he might escape. Fearing, however, that she would fall a prey to their vengeance if it was found that an Englishman was concealed in her house, she at length revealed the place of Henry's concealment, giving as a reason therefor, that if he should be found her children would be destroyed. Unlocking the door, she was followed by several Indians, who were led by Wenniway, a noted chief. At sight of him the chief seized him with one hand, and brandishing a large carving knife, was about to plunge it into his heart, when he dropped his arm, saying, "I won't kill you. My brother, Musinigon, was slain by the English, and you shall take his place and be called after him." He was carried to L'Arbre Croche as a prisoner, where he was rescued by a band of three hundred Ottawas, by whom he was returned to Mackinaw, and finally ransomed by his Indian friend Wawatam. At the capture of the place only one trader, M. Tracy, lost his life. Captain Etherington was carried away by some Indians from the scene of slaughter. Seventy of the English troops were slain. An Englishman, by the name of Solomon, saved himself by hiding under a heap of corn, and his boy was saved by creeping up a chimney, where he remained two days. A number of canoes, filled with English traders, arriving soon after the massacre, they were seized, and the traders, dragged through the water, were beaten and marched by the Indians to the prison lodge. After they had completed the work of destruction, the Indians, about four hundred in number, entertaining apprehensions that they would be attacked by the English, and the Indians who had joined them, took refuge on the Island of Mackinac, Wawatam fearing that Henry would be butchered by the savages in their drunken revels, took him out to a cave, where he lay concealed for one night on a heap of human bones. As the Fort was not destroyed, it was subsequently reoccupied by British soldiers, and the removal to the Island did not take place until about the year 1780. Old Mackinaw, the theatre of so many thrilling scenes and tragic incidents, has a history as a white settlement, reaching back to 1620, the year of the landing of the Pilgrims at Plymouth. W. M. Johnson, Esq., of Mackinac Island, in describing its history, says: "Mackinaw City," for such has become the name of this wonderful point, "with its coasts and the islands before it, has been the theatre of some of the most exciting and interesting events in Indian history, previous to the arrival of the 'white man.' It was the metropolis of a portion of the Ojibwa and Ottawa nations. It was there that their Congresses met, to adopt a policy which terminated in the conquest of the country south of it; it was there that the tramping feet of thousands of plumed and painted warriors shook Pe-quod-e-nonge--the Indian name--while dancing their war dances, it was from thence that the startling sound of the war yell of these thousands was wafted to the adjacent coast and islands, making the peaceful welkin ring with their unearthly shouts of victory or death. "How remarkable, in reflecting upon the early and sound judgment of the Indians in seizing upon the points commanding all the natural avenues and passes of the Lakes, when it is considered that there selections must necessarily have been the result of an intimate knowledge with the geographical features of the country! This has been yearly proved by the re-occupation of posts and places long neglected, but the importance of which has become evident in proportion as we have set a just value upon the Indian's judgment, with the natural advantages of the country. Perhaps in no instance, is this more strikingly exemplified than in Mackinaw City, the commanding position of which, although always known to the Indians, Traders, and Missionaries, and lately confirmed by Military Scientific Europeans; _but as yet not perceived by our Government_. It is the only point which can control the passage of the Straits of Mackinaw, and also the Indians living in numerous villages south of the Straits. The Island of Mackinac was merely occupied by the English to escape a second massacre as in 1763; and which occupancy our Government has blindly followed, believing it, as an evidence of English military skill and judgment in the selection of commanding posts, while they at that period did not make this selection with any reference to a future hostile maritime power who might wish to pass, or force a passage through the Straits. [Illustration: Sugar Loaf--Mackinac.] [Illustration: Mackinac Island. 1. Lover's Leap. 2. Harbor. 3. Village. 4. Fort. 5. Signal. 6. Sugar Loaf. 7. Mission. 8. Robinson's Folly.] "The land rises gradually from the water at Mackinaw City, until it reaches an elevation of seventy-five feet, from which beautiful and picturesque views are obtained of the waters of the Straits, with the numerous Islands sleeping on its bosom. The prospect from the City is beautiful, beyond description--the Battery at New York can only be compared to it, which is like it in its location. The visitor will enjoy the view presented of the Islands, Points, and adjacent shores; especially on a calm day, for the lake, and the green woods upon isle and promontory, lie with a sleepy stillness before him, enhancing the beauty of the prospect; and when the mind contemplates the events of two hundred and fifty years ago, when thousands of the red sons of the forest passed and repassed the site upon which he now stands, he will appreciate more fully the rapid strides of civilization. "Two hundred and fifty years ago, bark canoes only dotted the surface of the Lake; this spell of quiet was then broken a few years afterward by the boisterous Canadian _Voyageur_ with his songs, as he rowed or paddled his _bateaux_ and large northwest canoe. Now, the roaring noise of the wheels of steamers, the shrill whistle of the propeller, and the whitening sails of hundreds of vessels have succeeded to the past age of darkness and quiet. Civilization and commerce have broken the charm which beautified Indian scenery in years forever gone by." A work, published under the auspices of the Canadian Government, in three large octavo volumes, French, entitled "Relations of the Jesuits," containing the most remarkable events that transpired in the missions of the Jesuits in New France, furnishes valuable information of the missions in the Mackinaw region. Among the remarkable phenomena which came under the observation of the Jesuit Fathers in Mackinaw, was the appearance of a parhelion on the 21st of January, 1671. This remarkable phenomenon occurred about two hours before sunset. It presented the form of a great crescent with its points turned toward the sun. At the same time two other suns appeared, equidistant from it, partly covered by a cloud having all the colors of the rainbow, very luminous and dazzling to the eye. The Indians said it was a premonition of great cold, which followed soon after. On the 16th March the same parhelion appeared, and was seen from three different places more than fifty leagues apart. The observer at the Mackinaw mission saw three suns distant some half league from each other. They were seen twice the same day, one hour before sunrise and one hour before sunset. In the morning they were on the south side of the true sun, and in the evening on the west side. That on the south side was so accurate that it was difficult to distinguish it from the true sun, excepting that it was partly surrounded by a scarlet band on the side toward the sun. That on the other side had more the appearance of an oval iris than a sun, nevertheless it was an image like those which painters adorn with golden rays, giving it a very magnificent appearance. The same parhelion was seen on the island of Manitou in Lake Huron, and accompanied by a very remarkable appearance. Three suns appeared in the west, parallel with the earth. They were equal in size, but not in beauty. The true sun was west-by-southwest, and the false sun on each side. At the same time were seen parts of two circles parallel to the horizon, having the colors of the rainbow, beside a fourth part of the circle perpendicular to the horizon, having nearly the same color, touched the false sun, which was in the southwest, and cutting the half circle parallel to the horizon, was mingled and lost in its rays. The false suns disappeared from time to time, and even the true sun. Finally, a fourth sun was seen placed in a right line. When the false suns disappeared they left after them two rainbows, as beautiful as their own light. The Indians, who attributed all these signs to the Genii, and who believe that they are married, wanted to know of the missionary if these were not the wives of the sun. At this question it occurred to him that a favorable opportunity was presented for explaining to them the mysteries of the Trinity. On the next day the Indian women, who before would not come to hear prayers, came and presented their children to be baptized. At the Saut St. Mary, seven false suns appeared around the true sun. The true sun was in the centre of a circle formed by the colors of the rainbow. On either side were two false suns, and also one above and one below. These four were placed on the circumference of the circle, and at equal distances directly opposite from each other. Beside this, another circle of the same color as the first, but much larger, rested the upper part of its circumference in the centre of the true sun, while below and on either side were the false suns. All these eight luminaries made a grand spectacle. Auroras, even in midsummer, are of frequent occurrence, and exhibit a brilliancy and extent rarely observed in lower latitudes. The phenomena which most frequently occur are the following: A dark cloud tinged on the upper edge with a pale luminous haze, skirts the northern horizon. From this streaks of orange and blue colored light flash up, and often reach a point south of the zenith. They rapidly increase and decrease, giving to the whole hemisphere the appearance of luminous waves and occasionally forming perfect corona. They commence shortly after sunset and continue during the night. The voyagers regard them as the precursors of storms and gales, and our own observations have confirmed the result. Occasionally broad belts of light are seen spanning the whole arc of the heavens, of sufficient brilliancy to enable one to read. In the winter these phenomena are much more frequent, and the ground appears tinged with a crimson hue. We find in these relations of the Jesuits other matters of equal interest. The fathers of the missions in and around the Straits of Mackinaw gave it as their opinion, that the waters of Lake Superior entered into the Straits by a subterranean passage, and in support of it, mention the wonderful fact that the current floats against the wind, and notwithstanding it drives furiously in one direction, vessels are enabled to sail in a contrary direction as rapidly as though the wind were not blowing. In addition to this, they refer to the constant boiling up of the waters. Without admitting this theory, they affirmed that it was impossible to explain two things. The first is, that without such subterranean passage it is impossible to tell what becomes of the waters of Lake Superior. This vast lake has but one visible outlet, namely, the river of the Saut, while it receives into its bosom the waters of a large number of rivers, some twelve of which are of greater dimensions than the Saut. What then, they ask, becomes of all these waters if they do not find an issue through a subterranean river. The second reason for their belief in this theory is the impossibility to explain from whence come the waters of Lake Huron and Lake Michigan? But very few rivers flow into these lakes, and their size is such as to justify the belief that they must be supplied through the subterranean river entering into the Straits. CHAPTER V. Island of the Giant Fairies -- Possession by the English -- Erection of Government house -- French remain at Old Mackinaw -- Finally abandoned -- Extent of the Island -- History -- Description -- Natural curiosities -- Arch Rock -- Sugar Loaf Rock -- Scull Rock -- Dousman's Farm -- Davenport's Farm -- Robinson's Folly -- The Devil's Punch Bowl -- Healthful atmosphere -- Transparency of the waters -- Compared with Saratoga, Cape May, and Mt. Washington as a point for health and recreation -- Description of a traveler in 1854 -- Arrival of steamers and sailing vessels at the port during the year -- Mr. Johnson's reminiscences -- Indian name of Island -- Mythology -- Three brothers of the great Genii -- Visit to the subterranean abode of the Genii -- Vision -- Apostrophe of an old Indian Chief -- Old buildings -- Door of Marquette's Chapel -- John Jacob Astor and the fur trade -- Present support of the place -- Fort Mackinaw -- Fort Holmes -- Fine view -- Interesting localities -- War of 1812 -- Death of Major Holmes -- Soil of the Island. The old fort having been deserted by the English, as we have noticed in a previous chapter, and they having fled to the Island of Mackinaw, which, in the Indian name, signifies Island of the giant fairies, preparations were made for a settlement. Sir Wm. Johnston called a grand council with those Indians who had been engaged in the massacre at Old Mackinaw. By this council, which was held in 1764, the spring following the siege, a way was opened for St. Clair to negotiate for the island, and also for the grants previously made by the Indians to the French for military purposes. The first thing done after the island had been obtained was the erection of a government house. The French and others who still remained at Old Mackinaw, amounting only to about three hundred, continued a few years, when they finally left, and everything was suffered to go into decay. A desolation reigned over it for many years, and, on account of the bloody siege, that point, which was the most attractive as well as the most important to Indians, French, and English in all the Lake region was, as if by common consent, abandoned. [Illustration: Arch Rock.] [Illustration: Rock Castle--Pictured Rocks.] The "New Mackinaw," as it is called, distant seven miles from the Old, is on an island about nine miles in circumference, and covers an area of six thousand acres. Its extreme elevation above the lake is about three hundred and twelve feet. The village and fortress are situated on the southeastern extremity of the island, where there is a good harbor protected by a water battery. The island remained in possession of the British until 1793, when it was surrendered to the United States. It was retaken in 1812, but restored again by the treaty of Ghent, in 1814. It is situated in North lat. 45° 54', West lon. 84° 30' from Greenwich, being 7° 30' west from Washington. It is three hundred and fifty miles north of Chicago and about three hundred miles north from Detroit, and about two hundred and fifty miles west of Collingswood, Canada. The fort stands on an elevated ground about two hundred feet above the water. The town contains at present three hotels, six boarding houses, eight dry-goods stores, and seven groceries. Its public buildings are a Court House, Jail, Custom House, Post Office, and Express Office. There are two Churches, the Roman Catholic and Presbyterian. The first thing we shall notice as a natural attraction on the island, is what is called "The Arch Rock." This is a natural arch projecting from the precipice on the northeastern side of the island, about a mile from the fort, and elevated about one hundred and forty feet above the level of the water. Its abutments are formed of calcareous rock, and have been produced by the falling down of great masses of rock, leaving a chasm of eighty or ninety feet in height, and covered by the arch which spans it of fifty or sixty feet sweep. The scene presented by cliff and chasm is one of wild grandeur. Like the Natural Bridge of Virginia, it possesses an attraction to all fond of natural curiosities, sufficient of itself to justify a visit to the northern lakes. The view from the beach is particularly grand. Before you is a magnificent arch suspended in mid air. Indian tradition says that this wonderful arch was formed by the giant spirits who inhabited this island. Geological tradition, however, indicates that it was formed by the action of the waters, which were at a remote period much higher than at the present time. The next object which strikes the attention of the visitors is the "Sugar Loaf Rock," a high, isolated, conical rock which, resting upon the elevated plateau that forms the next highest point of the island from that of Fort Holmes, exhibits a rise of some sixty to eighty feet. This is but little less than the elevation of the ridge which forms the crowning plan of the island, and upon which the dismantled post of Fort Holmes is seen, being separated therefrom by a distance not exceeding one hundred and fifty yards. By what violent throe of nature it has become severed from the adjacent ridge, of which it no doubt, formed a part, is matter of curious inquiry. Has nature done this by gradual recession, or by the slow upheaval of the land? On inspection, this rock is found cavernous, slightly crystalline, with its strata distorted in every conceivable direction. In its crevices grow a few cedars and vines. As the visitor approaches it by the road side its effect is grand and imposing; still more so, perhaps, when beheld from the top of the ridge, where its isolated position with its bold form, breaking the outline of the island, strikes the beholder with wonder and admiration. Robinson's Folly is a high bluff, northeast from the village of Mackinaw, half a mile from the mission house. Soon after the settlement of the modern Mackinaw, Capt. Robinson, of the English army, then commanding this port, had a summer house built on the brow of this bluff, now called Robinson's Folly, for the purpose of enjoying the prospect from that cool and elevated spot. Often he and his brother officers resorted there during the summer days, to while away lonely and tedious hours. Pipes, cigars, and wine, were brought into requisition. No Englishman at that period was without them; in fact, no hospitality or entertainment was complete without them. They were indeed isolated; the nearest white settlements being then Detroit, Green Bay, Saut St. Mary, and Chicago. Communications with these places were not frequent. A few years after, from the action of the elements, the brow of the bluff, where Robinson's Folly stood, was precipitated to the base of the rock, where the fragments can now be seen, which disastrous event gave rise to its name. The "Scull Rock," half a mile or three quarters northwest from the rear of Fort Mackinaw, is chiefly noted for a cavern, which appears to have been a receptacle for human bones, many of which were still to be observed about its mouth a few years ago. The entrance is low and narrow, and seems to promise little to reward the labors of exploration. It is here probably that Alexander Henry was secreted by the chief Wawatam after the horrid massacre of the British garrison at Old Mackinaw. Chimney Rock well repays the trouble of a visit, with the other points of interest on the island. Dousman's Farm, two miles west from the Village of Mackinaw, consists of a section of land; the road to the English or British landing passes through it, also to Scott's or Flinn's Cave, which is on the northwestern portion of the farm. There are three springs of cold delicious water on this farm, two of them are shaded by beech and maple trees. This farm yields yearly from eighty to one hundred tons of hay, besides a large quantity of potatoes and other farm produce. Davenport's Farm, about one and a half miles from the village, is situated on the southwestern portion of the Island. At the base of the bluff, on the south part of this farm, is the Devil's Caves, and near them is a beautiful spring of clear cold water, shaded by evergreens and other trees. Half way up the bluff, which is nearly, if not fully, three hundred feet high at this point; stands out, detached from the limestone, an isolated rock, in appearance similar to the Sugar Loaf Rock, which some persons have called the Lover's Leap; it is worth the trouble of a visit, which a few minutes walk from the village accomplishes. There are several points called Lover's Leap, so called by romantic visitors, within the last few years. A gentleman from Chicago, has purchased this farm, and report says that several summer-houses are to be built upon it, which will enhance the beauty of this locality. Wm. M. Johnston Esq., furnishes the following tradition of Lover's Leap: "The huge rock called the 'Lover's Leap' is situated about one mile west of the village of Mackinaw. It is a high perpendicular bluff, one hundred and fifty to two hundred feet in height, rising boldly from the shore of the lake. A solitary pine tree formerly stood upon its brow, which some Vandal has cut down. "Long before the pale faces profaned this island home of the Genii, a young Ojibwa girl, just maturing into womanhood, often wandered there, and gazed from its dizzy heights and witnessed the receding canoes of the large war parties of the combined bands of the Ojibwas and Ottawas speeding south, seeking for fame and scalps. "It was there she often sat, mused and hummed the songs Ge-niw-e-gwon loved; this spot was endeared to her, for it was there that she and Ge-niw-e-gwon first met and exchanged words of love, and found an affinity of souls existing between them. It was there she often sat and sang the Ojibwa love song-- 'Mong-e-do-gwain, in-de-nain-dum, Mong-e-do-gwain, in-de-nain-dum, Wain-shung-ish-ween, neen-e-mo-shane, Wain-shung-ish-ween, neen-e-mo-shane, A-nee-wau-wau-sau-bo-a-zode, A-nee-wau-wau-sau-bo-a-zode.' I give but one verse, which may be translated as follows: A loon, I thought was looming, A loon, I thought was looming: Why! it is he, my lover, Why! it is he, my lover; His paddle, in the waters gleaming, His paddle in the waters gleaming. "From this bluff she often watched and listened for the return of the war parties, for amongst them she knew was Ge-niw-e-gwon; his head decorated with war-eagle plumes, which none but a brave could sport. The west wind often wafted far in advance the shouts of victory and death, as they shouted and sang upon leaving Pe-quod-e-nong (Old Mackinaw), to make the traverse to the Spirit, or Fairiy Island. "One season, when the war party returned, she could not distinguish his familiar and loving war shout. Her spirit, told her that he had gone to the Spirit-Land of the west. It was so: an enemy's arrow had pierced his breast, and after his body was placed leaning against a tree, his face fronting his enemies, he died; but ere he died he wished the mourning warriors to remember him to the sweet maid of his heart. Thus he died far away from home and the friends he loved. "Me-she-ne-mock-e-nung-o-qua's heart hushed its beatings, and all the warm emotions of that heart, were chilled and dead. The moving, living spirit of her beloved Ge-niw-e-gwon, she witnessed continually beckoning her to follow him to the happy hunting grounds of spirits in the west--he appeared to her in human shape, but was invisible to others of his tribe. "One morning her body was found mangled at the foot of the bluff. The soul had thrown aside its covering of earth, and had gone to join the spirit of her beloved Ge-niw-e-gwon, to travel together to the land of spirits." Another point of interest and curiosity is the Devil's Punch Bowl, situated south from the gateway, as you enter the farm of the late J. Dousman, Esq. This Island which rises like a gem on the brow of the lakes, is favored by the clearest and most healthful atmosphere, and washed by the purest and most transparent water in the world, imparting the most pleasurable sensations imaginable. When this enchanting region shall become fully known, Saratoga, Cape May, and Mount Washington will be forgotten by those who fly from the heat and dust of our inland cities, to breathe a pure air and drink health-giving waters. A traveler in 1854, thus describes this interesting locality, "Everything on the island is a curiosity, the roads or streets that wind around the harbor or among the grove-like forests of the island, are naturally pebbled and macadamized, the buildings are of every style, from an Indian lodge to an English house, the island is covered with charming natural scenery, from the beautiful to the grand, and one may spend weeks constantly finding new objects of interest, and new scenes of beauty. The steamers all call here on their way to and from Chicago, and hundreds of small sail vessels in the fishing trade have here their head quarters. Drawn upon the pebbled beach, or gliding about the bay, are bark canoes, and the far-famed Mackinaw boats, without number. These last are the perfection of light sail boats, and I have often been astonished at seeing them far out in the lake, beating up against winds that were next to gales." We are indebted to Mr. Johnston for the following official list, giving the number of sail vessels and steamers that have passed through the Straits of Mackinaw during the _day time_, as reported to the Revenue department, for six months, ending September 30th, 1859. Barques. Brigs. Schr's. Steamers. April, 14 9 101 47 May, 9 11 177 82 June, 15 13 221 194 Next 3 mon's 98 61 764 353 --- --- --- --- 136 94 1263 586 Total, 2079. It would be a pretty correct estimate to add at least one-third more of the total number for those that passed during the night,--which would be a very low estimate of the shipping passing through our straits. But few of the vessels passing through the straits leave the main channel, and go to the island some miles out of the way. The lake traffic has of late years become perfectly enormous, the increase of the western navigation being unprecedented. For example, three thousand and sixty-five steamers passed up from Lake Erie to Lakes Huron and Superior, by Detroit, in 1859, and three thousand one hundred and twenty-one passed down. The greatest number up in a single day was eighty-five--down seventy-three. Detroit statistics show that five steamers, five propellers, four barques, seven brigs, and eighty-five schooners have been more or less engaged in the Lake Superior trade during the past season. Forty vessels left during the season for European and seaboard ports, some of which have returned, and one has taken her second departure. Navigation at Detroit opened March 14th, and closed December 15th. William Johnston, Esq., who has long resided on the island, says: 'The Indians, from the earliest times, have always regarded the Island of Mackinaw with veneration. The Indian name is 'Moc-che-ne-mock-e-nug-gonge,' which, as before stated, signifies Island of Great or Giant Fairies. "Indian mythology relates that three brothers of great or giant Fairies, occupied different Islands in this section of the country. The eldest occupied the Island Missilimackinac, the second lived on the Island Tim-au Rin-ange-onge, in Lake Michigan, now called Pottawattime Island, the youngest inhabited an Island called Pe-quoge-me-nis, in Lake Huron. The heathen Indians, to this day, look upon them with awe and veneration, and in passing to and fro, by their shores, still offer to the Great Spirits tobacco and other offerings, to propitiate their goodwill. The stories they relate of these Great Fairies, are very interesting and worthy of record. "The present southern gate of Fort Mackinac overlooks the spot, where in olden times a door existed, to the entrance of the subterraneous abode of these Giant Fairies. An Indian Chees-a-kee, or spiritualist, who once encamped within the limits of the present garrison, related, that some time during the night, after he had fallen asleep, a fairy touched him and beckoned him to follow. He obeyed and his spirit went with the fairy; they entered the subterraneous abode, through an opening beneath the present gate near the base of the hill. He there witnessed the giant spirits in solemn conclave in what appeared to be a large beautiful wigwam. After being there some time, lost in wonder and admiration, the chief spirit directed one of the lesser ones, to show the Indian spirit out and conduct him back to his body. This Indian could never be induced to divulge the particulars of what he witnessed in his mysterious visit. "An old Indian chief upon leaving this island, to visit his friends in Lake Superior, thus soliloquized, as he sat on the deck of McKnight's splendid steamer, the Illinois, while the darkness began dimly to shadow forth the deep blue outlines of the island: "'Moc-che-ne-mock-e-nug-gonge, thou Isle of the clear, deep-water Lake, how, soothing it is from amidst the curling smoke of my opawgun (pipe), to trace thy deep blue outlines in the distance; to call from memory's tablets the traditions and stories connected with thy sacred and mystic character, how sacred the regard, with which thou hast been once clothed by our Indian seers of gone-by days; how pleasant in imagination for the mind to picture and view, as if now present, the time when the Great Spirit allowed a peaceful stillness to dwell around thee, when only light and balmy winds were permitted to pass over thee, hardly ruffling the mirror surface of the waters that surrounded thee. Nothing then disturbed thy quiet and deep solitude, but the chippering of birds, and the rustling of the leaves of the silver-barked birch; or to hear, by evening twilight the sound of the giant Fairies as they with rapid step, and giddy whirl, dance their mystic dance on thy lime-stone battlements.' "Several old buildings are now standing, the frames of which were brought from old Mackinaw in the year 1764, which gives an odd and venerable appearance to the village. Mr. Schoolcraft had the door of Marquette's Chapel pointed out to him, which had been brought over from Mackinaw, and hung to one of the edifices of the town. "The village formerly received its greatest support from the fur trade, when in the hands of the late John Jacob Astor, Esq., being, at that time, the outfitting and furnishing place for the Indian trade. His outfits extended then to the head waters of the Mississippi, on the northwest, south to Chicago, southwest by the way of Green Bay, to the Mississippi, and Missouri Rivers, in fact his business was carried on throughout all the then northwest Indian country. This trade became extinct in 1834, when Mr. Astor sold out to Ramsey Crooks, Esq., of New York, and others, but it lacked the energy and controlling influence which had been characteristic of Mr. Astor's business, and after languishing a few years, the new company became involved and their outposts were discontinued. "The place since then has been mostly supported from the fisheries, which are excellent and extensive. It is estimated that twenty thousand barrels of white fish and trout are exported from this country alone annually, estimated worth, at this point, about one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. A material support is also derived from the immense amount of trade. "The population is fluctuating, owing to the influx of strangers seeking health, traders, and Indians; but the permanent inhabitants of the village are about one thousand and fourteen, as per census of 1854. "Fort Mackinac stands on a rocky eminence immediately above the town, and is at present garrisoned by a company of United States troops: a chaplain (Episcopalian) is attached to the garrison, and services are held there every Sabbath. Fort Holmes occupies the highest bluff of the island, and is not at present occupied: this fortress was erected by the English, while they held possession of the island, during the last war, and by them named Fort George. But after the surrender of the island in 1814, the name was altered in compliment to the memory of Major Holmes of the United States Army, who fell in the unfortunate attack upon the island by Col. Croghan. The gallant Holmes was killed a little below the rise of ground, as you descend toward the Dousman farm-house, on your way to the British landing. On Fort Holmes is a triangular station for the government engineers, who have been at work some years in the straits. "Visitors mounting the station on a still clear day, have a view of this island, the straits with its curves, islands and points, and the adjacent shores, which well repays them, especially on a calm day, for the lake and green woods lie in stillness before them, taking the mind for hundreds of years back, to the time when thousands of warriors occupied the prominent points brought within view. "Off to the northwest, some four or five miles, lies the mixed Canadian and Indian settlement of Point St. Ignace and Moran Bay, with a few farms, which give a more agreeable view to the otherwise sameness of wood and water. There the Indians, called the Au-se-gum-ugs, lived until driven away by the Ojibwas and Ottawas, as they extended their conquests south and west. There also the Iroquois were permitted to locate and live before the French reached and settled on the St. Lawrence, there some of the Iroquois were massacred and driven off by the Ojibwas and Ottawas. North of this can be seen the outlines of the bluff called "Rabbit Sitting," northeasterly the St. Martin Islands, the entrance of the Chenoux, and the dividing ridge between this and the Saut St. Mary. On the northeast can be seen the Detour, and to the south, Bois Blanc Light-House, and the Cheboy-e-gun; and on the west the Straits of Lake Michigan, with Waugoohance Point and Light-House. "To the northwest of the ridge, where the woods slope by a gradual descent to the shores of the Island, is the place at which the English in the last war (1812), from six to eight hundred strong, composed of a few English, Canadians, the majority being Indians, landed at night, and having secured Michael Dousman's cattle, at his farm adjoining the landing, and succeeded during the night in reaching the hollow, which may be seen on the way from Fort Mackinac to Fort Holmes, a little northwest of the present parade-ground, or nearly opposite the northwest rear gate of the present fort, with their cannon, which by daylight, was placed in battery on the knoll south of the hollow before alluded to, which by its position completely commanded the western gate and the garrison itself, took their station. "At dawn the citizens of the village were roused, and told to flee to a place called the Distillery, west of the present village, as the English troops were about to attack the American fort, and that the English commanding officer had pledged his word for the safety of the lives of those citizens who would flee to the place designated. This was the first intimation the citizens had of war being declared between the United States and Great Britain. Soon a cannon shot was fired over the fort, its booming being also the first intimation the American garrison had of the country being in a state of war. An English officer appeared with a flag to summon the garrison to surrender, stating the overwhelming force they had in command. The American garrison, being short of one full company of men, was surrendered, and the few troops taken and sent to Detroit on parole. After this the English built and occupied Fort George, (now called Fort Holmes) between the years 1812 and 1814. The English government paid ten thousand pounds as prize-money to the volunteers and soldiers, and merchandise and arms to the Indians. In the year 1836 I examined the list or pay-roll for this prize-money; the names of all those who participated in the taking of Fort Mackinac were there enrolled, the money was divided according to rank, and each person receipted for his individual share. "It is worth knowing, that by the treaty of Paris, of 1783, acknowledging the independence of the United States, and fixing its boundaries, Fort Mackinac fell under the jurisdiction of the United States, and was surrendered, according to McKenzie, in 1794. In 1812 it was taken, as before stated, by the English and their Indian allies. It resisted an attack from a strong detachment of the American army and navy in 1814, under Col. Croghan, and was finally restored to the United States by the treaty of Ghent. "In 1814 Col. Croghan landed at the English Landing, under cover of the guns of the American vessels. The troops moved from the landing, and had reached Mr. M. Dousman's farm-house. The skirmishing with the English and Indians had already commenced. East from the house is a ridge over which the road lay. On this ridge and back of it, also on each side of the road, the English were posted in force. The gallant Major Holmes, on reaching the clearing near the house, formed his men for a charge upon the enemy posted on the ridge. To encourage his troops he led the charge. The English and Indians, seeing the strong force, had commenced retreating, when an English sergeant thought he might as well discharge the cannon before retreating with his comrades, so accordingly applied the match. At this instant, Major Holmes was either killed by a grape shot, or by an accidental musket ball. His death threw the Americans into a panic, and they immediately commenced a retreat, which ended in confusion. "When the fleet first appeared before the island, there was only one company of troops in the fort--had Col. Croghan then summoned it to surrender, it would have been given up; but he sailed away, went and burnt the trading-houses at Old St. Joseph's Island, and from thence sent an expedition to the Saut St. Mary, under Major Holmes, who burned the North West Fur Company Houses on the Canada side, and carried away all the personal property of individuals on the American side. Thus ten or twenty days were lost. In the mean time, the Indians had come to the defense of Fort Mackinac, and, on the second appearance of Col. Croghan, they were prepared, and our troops shamefully defeated. "This island, although the bluffs present the appearance of sterility, is covered with a strong soil, which is continually renovated by the spontaneous decomposition of calcareous rock. The common growth of trees on the island are the sugar-maple, beech, birch, white and yellow pine, white and red spruce, balsam fir, white cedar, iron wood, and the poplar; the trees now seen are the second and third growth. On the northwestern part of Mr. Dousman's farm, a few of the old patriarchs of the forest are still standing." CHAPTER VI. Lake Superior -- Scenery -- Transparency of its waters -- Climate -- Isle Royale -- Apostles' Islands -- La Point -- Thunder Cape -- Cariboo Point -- A wonderful lake -- Romantic scenery -- Pictured Rocks -- Rock Castle -- The Grand Portal -- The Chapel -- Fluctuations in the waters of Lake Superior -- Curious phenomena -- Retrocession of the waters -- Mirage -- Iron mountains and mines -- Description of -- Products -- Shipments -- Copper -- Immense boulders -- Produce of the mines for 1857 -- Shipment of copper from the Lake for 1858 -- Centre of the mining country -- Iron Mountains -- Copper mines of Great Britain -- Coal -- Mackinaw, a great manufacturing point -- Key to the Upper Lakes -- Commerce of Lakes -- Growth of cities. Lake Superior, though it possesses not all the vastness of the ocean, is yet equal in sublimity. In gazing upon its surface, whether spread out like a vast mirror reflecting the varying tints of the sky, or ruffled by gently curling waves, or lashed into fury by the tempest, one is impressed with the idea of the Infinite. It is known to be the largest body of fresh water on the globe, being nearly four hundred miles long from east to west, and one hundred and thirty wide. It is the grand reservoir from whence proceed the waters of Michigan, Huron, and Erie. It gives birth to Niagara, the wonder of the world, fills the basin of Ontario, and rolls a mighty flood down the St. Lawrence to the Atlantic. This lake lies in the bosom of a mountainous region, where the Indian yet reigns and roams in his wonted freedom. Except an occasional picketed fort or trading house, it is yet a perfect wilderness. The entire country is rocky and covered with a stunted growth of vegetation such as is usual in high latitudes. The waters of this lake are marvelously clear, and, even at midsummer, are exceedingly cold. Mr. Charles Lanman, who has written a most admirable book, entitled "Summer in the Wilderness," says, "In passing along its rocky shores, in my frail canoe, I have often been alarmed at the sight of a sunken boulder, which I fancied must be near the top, and on further investigation have found myself to be upward of twenty feet from the danger of a concussion. I have frequently lowered a white rag to the depth of one hundred feet and been able to discern its every fold or stain. The color of the water near the shore is a deep green; but off soundings it has all the dark blue of the ocean." Speaking of the climate, he says: "In midsummer it is beyond compare, the air is soft and bracing at the same time. A healthier region does not exist on the earth, an assertion corroborated by the fact, that the inhabitants usually live to an advanced age, notwithstanding the many hardships. The common diseases of mankind are here comparatively unknown, and I have never seen an individual whose breast did not swell with a new emotion of delight as he inhaled the air of this northern wilderness." The largest island in Lake Superior is Isle Royale. It is forty miles in length and from six to ten miles in width. Its hills reach an altitude of four hundred feet. During the winter season it is entirely uninhabited, but in the summer it is frequently visited, particularly by copper speculators. Near the western extremity of the lake are the Apostles' Islands, which are detachments of a peninsula running out in the same direction with Keweenaw, which is known as La Point. The group consist of three islands, which rise like gems from the water. There is a dreamy summer about them which make them enticing as the Hesperides of the ancients. The two most prominent peninsulas are Thunder Cape and Cariboo Point. Thunder Cape is about fourteen hundred feet high. It looms up against the sky in grandeur, and is a most romantic spot. Cariboo Point is less lofty and grand in its appearance, but is celebrated for its unknown hieroglyphics painted upon its summits by a race which has long since passed away. In the vicinity of the bluff are found the most beautiful agates in the world. In the northeastern part of the lake is an island situated about twenty miles from the Canadian shore, which has a wonderful lake in its centre, about one mile in length. It is as beautiful as it is wonderful. It is imbosomed in the fastnesses of perpendicular cliffs, which rise to a height of seven hundred feet. It has but one outlet and is impassable even to a canoe. At the opening of this narrow chasm stands a column of solid rock which has a base of about one hundred feet in diameter. The column rises, gradually tapering until it reaches a height of eight hundred feet. A solitary pine surmounts the summit of this wonderful column. There it stands like the sentinel of this calm, deep lake, whose silence and solitude are rarely ever broken, and whose tranquil bosom has never been ruffled by the slightest breeze. [Illustration: Rock Chapel.] [Illustration: The Castles.] The scenery on the shores of Lake Superior is in some places of the most romantic character. About one hundred miles west of Saut St. Mary, a range of cliffs are to be seen, what has been called the "Pictured Rocks." They are a series of sandstone bluffs extending along the shore of the lake for about five miles, and rising, in most places vertically from the water, from fifty to two hundred feet in height. These towering cliffs have been worn away by the action of the lake, which for centuries has dashed an ocean-like surf against their base. The surface of these rocks has been, in large portions, strangely colored by bands of brilliant hues, which present to the eye of the voyager a singularly pleasing appearance. One of these cliffs resembles so much the turreted entrance and arched portal of some old feudal castle that it has been called "Rock Castle." Beyond this is another architectural curiosity, denominated "The Grand Portal," which consists of an arched opening in the rocks. The cliff is composed of a vast mass, of a rectilinear shape, projecting out into the lake six hundred feet, and presenting a front of three hundred feet, and rising to a height of two hundred feet. An entrance has been excavated from one side to the other, opening out into large vaulted passages which communicate with the great dome, some three hundred feet from the front of the cliff. The Grand Portal, which opens out on the lake, is of magnificent dimensions, being one hundred feet high, and one hundred and sixty-eight feet wide at the water level. The distance from the verge of the cliff, over the arch to the water, is one hundred and thirty-three feet, leaving three feet for the thickness of the rock above the arch itself. The extreme height of the cliff is about fifty feet more, making in all one hundred and eighty-three feet. It is impossible, adequately, to describe this wonderful scene. The vast dimensions of the cavern, the vaulted passages, the rare combination of colors, the varied effects of the light as it streams through the great arch and falls on the different objects; the deep, emerald green of the water, the unvarying swell of the lake, keeping up a succession of musical echoes; the reverberation of one's voice coming back with startling effect, must all be seen and heard to be fully appreciated. Not far from this point is "The chapel" of the voyagers which nature has cut out of the cliff thirty or forty feet above the lake. The interior consists of a spacious vaulted apartment. An arched roof from ten to twenty feet in thickness rests on four gigantic columns of rock. These columns consist of finely stratified rock, and have been worn into curious shapes. At the base of one of these pillars an arched cavity or niche has been cut, access to which is had by a flight of steps formed by the projecting strata. The arrangement of the whole resembles very much the pulpit of a church, while the arched canopy in front, opening out to the voluted interior, with a flat tabular mass rising to a convenient height for a desk, and an isolated block resembling an altar, all fashioned as appropriately as if formed by the hand of man, constantly impresses one that he is within the walls of a church. In the Geological Report, made by Foster and Whitney, to Congress, we find the following remark: "It is a matter of surprise, that so far as we know, none of our artists, have visited this region, and given to the world representations of scenery, so striking and so different from any which can be found elsewhere. We can hardly conceive of any thing more worthy of the artist's pencil, and if the tide of pleasure-travel should once be turned in this direction, it seems not unreasonable to suppose, that a fashionable hotel may yet be built under the shade of the pine groves near the chapel, and a trip thither become as common as one to Niagara now is." Beyond the grand portal, the rock, being less exposed to the force of the waves, bears fewer marks of their destructive action. The entrance to Chapel river is at the most easterly extremity of a sandy beach, which extends for a quarter of a mile, and affords a convenient landing place, while the drift terrace elevated about thirty feet above the level of the lake, being an open pine plain, affords excellent camping ground, and is the most central and convenient spot for the traveler to pitch his tent, while he examines the most interesting localities in the series which occur in the vicinity, particularly the Castle and the Chapel. One who had resided upon the shores of Lake Superior for several summers says, "Our attention has been directed to the fluctuations in the level of its waters, and while we have failed to detect any ebb and flow corresponding with the tidal action, we have on the other hand noticed certain extraordinary swells, which appear to be independent of the action of the sun and moon." The Jesuit Fathers in 1670-1, had their attention called to these extraordinary swells. In their "Relations," they say, "We found at one time the motion of the waters to be regular and at others extremely fluctuating. We have noticed however, that at full moon and new moon, the tides change once a day for eight or ten days, while during the remainder of the time there is hardly any change perceptible. The currents set almost invariably in one direction, namely toward Lake Michigan, and they almost invariably set against the wind, sometimes with great force." Mackenzie who wrote in 1789, relates a very curious phenomenon, which occurred at Grand Portage, on Lake Superior, and for which no obvious cause could be assigned. He says, "the water withdrew, leaving the ground dry, which had never before been visible, the fall being equal to four perpendicular feet, and rushing back with great velocity above the common mark. It continued thus rising and falling for several hours, gradually increasing until it stopped at its usual height." Professor Mather, who observed the barometer at Copper Harbor during the prevalence of one of these fluctuations, remarks, "As a general thing, fluctuations in the barometer accompanied the fluctuations in the level of the water, but sometimes the water level varied rapidly in the harbor, while no such variations occurred in the barometer at the place of observation. The variations in the level of the water may be caused by varied barometric pressure of the air on the water, either at the place of observation or at some distant points. A local increased pressure of the atmosphere at the place of observation would lower the water level, where there is a wide expanse of water; or a diminished pressure, under the same circumstances, would cause the water to rise above its usual level." In the summer of 1834, according to the report of Foster and Whitney, made to Congress, in 1850, an extraordinary retrocession of the waters took place at Saut St. Mary. The river here is nearly a mile in width, and the depth of the water over the sandstone rapids is about two and a half feet. The phenomenon occurred at noon. The day was calm but cloudy; the water retired suddenly, leaving the bed of the river bare, except for the distance of about twenty rods where the channel is deepest, and remained so for the space of an hour. Persons went out and caught fish in the pools formed in the rocky cavities. The return of the waters was sudden and presented a sublime spectacle. They came down like an immense surge, roaring and foaming, and those who had incautiously wandered into the river bed, had barely time to escape being overwhelmed. A similar event occurred in 1842, when the current set back from the rapids, and the water rose upward of two feet above the usual mark. In 1845, Foster and Whitney, while coasting in an open boat between Copper Harbor and Eagle River, observed the water rise up, at a distance of a fourth of a mile to the northwest, to the height of twenty feet. It curled over like an immense surge, crested with foam and swept toward the shore. It was succeeded by two or three swells of less magnitude, when the lake resumed its former tranquillity. At the same time the mirage was beautifully displayed, and imaginary islands were seen along the horizon. In 1849, they witnessed at Rock Harbor, Isle Royale, the ebbing and flowing of the water, recurring at intervals of fifteen or twenty minutes, during the entire afternoon. The difference between the temperature of the air and the lake, gives rise to a variety of optical illusions known as _mirage_. Mountains are seen with inverted cones, headlands project from the shore where none exist. Islands clothed with verdure or girt with cliffs rise up from the bosom of the lake. On approaching Keweenaw Point, Mount Houghton is the first object to greet the eye of the mariner. In peculiar stages of the atmosphere, its summit is seen inverted in the sky long before the mountain itself is visible. On the north shore the Paps, two elevated mountains near the entrance of Neepigon Bay, at one time appear like hour glasses, and at another like craters, emitting long columns of smoke, which gradually settles around their cones. The mines and minerals of the northwest constitute the most striking feature of the country, and at the present time one of the great sources of its wealth. The centre of the mining country is called the Superior country, or the northern peninsula of Michigan, but there is no reason to believe it is confined to this region. Coal and iron, the most valuable of all minerals are found in various places in the northwest. The principal and most valuable minerals found west of Mackinaw, are iron, copper, and lead. A general view of the mineral region may be found in Owen's Geological Survey of Iowa, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Superior. Great beds of iron are found in ridges or cliffs, some of which rise up to an immense height. Some of these ore-beds of Lake Superior are fifteen feet in thickness, and one of them contains iron enough to supply the world for ages. Above them are immense forests, suitable for charcoal. The discovery of the iron mountains and mines of Lake Superior was made in 1846, but they were not fully developed until the year 1855, when the ship canal at Saut St. Mary was completed. The mines are from three to sixteen miles from Marquette, a thriving village of upward of one thousand inhabitants, overlooking the lake, about one hundred and forty miles above the Saut. The mine nearest the lake is about two and a half miles distant from Marquette, and bears the name of Eureka. The ore is said to be of surpassing richness, and yields an iron of the best quality, adapted to cutlery. The Jackson iron mountain, and the Cleveland iron mountain, are fourteen and sixteen miles distant. They send to Marquette an aggregate of one thousand tons per week. These mountains rise gradually to the height of six or seven hundred feet, and are a solid mass of iron ore, yielding from 50 to 60 per cent. of the best iron. The New England iron mountain is two and a half miles beyond the Cleveland mountain, and abounds with ore of equal richness. A mile or two further is the Burt mountain, and the same may be said of this, both as it regards quantity and quality, as of the others. A railroad has been constructed from Marquette to the iron regions, and immense quantities of ore and iron are transported over it daily. All the hills and mountains surrounding Lake Superior, abound in valuable minerals of which copper is the most abundant. It exists in every variety of form. According to the opinion of the lamented Houghton, this region contains the most extensive copper mines in the known world. The native copper boulder discovered by the traveler Henry in the bed of the Ontonagon river, and now in Washington, originally weighed thirty-eight hundred pounds. A copper mass of the same material, found near Copper Harbor, weighed twelve hundred pounds. At Copper Falls, there is a vein of solid ore which measures nine feet in depth, and seven and a half inches in thickness. At Eagle river a boulder was found weighing seventeen hundred pounds. The number of mining companies in operation on the American shore is upward of a hundred. The Minnesota mine, fifteen miles from Ontonagon, during the year ending January 1, 1857, produced 3,718,403 pounds of copper. The Cliff mine during the year, produced 3,291,229 pounds of copper. The Portage Lake District, including Isle Royale, Portage, Huron, Quincy and Pewabic shipped 539 tons of copper in 1857. The Lake Superior miners estimate the total shipment of copper mineral from the lake during the year 1858, at 6,008 tons, of an average purity of 67 per cent--making the product of ingot copper about 4,000 tons, worth in the market at present $1,840,000. Estimating the population of the copper region at 6,500 persons, this gives an annual product of about $280 for each man, woman and child. The shipments were as follows: From Keweenaw Point 2,180 tons; from Portage Lake 1,152 tons; from Ontonagon District 2,676 tons; total 6,008 tons. The extent and importance of the copper mines of Superior, in relation to the general trade in that metal, may be estimated by the following account of the amount of pure copper produced in other parts of the world. The United Kingdom of Great Britain 14,465 tons, Norway 7,200 tons, Russia 4,000, Mexico 500, Hesse Cassel 500, Hartz Mountains 212; Sweden 2,000, Hungary 2,000, East Germany 443; making a total, out of America, of 30,820 tons. The single District of Ontonagon can produce as much copper as the entire Kingdom of Great Britain. The copper mines of the United States, are doing their part as effectually in adding to the solid wealth of the country, as the gold mines of California, or the silver mines of the Arizonia. The copper mining countries are another illustration of the principle upon which success is based, namely, that concentrated talent, effort and capital are necessary to a development of the resources of a country. When we look into the manufacture of this article, we shall find a new element in the future growth of towns to arise in this region. At present, a large portion of this copper is shipped abroad to be smelted. But is there not every reason, as well of economy as of material, for carrying on smelting, and all other manufacturing processes, at the point of production? The cost of transporting the raw material is greater than that of carrying the manufactured product. But when all the elements of successful manufacturing exist where the raw material is found, then the economy of the process is doubled. Of metals, of navigation, of food, we have shown there is an inexhaustible supply. But there is also coal near enough to supply the last and only material which might be supposed wanting. Coal is found in the Southern Peninsula of Michigan, in abundance and of good quality. This coal is found at Jackson and at Lansing. This was a matter of so much importance that Prof. Douglas, of the State University, proceeded immediately to analyze it. The following are the principal results of his analysis. It was made chiefly in reference to the manufacture of gas:-- "The coal was of the bituminous variety, having a jet black color and slaty structure. It was readily ignited, burning with a dull flame and smoke, the fragments comminuting more or less by the heat. It had a specific gravity of about 1.25. "100 parts gave volatile matter 50.780, sulphur 4.028, iron 4.400, ash 8.400, carbon (not volatilized) 41.600. "The value of coal for the manufacture of gas is usually estimated by the amount of volatile matter it yields at a full red-heat." Of ten samples of English coal, this had more volatile matter than six. Of American coals, it had more of the burning principle than any, except one. The quality of this coal is unquestionably good, and its distance from Mackinaw is no objection, since access can be obtained both by water and railroad. Both the coal and iron used in the manufactures of Cincinnati are brought from places distant from one hundred to five hundred miles; and yet scarcely any place in America has prospered more by manufactures than the Queen of the West. Mackinaw has more than the advantages of Cincinnati for manufactures. It not only has iron and coal, but copper and lead, near enough for all the purposes of successful manufacture. Favorable indications of coal exist within fifty miles south of the Straits, and indications also exist of lead. When we consider these facts, and the vast extent of country, of inland oceans, and of streams around it, why should not Mackinaw be a point of concentration for manufactures, as well as of distribution for commerce? Mackinaw is centrally situated in the mineral region, and with coal and hard wood for charcoal in perpetual abundance, and the cheapest possible mode of transportation, will become a great manufacturing point, and be able to manufacture innumerable articles, which are now made in Europe, and which our people have been compelled to import for use, simply because the material hitherto employed has been of a quality unsuitable for such purposes. Besides the healthful and bracing temperature of this locality, when compared with Ohio and Pennsylvania, whose summers are found to be exceedingly enervating, especially to those employed in the manufacture of iron, affords advantages, and offers inducements which cannot be overlooked, since in the physical strength and comfort of the workmen, is involved the all-important question of economy. If it should be asked, is the site such that a great city can be built upon it, without imperial wealth, like to that of St. Petersburg, or with the artificial foundations like to those of Chicago, or bankrupting successive companies like Cairo on the Ohio,--the answer is at hand and decisive. At Mackinaw there are no marshes to fill up or drain, no tide sands, no flood-washed banks, no narrow and isolated rocks or ridges, to intercept the progress of commercial growth and activity. On the contrary, the lake rises under the heaviest rains but little, and breaks its waves on a dry shore rising gradually far above its level. There is no better natural site for the foundation of a city in the world, nor one possessing more inviting or beautiful surroundings, and when we consider its available resources, it is evident that nothing can prevent its rise and progress. The straits are so completely the key of the Upper Lakes, Mackinaw must, as in the days of the fur trade, unlock the vast treasures of the entire northwest. The shore of Lake Superior, being but about fifty miles north of Mackinaw and dependent on a canal navigation, annually navigable sixty days less than the straits, on account of ice, to say nothing of breakage, it is perfectly obvious that there can be no competing city further north. The following from the Toledo Blade shows the immense importance of this point as a key position: "The immense commerce of the lakes, the growth of which has been unparalleled by anything in the history of the world, and the vast mineral, timber and agricultural resources of their shores, which are even now, only beginning to attract attention, may well awaken a desire on the part of enterprise to get possession of the key position which is to command and unlock the future treasures of this vast empire. Already, six important commercial cities, with an aggregate population of about 350,000 inhabitants, have sprung up on these island waters, and are the most flourishing of any away from the Atlantic coast. Others are struggling into notoriety on the borders of Lake Superior, and must, at no very distant time, become important and active places of business. But the place of all others, where we would expect a city to spring up and grow rapidly into importance, is still undeveloped. "The Straits of Mackinaw, four and a half miles wide, make the only natural ferry communication between the great peninsula, enclosed by the lakes and the rich mineral region lying on the southern border of Lake Superior; and must, hence, be the terminus of all the great railroad lines that traverse Michigan longitudinally and compete for the trade north of the straits, now rapidly growing up into importance. It must therefore be the point of radiation, eastward, through Canada; westward through the mineral region; and southward, through Michigan. Canada has already made grants of land for several important roads which must ultimately reach the straits; and lines are also provided for by government grants, from the straits through the Northern Peninsula, and from the straits southward to Fort Wayne by the way of Grand Rapids, and to Toledo, through Lansing. The culminating point being thus settled for several roads, all others will naturally centre at the same crossing, even if the coast line had not made such a thing inevitable. "The point which projects northward into the lake, from the Michigan Peninsula, to form this strait, is admirably located for a great city. It is the site of old Fort Mackinaw, and in health and commercial position, can have no rival in those southern waters. This point has been selected by a company of capitalists, on which to plant the commercial city of the north; the Venice of the Lakes, foreshadowed in the extract which we have placed at the head of the article. This new city is to bear the name of the ancient fort and strait, and to be called Mackinaw. It will hold the key of all the northern lakes; and should its growth be marked by energy and enterprise, will command the trade of the greatest mining region in the world; be the chief depot of the northern fisheries; the outlet of an immense lumber trade; and the focus of a great network of railways, communicating with tropics on the south, and stretching out its iron arms, at no distant day, to the Atlantic on the east, and Pacific on the west. "The proposed city will have the advantage of the most salubrious climate to be found in the temperate zone, and will be the resort of those seeking health, as well as those seeking wealth. It has a northern position, being on the same parallel as Montreal; but the winters are equable, and the summers though short, are mild and pleasant, being modified by the great body of water which stretches out on every side, except at the south. As a manufacturing point it may well command universal attention. The Lake Superior iron is known to be the best in the world, and coal and wood are at hand in the greatest abundance; while communication by water is so wide as to leave nothing to desire on that head. It should be as famous for smelting as Swansea, in England, for it must have unbounded supplies of iron and copper ore. "But we have no space to speak of its commercial position. It must be seen at a glance that, as all the produce which flows through Chicago, Milwaukee, and the great West must sweep by on its way to the East, and all the goods and merchandise of the East, must be borne by its wharves on their way to the West, that it cannot fail to be a point which must spring at once into importance. The government, too, must have a fort, a light-house, and customhouse there, which with the fisheries, must supply a large profitable business to its earlier population." CHAPTER VII. Lake Huron -- Eastern shore of Michigan -- Face of the country -- Picturesque view -- Rivers -- Grand -- Saginaw -- Cheboy-e-gun -- Natural scenery -- Fort Gratiot -- White Rock -- Saginaw Bay -- Thunder Bay -- Bois Blanc Island -- Drummond's Island -- British Troops -- St. Helena Island -- Iroquois Woman's Point -- Point La Barbe -- Point aux Sable -- Point St. Vital -- Wreck of the Queen City -- St. Martin's Island -- Fox Point -- Moneto pa-maw -- Mille au Coquin -- Great fishing places -- Cross Village -- Catholic Convent. Lake Huron, which, with Lake Erie and St. Clair, washes the eastern boundary of the southern peninsula of Michigan, is two hundred and fifty miles long and its average width is about one hundred miles. Its depth is about eight hundred feet. The southeastern shore of Michigan presents a level surface covered with a dense forest, at points meeting the edge of the bank. The trees of this heavily-timbered land, with their massive shafts standing close together, "cast a gloomy grandeur over the scene, and when stripped of their foliage appear like the black colonnade of a sylvan temple." In advancing into the interior, a picturesque and rolling country opens to view, covered with oak-openings or groves of white oak thinly scattered over the ground, having the appearance of stately parks. The appearance of the surface of the country is as if it was covered with mounds, arranged without order, sometimes rising from thirty to two hundred feet in height, producing a delightful alternation of hill and dale, which is sometimes varied by a rich prairie or burr-oak grove. The principal rivers of the State are the Grand, St. Joseph's, Kalamazoo, the Raisin, the Clinton, the Huron, and the Rouge. The Grand is two hundred and seventy miles in length, and has a free navigation for steamboats which ply regularly between Lake Michigan and Grand Rapids, a distance of forty miles. The Saginaw empties into Lake Huron and is navigable for sixty miles. These, with the others we have named, interlock their branches running through different parts of southern Michigan, and while they beautify the landscape they afford water-power and fertilize the soil. The river Cheboy-e-gun is the largest stream in the northern portion of the lower peninsula and empties into the Straits of Mackinaw opposite Bois Blanc Island. At its mouth is a village containing two steam saw mills and one water saw mill. A light-house stands a mile or two east from this point. Brook-trout, bass, pike, pickerel, and perch, are caught at the entrance of the river. In the fall and spring numerous water-fowl resort to the upper forks of the river and to the small lakes forming its sources. These lakes also abound with a great variety of fish, which can be taken by spearing. The natural scenery of Michigan is imposing. The extensive tracts of dense forests, clothed with the richest verdure, fresh as when it first came from the hands of the Creator; the prairies and lakes which abound, the wide parks, whose soil is entirely covered for miles with large and rich flowers, present a striking and agreeable contrast. The beech and black walnut, the elm, the maple, the hickory, and the oaks of different species and large size, the lind and the bass-wood, and various other kinds of forest trees, plainly indicate the fertility of the soil from whence they spring. Grape vines often hang from the branches a foot in circumference, clustering around their trunks, or thickening the undergrowth along the banks of rivers; and, while the glades open to the sun like cultivated grounds, the more thickly-timbered forests, shut out from the sky by the mass of vegetation, present in summer a gloomy twilight. In traveling along the main roads of Michigan, splendid tracts of park-like lawns sweep along the path for miles covered with flowers, broken by prairies, thick forests, and lakes. Fort Gratiot stands at the foot of Lake Huron and commands the entrance to the upper lakes. Advancing along the western shore of this lake the voyager sees a long, alluvial bank covered with a forest of pine, poplar, beech, and hemlock. On advancing further the banks become more elevated until they rise to forty feet in height. About fifty miles from Fort Gratiot, a large rock rises to the surface of the lake, a mile or so from the shore, which is called the "White Rock." From the earliest period this rock has been regarded as an altar or a landmark. It was to the early voyagers a beacon to guide them in their course; but to the Indians it was a place of oblation, where they offered sacrifices to the spirits of the lakes. Saginaw Bay is a large indentation of the shoreline like to that of Green Bay in Lake Michigan, but not so large. Near its centre are a number of small islands. Twenty miles from its mouth stands the thriving town of Saginaw. From the northwesterly cape of Saginaw Bay to Flat Rock Point, the shore of Lake Huron presents a bank of alluvial soil, with a margin of sand along its border intersected with frequent masses of limestone rock, in some places ground to fragments by the surging of the waves. Thunder Bay is also another indentation made by the Lake. It was thus called from the impression that at this point the air was more than ordinarily charged with electricity. Bois Blanc Island, at the head of Lake Huron, stretches in the form of a crescent between the Island of Mackinac and the lower peninsula of Michigan. It is from ten to twelve miles in length by three or four in breadth. The lower part of this island is sandy, but the larger portion of it is covered with a fertile soil bearing a forest of elm, maple, oak, ash, whitewood and beech. It has been surveyed and a government light-house stands on its eastern point. In the northern part of Lake Michigan are located Beaver Islands. There are five or six of this group bearing different names. Big Beaver is the most considerable, and contains perhaps forty square miles. These islands all lie in the vicinity of each other, and within a few miles northwest of Grand and Little Traverse Bays in Lake Michigan. The Big Beaver was, up to July, 1856, in possession of the Mormons, who claimed it as a gift from the Lord. Another interesting locality is Drummond's Island, between the Detour and the False Detour. It was taken possession of by the British troops when they surrendered Fort Mackinaw in 1814. On this island they built a fort and formed quite a settlement. Upon an examination of the boundary line between the United States and Great Britain, it was ascertained that this island was within the jurisdiction of the former, and it was accordingly evacuated by the British in 1828. The British subjects living on the island followed the troops, and the place was soon deserted and became a desolation. St. Helena Island is a small island near the Straits of Mackinaw, not far from the shore of the northern peninsula, containing a few acres over a section of land. It is a great fishing station, and enjoys a good harbor protected from westerly winds. Its owner, who has exiled himself _a la Napoleon_, spends his time in fishing, and other pursuits adapted to his mind. In addition to the numerous islands constituting the surroundings of Mackinaw there are a number of interesting localities denominated "Points", that we must not omit to mention. The first, because the most important, and one which is connected with many historic associations which we shall direct attention to, is the "Iroquois Woman's Point," the Indian name for Point St. Ignatius on the opposite side of the straits from Mackinaw, distant between three and four miles, about the same as from the Battery at New York to Staten Island. The original inhabitants with their descendants have long since passed away. Its present occupants are principally Canadians. It has a Catholic chapel. Point La Barbe, opposite to Green Island Shoals and Mackinaw, is a projection of the upper peninsula into the straits. It is four miles distant from Gross Cape, and derives its name from a custom which prevailed among the Indian traders in olden time on their annual return to Mackinaw of stopping here and putting on their best apparel before making their appearance among the people of that place. About half way between Mackinaw and Cheboy-e-gun, a projection from the lower peninsula into the straits, is Point aux Sable. Point St. Vital is a cape projecting into Lake Huron from the southeastern extremity of the upper peninsula. There is a reef of rocks off this point where the steamer Queen City was wrecked. On a clear day this point may be seen from Fort Holmes, and it presents an enchanting view. The St. Martin's Islands are also in full view from this point. In the southwestern part of the straits, about twenty miles distant from Mackinaw, is Fox Point. A light-house has been erected on a shoal extending out two miles into the lake. Moneto-pa-maw is a high bluff still further west, on the shore of Michigan, where there are fine fisheries, and is a place of considerable resort. Further west, near the mouth of the Mille au Coquin river which empties into Michigan, there are also excellent fisheries, and to those who are fond of this kind of sport apart from the profit connected with it, there is no place in the world possessing half the attractions as Mackinaw and its surroundings, while the "Mackinaw trout," with the "Mackinaw boat" and the "Mackinaw blanket," are famous over the world. Between Little Traverse and Mackinaw is the village of Cross, or La Crosse. The following interesting account of a visit to that place is taken from the Mackinaw Herald in 1859: "The name of this village--'Cross,' recalls to one's mind, some reminiscences connected with the early history of the Indian Missions. Suffice it to observe, that it derives its name from the circumstance of a large cross having stood for many years on the brow of the hill, on which the present Indian village stands, planted there by some of the followers of James Marquette, during their explorations and missions in this part of the country. The old cross was of oak, and was still standing about forty-five years ago. Recently it has been replaced by another. An old Indian, called _The Short-Arm_, over whose head some eighty winters had passed, was still living in 1836, and who, when a little boy, recollected to have seen the last Missionary of this place. 'I am old, my children,' said the aged Missionary, 'and I wish to die among my own people--I must leave you.' He left; and in the course of time the Arbre-Croche Indians relapsed into Paganism. They continued in this state until a young Christian Ottawa, named _Aw-taw-weesh_, who had just returned from among the Catholic Algonquins in Canada, appeared among them and taught religion. He became also, in some respects, what Cadmus was of old, or Guess among the Cherokees--the first teacher of letters, among his people. As writing paper was then scarce, at least among the Indians, he taught them to write on birch bark, with sharpened sticks, instead of pens. This man is still living. He is now old, poor, almost entirely blind; and although having been a real benefactor to his people, he may go down to his grave, unpitied, and unknown. "But awakened by his teachings, the Indians afterward called loudly on Missionaries to come among them, and they have had them during the past thirty or forty years. "At this day two Catholic Clergymen and a Convent of four Brothers and twelve Sisters--being a religious community, of the Third Order of St. Francis--are stationed at this place. But, to return: As rough voyaging generally gives keen appetite, so the party did ample justice to the eatables, which had been prepared by the Indians. Perhaps some reader at a distance might suppose this supper to have been taken in a _wigwam_; with the fire-place in the centre, a hole above for the escape of smoke; and the party squatting down upon the ground, with legs crossed in tailor fashion, around a single dish: no, no; but it was prepared in a good, substantial house; on a table with a table-cloth, with crockery, dishes, tea-cups and saucers, and knives and forks, such as are used by common white folks. Then there stood the waiters, ready to assist the double-handed manipulations going on at the table. At a convenient hour, the party separated for the night; the agent was put in possession of the clergyman's house, then temporarily absent on a mission, by the Rev. Mr. Weikamp, the Superior of the Convent. "The next day, after the forenoon services of the church at the village, the agent and party, according to previous invitation, went to the Convent for dinner. Arrived there, they were introduced first into a log cabin, situated at some distance in the rear of the convent, occupied by the four Brothers, belonging to the order, and the Rev. Superior. He occupies a single room, in real new-settler style. This is his sitting-room, library, study and bed-room. He has traveled in Europe, and some parts of Asia; he has various objects of curiosity; and among these is a silver coin of about the size and value of a Mexican quarter of a dollar, which he brought with him from Jerusalem. This piece of money is said to be one of the kind of which Judas received thirty pieces, from the chief priests and magistrates, the price for which he sold his Divine Master. Another thing, is a Turkish pipe, with its long, pliable stem, with which the lover of the 'weed' could regale himself without being annoyed by the smoke, as usual; for the pipe, which is made somewhat in the shape and of the size of a small decanter and half filled with water is so arranged that while the wet tobacco is burning in the cup on the top, the smoke, during suction at the stem, descends through a tube into the water, and none of it escapes visibly, into the open air. The Rev. Mr. Weikamp, the Superior, is a German, and speaks English fluently. He is in the prime of life, and is full of energy and perseverance. He is not one of those who, from the fact of belonging to a religious order, may be supposed to be gloomy, with head bowed down, not hardly daring to cast his eyes up into the beautiful light of the heavens; but he converses with freedom, ease and assurance; and he relishes a joke as well as any man, when it comes _a propos_. A fanciful peculiarity, though nothing strange in it, attends his steps wherever he goes, in the shape of a small black dog called "Finnie," with a string of small horse-bells round his neck. "Finnie" has two black, watery and glistening spots in his head for eyes, which seem ready to shoot out from their sockets, especially when spoken to. When told in German, to speak, 'Finnie' begins to tremble--he shakes his head--jingles his bells; and utters a kind of guttural snuffling, and half-suppressed growl or bark. But, as we are not acquainted with the German language, we cannot say, that "Finnie" pronounces it well! "Dinner being announced at the convent, the party went over with the Superior to partake of it. Everything about the table was scrupulously neat--an abundance of the substantial of good living had been prepared by the Sisters. Some time after dinner the vesper bell rang at the convent; and by special permission, the party were shown into the choir usually occupied by the Brothers alone during the services of the church. This was on one side of the altar; and on the other, was a similar choir for the sisters. In the body of the church, the Indians or others are admitted. For a few moments after entering, all was silence;--but the priest having intoned the vespers, the sweet tones of a large melodeon suddenly swelled through the sanctuary, mingling with the voices of the sisters. This for a time had a singular effect. To hear music in these wild woods, far away from civilized society where instrumental music forms part of the ordinary pleasures and amenities of life, served to recall to one's memory other days and other climes. After vespers, the Superior of the convent conducted the party through the building to view it. The dimensions are: 160 feet long, 80 wide, and 28 feet high. There are two court yards, each 40 by 40 feet, and the church also 40 by 40, placed between them. When finished, this building will contain 108 bedrooms, a large schoolroom, carpenter and blacksmith shops, dining-rooms, kitchen, store-rooms, halls, corridors, &c. It will be separated into two parts; one to be occupied exclusively by the Sisters, and the other by the Brothers. At the time of this visit, there were some cultivated flowers yet in bloom in the court-yard. So much for the material building: and now a hasty sketch of this religious order may not be unacceptable to some of our readers. "This religious community, is the Third Order of St. Francis, of Assisi, instituted in Europe by this saint in 1221. It was established for persons married or single living in the world, united by certain pious exercises, compatible with a secular state. It soon spread over all Europe, and even kings and queens on their thrones vied with the poorest peasants in eagerly entering this order, to share the labors of the mission within its sphere, and to participate in its spiritual benefits. Among the persons of this order, who were expelled from their cloister homes during the revolution which agitated Europe in 1848, was Sister Teresa Hackelmayer. This nun, at the proposal of a missionary father in America, and by permission of her Superior, came to New York in the winter of 1851, to establish a community of her order in that State. But meeting with disappointment there, she finally established a convent at Oldenburg, in the State of Indiana. In 1851, a second convent of this order was founded at Nojoshing, four miles from Milwaukee, on Lake Michigan. In 1853, the Rev. J. B. Weikamp founded, in West Chicago, the third convent of this order, and also formed a community of Brothers;--and in October 1855, with the understanding of Bishop Baraga, then Vicar Apostolic of Upper Michigan, he transferred those two communities to 'Cross Village'--his present location. "The company having ranged through the building, as observed, took a walk outside. From the south side of the convent, a broad walk is laid out reaching to an inclosure of some forty feet square, at the distance of about fifteen rods. Another and narrower walk through the centre of this inclosure leads to a small square building, on the opposite side, having a four-sided roof meeting in a point, and surmounted by a cross. On entering this building, a lounge or settee, stands in front, and on the wall above it, hangs a piece of board or canvass, painted black, on which are human skulls of different sizes, each with two cross bones painted in white. A trap-door is raised from the floor, and a deep, spacious vault is opened to view: this is the place of burial for the Superior of the convent. On the outside, the spaces on either side of the little walk are intended to be the last resting-places of the brothers and sisters. It is a solemn thought to see men thus prepare deliberately for _Death!_ But as the party retraced their steps in such cheerful, good humor, loitering toward the convent, one might have supposed that the beautiful weather, the bright sunshine, and the bracing air had, for the time, scattered away all thoughts of death. Among the questions proposed to the Superior was, 'Whether at any time the brothers and sisters were allowed to have social, familiar intercourse with each other?' The Superior answered, in substance, that they were not; nor even allowed to speak to each other, without permission of the Superior. 'Then according to your principle,' some one rejoined, 'the world would soon come to an end!' The remark raised a general laugh, in which the Superior himself joined heartily." CHAPTER VIII. Three epochs -- The romantic -- The military -- The agricultural and commercial -- An inviting region -- Jesuit and Protestant missions -- First Protestant mission -- First missionary -- Islands of Mackinac and Green Bay -- La Pointe -- Saut St. Mary -- Presbyterians -- Baptists -- Methodists -- Revival at Fort Brady -- Ke-wee-naw -- Fon du Lac -- Shawnees -- Pottawatimies -- Eagle River -- Ontonagon -- Camp River -- Iroquois Point -- Saginaw Indians -- Melancholy reflections -- Number of Indians in the States and Territories. The history of this region, in the language of one, exhibits three distinct and strongly marked epochs. The first may be properly denominated the romantic, which extends to the year 1760, when its dominion passed from the hands of the French to the English. This was the period when the first beams of civilization had scarcely penetrated its forests, and the paddles of the French fur trader swept the lakes, and the boat songs of the _voyageurs_ awakened the tribes on their wild and romantic shores. The second epoch is the military, which commenced with the Pontiac war, running down through the successive struggles of the British, the Indians, and the Americans, to obtain dominion of the country, and ending with the victory of Commodore Perry, the defeat of Proctor, the victory of General Harrison and the death of Tecumseh, the leader of the Anglo-savage conspiracy on the banks of the Thames. The third may be denominated the enterprising, the hardy, the mechanical, and working period, commencing with the opening of the country to emigrant settlers, the age of agriculture, commerce, and manufactures, of harbors, cities, canals, and railroads, when the landscapes of the forest were meted out by the compass and chain of the surveyor, when its lakes and rivers were sounded, and their capacity, to turn the wheel of a mill or to float a ship, were demonstrated, thus opening up avenues of commerce and industry. Its wild and savage character has passed away, and given place to civilization, religion, and commerce, inviting the denizens of over-crowded cities to its broad lakes and beautiful rivers, its rich mines and fertile prairies, and promising a rapid and abundant remuneration for toil. We have alluded to the labors and sacrifices of the Jesuit missionaries in the early period of the history of the northwest, and it is right and proper that the labors of the Protestant missionaries, though of a much later period, should not be forgotten. The Jesuit fathers were not alone in sacrifice and toil in introducing the Gospel among the tribes of the northwest. The first Protestant missions established in this region, as far as we have been able to learn, were those of the Presbyterian Church on the Island of Mackinac and at Green Bay. The first missionary who visited Mackinaw was the Rev. David Bacon, father of the Rev. Leonard Bacon, D. D., of New Haven. He was sent out by the Connecticut Missionary Society in 1800, and commenced his mission in Detroit, where, after remaining a year or two, he relinquished his field to a Moravian missionary, Rev. Mr. Denky, and visited the Indians on the Maumee. From this he returned to Detroit, and from thence went to Mackinac, where he remained until the missionary society was compelled, from want of funds, to recall their missionary. The following interesting account was given by C. J. Walker, Esq., before the Historical Society of Detroit: "The Connecticut Missionary Society is, I believe, the oldest Missionary Association in America. It was organized in June, 1795, the General Association of Connecticut, at its annual meeting that year, having organized itself into a society of that name. Its object was 'to Christianize the heathen in North America, and to support and promote Christian knowledge in the new settlements within the United States.' For some years its efforts were principally directed to sending missionaries 'to the new settlements in Vermont, New York, and Pennsylvania,' and subsequently 'New Connecticut,' or the Western Reserve of Ohio, became an important field of its operations. The trustees, in June, 1800, determined 'that a discreet man, animated by the love of God and souls, of a good common education, be sought for, to travel among the Indian tribes south and west of Lake Erie, to explore their situation and learn their feelings with respect to Christianity, and so far as he has opportunity to teach them its doctrines and duties.' A very sensible letter of 'Instructions' was adopted and a long message 'to the Indian tribes bordering on Lake Erie' prepared, showing very little knowledge of Indian mind and character. Mr. David Bacon presented himself as a candidate for this somewhat unpromising field of labor. His son says he was one of those men who are called visionary and enthusiasts by men of more prosaic and plodding temperament. He had not a liberal education, but was a man of eminent intellectual powers and of intensely thoughtful habits, and beside a deep religious experience, he had endeavored diligently to fit himself for a missionary life, the self-denying labors of which he ardently coveted. On examination Mr. Bacon was accepted. "On the 8th of August, 1800, Mr. Bacon left Hartford on foot with his pack upon his back, and on the 4th of September he was at Buffalo, having walked most of the distance. On the 8th, he left on a vessel for this city, which he reached after a quick and pleasant voyage on the 11th. He was made welcome at the house of the commandant, Major Hunt, where, I believe, his first religious services were held. Gen. Uriah Tracy, of Litchfield, Conn., General Agent of the United States for the Western Indians, was then here, and, together with the local Indian agent, Jonathan Schieffelin, took an active interest in the mission of Mr. Bacon. John Askin, Esq., the same liberal-minded merchant, who so essentially befriended the Moravians twenty years before, and Benjamin Huntington, a merchant here, formerly of Norwich, Conn., rendered him valuable information and assistance. Learning from these sources that the Delawares at Sandusky, were about to remove, that the Wyandottes were mostly Catholics, and that there were no other Indians 'south and west of Lake Erie,' among whom there was an inviting field of labor, his attention was turned to the north, and, with the advice of these judicious friends, on the 13th of September, he took passage with General Tracy in a government vessel bound for Mackinac, and went to Harson's Island, at the head of Lake St. Clair, near which there was quite an Indian settlement. Although only forty miles distant, he did not reach there until the 17th, being four days upon the voyage. Jacob Harson or Harsing, as it was originally spelled, the proprietor of this island, was an Albany Dutchman, who, in 1766, on appointment of Sir Wm. Johnson, came to Niagara as Indian blacksmith and gunsmith, and his original commission or letter of appointment, written by Sir William, is now before me. On the breaking out of the Revolution, finding Mr. Harson friendly to the Americans, the British stripped him of his property and sent him, sorely against his will, to this frontier. He established himself upon the island as early as 1786, where his descendants now reside, acquired great influence with the Indians, and lived in a very comfortable manner. He received Mr. Bacon in this beautiful retreat, with great kindness and hospitality, and he thanks the Lord that he is provided a comfortable house, a convenient study, and as good a bed and as good board as I should have had if I had remained in Connecticut. I know of no place in the State of New York so healthy as this, I believe the water and the air as pure here as in any part of New England, and I have never been before where venison and wild geese and ducks were so plenty, or where there was such a rich variety of fresh-water fish. There were many Indians in the vicinity. Mr. Harson encouraged the establishment of a mission, and Mr. Bacon deemed it a most favorable opening. Bernardus Harson, a son of Jacob, was engaged as interpreter. He returned to Detroit on the same vessel with General Tracy, Sept. 30th, to attend an Indian Council which was held here on the 7th of October, when he was formally introduced to the Indians by General Tracy, and was most favorably received. He returned to the island and remained until the Indians departed for their winter hunting grounds, when he left for Connecticut, where he arrived about the middle of December. He was soon ordained to the ministry, and I believe married, for he returned with a young wife of whom nothing is heard previously. "Late in January 1801, Mr. Bacon commenced his return journey with his wife and her brother, Beaumont Parks, Esq., now of Springfield, Illinois, a young man who came with him to learn the Chippewa language and to become a teacher. The sleighing leaving them they remained at Bloomfield, Ontario county, New York, until spring, and did not reach here until May 9th. Mr. Bacon's plan was to remain at Detroit, until he became so familiar with the Indian language that he could successfully prosecute his mission. He remained here until the spring of 1802, holding regular religious services in the Council House. For a time he preached twice upon the Sabbath, but the afternoon attendance being thin, he accepted a call from the settlement on the river Rouge to preach to them half a day. To aid in defraying expenses he commenced keeping a school in the house where he lived on St. James street, just in the rear of the Masonic Hall, and in this he was assisted by his wife. One at least of our present fellow citizens was a pupil of Mr. Bacon, and has pleasant memories of that little school. Amid many discouragements the study of the Chippewa was pursued by this missionary family, and although they made 'but slow progress' and it was 'hard work to commit their words to memory' and 'extremely difficult to construct a sentence according to the idioms of their language,' they 'hope and expect we shall be able to surmount every difficulty.' "While thus toilfully but hopefully preparing for his anticipated work, getting acquainted with Indians, their life and character, and as yet uncertain at what precise point to commence his mission, Mr. Denhey, a Moravian missionary, desired to occupy the field upon the St. Clair River, which Mr. Bacon in some measure occupied the year before, and to this Mr. Bacon assented. His attention had been called to Mackinac and L'Arbre Croche, but he resolved to visit the Indians upon the Maumee, and ascertain by personal interviews and examination what encouragement there was for a mission in that vicinity. For this purpose, with his brother-in-law and a hired man, on 29th of April, 1802, he left in a canoe for the 'Miami,'as the Maumee was then called. He found most of the Indian chiefs engaged in a drunken debauch, and it was not until the 14th of May, and after repeated efforts, that he succeeded in gathering a full council, and addressing them upon the subject of establishing a mission among them. He felt it his duty to have translated the message sent to the Indians by the Missionary Society. The poor savages listened courteously to this long piece of abstruse theological narrative and argument, but they must have been terribly bored, notwithstanding Mr. Bacon's efforts to 'express the ideas in language better adapted to the capacity and more agreeable to their ways of speaking.' No wonder that Little Otter was 'too unwell to attend in the afternoon.' After this translation, Mr. Bacon made a well conceived speech of considerable length, setting forth the advantages which the Indians would derive from a mission. There was no little point in the polished reproof of Little Otter, in the commencement of his speech, who said: 'Now brother, if you will listen to us we will give you an answer. But it is our way to be very short. Our white brothers, when they make speeches, are very lengthy. They read and write so much that they get in a great many little things. But it is not so with your red brothers. When we go on any great business and have any great things to say, we say them in a few words.' With no little ingenuity, but with apparent courtesy, these sons of the forest declined a mission in their midst. The gist of the reply is contained in the following sentence: 'Brother, your religion is very good; but it is only good for white people. It will not do for Indians, they are quite a different sort of people.' "On the following day Mr. Bacon started for Detroit, and remained here until June 2d, when, with his family, he removed to Missilimackinac, then the great centre of Indian population in our Territory. Here he remained until August 1804, perfecting himself in the language, teaching, preaching and pursuing the other labors incident to his mission. He very clearly saw that a successful Indian mission involved no inconsiderable expenditure in establishing schools and in educating the Indians in agriculture and the ruder arts of civilization. These expenditures were too large for the means of the Missionary Society, and in January, 1804, they directed the mission to abandoned, and that Mr. Bacon should remove to the Western Reserve. The intelligence of this reached Mr. Bacon in July, and in August he removed and became the first founder of the town of Tallmadge, Ohio. Thus ended this first Protestant effort to convert the Indians of Michigan to the faith of the cross. It was while Mr. Bacon was residing here that Rev. Dr. Bacon was born. We may therefore, with pride, claim him as a native of our beautiful city." Sometime after a mission was established at La Pointe near the southern extremity of Lake Superior. The Mission at Mackinac was subsequently revived and continued until 1837, when the population had so entirely changed, and the Indians had discontinued their visits for purposes of trade, that it was deemed best to abandon it, which was done, and the property sold. The Rev. Mr. Pitezel, in his "Lights and Shade of Missionary Life," who visited the island in 1843, thus speaks of this mission: "We visited the mission establishment once under the care of the Presbyterian Church, but now abandoned. It is a spacious building, and was once thronged with native and half-bred children and youth, there educated at vast expense. Little of the fruit of this self-sacrificing labor is thought now to be apparent, but the revelations of eternity may show that here was a necessary and a very important link in the chain of events, connected with the Christianization of benighted pagans." During the time of Mr. Pitezel's visit, a large number of Indians of different tribes had assembled at the island, for the purpose of receiving their annuity, among which were several Christian Indians, from Saut St. Mary, Grand Traverse, and elsewhere. The Rev. Mr. Daugherty, a Presbyterian minister, from the latter place, accompanied his Indians, and had his tent among them for the purpose of keeping his sheep from the hands of the wolfish white man, who would first rob him of his religion, and then of his money. In 1828, the Baptists established a mission at Saut St. Mary. This mission was opened under the most favorable auspices by the Rev. A. Bingham, and continued in a state of prosperity for many years. In 1843 it was still under the superintendence of the Rev. Mr. Bingham, who for twenty years had been laboring to bring the Indians under Christian influence. Indian children were boarded in the mission establishment, and a school was kept up, which, in the language of one, would have been a credit to any land. The Rev. Mr. Porter, a Congregationalist missionary, also labored here. The labors of these missionaries were greatly blessed, and numbers of officers and soldiers at the fort and garrison, as well as Indians, were converted. The Baptist missionaries extended their labors to various points on the northern peninsula and on the shores of Lake Superior. The Methodists commenced a mission at Saut St. Mary, under the labors of "John Sunday," a converted Indian, soon after that established by the Baptists. In 1831 a portion of the Oneida Indians removed to Green Bay, and the Rev. John Clark was sent out as a missionary among them the following year. In a report made by the missionary to the Board, he thus describes his field of labor: "The white settlement is located on the left bank of the Fox River, extending up the river about five miles from the head of the bay. The population is about one thousand, but greatly amalgamated with the Menominee Indians, over whom it is said they have great influence. The Indian settlement is about twenty-five miles from this place, on the left bank of the Fox river." Mr. Clark preached at this settlement and at Green Bay on alternate Sabbaths. Messrs. Marsh and Stevens, of the Presbyterian church, were located here, laboring among the Stockbridge Indians and kindly welcomed Mr. Clark among them. These Indians emigrated from Stockbridge, Mass., and were at one time under the pastoral care of Jonathan Edwards. While this distinguished divine was missionary among these Indians, at Stockbridge, he wrote his famous "Treatise on the Will." Mr. Clark was cordially received by the Indian agent, Mr. Schoolcraft. In 1833, he visited Saut St. Mary, and found a revival in progress. Nearly all the officers, and thirty or forty soldiers, in Fort Brady had been converted. The command was soon after removed to Chicago, and was succeeded by another. A gracious revival followed his labors at the fort, and officers and soldiers were seen bowing at the same altar, happy in the enjoyment of a common salvation. Still holding his connection with Green Bay, he visited that place and preached in Fort Howard and also among his Indians who had removed to Duck Creek. At Ke-wee-naw, John Sunday commenced a mission among the Chippewas, and in 1834 Mr. Clark visited that interesting field. He continued to superintend the missions in this region, until he volunteered as a missionary for Texas, and the superintendence of the Indian mission was given to the Rev. W. H. Brockway. The Rev. Mr. Pitezel labored at Ke-wee-naw with great success for several years, preaching at the different mines on the shores of Lake Superior. The Methodists also established a mission at Fon du Lac near the east shore of the Winnebago Lake. In the year 1830, a branch mission was organized among the Wyandottes and Shawnees on the Huron river, and also one among the Pottawatimees at Fort Clark on the Fox river, at which place, in 1837, upward of one hundred were converted. In 1847 a mission was established at the Cliff Mine, on Eagle River, a stream which empties into Lake Superior, about twenty miles west of Copper Harbor. The Methodists have missions also at Ontonagon and Carp River, all of which are more or less prosperous. At present this church has maintained missions and schools among small bands of Indians collected on reserves in Isabella and Oceana counties in the lower peninsula of Michigan. The Indians at the old mission in the vicinity of Saut St. Mary, are assembling at Iroquois Point at the lower end of Lake Superior, and are supplied with a missionary. A mission was also established in the Bay Shore Reservation, among the Saginaw Indians, which still exists. It is a matter of melancholy reflection, that the immense tribes, each of which could muster thousands of warriors in this vast region, have dwindled down to small and feeble bands. The same remark will apply to all the tribes in North America. The race is rapidly passing away, and the nation, like that of Edom, will at no distant day become entirely extinct. The last report of the Secretary of the Interior, states, that the whole number of Indians within the limits of the States and Territories of the Union, does not now exceed three hundred and twenty-five thousand. CHAPTER IX. Indian name of Michigan -- Islands -- Lanman's Summer in the wilderness -- Plains -- Trees -- Rivers -- A traditionary land -- Beautiful description -- Official report in relation to the trade of the lakes -- Green Bay -- Grand Traverse Bay -- Beaver Islands -- L'Arbre Croche -- Boundaries of Lake Michigan -- Its connections -- Railroad from Fort Wayne to Mackinaw -- Recent report of -- Amount completed -- Land grants. The Indian name of the State of Michigan, is Michi-sawg-ye-gan, the meaning of which in the Algonquin tongue is the Lake country. Surrounded as it is almost entirely by water, it possesses all the advantages of an island. It has numerous streams which are clear and beautiful, abounding in fish. The surface of the western half (we allude now to the lower or southern peninsula) is destitute of rocks, and undulating. In the language of Lanman in his "Summer in the Wilderness," "It is here that the loveliest of lakes and streams and prairies are to be found. No one who has never witnessed them can form any idea of the exquisite beauty of the thousand lakes which gem the western part of Michigan. They are the brightest and purest mirrors the virgin sky has ever used to adorn herself. On the banks of these lakes, grow in rich profusion, the rose, the violet, the lily and the sweet brier. "A great proportion of Michigan is covered with white-oak openings. Standing on a gentle hill, the eye wanders away for miles over an undulating surface, obstructed only by the trunks of lofty trees,--above you a green canopy, and beneath, a carpet of velvet grass, sprinkled with flowers of every hue and form. "The prairies are another interesting feature of Michigan scenery. They meet the traveler at every point, and of many sizes, seeming often like so many lakes, being often studded with wooded islands, and surrounded by shores of forests. This soil is a deep black sand. Grass is their natural production, although corn, oats and potatoes flourish upon them. Never can I forget the first time I entered White Pigeon Prairie. Sleeping beneath the shadows of sunset, as it was, the effect upon me was like that which is felt on first beholding the ocean,--overpowering awe. All that the poet has said about these gardens of the desert is true. "Burr Oak Plains. The only difference between these and the oak openings, is the character of the trees and the evenness of their surface. The soil is a mixture of sand and black loam. They have the appearance of cultivated orchards, or English parks; and on places where the foot of the white man has never trod, a carriage and four could easily pass through. They produce both wheat and corn. "The wet prairies have the appearance of submerged land. In them the grass is often six or seven feet high. They are the resort of water-fowl, muskrats, and otters. "But the best and most fertile soil in Michigan is that designated by the title of timbered land. It costs more to prepare it for the plough, but when once the soil is sown it yields a thousand-fold. And with regard to their beauty and magnificence, the innumerable forests of this State are not surpassed by any in the world, whether we consider the variety or grandeur of their production. This timber is needed for prairie States, Lake cities, and exports. "A friend of mine, now residing in western Michigan, and who once spent several years in Europe, thus writes respecting this region: "'Oh, such trees as we have here! Magnificent, tall, large-leafed, umbrageous. Vallombrosa, the far-famed Vallombrosa of Tuscany, is nothing to the thousand Vallombrosas here! A fig for your Italian scenery! This is the country where nature reigns in her virgin beauty; where trees grow, where corn grows; where men grow better than they do anywhere else in the world. This is the land to study nature in all her luxuriant charms, under glorious green branches, among singing birds and laughing streams; this is the land to hear the cooing of the turtle-dove, in far, deep, cool, sylvan bowers; to feel your soul expand under the mighty influences of nature in her primitive beauty and strength.' "The principal inland rivers of Michigan, are the Grand River, the Kalamazoo, the St. Joseph, the Saginaw, and the Raisin. The first three empty into Lake Michigan, and are about seventy miles apart. Their average length is about two hundred and fifty miles, and they are about thirty or forty rods in width. At present, they are navigable about half their length for small steamboats and bateaux. Their bed is of limestone, covered with pebbles. I was a passenger on board the Matilda Barney, on her first trip,--the first steamer that ever ascended the St. Joseph, which I consider the most perfectly beautiful stream that I ever have seen. I remember well the many flocks of wild turkeys and herds of deer that the 'iron horse' frightened in his winding career. The Indian canoe is now giving way to the more costly but less beautiful row-boat, and those rivers are becoming deeper and deeper every day. Instead of the howl of the wolf, the songs of husbandmen now echo through their vales, where may be found many comfortable dwellings. "The Saginaw runs toward the north and empties into Lake Huron,--that same Huron which has been celebrated in song by the young poet, Louis L. Noble. This river is navigable for sixty miles. The river Raisin is a winding stream, emptying into Lake Erie, called so from the quantity of grapes that cluster on its banks. Its Indian name is Nummasepee, signifying River of Sturgeons. Sweet river! whose murmurs have so often been my lullaby, mayst thou continue in thy beauty forever. Are there not streams like thee flowing through the paradise of God? "Notwithstanding the comparative newness of Michigan, its general aspect is ancient. The ruin of many an old fort may be discovered on its borders, reminding the beholder of wrong and outrage, blood and strife. This was once the home of noble but oppressed nations. Here lived and loved the Algonquin and Shawnese Indians; the names of whose warrior chiefs--Pontiac the proud, and Tecumseh the brave--will long be treasured in history. I have stood upon their graves, which are marked only by a blighted tree and an unhewn stone, and have sighed deeply as I remembered their deeds. But they have gone--gone like the lightning of a summer day! "It is traditionary land. For we are told that the Indian hunters of old saw fairies and genii floating over its lakes and streams, and dancing through its lonely forests. In these did they believe, and to please them was their religion. "The historian, James H. Lanning, Esq., of this State, thus writes, in alluding to the olden times: 'The streams rolled their liquid silver to the lake, broken only by the fish that flashed in their current, or the swan that floated upon their surface. Vegetation flourished alone. Roses bloomed and died, only to be trampled by the deer or savage; and strawberries studded the ground like rubies, where the green and sunny hillsides reposed amid the silence, like sleeping infants in the lap of the forest. The rattlesnake glided undisturbed through its prairies; and the fog which hung in clouds over its stagnant marshes spread no pestilence. The panther, the fox, the deer, the wolf, and bear, roamed fearless through the more remote parts of the domain, for there were none to dispute with them their inheritance. But clouds thickened. In the darkness of midnight, and silence of the wilderness, the tomahawk and scalping knife were forged for their work of death. Speeches were made by the savages under the voice-less stars, which were heard by none save God and their allies; and the war-song echoed from the banks of lakes where had never been heard the footsteps of civilized man.' "Then followed the horrors of war; then and there were enacted the triumphs of revenge. But those sounds have died away; traced only on the page of history, those deeds. The voice of rural labor, the clink of the hammer, and the sound of Sabbath-bells now echo in those forests and vales. The plough is making deep furrows in its soil, and the sound of the anvil is in every part. A well-endowed University, and seminaries of learning are there. Railroads and canals, like veins of health, are gliding to its noble heart. The red man, in his original grandeur and state of nature, has passed away from its more fertile borders; and his bitterest enemy, the pale face is master of his possessions." From a report made, by order of Congress, by Israel D. Andrews, in 1853, in relation to the trade of the great lakes and rivers, we extract the following "Michigan is the second of the great lakes in size, being inferior only to Lake Superior, and in regard to situation and the quality of the surrounding soil and the climate is, in many respects, preferable to them all. Its southern extremity, rising south in fertile regions, nearly two degrees to the south of Albany, and the whole of its great southern peninsula being imbosomed in fresh waters, its climate is mild and equable, as its soil is rich and productive. The lake is three hundred miles long by sixty in breadth, and contains sixteen thousand nine hundred and eighty-one square miles, having a mean depth of nine hundred feet. On the western shore it has the great indentation of Green Bay; itself equal to the largest lakes in England, being one hundred miles long and thirty broad. It is well sheltered at its mouth by the Traverse Islands, and has for its affluent the outlet of Winnebago and the Fox River. "Grand Traverse Bay is a considerable inlet of Lake Michigan, which sets up into the lower peninsula, one hundred miles south from the Island of Mackinac. It is a good farming and lumbering country. There are two mission stations and six or seven steam and water mills located at this point. It is now an organized county called Grand Traverse. The county seat is at Grand Traverse City, West Bay, where they have a court-house and jail. "L'Arbre Croche Village is an old Indian town, situated about twenty-five miles southwest from Mackinaw, on the lower peninsula. It is composed mostly of Indians. It has a Catholic Church and a Home Mission Station, with a teacher and other assistants to instruct the Indians in the English language. It has extensive clearings for miles, along the banks of the lake shore, and extending from one to six miles back into the interior, indicating that once a large population must have inhabited this section of the country. "The principal tributaries of Lake Michigan are the Manistee, Great Kalamazoo, and St. Joseph's rivers, from the southern peninsula of Michigan, the Des-Plaines, the O Plaines and Chee rivers, from Indiana, Illinois, and from the northern peninsula, the Menominee, Escambia, Noquet, White Fish and Manistee rivers. The lake is bounded to the eastward by the rich and fertile land of the southern peninsula, sending out vast quantities of all the cereal grains, equal if not superior in quality to any raised in the United States. It is bounded on the south and southwest by Indiana and Illinois, which supply corn and beef of the finest quality, in superabundance, for exportation. On the west it is bounded by the productive grain and grazing lands and lumber district of Wisconsin, and on the northwest and north by the invaluable and not yet half-explored mineral district of northern Michigan. "The natural outlet of its commerce, as of its waters, is by the Straits of Mackinaw into Lake Huron, thence by the St. Clair River down to the lower marts. Of internal communications it already possesses many, both by canal and railroad, equal to those almost of any of the older States, in length and availability, and inferior to none in importance. First, it has the Green Bay, Lake Winnebago, and Fox River improvement connecting it with the Wisconsin River, by which it has access to the Mississippi River, and thereby enjoys the commerce of its upper valleys, and its rich lower lands and prosperous States;--and second, the Illinois and Michigan canal, rendering the great commercial valley of the Illinois tributary to its commerce. By railways, perfected and projected, it has, or will soon have, connection with the Mississippi in its upper tributaries and lead regions by way of the Milwaukee and Mississippi, and Chicago and Galena lines. To the eastward, by the Michigan Central and Southern Railroad, it communicates with the lake shore road, and thence with all the eastern lines from Buffalo to Boston. To the southward it will speedily be united by the great system of projected railroads. "A road is now in progress extending from Fort Wayne, Indiana, to Mackinaw. From a recent report made of this road, which will prove of vast importance in developing the immense resources of Michigan, we extract the following:-- "The distance from point to point, as measured by the engineers, are as follow: "From Fort Wayne to the 'Air-line Railroad, Indiana, 28 miles; the Air-line railroad, to Wolcottville, 6; Wolcottville to Lagrange, 10; Lagrange to Lima, 5; Lima to Sturgis, Mich., 5-1/2; Sturgis to Mendon, 14; Mendon to Brady, 8; Brady to Kalamazoo, 12; Kalamazoo to Grand Rapids, 47; Grand Rapids to Laphamville, 13; Laphamville to Little Traverse Bay, 169; Little Traverse to the Straits of Mackinaw, 27. Total; 344. "The work of construction now performed, is mostly between Wolcottville and Kalamazoo. Between Lagrange and Sturgis the earth-work and bridges are nearly done--$1,500 will complete it for the ties. About one-fourth of the earth-work, bridges and ties, of the remainder of the line from Wolcottville to Kalamazoo, is done. Between Kalamazoo and Grand Rapids, work to the amount of $8,000 has been done. "The construction of the road bed, bridging, ties, ballasting, &c., from Kalamazoo to the north bank of the Muskegon River, one hundred and three miles, is let to Daniel Beckel, Esq., of Dayton, Ohio. Near two hundred hands are engaged on the work--on the twenty miles north of Grand Rapids. It is the intention of the company, as we are informed, to complete this twenty miles early the coming summer. "We are informed by the annual report, that on July 21st, $216,316 18 had been collected and expended. "The land grant made by Congress is of great value. The portion of the road to which it attaches, extends from Grand Rapids to Little Traverse Bay; the precise length of which is, as adopted by the proper departments at Washington, one hundred and eighty-two miles and three thousand and sixty-seven feet. Under the rules of adjustment adopted by the department, the quantity of lands granted will be somewhere from 600,000 to 674,161 acres. "These lands are generally timbered farm lands--of the best quality, in timber, soil and water. Some are pine lands, some pine and hard wood mixed; and a small portion are cedar swamp lands. But there is none too much of either description for the value of the lands and the prosperity of the country. Nature has distributed and interspersed them in such proportions as will best contribute to the support of a populous and well improved agricultural country. The great bulk of these lands are what are generally denominated 'beech and sugar-tree lands.' The soil is generally rich sandy loam. The estimated value of the lands, when the road is completed, has been put, by different parties, from $4 to $10 per acre. "The lands granted are the odd numbered sections within six miles of the line; and if any such sections are sold or pre-empted, then the company has the right to select other sections outside of the six miles and within fifteen miles of the road, to make up such deficit. "The odd numbered sections, outside of the six-mile limits, and within the fifteen-mile limits, are set apart to this company, out of which to select lands to make up any deficit that may occur in the six miles. "By those best acquainted with the value of these lands--and who are familiar with that portion of the State--they are estimated at $10 per acre, on the completion of the road. This will give the company the sum of $6,600,000. And if the road when fully equipped costs $30,000 per mile, then the gross cost will be $10,500,000; which by the proceeds of the land grant will be reduced to the sum of $3,900,000, and will reduce the actual cost of the road to $11,142,85 per mile. Anything like fair success in the construction of the road will enable the company to do it, after applying the proceeds of the land grant, for about _eleven thousand dollars per mile_. Such a result will not only give to the country all the advantages of this much-needed work; but when done the capital stock must prove to be a good paying investment." CHAPTER X. Mackinaw, the site for a great central city -- The Venice of the lakes -- Early importance as a central position -- Nicolet -- Compared geographically with other points -- Immense chain of coast -- Future prospects -- Temperature -- Testimony of the Jesuit fathers -- Healthfulness of the climate -- Dr. Drake on Mackinaw -- Resort for invalids -- Water currents of commerce -- Surface drained by them -- Soil of the northern and southern peninsulas of Michigan -- Physical resources -- Present proprietors of Mackinaw -- Plan of the city -- Streets -- Avenues -- Park -- Lots and blocks for churches and public purposes -- Institutions of learning and objects of benevolence -- Fortifications -- Docks and ferries -- Materials for building -- Harbors -- Natural beauty of the site for a city -- Mountain ranges -- Interior lakes -- Fish -- Game. Ferris, in his "States and Territories of the Great West," says: "If one were to point out, on the map of North America, a site for a great central city in the lake region, it would be in the immediate vicinity of the Straits of Mackinaw. A city so located would have the command of the mineral trade, the fisheries, the furs, and the lumber, of the entire North. It might become the metropolis of a great commercial empire. It would be the Venice of the Lakes." Mackinaw, both straits and peninsula, was so naturally the key point of the great system of northern lakes and their connection with the Mississippi, that while the New England colonies were yet but infant and feeble settlements, the Indians of the northwest, the Jesuit missionaries, the French voyagers, all made Mackinaw the point from whence they diverged--in all directions. When Philadelphia and Baltimore had not begun, and when the sites of Pittsburg, Cincinnati, and St. Louis were unknown places in the wilderness, Nicolet took his departure from Quebec in search of the mysterious river of the west. In passing to meet the Indians at Green Bay, he was the first to notice the Straits of Mackinaw. About thirty years after, James Marquette established, on the northern shore of the straits, the Mission of St. Ignace. Here, amidst the wilds and solitudes of the North American forests, and on the shores of its great inland seas, Marquette and Joliet planned their expedition as we have already described, and it was Mackinaw and not New Orleans or New York that the lines radiated from to the earliest settlements of the west. Mackinaw presents one of the most remarkable geographical positions on the earth. Constantinople on the Bosphorus, the Straits of Gibraltar, Singapore on the Strait of Malacca, and the Isthmus of Panama, are the only ones which seem to present a parallel. The two former have been for ages renowned as the most important in the commercial world. Singapore has rapidly become the key and centre of Asiatic navigation, at which may be found the shipping and people of all commercial nations, and Panama is now the subject of negotiation among the most powerful nations with a view to the exceeding importance of its commercial position. Geographically, Mackinaw is not inferior to either. From the northwest to the southeast, midland of the North American continent, there stretches a vast chain of lakes and rivers dividing the continent nearly midway. This chain of Lakes and rivers is in the whole nearly three thousand miles long. At the Straits of Mackinaw the whole system of land and water centres. The three greatest lakes of this system, Superior, Huron, and Michigan, are spread around, pointing to the straits, while between them three vast peninsulas of land press down upon the waters until they are compressed into a river of four miles in width. On the north is the peninsula of Canada, on the south that of Michigan, and on the west that of the copper region, all of which are divided only by the narrow Straits of Mackinaw. Here are three inland seas of near eighty thousand square miles and about five thousand miles of coast. From coast to coast and isle to isle of this immense expanse of waters, navigation must be kept up, increasing with the ever-increasing population on their shores till tens of millions are congregated around. Of all this vast navigation and increasing commerce, Mackinaw is the natural centre around which it exists, and toward which it must tend by an inevitable law of necessity. Superior, Huron, and Michigan have no water outlet to each other but that which flows through the Straits of Mackinaw, and its geographical position is unrivaled in America. Whoever lives twenty years from this time will find Mackinaw a populous and wealthy city, the Queen of the Lakes. If any serious objection be made to the site of a city at this place, it can only be that the climate is _supposed_ to be cold. But, what is climate? Climate is relative and composed of many elements. The first is temperature, as determined by latitude. The Straits of Mackinaw are in the _latitude_ of 45° 46'. North of this lies a part of Canada, containing at least a million of inhabitants. North of this latitude lies the city of Quebec in America; London, Paris, Amsterdam, Berlin, Vienna, Warsaw, Copenhagen, Moscow, and St. Petersburg, in Europe; Odessa and Astracan, in Asia. North of it, are in Prussia, Poland, and Russia, dense populations, and a great agricultural production. The latitude of Mackinaw, therefore, is in the midst of that temperate zone, where commerce, population, cities, and the arts have most flourished. The climate, however, is actually milder than the latitude represents. The isothermal line, which passes through Mackinaw, also passes in Wisconsin, nearly as low as 43°, and in the east also deflects south. This is the true line of vegetation; and thus it appears that the actual climate of Mackinaw is about that of 43° 30'. The same isothermal line, passes through Prussia and Poland, the finest grain countries of Europe. The climate of the straits is, therefore, as favorable as that of most civilized States, either for the production of food or the pursuits of commerce. The Marquette Journal gives some items relative to the winter of that locality. The mercury was not below zero until the evening of January 8th, and then only 2° below. The highest point reached in January, was 20° above, and lowest 16° below zero. In February, the highest point was 55° above, the lowest 20° below zero. The average temperature for the three winter months had been about 15° above zero. In the "Relations of the Jesuits," 3d. volume, 1671, it is stated that the "winter in Mackinaw is short, not commencing until after Christmas and closing the middle of March, at which time spring begins." The Lake Superior Journal for February 23, 1859, says:-- "We are now within five days of the first spring month, and have scarcely had a brush of winter yet. But very few days has the thermometer been below zero, and but a single day as low as ten degrees below. Most of the time it has been mild. For two weeks past, there has been a blandness and mellowness in the atmosphere, which was enough to cause the moodiest heart to sing for joy. There was a flare-up, however, for a single day (the 20th), when the storm descended, the wind blew, and there was great commotion in the elements, but the next day all was calm and delightful as before. We have quite a depth of snow on the ground, have had fine sleighing since the 10th of November. But our bay has not been closed more than a week at a time this winter, and but a few days in all. It is open now, and 'the stern monarch of the year,' seems to be melting away into spring. "In regard to the healthfulness of Mackinaw, it may be remarked that the northern regions of the earth are everywhere the most healthy. Yet there are differences in situation and exposure which make differences in health. Mackinaw has now been known and settled for two hundred years, a period long enough to have both tested its healthiness, and created a permanent reputation. The Jesuit Missionaries, the frontier traders, and the French voyageurs, have lived and died there; yet we have never heard of any prevalent disease, or local miasm. It seems to have been the favorite resort of all the frontiers men, who inhabited or hunted in the region of the Northern Lakes. In recent years, it has been visited by men of science, and accomplished physicians, and their report has been uniformly in favor of its superior healthiness. Dr. Drake, who visited Mackinaw in 1842, for the express purpose of examining the climate and topography, says, 'From this description, it appears, that the conditions which are held to be necessary to the generation of autumnal fever, are at their _minimum_ in this place; and when we consider this fact, with its latitude nearly 46°, and its altitude above the sea, from six to eight hundred feet, we are prepared to find it almost exempt from that disease; and such from the testimony of its inhabitants is the fact, especially in reference to the intermittent fevers, which, I was assured by many respectable persons, never originated among the people, and would cease spontaneously in those who returned, or came with it from other places.' "Speaking of this region as a place of resort for invalids, the same writer says: "'The three great reservoirs of clear and cold water, Lakes Huron, Michigan, and Superior, with the Island of Mackinac in their hydrographical centre, offer a delightful hot-weather asylum to all invalids who need an escape from the crowded cities, paludal exhalations, sultry climates and officious medication. Lake Erie lies too far south, and is bordered by too many swamps to be included in the salutiferous group.' "'On reaching Mackinaw, an agreeable change of climate is at once experienced.' 'To his jaded sensibilities all around him is fresh and invigorating.'" Dr. Drake looked upon Mackinaw as one of the healthiest portions of the whole Northwest, and to which, in time, tens of thousands of persons, even from the furthest south, would resort to be reinvigorated in body, refreshed in mind, and delighted with the contemplation of the sublime and beautiful scenery in that region of expansive waters, of rocky coasts, of forest-bearing lands, and distant islands. "Here the great currents, which are the natural lines of _movement_ for the people, commerce, and productions of half North America, concentrate around a single point. No other place has the same advantage of _radial lines_. Quebec is relatively on the Atlantic. The upper end of Lake Superior is comparatively on an inhospitable land. Chicago is at a lateral point on the south end of Lake Michigan,--three hundred miles from the main channel of commerce. At Mackinaw concentrate all the radial lines of water navigation in the upper lakes. Which will be seen, if we take the following distances of direct navigation from this point to the principal points on the upper lakes: "From Mackinaw to Fon du Lac (west end of Lake Superior), 550 miles; to Chicago, 350; to east end of Georgian Bay, 300; to Detroit, 300; to Buffalo, 700; to Gulf of St. Lawrence, 1,600. "Here are two important points to be observed. Any city which, by competition, or the rivalry of production, or the power of wealth, can be supposed to interfere with the growth of Mackinaw, must arise on Lakes Michigan or Superior; for _there_ only can be any commercial mart to receive and distribute the products around those immense bodies of water. But in consequence of the form and surface of those lakes, no lines of transit to the waters of the St. Lawrence can be made so short or cheap as the water transit through the Straits of Mackinaw. The concentration of products will, therefore, be ultimately made at Mackinaw, for all that immense district of country which lies around the upper lakes. Again, it will be seen that as the water transportation to that point is the best, so the radial line from that point to the Atlantic by water, is much the shortest. A steam propeller, leaving any one of the principal points on the upper lakes for either Buffalo or the Gulf of St. Lawrence, must, as compared with Mackinaw, pass over the following lines of transit, viz., From Fon du Lac (west end of Lake Superior) to Buffalo, 1,250 miles; Chicago, Ill., 1,000; Mackinaw, Michigan, 700; Fon du Lac to the Gulf of St. Lawrence, 2,150; Chicago to the Gulf of St. Lawrence, 1,900; Mackinaw to the Gulf of St. Lawrence, 1,600. "It must be granted, at once, that for any water communication with the ports of the Atlantic, Mackinaw has greatly the advantage over any commercial point in Minnesota, Wisconsin, Northern Illinois, Northern Michigan, or Northwest Canada. How great this advantage is, we shall see from the consideration of the surface drained by the water current of Mackinaw. An inspection of the map will show that from Long Lake, above latitude 50°, to the south end of Lake Michigan, below latitude, 40°, and from the Lake of the Woods, longitude 95°, to Saginaw Bay, longitude 83°, the country is entirely within the drainage of lakes and river whose currents concentrate at the Straits of Mackinaw. This surface comprehends a square of over six hundred miles on the side, or nearly four hundred thousand square miles. Deducting the surface of the lakes, it is enough to make eight States as large as Ohio. In that whole surface, there is not a single point which can rival Mackinaw as a point of _distribution for the products of that country_. That the advantage by water lines is in favor of Mackinaw, we have shown. That it will be equally so by railroad, is evident, from the fact that Mackinaw city to Port Huron, and thence to Buffalo, need not exceed four hundred miles, while that from Chicago to Buffalo, in a direct line is five hundred and fifteen miles. "From any other point of Lakes Michigan or Superior, where a city can be built, it is further. Mackinaw is, therefore, the natural centre of drainage and distribution for a surface equal to that of eight large States, and whose products, whether of field, fruit, or mines, are superabundant in whatever creates commerce, sustains population, or affords the materials of industry. "We are now considering Mackinaw in a state of nature, and must look to its natural products as the first and greatest elements of success. We have considered its climate, its water currents, its lines of navigation, and the surface drainage for its support. The latter within a space where there can be no competition, we have found to be but little less than 400,000 square miles. Vast as this is, it could not support a great commercial city, if that were a barren plain. "Hence, we must now consider how far the products of the earth will sustain the city, which such lines of navigation, such means of commerce, and such an extensive, surface leads us to anticipate. "The soil is the first thing to be examined. The peninsula of Michigan--that of Wisconsin and the Copper region--of Minnesota and Canada, which make up the larger portion of surface drained by the currents of Mackinaw, has been supposed to be cold and wet. But is it more so than northwestern Ohio or northern Illinois, which, but twenty years since, were scarcely inhabited, but now are found to afford some of the richest lands in the country? On this point, we have numerous and competent witnesses, and whatever character they give to the country, we shall adopt as the true criterion of its producing resources. "First of the Superior Country, the least agricultural portion of this district, we have the concurrent testimony of geologists, miners, settlers, and travelers, that it is one of the richest mining districts in the world. But in the midst of it are found some fertile sections. Of these, Mr. Ferris, in his account of the Great West, says: 'The surveyors report some good agricultural lands (of which many townships are specially enumerated), and these tracts of fertile land will become of great value, when the rivers shall have been opened and a mining population introduced, creating a sure and convenient home market for the productions of the farm.' "_Disturnell_, an accurate authority, speaking of the Superior region, says: 'The traveler finds the whole district to within a few miles of Lake Superior, abounding in every resource which will make a country wealthy and prosperous. Clear, beautiful lakes are interspersed, and these have plenty of large trout and other fish. Water and water powers are everywhere to be found, and the timber is of the best kind--maple groves, beech, oak, pine, etc. No thing is now wanted but a few roads to open this rich country to the settler, and it will soon teem with villages, schools, mills, farming operations, and every industrial pursuit, which the more southern portion of our State now exhibits.' "Turning to the immense territory north and northwest of Superior and the Straits, now constituting a portion of the British Dominions, and every part of which must be tributary to Mackinaw, we find that it affords, like Prussia and Poland, a fine agricultural region for all the breadstuffs and vegetables which are raised in the northern part of Europe. A writer in the _Toronto Globe_, exhibiting the value of a canal from Georgian Bay to Toronto--(a canal, the whole commerce of which coming from the northwest, must first have passed the Straits of Mackinaw) says: 'Westward we possess vast and fertile countries adapted to all the pursuits of agriculture life, countries susceptible to the highest cultivation and improvement. Between Lake Superior and the Lake of the Woods (above 49° of latitude), we possess a country of this description, in soil and character inferior to no part of Minnesota, and bordering upon this territory lies the valley of the Assinibone, or the Red River, as it is sometimes called. As a wheat growing country, it will rival Canada. It does so now in soil and climate.' The writer is here speaking of British possessions north of Lake Superior, and several degrees north of Mackinaw. He says they are as fertile and grain-growing as Canada, and Canada we know already produces not only its own breadstuffs, but large quantities for exportation. The valley of the Assinibone, referred to, and the whole region west of Superior to the Lake of the Woods and the Red River, can have no market outlet except through Lake Superior, and thence near the Straits of Mackinaw. The writer sees this, and says: 'The future products of these immense countries must seek the seaboard, and all the canals and railroads which can be constructed will scarce suffice to afford facilities for the products of the West.' "Let us next examine the Southern Peninsula of Michigan. If the country far north of it is so productive, it can scarcely happen that this can be very deficient, although not ranked among the most fertile districts. On this point, we need only cite the same accurate authority to which we have referred. He says: 'The numerous streams which penetrate every portion of the peninsula, some of which are navigable for steamboats a considerable distance from the lake, being natural outlets for the products of the interior, render this whole region desirable for purposes of settlement and cultivation.' Even as far north as the Straits of Mackinaw, the soil and climate, together with the valuable timber, offer great inducements to settlers; and if the proposed railroads under the recent grant of large portion of these lands by Congress, are constructed from and to the different points indicated, this extensive and heavily timbered region will speedily be reclaimed, and become one of the most substantial and prosperous agricultural portions of the West.' After speaking of the timber in that country, the same writer adds: 'But as the timber is exhausted, the soil is prepared for cultivation, and a large portion of the _northern part_ of the southern peninsula of Michigan will be settled and cultivated, as it is _the most reliable wheat-growing portion of the Union_.' "The Detroit Daily Tribune of 1857, says: "Michigan is greatly undervalued because greatly unknown. The tide of emigration sweeps past us to Illinois, Wisconsin, Iowa and Minnesota, because the public do not know--what is but the sober truth--that Michigan possesses advantages unrivaled by any sister State in the Northwest, and an undeveloped wealth that will far exceed any one of those named. This is not a random statement, originating in State pride or self-interest, but the simple truth which is slowly being found out by the shrewd among men. We propose to speak of some of the advantages which we possess in the northern half of our lower peninsula, as yet almost uninhabited and unknown. "'No other State can boast of such valuable forests of such perfect timber. Already our lumber trade exceeds in value and importance that in any other staple products, not excepting wheat, while if it were to increase in the ratio of the past five years, in five years more it would exceed all the other staples united, excepting only copper. But such a rate of increase would exhaust the pine timber to a great extent within ten years' time. Yet the demand for pine lumber is absolutely unlimited, and cannot be met. "Look for a moment at the vast region depending upon the pineries of Michigan for its supply of lumber for building purposes of every kind--houses, fence and shelter of every description. The great States of Illinois, Iowa, and Missouri, and the Territory of Minnesota, depend almost solely upon Michigan, and must do so. The present season, lumber has been taken from the forest of southwestern New York and northern Pennsylvania, and sold in the market of St. Louis, so urgent is the demand and so entirely inadequate are the present or prospective rates of supply for that demand. We have before us the statistics of the lumber trade of the different States and the principal markets in the country, but of what use is a parade of figures when a simple fact will show that the value of the pine forest of Michigan _must_ be? Take the State Iowa alone. If every quarter section were to be enclosed with a common post and board fence, it would take every foot of pine on the soil of Michigan! Leave out of sight the great Territory of Minnesota, which can find but a mere drop of supply from the pineries of the Upper Mississippi. Leave out of sight the great State of Illinois, which depends upon us wholly. Forget entirely that villages are springing up like magic all along the lines of a dozen railroads running from Lake Michigan to the Mississippi; that cities are growing and spreading with unprecedented rapidity--and that every town and village, and city, and farm, must have its dwellings, and that the cheapest and best material for construction is pine. Leave all these out of the calculation, and remember only that one of these States would consume all our vast forests of pine in _fence boards alone_, and the dullest comprehension can perceive, with all these other demands of which we have spoken, in all those other regions, the value of the pine region is as certain as though it were a gold mine. And when we consider the pressing need for material whereof to build over all the western prairies, the wealth of northern Michigan cannot be put at any low amount. It must be immense--untold. "After the timber shall have been removed in obedience to the pressing demands of a cash market and high prices, the value of northern Michigan will just begin to be developed. The soil possesses riches of which the heavy growth of timber is the outcropping. Rich as any prairie land, even more substantial in the elements of fertility, with a genial climate, southern Michigan, itself a garden, we predict will have to yield the palm of productive wealth to this portion of the State. Any one who will take the trouble to examine a map of this half of the State, projected on an extended scale, cannot fail to be struck with the superabundant water privileges that exist. It is literally covered with navigable rivers, and their tributaries, large streams, like the veins in the human system. These waters reach the remotest part and thread every portion, affording unfailing supplies and thousands of valuable sites for mills of every description and of all magnitudes. The State is divided near its geographical centre by a slight ridge, sufficient to divide the course of its streams. Two of the largest rivers of the State, the Manistee and the Eastern Au Sauble, rise within about three miles of each other, run parallel, southward, for twenty miles or more, approaching then within half a mile of each other, then turning abruptly almost due east and west, emptying into Lakes Michigan and Huron respectively on almost the same parallel of latitude. "The Grand Traverse region, embracing the valley of the Manistee, is also one of the finest agricultural regions of the State; lying in the northerly portion, this region still has a mild climate, and the finest grains and fruits are raised at the settlements, as far north as the bay. "Much might be said of other counties throughout this region. The whole slope of the peninsula embracing the courses of the Muskegon and Manistee Rivers, and from Grand River to Mackinaw, is a region of rich soil, excellent timber of all kinds, good climate, and of easy access. "The counties in the eastern part of the State, Alpena, Alcona, Iosco, Arrenac, and others north of Saginaw Bay, well situated, having a large extent of coast on Lake Huron, are not so well adapted for agricultural purposes, there is much good farming land in them all; but the forests of pine extending to within a few miles of the coast, render them very desirable. Alcona county, watered by Thunder Bay River, with some smaller streams emptying into Lake Huron, is almost wholly a pine region. Some of the finest specimens of yellow, or Norway pine, in the whole State are found in this country. The white and yellow pine is nearly equally distributed in this region, extending also into the counties south, and reaching Rifle River in Saginaw and Arrenac counties, having an outlet on Saginaw Bay. "This part of the State, upon whose advantages we have not space to particularize as we would like, will be very soon penetrated by railroads. "There are _three_ roads contemplated by the Act of Congress granting lands to this State at its last session. These, if built, will add more to the development of the natural wealth of Michigan than anything heretofore proposed in the way of public improvement. "The different routes pass through some of the best counties in the State, and the opening of such thoroughfares will induce a tide of emigration, such as will soon render northern Michigan what it ought to be, one of the most important points in the West. "The State of Michigan is in all respects more favorably situated than any of the Western States, being surrounded by the lakes and with railroads extending in every direction, affording the most extraordinary opportunities to reach markets of every class, great or small. "With these natural advantages of transportation considered with the immense natural resources of this region (soil and timber) no one will doubt the very great value of Michigan lands. "Fruit of all kinds is abundant in every part of this State. All our exchanges from the interior are acknowledging presents of luscious peaches, plums, pears, apples, etc., etc. This is as it should be. May they all, each succeeding year, be remembered in like manner. "What is here said of the northern part of Michigan, is directly applicable to Wisconsin, the northern half of which must contribute directly to Mackinaw. Of the agricultural capacity of this new State, we need say no more, than that it has already attained half a million of inhabitants, and pours forth its surplus products though the ports of Lake Michigan. "Of Minnesota, and its productiveness, less is known. As three-fourths of that rich and beautiful country, and the regions around the heads of the Mississippi, must contribute to the commercial importance of Mackinaw, let us glance at its agricultural capacity and prospects. Minnesota, of which we heard but yesterday, has now two hundred thousand inhabitants, produces this year two millions of bushels of wheat. St. Paul, its principal town has fourteen thousand inhabitants, and far to the northwest from St. Peters to the Red River, and Assinibone, the settlers are crowding in to till farms and create towns, where but recently the wild wolf and the wilder savage, alone possessed the face of the earth. In latitudes higher than that of Mackinaw, Michigan or Canada West, settlements are forming, and it requires no flight of imagination to see that beautiful land of lakes, rivers, forests, and prairies,--cold as it may be in winter--settled, tilled, and civilized. The fact of its rapid progress in population, is sufficient proof of its agricultural capacity; but we shall again refer to the testimony of actual observers. Turning to Mr. Ferris's first description of the Northwest, we find his summing of the climate, and agricultural advantages of Upper Minnesota. 'Minnesota is destined to become a great agricultural, and grazing region. Its upland and lowland plains would support a dairy that would enrich an empire. All the principal grains, and roots thrive there in great vigor, as high toward the north as Pembina, below the dividing line between the United States and British America. Latitude does not always indicate the climate as has already been shown. The character of the soil has great influence upon the temperature of the air. A quick warm soil makes a warm atmosphere. The autumns of Minnesota are greatly lengthened out by the Indian summer, that smoky, dreary, balmy season, which protects the surface from frost, like a mantle flung upon the earth. The cold nips the vegetation, about as early along the Ohio, as along the St. Peters. The winters of Minnesota are cold; but then they are still and calm, and the icy air does not penetrate, as it does in a windy climate.' "In the brief review of the agricultural advantages of that great northwestern region, whose centre of commerce must ever be at Mackinaw; we have arrived at the certain fact, that except small portions of the Superior country, where mining and mines absorb all other interests, no country in the northern part of America or Europe, has greater advantages. It is filled with inexhaustible springs, and streams; fertile in soil, rich in production, and only needs the cultivating hand of man, to render it capable of sustaining such dense populations as now inhabit the same isothermal parallel in Prussia and Poland. "Let us now turn to its forests, mines, fisheries and resources, which though not bread, are those from which the implements, conveniences, and much of the wealth of civilization is derived. Of forests, furnishing almost illimitable quantities of timber and lumber--this is the very centre. Of this, we have evidence in the wharves of Chicago, Milwaukee, Detroit, and far down the lakes. The testimony of actual observers on this point, is so strong as to seem almost incredible. We shall cite but two or three unquestionable authorities. The peninsula, of Michigan is at the present moment, one of the greatest depositories of lumber in the world. Mr. Ferris says: 'On going toward the north, the lumber becomes more and more plentiful. Beeches begin to mingle with the oaks, and in a day or two beeches and maples will predominate over other varieties of timbers; large white-woods and bass-woods will be seen towering above the forest. The white ash, the shag bark, the black cherry, will have become abundant. The woods will seem to have been growing deeper and denser every mile of the way. Soon the traveler will doubt, whether Omnipotence himself could have planted the trees larger, taller, and thicker together, than they are.' "Pressing still forward, the emigrant will enter the great pine woods of the north. For a while, however, before reaching them, he will have been wandering through groves of oak, and along the borders of natural meadows, and through clumps of beech and maple. But soon, as with a single step, the timber has become all pine--yellow pine, moaning overhead, darkening all the ground, shutting out the sun, shutting out the wind." The tall trunks support the dark green canopy full fifty feet above the earth. This belt of pine woods, stretches across the peninsula of Michigan from Saginaw Bay. After a while as you proceed further to the north, the pine grows thinner, and is succeeded by other timber. "The level lands again become covered with beech and maple, of a full and convenient growth, with here and there a gigantic Norway pine, six feet through without limb, till it begins to stretch up half its length above the surrounding trees. "In northern Wisconsin, we find another great pinery, in which, in one year, was sawed not less than two hundred millions of feet of pine timber. The same authority to which we have frequently referred, says: "Still further north and northwest, is one of the finest tracts of pine land in America, through which the streams tumbling down frequent falls, afford an incalculable amount of water-power, just where it is most needed for the manufacture of lumber. The Wisconsin forest of evergreens is perfectly immense, covering one-third the State. The prairies of the Upper Wisconsin and its tributaries, are at the present most extensive, and those are distinguished still more for the fine quality, than for the inexhaustible quantities of the timber." In the same manner, an immense forest extends over the upper part of Minnesota, while far to the northwest in the British possessions, extend deep forests of pine, spruce, and hemlock. It is evident, therefore, that on the great current of the Straits of Mackinaw, there will float for generations to come, all the timber and lumber, which are necessary for the markets of commerce, or the uses of a growing population. Nor are the fisheries to be neglected, in any right estimate of the natural resources of that region. Not only do the one hundred thousand square miles of lakes and streams, furnish illimitable quantities of fish; but they furnish varieties, which are nowhere else to be found, and which an epicurean taste has long since pronounced among the richest luxuries of the palate. The lake trout, the Mackinaw trout, the Muskelunge, and the white fish, are celebrated throughout America. Good fishing grounds occur all along the north shore of Lake Superior, affording a bountiful supply. On the south shore, there are fisheries at White Fish Point, Grand Island near the Pitcairn's Rodes, Keweenaw Point, La Point, and Apostles' Islands, and at different stations on Isle Royal, where large quantities are taken and exported. Mackinac Island alone exports yearly a quarter million of dollars' worth. The site of Old Mackinaw, now the county seat of Emmet county, and its surroundings, belonged to the Government of the United States until the year 1853, when Edgar Conkling, Esq., of Cincinnati, realizing its importance as a vast commercial centre, and one of the finest positions for a great city, formed a company consisting of seven persons, and entered at the Land Office in Ionia, Michigan, near one thousand eight hundred acres. In 1857 that portion embracing the ancient site of Old Mackinaw was surveyed and divided into lots. Mr. Conkling has, recently, become the sole proprietor of the city, and intends devoting his energies to its development. A pamphlet, published some time since, describes it as follows: "The streets of the city are laid out eighty feet in width, and the avenues from a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet respectively. In the deed of dedication to the public, of these streets and avenues, provision is made for side-walks fifteen feet in width on each side, to be forever unobstructed by improvements of any kind, shade trees excepted, thus securing a spacious promenade worthy of a place destined to become a principal resort for health and pleasure. Provision is also made for the proper use of the streets and avenues by railroad companies adequate to the demands of the business of a city. The lots, with the exception of those in fractional blocks, are fifty by one hundred and fifty feet, thus affording ample room for permanent, convenient, and ornamental improvement." The park, now laid off and dedicated to the city, embraces the grounds of Old Fort Mackinaw, sacred in the history of the country. These grounds, now in their natural condition, are unequaled for beauty of surface, location, soil, trees, etc., by any park in any city in the country, and when the skillful hand of the horticulturist has marked its outline and threaded it with avenues and paths, pruned its trees, and carpeted its surface with green, it will present the very perfection of all that makes a park delightful. The character of the soil, being a sandy loam, with sand and gravel underlying it, renders it capable of the easiest and most economical improvement, securing walks always dry, hard, and smooth. The park, with suitable blocks and lots for county and city purposes, such as public buildings, schoolhouses, etc., will be duly appropriated to those uses, whenever the proper authorities are prepared to select suitable sites; and lots for churches, institutions of learning, and charity, will be fully donated to parties contemplating early improvements. Thus the proprietor proposes to anticipate, by avoiding the errors of older cities, the wants of Mackinaw city in perpetuity, and free forever its citizens from taxation for any grounds required for the public good. He also designs to place it in the power of the General Government, to secure, by like donation at an early day, the grounds necessary for such fortifications as the wants of the country and commerce may require, on the simple condition of speedy improvement. This liberal policy will best promote the true interests of the city and country, and at the same time be productive of pecuniary profit to the proprietors and all who may make investments at that point. The proprietor intends also to expend a large portion of the income from sales in providing for the public wants by the construction of docks at the most important points, and the establishment of ferries, for which he has purchased the land on the opposite side of the straits. He intends to make loans also, as his means will justify, to aid parties in the establishment of manufactories. Building materials of great variety and in abundance are at hand. Lumber can be had for the mere cost of preparation, and the soil, at no distant point, is suitable for making bricks; while for immediate use, Milwaukee can furnish the articles of the best kind in any quantities. The shores of Lake Superior abound with exhaustless quantities of granite, sandstone and marble; the limestone and sand are on the spot. Three fine harbors adjoin Mackinaw; the one on the east being the most spacious, and the best protected. The new United States charts show the depth of water sufficient for vessels of the largest size navigating the lakes. As many as thirty vessels have been at anchor in this harbor. The country in the rear of Mackinaw rises gradually until, at the distance of a mile or two, it rises into an elevation of high table land, from points of which there is a fine view of the straits and surrounding islands. A mountainous ridge extends up to within two miles of Mackinaw, covered with a dense forest of hard wood. The southern extremity of this range reaches to the head waters of the Grand and Saginaw rivers. From two to ten miles south of Mackinaw are several beautiful lakes, surrounded by a rich, warm soil of great fertility and covered with a heavy forest of hard wood, some of which has attained a gigantic growth. These lakes abound with fish of different varieties. Turtles have been taken from them, measuring from one and a half to two feet in diameter. Almost every kind of game can be found in the woods bordering upon these lakes, such as the black bear, raccoon, martin, fox, lynx, rabbit, ducks, partridges and pigeons. CHAPTER XI. The entrepot of a vast commerce -- Surface drained -- Superiority of Mackinaw over Chicago as a commercial point -- Exports and imports -- Michigan the greatest lumber-growing region in the world -- Interminable forests of the choicest pine -- Facilities for market -- Annual product of the pineries -- Lumbering, mining and fishing interests -- Independent of financial crises -- Mackinaw, the centre of a great railroad system -- Lines terminating at this point -- North and South National Line -- Canada grants -- Growth of northwestern cities -- Future growth and prosperity of Mackinaw -- Chicago -- Legislative provisions for opening roads in Michigan -- The Forty Acre Homestead Bill -- Its provisions. The physical resources of this region are of such a nature and variety as to make Mackinaw city the entrepot of a vast commerce. This will appear, if we consider that it is the nearest point of that extensive district, including the entire north of the lakes inaccessible to Chicago. When all the lines of internal communication are completed, and the different points on the lakes settled down upon, then the real limits of Mackinaw will drain a geographical surface of three hundred thousand square miles; deducting the surface of the lakes from which, there will remain two hundred and eighty thousand square miles of country, with all the resources of agriculture and mining in the most extraordinary degree. It will be nearly three-fold that which can be drained by Chicago, and in point of territory, whether of quantity or quality, Mackinaw is vastly superior, as a commercial point. With the exception of a small portion of the mineral region, the agricultural advantages of Michigan, Upper Wisconsin, Minnesota, Canada West, and the Superior country, are at least equal, at the present time, to the district shipping at Chicago, while it is more extensive, and will have a large home market in a country affording diversity of employment. Nothing can be more obvious, than the superior advantages of Mackinaw, as a manufacturing point, over any other on the lake coast. The value of exports and imports which flow through the Straits of Mackinaw and the Saut St. Mary was estimated a year or two since at over _one hundred millions of dollars_. But, who can estimate a commerce which every year increases in many fold? In 1856, there were sent through the St. Mary Canal 11,000 tons of raw iron, 1,040 tons of blooms, and 10,452,000 lbs. of copper; and the commercial value of what passed through the canal amounted to upward $5,000,000. But perhaps the most correct idea of the rapid increase of commerce in Lake Superior may be taken from the arrivals at Superior City for the last three years, taken from the Superior Chronicle of January, 1857. In 1854 there were two steamboats and five sail vessels. In 1855 there were twenty-three steamers, and ten sail vessels; and in 1856 forty steamers and sixteen sail vessels. We thus see that in three years the increase was seven-fold. It is scarcely possible to imagine the limits of northwestern commerce on the lake, when a few years shall have filled up with inhabitants the surrounding territories. According to the testimony of Senator Hatch, made on the floor of Congress on the 25th of February, 1859, there were over one thousand six hundred vessels navigating the northwestern lakes, of which the aggregate burden was over four hundred thousand tons. They were manned by over thirteen thousand seamen, navigating over five thousand miles of lake and river coast, and transporting over six hundred millions of exports and imports, being greater than the exports and imports of the United States. The State of Michigan is the greatest lumber-growing region in the world, not only on account of its interminable forests of the choicest pine, but in the remarkable facilities for getting it to market. With a lake coast, on the lower peninsula alone, of over one thousand miles--with numberless watercourses debouching at convenient distances into her vast inland seas--she enjoys advantages which mighty empires might envy. Her white-winged carriers are sent to almost every point of the compass with the product of her forests, which, wherever it may go, is the sign of improvement and progress, while by the large expenditures involved in the manufacture, and the employment of thousands of hardy laborers, the general prosperity is materially enhanced, and a market opened within her own borders for a considerable share of the surplus production of her own soil. The annual product of the pineries alone amount to the sum of _ten and a half millions of dollars_. The lumbering, mining, and fishing interest combine to furnish by far the best home market in the Union, and one which in seasons when a large surplus is not compelled to seek a market, can boast its independence of the "bulls" and "bears" of the great commercial metropolis. The dense forests in the interior of the State have not yet been reached, and when the contemplated roads are made, a field will be presented for the investment of capital of a most remunerative character. The government has already taken such steps as will soon make Mackinaw the centre of a great railroad system. We need only refer to the actual facts in order to make this clear. Congress, by an act passed in 1855-6, granted to the State of Michigan a large body of land for railroad purposes, designating four routes. 1. From Little Noquet Bay to Marquette, in the Superior country. 2. From Amboy, on the State-line of Ohio, through Lansing to or near Mackinaw. 3. From Grand Rapids to Mackinaw. 4. From Grand Haven to Port Huron. It will be seen that this plan is formed on the basis of a direct line from Lake Superior through the mineral regions to Lake Michigan. The law fortunately permitted the last two companies to make their lines at or _near_ Traverse Bay, and as Mackinaw is but comparatively a short distance, both companies have wisely concluded to terminate their lines at Mackinaw. It is at once evident that the Michigan line, centering at Mackinaw, must be met _there_, by railroads penetrating various sections of the northern peninsula. This is evident, and we understand is already foreseen, and measures will be adopted to accomplish that end. In the mean time, let us examine the prospects and influence of the two long lines of Michigan railway terminating at Mackinaw. The whole amount of land granted to the Michigan railways is estimated to be about 3,880,000 acres. From this, however, there will be some deduction in consequence of lands already selected, and which may not be supplied by the quantity within the limited distance. The deficiency will not be great, and we understand that the amount estimated for the two Mackinaw roads will scarcely be less than _two millions of acres_. Of the quantity and value of these lands, we give the estimate made by these roads, as well as the cost of construction. The estimate made by the _Grand Rapids and Indiana Railroad_ is as follows: "The proximity to lake navigation; having several navigable rivers passing through them, the abundance of hydraulic power, the healthfulness of the climate, the fertility of the soil; and lying immediately on the line of this road, are facts which contribute to enhance the value of these lands. "The length of this road from the Straits of Mackinaw to Fort Wayne, will be about three hundred and fifty miles. If the company meet with as good success as the merits of the enterprise deserve, the entire cost of the road should not be over $25,000 per mile, which makes an aggregate sum of $8,759,000." On the supposition that the minimum amount of land is obtained and sold, at half the price above stated, there will yet be broad enough basis to secure the construction of the work. The Amboy and Lansing Company are equally confident of success. They have also located a large quantity of land, and expect their value to be equivalent to the construction of their road. Accordingly, they have put a portion of their road under contract, and have obtained large local subscriptions. Both these lines of railroad will terminate at Mackinaw, on the north, and Cincinnati on the south; hence they will be carried south till they terminate at Norfolk, Charleston, Savannah, and Pensacola, thus forming the grandest and most extensive system of railroads on the continent. Nothing in America equals it--nothing in Europe can compare with it! When all the links shall have been completed, it will stand out the greatest monument to human labor and genius which the world presents. The single line from Mackinaw to Pensacola has been looked upon as one of the most important undertakings of the age. We extract from the "Exposition of its Plan and Prospects," by E. D. Mansfield, Esq., some of the facts, which exhibit its importance, and bearing, and influence on Mackinaw City. "To illustrate," says the Exposition, "the value of this North and South National Line, by its power of producing commerce, mark, in a tabular form, the natural products of each degree of latitude, thus:-- _States._ _Latitude._ _Productions._ Florida, 31 deg. Oranges. " 31 " Sugar. " 31 " Cotton. Alabama, 32 " " " 33 " " " 34 " Cotton, Corn. Tennessee, 35 " " " " 36 " Cotton, corn, tobac., iron. Kentucky, 37 " Corn, tobac., coal, iron. " 38 " Corn, wh't, cat. tob. h'mp. Ohio, 39 " Corn, wh't, cat. h'gs, wine. " 40 " Wh't, c'rn, h'gs, cat., flax. " 41 " Wheat, corn, cattle. Michigan, 42 " Wheat, cattle, hay, wool. " 43 " Pine, cedar, coal. " 44 " Pine, cedar, coal. " 45 " Pine, hemlock, cedar. " 46 " Pine, copper, lead, fish. "This statement is enough to show an extraordinary stimulus to commerce, on a line of railway. The length of the entire line will be less than half that which is proposed to be made from Cincinnati and other cities to San Francisco; yet, will pass through varieties of production, which that line cannot have. In two days, every inhabitant on that line may be supplied, from their native source, with sugar, cotton, corn, wheat, tobacco, iron, coal, lead, copper, pine, cedar, with wool, flour, hemp, and fruits of every description; with fish of the sea and fish of the lakes; with bread, and oil, and wine; in fine, with everything that supports, clothes, or houses man; with everything that supplies his wants, or contributes to his material happiness." It is obvious, that such a line of railroad as this--peculiar in its resources, vast in its comprehensions, and embracing in its grasp all the products of tropic or of temperate climes--must, of itself, rear, at its _termini_, commercial towns of great importance. But, this is not all. The road from Grand Haven to Port Huron will intersect the Amboy and Lansing line about midway, and then a railroad will at once be made in the direction of the Canada lines and Buffalo--completing the _radii_ from the far northwest through Mackinaw, to the eastern Atlantic. The natural point of termini for the Northern Pacific and Canada Railroads is also at the Straits of Mackinaw. The one giving financial strength and business to the other, connecting Portland with the mouth of Columbia by the nearest possible route. Canada has already granted four million acres of land to railroads running to Saut St. Mary. Those having the management of the Northern Pacific railroad will do well to consider the propriety of co-operating and uniting with the Canada and Pacific Railroad at the Straits. The following from the New York Daily News is valuable in this connection. It is from the pen of E. Conkling, Esq.:-- "You will please excuse me for calling your attention, not to the importance of a Pacific railroad, for that is conceded, and our country is suffering from want of it, but to the mode of getting the means to construct the Northern Pacific railroad. I don't remember to have noticed as yet any allusion to this method, or any other practical one, and I trust you will consider the suggestions, and add thereto any other methods. "The railroads now provided for and made to St. Paul, and Crow Wing from Chicago and Milwaukee will have exhausted local means, State aid and available land grants. However desirable it may be to sustain those roads by a business beyond that, and to the country beyond that, by extending the Northern Pacific Railroad, yet for want of means it cannot be done, unless foreign capitalists can be induced by land grants, at least to invest sufficient to make the road finally, and be made to see that their present large unproductive investments in Canada railroads can be made productive in the use of more of their capital. "Canada railroads lie _too far North_ to receive any benefit in business from railroads terminating from the northwest as far south as Chicago, and but little from the railroads terminating at Milwaukee, as the cost of transhipment and delay to cross by steam ferry eight months yearly at Milwaukee with eighty-five miles ferriage, must divert the trade and travel either to the north or south end of Lake Michigan, and every year will render that delay and cost more unpopular. And yet to get that trade the Great Western Railroad of Canada have permanently invested $750,000, in the Detroit and Milwaukee Railroad, and recently loaned a half a million more, demonstrating the idea I shall advance, that to make good present investments more means can be had. The State of Michigan itself will furnish a good trade to roads through it and to roads east of it. "The Straits of Mackinaw is the great natural ferry of about four miles wide for roads of Michigan and Canada to centre, the point necessarily for the passage of lake commerce, and for a large population north of it to cross, naturally attracting and combining elements of great importance to railroads. "Land grants are now made to the straits from the south. The Grand Trunk and Great Western Railroads of Canada can go to the Straits of Mackinaw, aided by those grants. The Ottawa and Huron Railroad to Saut St. Mary, may also go to the Straits, aided by land grants from Saut St. Mary. From there the three Canadian railroads, aided by land grants yet to be made, can go to Crow Wing or near there, and there form a junction with the Chicago roads--thence to the Pacific, aided by land grants. "By affording the Canada interest a chance for a portion of the Pacific trade, and thus making present Canada investments profitable, it is made the interest of foreign capitalists to make our Northern Pacific railroad. "This protective interest to Canada railroads is the greatest inducement to be offered them. "They will not invest in the road beyond Crow Wing, simply for the sake of grants of lands, made valuable only by the outlay of their money; even should the lands finally redeem the previous outlay for the road, that is no object, because the road will not pay more than cost of running and sustaining it, and if it should some beyond that, it will be frittered away by bad management and stealing. At least it is fair to suppose so, and hence they must be assured of enough of land grants to finally make the road, which of itself will pay nothing, only in the way of affording the roads east of Crow Wing, owned by them, fair dividends. This consideration will of itself induce them to furnish capital to the Pacific, and it is in the power of the government thus to interest them. No other proposed route can claim foreign aid because of such good reasons. Our government can aid only in lands; in valueless lands she is or may be wealthy. No bill can pass Congress, only by affording equal aid in lands to the Northern, Central and Southern routes, each standing on their commercial merits before capitalists. "The chance for us thus to enlist them, is but for a limited time. Soon they will become committed to the North Canada Pacific Road, north of Lake Superior, when they will not help ours, and thus protract ours for want of means and competing road. At present, two of the most important Canada roads can be enlisted in the above views, because if the Canada road north of Lake Superior is made, it will divert the trade from them, they being too far south to be benefited. But by going to the Straits of Mackinaw, they secure a division of the Western trade--among the three roads. The road through the mineral regions will develop that country and afford a good market for the produce of the country west of it. "Chicago is no more on the direct route from the East to Iowa, than is Mackinaw city on the direct route to the northwest from New York. "Lake Michigan naturally forces such a division of the Western and Northwestern trade, and the Strait of Mackinaw is most favorably situated for crossing. Cars can be transferred by ferry boat from point to point, without delay or cost of train shipment. "That country is nearer to market than any other Western State; cheaper lands and good soil, and healthy climate, and a superior wheat country, affording employment in lumbering, fishing, mining, manufacturing, &c., offering great inducements to foreigners, and of interest to New York, to be settled." The history of the West has presented some remarkable facts, contrary to the ordinary experience of human progress. It is assumed, as an historical fact, in European or Asiatic progress, that the growth of towns and states must be slow. It requires generations to bring them to maturity, and even imperial power has failed to create cities, without the aid of time and gradual increase. But, this has been reversed in America. We cannot take it for granted that because the natural site of a town is now clothed with the forest, and remote from habitations, that it will not become a prosperous city, within a half-dozen years. For, we know that in the Northwest, cities have arisen on a substantial basis, to a numerous population, in a space so brief that history has no record of their existence, and the school maps no name for the place of their being. Chicago which commenced its growth in 1834, had a population in 1857, of 100,000, Milwaukee in twenty-one years rose to 50,000, St. Paul in fifteen years to 15,000; Keokuk in eighteen years to 15,000, Grand Rapids in twelve years to 8000; Saginaw city in twenty-two years 4000, and Superior city in the short space of two years to 4000. We thus see, that, in the Northwest, cities do grow up, in the midst of the wilderness, and the wilderness itself soon blooms as the rose. To say, then, that a point affording every natural and commercial advantage for the growth of a large city is not _now_ a city, is to say nothing against its position or prospects. Within the memory of a generation the five great States, (which have heretofore been termed the Northwest,) contained less then a half a million of people, and Cleveland, Toledo, Chicago, Milwaukee, and St. Paul, were not even dots on the map of States. A mission or a military fort was all they could boast. These States now contain six millions of inhabitants, and the towns on the lake shore two hundred and fifty thousand. But to present the point of growth, in the clearest point of view, let us consider it dependent wholly on that of the surrounding country. This we can tell almost precisely. We know the rate of growth in Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota and Canada West. Canada West in 1840, had a population of 640,000, in 1850, of 982,000, and in 1857, 1,100,000, Michigan in 1840, was 212,000, in 1850, 397,000, and in 1857, 700,000. The population of Wisconsin in 1840, was 30,000, in 1850, it was 305,991, and in 1857, it was 600,000. The increase in Minnesota in seventeen years was 200,000. The annual _increment_ from 1840 to 1850, was 50,000 per annum, or about six per cent. The annual increment from 1850 to 1857, was 172,000, or about twelve per cent. The _ratio_ of increase is, therefore, increasing, and we may assume it will not be less than _ten_ per cent, per annum till 1860. This will give 3,380,000 for 1860, or _fourfold the population_ of 1840! At a diminishing ratio the territory round Mackinaw will contain 5,400,000 in 1870, and (8,000,000) _eight millions_ in 1880. The principal city of the district (wherever it may be) must then contain about _one hundred thousand inhabitants_. Of the cities and towns we have above enumerated, the greatest and most rapid in its development is Chicago, whose first warehouse lot was sold in 1834, and which, in 1857, is said to contain near one hundred thousand inhabitants. Let us, for a moment, compare the _material advantages and resources_ of that place, with those of Mackinaw city. Dean Swift said, that a large city must combine the resources of agriculture, commerce and manufactures. Cities have risen, however, to large size almost exclusively on commerce. Witness Tyre and Palmyra. But commerce, we concede, when left to itself, is so fluctuating, that the cities it builds, like Tyre and Palmyra, may, in the decay of commerce, be left to ruin and desolation. Cities may, likewise, be built up almost exclusively on manufactures, such as Birmingham and Sheffield; and it is quite remarkable that the oldest and most stable cities have depended largely on manufactures. Damascus, the oldest historical city--which has resisted all the destructive influences of time and revolution--has always been a manufacturing town. Paris, Lyons, Lisle, the great interior towns of France, depend very largely on the manufacture of fine and fashionable articles, distributed throughout Europe and America. Of the great elements of civic success, we consider manufactures the most important; but, to make a city of the first magnitude, it is obviously necessary to have all the resources of food, industry and commerce. Chicago is remarkable chiefly as a grain city--like Odessa, on the Baltic. But, whence is the grain derived? By the construction of railroads, at that point, from Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, Wisconsin and Iowa, the whole mass of surplus grain in that region--amounting to more than twenty millions of bushels per annum--has been exported from Chicago. But, this is the drainage of three hundred thousand square miles, two-thirds of which will not export through Chicago when railroads extend directly east to Milwaukee, Superior and Mackinaw, from Wisconsin and Iowa, and connect, from the south, at Cairo, with Missouri and Illinois. Reduced to its own proper limits, the agricultural resources of Chicago must be confined to half the surface of Illinois, Missouri and Iowa, or about one hundred thousand square miles. This is but little over one-third the surface drained of agricultural products toward the Straits of Mackinaw. Will it be said that this new region of the Northwest is less productive in agriculture? The contrary, for the great element of breadstuffs, is likely to be true. Attentive observers of agricultural production have remarked, that the different grains _produced most on the northern edge of the belt_, in which _they will grow at all_. Is it not so in Europe? The _isothermal line_ of Mackinaw passes in the midst of those countries which alone produce the surplus grain of Europe, viz., Prussia, Pomerania, Poland, Southern Russia. As if to place this beyond a doubt, the crops of Canada West have, in fact, failed much less frequently than those of Ohio, Indiana and Illinois. In regard to agricultural production, it will be difficult to show that the country drained by Chicago, has any advantage over that which will be drained by the Straits of Mackinaw. In regard to commerce--the natural position of Mackinaw is far superior to Chicago. Mackinaw is at the _head_ of Lake Michigan--Chicago, at the _foot_. Mackinaw is at the junction of _three_ great lakes; Chicago at the foot of one. Mackinaw will concentrate the navigation of _eighty thousand_ square miles of water _surface_; Chicago of _twenty-four thousand_. Mackinaw is three hundred and fifty miles nearer the Atlantic by water; three hundred miles nearer the upper extremity of the lakes, and as much nearer any of the Eastern Lake ports which are points of distribution. The comparison need be made no further, for whoever looks upon the map will see, that, while Chicago touches one end of a single lake, a world of waters gather round Mackinaw. For an internal water commerce, it has no equal. It will be said, that railroads now carry commerce. This is true, but, railroads do not carry commerce over the surface of lakes, and the multiplication of vessels on the lakes proves that _that_ commerce will ever be great and increasing. But what railroad commerce can be greater than that which will concentrate at Mackinaw, when it connects, in a direct line, not only with the cities of the Ohio Valley, but with those of the far South. To Cincinnati, to Louisville, to Charleston, Savannah, and Pensacola, will the cars move, laden with the people and products of the North. Lastly, neither Chicago nor any other point can be superior to Mackinaw in the elements necessary to support manufactures, the great support of cities, these elements we have already exhibited in detail. Copper, iron, lead, coal, wood, timber, bread, in fine, everything which can feed machinery, give material for its work, or feed the people who gather in the great workshops of industry, and distribute the products of labor. Here materials all lie near enough for the purposes of either work or distribution. Birmingham, Manchester, Lyons, and Cincinnati, have their materials no nearer. There, if anywhere, is a site peculiarly proper for a manufacturing town. But, neither agriculture, commerce, nor manufactures are the only things necessary to build up a large city. Healthiness is more important than either. Here again, Mackinaw has more advantage over Chicago. Mackinaw has been proved by two hundred years experience to be one of the healthiest points in America. Chicago is generally healthy, but is subject to more severe epidemics. The cholera visited it in 1832 and in 1849, with fearful force; while its very low position and muddy streets expose its inhabitants to those diseases which arise from damps. The Legislature of Michigan, recently passed a bill to provide for the drainage and reclamation of the swamp lands of the State by a system of State roads, accompanied by a lengthy and able report. The bill provides among others, a road from Ionia north to the straits, and thence to Saut St. Mary. They also passed a bill entitled the "Forty Acre Homestead Act." This act requires the commissioners of the State Land office to issue a certificate of purchase to every settler on the swamp lands belonging to the State, for forty acres of said lands, whenever such settler shall have resided upon it for five continuous years, and when he has drained the same so as to comply with the provisions of the Act of Congress making this grant to the State. Before the settler can acquire the right thus to occupy and drain any of the swamp lands, he is required to file with the commissioner his application, accompanied by an oath of his intention to settle upon and drain it for the purpose of obtaining a title thereto. And he must also make oath that he is not already the owner of forty acres of land in any State of the United States. It is also expressly provided that he shall not cut or carry away any timber from said land, unless it be to clear it for cultivation, under such penalties as are now prescribed for trespassing upon State lands. It will be seen, therefore, that the object of the law is to provide homes for the homeless, and at the same time promote the actual, _permanent_ settlement of the northern portion of the State. No man who possesses forty acres of land either in Michigan or anywhere else, is entitled to the benefits of the act. It is emphatically a law for the poor man. To all such it secures a _home_, without money and without price. All it requires of him is to settle upon and cultivate it. How many are there in Detroit and other portions of the State, who will avail themselves of this beneficent republican measure? CHAPTER XII. The Great Western Valley -- Its growth and population -- Comparison of Atlantic with interior cities -- Relative growth of river and lake cities -- Centre of population -- Lake tonnage -- Progress of the principal centres of population. The following chapter on the population and growth of the Great Western Valley is taken from De Bow's Review:-- The westward movement of the Caucasian branch of the human family from the high plains of Asia, first over Europe, and thence, with swelling tide, pouring its multitudes into the New World, is the grandest phenomenon in history. What American can contemplate its results, as displayed before him, and as promised in the proximate future, without an emotion of pride and exultation? Our nation has the great middle region of the best continent of the world, and our people are descendants from the most vigorous races. Western Europe, over-peopled, sends us her most energetic sons and daughters, in numbers augmenting with each succeeding decade. Asia is beginning to send forth a portion of her surplus population to our shores. Though of inferior race, the Eastern Asiatics are industrious and ingenious cultivators and artisans. A large influx of these laborers, though it may lower the average character of our people, will, it is hoped, in a greater degree elevate theirs; and thus, while adding to the wealth and power of a nation, do something toward the general amelioration of the race. While, then, we contemplate with patriotic pride the position which, as a nation, we hold in the world's affairs, may we not indulge in pleasant anticipations of the near approach of the time, when the commercial and social heart of our empire will occupy its natural place as the heart of the continent, near the centre of its natural capabilities? New York has long been, and for some decades of years it will continue to be, the necessary chief focal point of our nation. But, in all respects, it is not the true heart. In its composition and dealings, it is almost as much foreign as American. Located on our eastern border, fronting the most commercial and the richest transatlantic nations, and of easy access to extensive portions of our Atlantic coast, it is the best point of exchange between foreign lands and our own, and for the cities of the sea border of our Republic. As Tyre, Alexandria, Genoa, Venice, Lisbon, and Amsterdam, in their best days, flourished as factors between foreigners and the people of the interior regions, whose industries were represented in their markets, so New York grows rich as the chief agent in the exchange-commerce between the ocean shores and the interior regions of our continent. As our numbers have swelled, since we became a nation, from three and a half millions to thirty millions, so New York, including Brooklyn and other suburbs, has increased in population and wealth still more rapidly, to wit, from twenty-five thousand to more than one million. While the nation has increased less than tenfold, New York has grown more than four times tenfold. In 1790 the city of New York contained thirty-three thousand, and the State of New York three hundred and forty thousand--the city having less than one-tenth of the people of the State. Believing that this most prosperous of the Atlantic cities will be eclipsed in its greatness and glory by one or more of the interior cities of the great plain, we have selected it as the champion of the Atlantic border, to hold up its progress during the thirty years from 1830 to 1860, the most prosperous years of its existence, in comparison with the progress, during the same period, of the aggregate cities and towns of the plain. The result of our investigation, the summing up, will be found in the following table. It will be seen that many of the items are put down in round numbers--no document being accessible or in existence to furnish the exact number of many of the new towns, in 1830. The estimate for 1860 may, in some instances, be above the figures which the census will furnish, but the over-estimate for 1830 is believed to be in a larger proportion to actual numbers at that time. Making a liberal allowance for errors, the result of the aggregate cannot be materially varied from that at which our figures bring us: 1830. 1860 Est. Increase. New York, including Brooklyn and other suburbs 234,438 1,170,000 5 times. Cities and chief towns of the great plain 270,094 2,706,300 10 " nearly Leaving out the exterior cities of the plain, to wit, New Orleans, Mobile, Galveston, Quebec and Montreal, the comparison between New York and suburbs, and the interior cities of the plain will be shown by the following figures: 1830. 1860 Est. Increase. New York and accessories 234,448 1,170,000 5 fold Interior cities and town of the plain 172,000 2,346,000 13 " The five largest cities of the Atlantic border exhibit a growth, as compared with the five largest cities of the plain, as follows: 1830. 1860 Est. New York and dependencies 235,000 1,170,000 Philadelphia " 170,000 700,000 Baltimore " 83,000 250,000 Boston " 80,000 200,000 Charleston " 31,000 60,000 599,000 2,380,000 Cincinnati and suburbs 28,000 250,000 New Orleans " 47,000 170,000 St. Louis " 6,000 170,000 Chicago " 100 150,000 Pittsburg " 17,000 145,000 98,000 885,000 This table shows the five Atlantic cities to have quadrupled, and the five cities of the interior plain have increased nine times. Is this relative rate of increase of the exterior and interior cities to be changed, and, if it is to be changed, when is the change to commence? We can foresee no cause adequate to that effect, or tending toward it. On the contrary, it seems to us certain as any future event, that the rate of growth of the interior cities, compared with those on the Atlantic border, will be increased. The proportion which their present numbers bear to the numbers of the rural population does not exceed one to six, whereas the urban population of the Atlantic border is not less than one to three of the rural. This disproportion of city and rural population will hereafter change more rapidly in favor of the interior than the Atlantic cities, because of the greater fertility of soil producing more food from an equal amount of labor; and also, by reason of the more rapid growth of the general population, of which an increasing proportion will prefer city to country life. Will it not be so? Will not the general increase of population be greater in the interior States? Will not the productions of the soil increase faster? And can there be a doubt that the large disproportion in the distribution of the population between city and country, in the interior, will be lessened, so that, instead of being, as now, only one to five or six, they will rapidly approach the proportion of one to two or three? Here, then, are the sources of superior increase so obviously true, as to need only to be stated to insure conviction. Let us now compare the growth, for the thirty years since 1830, of the five largest Atlantic cities, with the five largest cities of the plain, and, by its side, extend the comparison to 10, 15, and 20 of the largest city of each section: 1830. 1860 Est. New York and accessories 235,000 1,170,000 Philadelphia " 170,000 700,000 Baltimore " 83,000 250,000 Charleston " 31,000 60,000 599,000 2,380,000 Increase 4 times. 1830. 1860 Est. Cincinnati and suburbs 28,000 250,000 New Orleans " 47,000 270,000 St. Louis " 6,000 170,000 Chicago " 100 150,000 Pittsburg " 17,000 145,000 98,000 2,885,000 Increase 9 times. Let us now compare the _ten_ largest of each section. _Atlantic._ 1830. 1860 Est. The aggregate of the five largest as above 579,000 2,370,000 Providence 17,000 55,000 Lowell 6,500 40,000 Washington 19,000 60,000 Albany 24,000 65,000 Richmond 16,000 35,000 ------- --------- 661,000 2,625,000 Increase 4 times. _Interior._ 1839. 1860 Est. Aggregate as above 98,000 885,000 Buffalo 9,000 100,000 Louisville 10,500 80,000 Milwaukee 50 75,000 Detroit 2,000 80,000 Cleveland 1,000 70,000 ------- --------- 120,550 1,290,000 Increase 10 7-10. Aggregate of the ten, with five more of each section added, added, to wit: 1830. 1860 Est. Aggregate as above 661,000 2,625,000 Troy 11,500 35,000 Portland 12,500 30,000 Salem 14,000 25,000 New Haven 10,000 30,000 Savannah 7,500 15,500 ------- --------- 716,500 2,760,500 Increase 3 8-10 times. 1830. 1860 Est. Aggregate as above 120,550 1,290,000 Toronto 1,700 65,000 Rochester 9,000 50,000 Mobile 3,000 30,000 Memphis 1,500 25,000 Hamilton 1,500 25,000 -------- -------- 137,000 1,485,000 Increase 16 7-10 times. Aggregate of the fifteen, with five more added in each section: 1830. 1860 Est. Aggregate as above 716,500 2,760,500 Springfield, Mass 7,000 24,000 Worcester, " 4,500 24,000 Bangor, Me. 3,000 23,000 Patterson, N. J. 5,000 22,000 Manchester, N. H. 50 22,000 ------- --------- 736,500 2,875,500 Increase 3 8-10 times. 1830. 1860 Est. Aggregate as above 137,250 1,485,000 Dayton 3,000 24,000 Indianapolis 1,500 22,000 Toledo 30 20,000 Oswego 3,200 20,000 Quincy 1,500 20,000 ------- --------- 149,700 1,591,000 Increase 10 6-10 times. From the above tables, we see that the city of New York, with its neighboring dependencies, will have made in growth in thirty years, between 1830 and 1860, increasing its population 5 times. During the same period, The 5 largest Atlantic cities and suburbs, including New York, increased 4 1-10 times. The 10 largest Atlantic cities and suburbs, including New York, increased 4 " The 15 largest Atlantic cities and suburbs, including New York, increased 3 8-10 " The 20 largest Atlantic cities and suburbs, including New York, increased 3 8-10 " And that the 5 largest cities of the great plain, during the same period, increased 9 " And the 10 largest cities of the great plain, during the same period, increased 10 7-10 " And the 15 largest cities of the great plain, during the same period, increased 10 7-10 " And the 20 largest cities of the great plain, during the same period, increased 10 6-10 " If the number of cities and towns of each section were increased to twenty-five, thirty, and thirty-five of each section, the disparity would increase in favor of the interior cities, most of these to be brought into comparison, having come into existence since 1830. We commend the comparison between the old and the new cities so far back as 1830, to give the former a better chance for a fair showing. If a later census should be chosen for a starting point, the advantages would be more decidedly with the interior cities. In the article on the great plain, in the May number of this Review, we gave prominence to the two great external gateways of commerce offered to its people in their intercourse with the rest of the world: that is to say, the Mississippi river entrance into the Gulf of Mexico, and the outlet of the lakes through St. Lawrence and Hudson rivers. These constitute the present great routes of commerce of the people of the plain, and draw to the cities on the borders of the great lakes and rivers the trade of the surrounding country. Between the cities of the great rivers and lakes there has of late sprung up a friendly rivalry, each having some peculiar advantages, and all, in some degree, drawing business into their laps for the benefit of their rivals. That is to say: river cities gather in productions from the surrounding districts which seek an eastern market through lake harbors; and lake cities perform the same office for the chief river cities. Each year increases, to a marked extent, the intercourse which these two classes of cities hold with each other; and it may be safely anticipated that no long period will elapse before this intercourse will become more important to them than all their commerce with the world beside. In comparing the interior cities of the great plain, situated on the navigable rivers, with those located on the borders of the lakes, two considerations bearing on their relative growth should be kept in view. The river cities were of earlier growth, the settlement from the Atlantic States having taken the Ohio river as the high-road to their new homes, many years before the upper lakes were resorted to as a channel of active emigration. This gave an earlier development to country bordering the central rivers, the Ohio, Wabash, Illinois, and Lower Missouri. The States of Kentucky and Tennessee, also, had been pretty well settled, in their more inviting portions, before any considerable inroad had been made on the wilderness bordering on the upper lakes. Owing to these and other circumstances, the river cities, Pittsburg, Cincinnati, Louisville, and others of less note, were well advanced in growth, before the towns on the lakes had begun, in any considerable degree, to be developed. Another advantage the river cities possessed in their early stage, and which they still hold; that of manufacturing for the planting States bordering the great rivers. For many years, in a great variety of articles of necessity, they possessed almost a monopoly of this business. Of late, transportation has become so cheap, that the planters avail themselves of a greater range of choice for the purchase of manufactured articles, and the lake cities have commenced a direct trade with the plantation States, which will doubtless increase with the usual rapidity of industrial development in the fertile West. If we claim for the upper lake country some superiority of climate for city growth over the great river region, we do not doubt that the future will justify the claim. More labor will be performed for the same compensation, in a cool, bracing atmosphere, such as distinguishes the upper lake region, than on the more sultry banks of the central affluents of the Mississippi, where are the best positions for the chief river cities. Refraining from further comment, let us bring the actual development of the interior cities--on the navigable rivers and on the lakes--into juxtaposition for easy comparison. As our comparison of Atlantic cities with the cities of the plain has been made for thirty years, from 1830 to 1860, we continue it here for the same period, between the river cities and lake cities. We select twenty cities, now the largest of each region, and put down the population in round numbers as nearly accurate as practicable. That for 1860, is of course, an estimate only, but it is certainly near enough to the truth to illustrate the growth, positive and comparative, of our interior cities. This table exhibits a growth of the interior cities on the navigable waters of the Mississippi and its affluents, which brings their population, in 1870, up to 11-1-10 that of 1830. This is, unquestionably, much beyond the expectation of their most sanguine inhabitants, at the commencement of that period, being three times that of the chief cities of the Atlantic border. Yet even this rapid development is seen, by our figures, to fall far behind that which has characterized the cities created by lake commerce during the same period. Interior River Cities 1830. 1860. Cincinnati and dependencies, 25,500 250,000 Pittsburg, " 15,500 155,000 St. Louis, " 6,000 180,000 Louisville, " 11,000 80,000 Memphis, " 2,500 25,000 Wheeling, " 6,000 20,000 New Albany, " 1,500 20,000 Quincy, " 1,000 19,000 Peoria, " 800 18,000 Galena, " 2,000 18,500 Keokuk, " 50 16,000 Dubuque, " 100 16,000 Nashville, " 6,000 15,000 St. Paul, " 15,000 Madison, Ind., " 2,500 13,000 Burlington, Ind., " 12,000 La Fayette, Ind., " 300 13,000 Rock Island, " 8,000 Jeffersonville, " 800 8,000 81,550 914,000 Lake Cities. 1830. 1860. Chicago and dependencies 100 150,000 Buffalo, " 8,663 100,000 Detroit, " 2,222 80,000 Milwaukee, " 50 75,000 Cleveland, " 1,047 70,000 Toronto, C. W., 1,667 65,000 Rochester, " 9,269 50,000 Hamilton, C. W., " 5,500 25,000 Kingston, C. W., " 2,500 20,500 Oswego, " 3,200 20,500 Toledo, " 30 20,000 Sandusky City, " 350 14,000 Erie, " 1,000 10,000 G. Rapids, Mich., " 300 10,000 Kenosha, " 10,000 Racine, " 10,000 St. Catharine's, C. W., " 400 10,000 Waukegan, " 8,000 Port Huron, " 100 8,000 Fon du Lac, " 20 8,000 32,408 764,000 These, according to the table, exhibit a growth which makes them, in 1860, more than _twenty-three_ times as populous as they were in 1830. This is double the progress of the river cities, and more than five times that of the cities of the Atlantic coast. In the face of these facts, how can intelligent men continue to hold the opinion that New York is to continue long to be, as now, the focal point of North American commerce and influence? Yet well informed men _do_ continue to express the opinion that New York will _ever_ hold the position of the chief city of the continent. Every one at all familiar with the location and movement of our population, knows that the central point of its numbers is moving in a constant and almost unvarying direction west by north. An able investigator, now Professor of Law in the University of Michigan, Thomas M. Cooley, five years ago, entered into an elaborate calculation to ascertain where the centre of population of the United States and Canadas was, at that time. The result showed it to be very near Pittsburg. It is generally conceded that it travels in a direction about west by north, at a rate averaging not less than seven miles a year. In 1860, it will have crossed the Ohio River, and commenced its march through the State of Ohio. As our internal commerce is more than ten times as great as our foreign commerce, and is increasing more rapidly, it is plain that it will have the chief agency in building the future and permanent capital city of the continent. If the centre of population were, likewise the centre of wealth and industrial power, other things being equal, it would be the position of the chief city, as it would be the most convenient place of exchange for dealers from all quarters of the country. But this centre of wealth and industrial power does not keep up, in its western movement, with the centre of population! nor, if its movement were coincident, would it be at or near the right point for the concentration of our domestic and foreign trade, while traversing the interior of Ohio. If we suppose our foreign commerce equal to one fifteenth of the domestic, we should add to the thirty-three millions of the States and Canadas, upward of two millions of foreigners, to represent our foreign commerce. These should be thrown into the scale represented by New York. This, with the larger proportion to population of industrial power remaining in the old States, would render it certain that the centre of industrial power of our nation has not traveled westward so far as to endanger, for the present, the supremacy of the cities central to the commerce of our Atlantic coast. Until the centre of industrial power approaches a good harbor on the lakes, New York will continue the best located city of the continent for the great operations of its commerce. That the centre of wealth and consequent industrial power is moving westward at a rate not materially slower than the centre of population, might be easily proved; but, as those who read this article with interest must be cognizant of the great flow of capital from the old world and the old States to the New States, and the rapid increase of capital on the fertile soil of the new States, no special proof seems to us to be called for. The centre of power, numerical, political, economical, and social, is then, indubitably, on its steady march from the Atlantic border toward the interior of the continent. That it will find a resting place somewhere, in its broad interior plain, seems as inevitable as the continued movement of the earth on its axis. The figures we have submitted of the growth of the principal lake cities plainly show great power in lake commerce, so great as to carry conviction to our mind that the _principal city of the continent will find its proper home and resting-place on the lake border, and become the most populous capital of the earth_. A full knowledge of the geography of North America will tend to confirm this conviction in the mind of the fair inquirer. The lakes penetrate the continent to its productive centre. They afford, during eight or nine months of the year, pleasant and safe navigation for steam-propelled vessels. Their waters are pure and beautifully transparent, and the air which passes over them exceedingly invigorating to the human system. Their borders are replete with materials for the exercise of human industry and skill. The soil is fertile and very productive in grains and grasses. Coal in exhaustless abundance crops out on or near their waters, to the extent of nearly one thousand miles of coast. The richest mines of iron and copper, convenient to water transport, exist, in aggregate amount, beyond the power of calculation. Stone of lime, granite, sand, and various other kinds suitable for the architect and the artist, are found almost everywhere convenient to navigation. Gypsum of the best quality crops out on the shores of three of the great lakes, and salt springs of great strength are worked to advantage, near lakes Ontario and Michigan. Timber trees in great variety and of valuable sorts, give a rich border to the shores for thousands of miles. Of these, the white oak, burr oak, white pine, whitewood or tulip tree, white ash, hickory and black walnut, are the most valuable. They are of noble dimensions, and clothe millions of acres with their rich foliage. Nowhere else on the continent are to be seen such abundance of magnificent oak, and the immense groves of white pine are not excelled. Heretofore little esteemed, the great tracts of timber convenient to lake navigation and to the wide treeless prairies of the plain, are destined soon to take an important place in the commercial operations of the interior. Already, oak timber, for ship-building and other purposes, finds a profitable market in New York and Boston. The great Russian steamship "General Admiral," was built in part from the timber of the lake border. A great trade is growing up, based on the products of the forest. Whitewood (Diriodendron tulipifera), oak staves, black and white walnut plank, and other indigenous timber, are shipped, not only to the Atlantic cities, but to foreign ports. The lumber yards of Albany, New York, Philadelphia, as well as those of Chicago, Milwaukee, Detroit, Toledo, Cleveland and Buffalo, receive large supplies from the pineries bordering the great lakes. Cincinnati and other Ohio river cities, receive an increasing proportion of pine lumber from the same source. These great waters are also, as is well known, stocked with fish in great variety, whose fine gastronomic qualities have a world-wide reputation. As before stated, these lakes penetrate the continent toward the northwest as far as its productive centre. They now have unobstructed connection with the Atlantic vessels of nine feet draft and three hundred tons burden, by the aid of sixty-three miles of canals overcoming the falls of the St. Mary, Niagara and St. Lawrence Rivers, with a lockage of less than six hundred feet. By enlarging some of the locks and deepening the canals, at a cost of a very few millions, navigation for propellers of from one thousand to two thousand tons may be secured with the whole world of waters. The cost is much within the power of the Canadas and the States bordering the lakes, and will be but a light matter to these communities when, within the next fifteen years, they shall have doubled their population and trebled their wealth. The increase of the commerce of the lakes, during the last fifteen years, is believed to be beyond any example furnished by the history of navigation. A proportionate increase the next fifteen years, would give for the yearly value of its transported articles, thousands of millions. According to the best authorities it is now over four hundred millions. In 1855, that portion of the tonnage belonging to the United States was one fifteenth of the entire tonnage of the Union. During the same year the clearances of vessels from ports of the United States to the Canadas, and the entrance of vessels from the Canadas to ports of the United States, as exhibited in the following table, show a greater amount of tonnage entered and cleared than between the United States and any other foreign country: Clearances from ports in the United States to ports in Canada in 1855: Number of American vessels 2,369 " Canadian " 6,638 Whole number 9,067 Tonnage American 890,017 " Canadian 903,502 Total cleared from the States, 1,793,519 The registered tonnage of all the States, the same year, was 2,676,864; and the registered and enrolled together, 5,212,000. The value of lake tonnage was, in 1855, $14,835,000. The total value of the commerce of the lakes, the same year, was estimated, by high authority, (including exports and imports) at twelve hundred and sixteen millions ($1,216,000,000.) This seems to us an exaggerated estimate, though based principally on official reports of collectors of customs. Eight hundred millions would, probably, be near to the true amount. It will surprise many persons to learn that the trade between the United States and Canadas, carried on chiefly by the lakes and their connecting waters, ranks third in value and first in tonnage, in the table of our foreign commerce; being, in value, only below that of England and the French Empire, and in tonnage above the British Empire. American goods to Canada $9,950,764 Foreign goods 8,769,580 $18,720,344 Canadian goods to the States, 12,182,314 $30,902,658 We here append a table showing the progress, from decade to decade, of the principal centres of population of the plain since 1820. It has been made with all the accuracy which our sources of information enable us to attain. There are in it, no doubt, many errors, but it will be found, in the main, and for general argument, substantially correct. For future reference, it will be valuable to persons who take an interest in the development of our new urban communities. Included in each city are its outlying dependencies--such as Newport and Covington with Cincinnati, and Lafayette with New Orleans. 1830. 1840. 1850. 1860. New Orleans 46,310 90,000 130,565 180,000 Cincinnati 21,831 47,000 130,739 250,000 St. Louis 5,852 16,469 82,000 180,000 Chicago 100 4,650 29,963 150,000 Pittsburg 12,568 25,000 71,595 125,000 Buffalo 8,653 18,213 42,265 100,000 Montreal 30,000 40,000 55,000 90,000 Louisville 10,341 21,210 43,194 89,000 Detroit 2,222 9,162 21,019 80,000 Milwaukee 50 1,730 20,061 75,000 Cleveland 1,047 6,071 19,377 70,000 Toronto 1,677 13,500 27,500 70,000 Rochester 9,269 20,191 36,409 50,000 Quebec 26,250 32,500 41,200 55,000 Columbus, O. 2,450 6,671 17,882 40,000 Mobile 3,194 12,672 20,515 35,000 Hamilton, C. W. 1,500 4,200 13,000 25,000 Memphis 1,500 3,500 8,839 25,000 Nashville 5,566 6,929 10,478 25,000 Dayton 2,954 6,067 10,977 25,000 Indianapolis 1,000 2,692 8,034 22,000 Wheeling, Va. 5,221 7,885 11,435 20,000 Kingston, C. W. 2,500 5,500 10,000 20,000 Lockport, N. Y. 3,800 6,500 12,323 20,000 Oswego 3,200 4,665 12,205 20,000 Toledo 30 1,229 3,829 20,000 Zanesville 3,000 6,000 12,355 20,000 est. est. New Albany 1,500 4,000 9,895 20,000 est. est. Peoria 800 2,000 5,095 20,000 est. est. Quincy, Ill. 1,000 3,000 6,902 20,000 Galena 2,000 4,000 6,004 20,000 Dubuque 200 1,500 3,108 16,000 Keokuk ... 1,000 2,478 16,000 Davenport ... 500 2,478 12,000 Burlington, Ia. ... 1,000 1,848 12,000 Columbus, Ga. 1,000 4,000 5,052 10,000 Alton, Ill. 250 2,500 3,585 10,000 Steubenville 2,964 5,203 6,140 9,000 Chillicothe 2,840 3,977 7,100 9,000 Grand Rapids, Mich. 300 1,500 3,148 9,000 Huntsville, Ala. 1,200 1,500 2,863 6,000 Adrian, Mich. 200 1,800 3,006 9,000 Ann Arbor 200 2,000 4,868 9,000 Sandusky City 350 2,000 8,500 13,000 Fort Wayne, Ia. 100 1,600 4,282 13,000 Madison, Ia. 2,500 4,500 8,508 13,000 St. Paul ... ... 1,012 15,000 Lafayette, Ia. 200 2,000 6,129 13,000 Maysville, Ky. 1,800 2,741 4,256 9,000 Terre Haute, Ia. 600 2,000 4,900 9,000 Evansville, Ia. 300 1,500 3,235 9,000 Jeffersonville, Ia. 500 2,000 3,487 9,000 Portsmouth, Ohio 1,000 2,000 4,011 9,000 Marietta, O. 1,200 1,815 5,254 9,000 Springfield, Ill. 800 2,579 4,553 9,000 Rock Island City ... 400 1,711 8,000 Chattanooga, Ten. 500 1,000 3,500 8,000 Bytown, or } Ottawa, C. W. } 500 2,000 5,000 10,000 London, C. W. 500 2,000 5,000 10,000 St. Catharines, do. 200 800 4,000 10,000 Galveston, Texas 1,200 2,000 4,177 10,000 Houston, " ... 500 3,000 10,000 Erie, Pa. 1,260 3,500 5,858 10,000 Lexington, Ky. 4,500 6,997 9,180 10,000 Ogdensburg 1,500 3,000 6,500 10,000 Natchez, Miss. 2,000 3,000 4,434 9,000 Three Rivers, C. E. 800 2,000 4,000 8,000 Racine, Wis. ... 1,000 5,111 9,000 Waukesha ... 200 2,313 8,000 Marshall, Mich. 200 1,200 2,822 8,000 Pontiac, " 150 1,300 2,820 8,000 P't Huron " 100 400 2,313 8,000 Jackson " 150 1,000 3,051 6,000 Kalamazoo " 150 900 2,363 6,000 Mineral Pt., Wis. 500 800 2,584 6,000 Kenosha " ... 500 3,055 8,000 Fon du Lac, " ... 1,000 3,451 6,000 Janesville " ... 1,200 2,782 7,000 Beloit " ... 500 2,732 6,000 Madison " ... 100 1,500 7,000 Elgin " ... 100 2,359 5,000 Oshkosh, " ... ... 2,500 6,000 Monroe, Mich. 400 2,000 2,813 5,000 Lansing " ... 100 1,229 5,000 Columbus, Miss. 800 1,500 2,611 5,000 Jacksonville, Ill. 800 1,500 2,745 5,000 Waukegan " ... 800 2,949 6,000 Lasalle " 50 1,000 3,201 6,000 Joliet " ... 1,000 2,659 6,000 Jefferson City, Mo. 1,000 2,000 3,000 5,000 St. Joseph " ... 1,000 2,557 5,000 Independence " ... 500 3,500 6,000 Iowa City, Iowa ... ... 1,582 5,000 Muscatine " ... 400 2,540 6,000 Springfield, Ohio 1,080 2,094 5,108 8,000 Newark " 1,000 2,705 3,654 7,000 Hamilton " 800 1,409 3,210 7,000 Lancaster " 1,000 2,120 3,483 5,000 Akron " 800 1,664 3,266 6,000 Mt, Vernon " 800 2,363 3,711 7,000 Tiffin " ... 728 2,718 7,000 Urbana " 400 1,070 3,414 6,000 Massillon " 600 1,300 2,697 5,000 Lawrenceburg, Ia. 600 2,000 3,487 6,000 Richmond, Ia. 500 1,000 1,443 5,000 Knoxville, Tenn. 1,800 ... 2,076 6,000 The preceding table is instructive, showing, as it does, the steady and rapidly increasing tendency of the people of the plain to seek a home in cities and villages, notwithstanding the great temptation which fertile, cheap, and easily-improved lands hold out to become tillers of the soil and growers of cattle. Stock farming is largely remunerative, but our western people--wild and uncultivated as they are supposed to be by those unacquainted with their true character--prefer homes where the advantages of education and social intercourse is a constant enjoyment. Nowhere in the world are educational establishments on a better footing or more universally accessible than in some of the new States of the centre, as in Ohio, Michigan, Wisconsin and other States. CHAPTER XII. Michigan Agricultural Reports for 1854 -- Professor Thomas's Report -- Report of J. S. Dixon -- Products of States -- Climate -- Army Meteorological Reports. From the Agricultural Reports of the State of Michigan we take the following:-- "From old Fort Mackinaw to the Manistee River, the land immediately upon the lake shore, and not unfrequently extending back for many miles, is considerably elevated, and occasionally rises very abruptly to the height of from one hundred to three or four hundred feet. The country (more particularly the northern portion) continues to rise as we proceed into the interior, until it attains an elevation equal to any other portion of the peninsula. "This is more particularly the case in the rear of Traverse Bay, where this elevation continues for many miles into the interior, giving to the landscape a very picturesque appearance when viewed from some of the small lakes, which abound in this as well as in the more southern portion of the State. "The tract of country under consideration is based on limestone, sandstone, and shales, which are covered, excepting at a few points, with a deposit of red clay and sand, varying in thickness from a few inches to more than four hundred feet. The interior of the northern portion of the peninsula, west of the meridian, is generally more rolling than that on the east. It is interspersed with some extensive cedar swamps and marshes, on the _alluvial_ lands, and in the vicinity of heads of streams and some of the lakes. The upland is generally rolling, has a soil of clay, loam and sand, and is clad with evergreen timber, intermixed with tracts of beech and maple, varying in extent from a few acres to several townships. Several of the most extensive of these tracts are in the vicinity of the Cheboygan and Tahweegon rivers, their lakes and tributary streams. There are also large tracts of beech and maple timber lying between the head of Grand Traverse Bay, and the Manistee and Muskeegon rivers. "The elevated portion of land on the shore of Lake Michigan, known as the 'Sleeping Bear' as well as Manitou Island, (see latitude 45) which, when viewed from a distance, has the appearance of sand, is found to be composed of alternate layers of highly marly clay and sand. The clay is of a deep red color, and in many places its strata are much contorted. "The hilly region, to which allusions have been made, is mostly heavily timbered with beech, maple, bass, oak, ash, elm, birch, etc., interspersed with an occasional cedar swamp. In the vicinity of Grand Traverse Bay, this character of country extends into the interior for many miles, bordering on a series of small and beautiful lakes, which vary in length from two to eighteen miles, and are generally free from marsh and swamp. This country, as also that in the interior from Little Traverse Bay, is well adapted to the purposes of agriculture. "Passing south of this rolling district, the country becomes less elevated and more variable, the soil assuming a more sandy character, and being generally clad with evergreen timber. There are, however, exceptions to this in some fine tracts of beech and maple near the lake coast, also, in the vicinity of some of the streams in the interior. "It is nevertheless true, that there are many extensive swamps and marshes in this part of the peninsula, but it is doubted whether, upon the whole, they exceed the quantity or extent of those of the more southern part of the State. "In point of soil and timber, this portion of the State is not inferior to the more southern--and such are the advantages it offers to the settler, that the day is not distant when it will be sought as a place of residence by the agriculturist. "The beauty of its lakes and streams is not anywhere surpassed. Such is the transparency of their waters as to permit objects to be distinctly seen at the depth of more that thirty feet. "That part of the peninsula situate north of Grand River is usually regarded by many of the inhabitants of the more southern part of the State, as being either an impenetrable swamp, or a sandy barren waste, and as possessing too rigorous a climate to admit of its successful application to purposes of agriculture. "This is an erroneous opinion, and one which will most certainly be corrected, as the facts with regard to this part of our State come more fully to be known. The inhabitants of Flat, Royale, Muskegon and White Rivers, and the Ottawa Indians, living on the Grand and Little Traverse Bays, and on the Manistee River, have extensive cultivated fields, which uniformly produce abundant crops. "The country on Flat and Royale Rivers is generally rolling, interspersed with level and knobby tracts; but none is so rough as to prevent it from being successfully cultivated. The timber in the vicinity of the streams consists of black, white, and burr oak, which is scattering, and forms what is denominated openings and plains; small tracts of pine barrens, beech, maple and oak lands, interspersed with tracts of white pine. "Settlements are rapidly advancing in this part of our State, and much of the land under cultivation produces excellent crops of wheat, oats, corn, potatoes, etc., and so far as experience has been brought to the test, is not inferior to, or more subject to early frosts in the fall, than more southern counties of the State. "The soil varies from a light sand to a stiff clay loam. "The country on the Muskegon is rolling, and may be considered as divided into beech and maple land, pine lands, pine barrens, oak openings, plains and prairies. Small tracts of the latter are situated near the forks of the river, about forty-five miles from its mouth, and between thirty and forty-five miles north of the Grand River. "Crops of corn, oats, wheat, etc., were here as flourishing as those of the more southern part of State. The soil of the prairies and openings is sandy, while that of the beech and maple lands is a sand and clay loam. "The Indians on Grand and Little Traverse Bays and vicinity, also obtain good crops of corn, potatoes, squashes, etc. Some of the most intelligent Indians informed me that they were seldom injured by frosts in the fall or spring. They also have many apple trees which produce fruit in considerable quantities. "The soil is strictly a warm one, and, exposed as the whole country, bordering on Lake Michigan, is to the influence of the southern winds during summer and parts of spring and fall, it seldom fails to be productive." Professor Thomas, Geologist, has placed in our hands the following report of the Geology of Mackinaw, Michigan: "From the site of old Fort Mackinaw, at the very extremity of the peninsula, south to the Manistee River, a direct distance of about one hundred and forty miles, the immediate shores of the lake are almost invariably considerably elevated, sometimes rising abruptly to a height of from three to four hundred feet. "The soil of the vicinity, in consequence of the large amount of calcareous matter which enters into its composition, possesses a fertility that a superficial observer would scarcely ascribe to it. "The limestone chiefly consists of an irregular assemblage of angular fragments united by a tufaceous cement. These fragments usually appear at first sight to have a compact structure, but a more minute examination shows them to contain _minute_ cells, sufficiently large to admit water, which, by the action of frost, subjects the rock to rapid disintegration. Portions of the rock may, nevertheless, be selected partially free from this difficulty, and which are possessed of sufficient compactness to render them of value as a coarse building stone; horn-stone, striped jasper (imperfect); hog-toothed spar, calcareous spar, and fluor spar, are imbedded in the rock, although the latter is of rare occurrence. "Lime rock again occurs at the Straits of Mackinaw, and in the vicinity, it appears upon the Island of Mackinac, together with the Bois Blanc, Round, and St. Martin's Islands, as also upon the northern peninsula north from Mackinaw. "Gypsum occurs on the St. Martin's group of islands, and also upon the northern peninsula between Green Bay and Mackinac. "MACKINAW LIMESTONE.--The rock is of a light color, and the fragments of which it is composed frequently contain numberless minute cells. These were undoubtedly once filled with spar, which has been washed out of the exposed part of the rock by the action of water. The upper part is unfit for building purposes, but the lower is more compact, and has marks of regular stratification. "COAL.--The coal is highly bituminous, a character in common with all that has been seen in the State, and it may safely be said, that none other may be looked for in the peninsula. "From the facts now before me, I am led to hope that coal will be found in the elevated hills of the northern part of the peninsula, easterly from Little Traverse Bay, a circumstance which, should it prove to be the case, will add much to the value of that portion of the State."--_Houghton Geological Reports of Michigan._ "Foster and Whitney, United States Geologists, in their Reports to the Government, laid down the Onondago Salt Group of rocks as extending over a portion of the southern part of the northern peninsula of Michigan, not a great distance from Mackinaw, and also as existing on the St. Martin's and Mackinaw Islands. "ONONDAGA SALT GROUP.--As a whole, it is an immense mass of argillo-calcareous shaly rocks, inclosing veins and beds of gypsum; hence this has been designated by some as the 'gypseous shales.' "Four divisions have been distinguished in the description of the Onondaga Salt Group, though the lines of separation are by no means well defined. "1. Red and greenish shales below. "2. Green and red marl, shale, and shaly limestone with some veins of gypsum. "3. Shaly, compact, impure limestone, with shale and marl, embracing two ranges of plaster beds with hopper-shaped cavities between. "4. Drab-colored, impure limestone with fibrous cavities; the 'magnesian deposit of Vanuxem.' Of these, the third is the only one that has yielded gypsum in profitable quantities. The included masses of gypsum, though, for the most part, even-bedded at their base, are usually very irregular at their upper surface, often conical. The plaster beds are supposed to be separations by molecular attraction from the marl. "This third division contains not only the gypseous beds, but is most probably the source of all the salt so extensively manufactured at Onondaga, Cayuga, and Madison; at least Vanuxem informs us that, except in these gypseous beds, there is no evidence of salt existing in the solid state in any of the other divisions of the Onondaga Salt Group. "The fourth division is remarkable for a fine columnar structure, or needle-formed cavities, dispersed through the mass. "In the middle counties of New York, the entire thickness of the Onondaga Salt Group must be from six hundred to a thousand feet. Notwithstanding its great thickness, this formation is very barren in fossils. The corals and shells of the Niagara group suddenly ceased to exist, perhaps, as Hall suggests, being overwhelmed by a sudden outbreak of a buried vulcano at the bottom of the ocean, by which the waters became surcharged not only with argillaceous sediment, but became contaminated, either with free sulphuric acid, or sulphate of magnesia and soda. "The country through which the Onondaga Salt Group extends, is usually marked by a series of low, gravelly hills, and clayey valleys, on which a stunted growth of timber prevails, known by the name of 'Oak Openings.' Small portions of sulphate of strontia, galena, and blende, with rhomb spar, occur in the upper portion of the group. Gypsum and salt are, however, the only minerals of economical value: of the former many thousand tons are excavated. Several acidulous springs issuing from these deposits, have been found to contain free sulphuric acid."--_D. D. Owen's Review of the N. Y. Geological Reports._ Jules Marcou, in his Geology of the United States, places the northern portion of the southern peninsula of Michigan in the Terrain Devonian. Report of J. S. Dixon and others, on Grand Traverse Bay, p. 523, in Michigan Agricultural Reports for 1834, says: "The atmosphere is moist and wholesome--no disease, and healthy as any portion of country. It is a well established fact, that water cools first on the surface, then sinks while the warm water rises, and consequently ice never forms till the whole body of water has been cooled to thirty degrees. Now, from this fact, the philosopher will at once deduce the climate of this region. Traverse Bay is from one hundred to nine hundred feet deep and the water never cools to thirty-two degrees till the middle of February, and in Lake Michigan in the middle never, and so long as the water in these continuous reservoirs is warmer than the air, the former must obviously warm the latter. "It is accordingly well known that in England, on the east side of the Atlantic 7° or 8° farther north than Traverse Bay, the climate, as it regards cold in winter, is about equal to that of Washington City, and so it is on the east side of the Pacific ocean, in Oregon. Hence it is evident that the seasons on the east side of Lake Michigan must be uniform. "Around Traverse Bay the frost seldom kills vegetables till in November, and seldom occurs in spring later than the 1st of May. In November it gets cold enough to freeze. The vapors arising from the lake and bay fall in snow and cover the ground before the frost has penetrated it at all; it accumulates several months till it is two feet deep, sometimes deeper, and remains till April; and when it goes off; cattle find enough to eat in the woods. This region is much more sunny between the middle of March and December than southern Michigan, and every vegetable physiologist will at once state that the influence of this on vegetation must be very great, and accordingly spring crops grow with such rapidity that corn is fit to be cut by the 1st of September. From December to March, as above, the atmosphere is hazy, cloudy, and frosty, though the thermometer never sinks so low as in the south of Michigan by ten or twelve degrees (8 or 10 degrees below zero, being the lowest yet known), and a winter thaw is unknown here. Hence we never have mud in winter, and but little at any season. "With the very defective cultivation hitherto used here, yield of crops are as follows:--Potatoes, free of rot, 150 to 300 bushels to the acre; oats 25 to 60; corn 25 to 50; wheat (spring) the largest yet raised 27 bushels. Wheat raised here is much more plump than in southern Michigan, and there is no instance of its being smothered or injured by snow, because the snow never thaws and alternately freezes into a hard crust, or ice, so as to exclude the air from the wheat, as in other places. "We confidently predict that this will become the most prolific wheat region in the west; rust and insects are unknown. All experience goes to prove that this will be a great fruit country. The Indian apple and peach trees, although few in number bear well every year; and as to wild blackberries and raspberries, both as to size and flavor, there is absolutely no end. They serve all the inhabitants and millions of pigeons for several months." United States census, 1850, shows products of States. Average per acre of Wheat. Oats Corn. Potatoes. Michigan 10 Bushels 26 32 140 Illinois 11 " 29 33 105 Indiana 12 " 20 33 100 Iowa 14 " 36 32 100 Average per acre of Wheat. Oats Corn. Potatoes. Ohio 12 " 21 36 Wisconsin 14 " 35 30 Pennsylvania 15 " 20 New York 12 " 25 27 CLIMATE.--Council Bluffs is in latitude 41-1/2°, Dubuque 42-3/4°, Green Bay 43-1/2°, and Mackinaw City about 46°. By reference to the following tables of temperature, it will be seen that these points are about on the same isothermal line, practically removing, by these tables, the prejudices generally existing against the climate of northern Michigan--see Blodgett's Climatology and Army Meteorological Reports of United States. Quebec, Canada. average in January above zero, 13° Montreal, " " " " 16 Hampden, Maine " " " 17 Portland, " " " " 21 Cannel, " " " " 15 Burlington, Vt. " " " 19 Deerfield, Mass. " " " 21 Granville, N. Y. " " " 22 Potsdam, " " " " 18 Plattsburgh, " " " " 20 Gouverneur, " " " " 20 Lowville, " " " " 22 Oneida, " " " " 22 Buffalo, " " " " 23 Silver Lake, Pa. " " " 22 Concord, N. H. " " " 22 Boston, Mass. " " " 28 Albany, N. Y. " " " 24 Chicago, Illinois " " " 24 Ottawa, " " " " 23 Muscatine, Iowa " " " 20 Detroit, Michigan " " " 27 Pittsburgh, Pa. " " " 29 Philadelphia, " " " " 32 Cincinnati, Ohio " " " 30 Green Bay, Wis. " " " 19 Dubuque, Iowa " " " 20 Council Bluffs " " " 19 Mackinaw City " " " 19 These extremes of latitude of Philadelphia and Mackinaw include the principal agricultural, mining, manufacturing, and commercial interests of America, elements naturally pertaining to Michigan, and second in their variety and extent to no State of the Union. Archangel, Russia, in January, averages above zero 6.60° St. Petersburg, " " " " 15.70 Christiana, Norway, " " " " 21.30 St. Bernard, Switzerland, " " " " 14.40 Moscow, Russia, " " " " 13.60 Erzeroum, Turkey, " " " " 18. Taganwa, Sea of Azof, " " " " 20.70 Astracan, Caspian Sea, " " " " 21.30 Kasow (Volga) Russia, " " " " 3.50 Stockholm, Sweden, " " " " 24.30 Cracow, Poland, " " " " 23.40 Pekin, China, " " " " 26.00 Odessa, S. Russia, " " " " 25.20 Berlin, Prussia, " " " " 27.70 Extremes below zero, 1835. Bangor, Maine January 4, below 40° Bath " " " 40 Portland, " " " 21 Boston, Mass. " " 15 Salem, " " " 17 Chicago, Ill. February 8, " 22 St. Louis, Mo. " " 22 Cincinnati, O. " " 18 Lexington, Ky. " " 20 Nashville, Tenn. " " 10 Huntsville, Ala. " " 9 Philadelphia, Pa. " " 6 Lancaster, Pa. " " 22 Washington City " " 16 Clarksville, Geo. " " 15 Army Meteorological Reports for 1854. January. Range. above below Mean. Max'm. min'm. mean. mean. Fort Hamilton, N. Y. 31.49° 50. 12. 18.5 19.5 Fort Niagara, " 25.04 48. 6. 23. 19. Alleghany, Pa. 29.08 64. 5. 34.9 24.1 Fort Delaware, Md. 32.38 54. 10. 21.6 17.4 Cincinnati, Ohio 31.78 54. 1. 22.2 32.8 Fort Snelling, Min. 1.30 45. 36. 43.7 37.3 " Leavenworth, Kan. 24.68 67. 8. 32.3 32.7 " Mackinaw, Mich. 13.09 34. 15. 10.9 28.1 Blodgett's and Army Rain Charts, showing rain and snow in inches for a series of years. Jan. Feb. M'ch. Dec. Total in year. Mack'w Island, Mich. 1.25 .82 1.14 1.24 23.87 Fort Kent, Maine. 3.73 2.60 1.77 3.36 36.46 Portland, " 3.37 3.39 2.92 4.17 45.25 Jan. Feb. M'ch. Dec. Total in year. Charleston, Mass. 2.66 2.22 4.08 2.27 35.83 Montreal, Canada 2.84 1.84 2.69 2.58 47.28 Fayetteville, Vt. 3.93 3.91 4.07 3.55 53.99 Cincinnati, Ohio. 3.35 3.51 3.93 4.29 46.89 Green Bay, Wis. 1.19 0.87 1.70 1.30 34.65 Detroit, Mich. 2.18 1.38 2.86 1.30 30.07 St. Louis, Mo. 1.93 3.37 3.82 1.99 41.95 Fort Hamilton, N. Y. 2.98 3.67 3.65 3.84 43.65 Pittsburgh, Pa. 2.18 2.17 2.70 3.13 34.96 Philadelphia, Pa. 3.09 2.94 3.43 4.03 43.56 CHAPTER XIII. Agricultural interest -- Means of transportation -- Railways and vessels -- Lumber -- Vessels cleared -- Lake cities and Atlantic ports -- Home-market -- Breadstuffs -- Michigan flour -- Monetary panics -- Wheat -- Importations -- Provisions -- Fruit -- Live stock -- Wool -- Shipping business -- Railroads -- Lake Superior trade -- Pine lumber trade -- Copper interest -- Iron interest -- Fisheries -- Coal mines -- Salt -- Plaster beds. We copy from the Detroit Tribune of 1860, a somewhat elaborate and lengthy article containing recent and highly important information in regard to the industrial interests of Michigan. Though there are portions of this article which we have to some extent anticipated in some of our previous chapters, we consider it highly important to extract largely from it, because of its more recent date. To all interested in the development and future growth of the Northwest, it will prove most valuable. The writer, Mr. Kay Haddock, commercial editor of the Tribune, says:-- "We know of no similar extent of country on the globe so highly favored by nature as our own State, which but twenty-three years since emerged from the chrysalis condition of a territory, but which to day, by the quickening influence brought to bear upon her natural advantages by an enterprising and enlightened people, possesses elements of wealth and greatness that might well be coveted by empires. The characteristics for which she is pre-eminent are neither few in number nor ordinary in character. She occupies the very front rank in respect to important minerals, as well as in the extent and quality of her forest products, while her fisheries are altogether unrivaled, and, like her mines and forests, are the source of exhaustless wealth. With regard to the extent and diversity of her natural resources, it would indeed seem difficult to over-estimate them. Predictions that seem visionary to-day, are to-morrow exceeded by the reality, as some new treasure is revealed. A glance at the map is of itself the most eloquent commentary that could be presented with reference to her geographical position. As nature does nothing in vain, the shipping facilities afforded by the noble inland seas that clasp our shores, are a sign and promise of the commercial greatness that awaits us in the future. We may well be proud of the condition of our agricultural interest--that great interest which underlies every other; which alike gives to the wealthy his opulence and the beggar his crust. Our farmers have unmistakably indicated their determination to accept of no secondary position in the quality of their wheat, and their wool is not only rapidly gaining the first rank as respect the amount produced, but is sought for with avidity for its superior quality by all the principal manufacturers of the country. Pomona, too, has thrown her influence in the scale. The region that has thus far been devoted to the culture of fruit, in proportion to its extent, cannot be surpassed in the Union, if indeed it can be equaled. Such is a faint picture of the 'Peninsular State.' "The snail-like progress hitherto made in the settlement of a large share of the State, is an enigma to those not versed in our early history. While occupying the position of a dependent of the central power at Washington, we were so unfortunate in some instances as to have men placed over us with whom personal interests were paramount to the great interests of the territory, which, at the critical period when the seeds of prosperity should have been planted, was fatal to our advancement. Next came the era of Utopian projects of internal improvement, by which our people were saddled with an onerous load of debt. In the mean time immigrants were misled by false reports concerning the character of the soil in the interior of the State, and there were no roads by means of which they could satisfy themselves of the true character of the country. They therefore passed on to find homes upon what then seemed the most attractive prairies of the far West. But there is at last a great change in the tide of affairs. The value of our timber is justly regarded as greatly overbalancing the doubtful advantage of settling upon prairie land, and the active demand that has recently sprung up for it must constantly make a still greater difference in our favor. Lands long held in the iron grasp of speculators are rapidly coming into the possession of actual settlers. Our State is being intersected by a system of roads, which will ere long demonstrate the necessity of an extension of the system. Our course is indeed onward and upward. "Having seen a statement, given upon the authority of some gazeteer, to the effect that about six million dollars were invested in this State in manufacturing, which we felt assured was a libel upon the State, we have taken steps to procure statistics of the more important industrial establishments throughout the entire State. We find that in the manufacture of pine lumber alone, there are about seven million dollars invested, exclusive of the standing timber of proprietors, which perhaps might properly be included as part of the capital." Such indications of thrift, enterprise, and prosperity in a region that twenty-four years ago was a howling wilderness, it may be safely said, is without a parallel. The other counties, we are tolerably safe in estimating, will swell the amount to $10,000,000, making, with the lumber manufactories, and the $2,148,500, invested in the iron manufacture, more than twenty million dollars! The apathy of the citizens of Detroit in availing themselves of the magnificent advantages possessed by the city for prosecuting manufacturing upon an extensive scale, is wholly inexplicable. There is a mine of unproductive wealth in our midst that might at once be placed at compound interest. It now lies dormant in the sinewy arms of men and the nimble fingers of women and children. There is thus a moral aspect in this question that addresses itself with peculiar earnestness to the philanthropic. But it were a philanthropy that would lay up treasures on earth. Daily, almost hourly, raw material takes its departure from our city destined to be received at eastern manufactories, there to be worked up and returned to us for our consumption, by which we are taxed with the freight both ways, in addition to losing the profit of the manufacture. Every property holder has a direct interest at stake. If a liberal sum were to be subscribed to-morrow for investment in this important branch of enterprise, the direct benefit that would accrue to the real estate of the city would be at least double the amount invested. The Western States look with deep interest to the Grand Trunk Railway, and are hopeful that it may prove a great benefit to them in enabling producers to reach the markets of European consumers at a cheap rate for carriage. Unquestionably great benefits will grow out of the opening up of the great thoroughfare. At the same time there are questions of grave importance to shippers which will soon have to be met, and nothing can be lost, while something may be gained, by meeting them at the outset. We set out, then, with the proposition that the bulky products of the West must be carried by water and not by rail, and will state a few facts that in our humble opinion will place this proposition beyond all cavil. So for as figures can be obtained, and correct calculations made, it has been demonstrated that freight cannot be moved on American railroads for less than one cent per ton per mile. This is actually the _first cost_, even in the coal regions of Pennsylvania. It is therefore fair to presume that the Grand Trunk, with conceded advantages of superior and economical management, cannot move freight at a less cost, and that the figure named will yield nothing to the stockholders in the shape of dividend. It is true that freight has been carried at an actual loss, and, as we are about to show, the same thing will to some extent be done again, but if persevered in this can only result in ruin, and no one will assert that it ought to be taken as a legitimate basis for future calculations. It follows, then, that $8,80 is the lowest sum for which a ton can be moved from Detroit to Portland, the distance between the two cities being eight hundred and eighty miles. This showing may not be relished by those most immediately interested in the Grand Trunk Railway, nor may it be palatable to the producers of the West, who have built high hopes on this road as an outlet to the Atlantic, but it is useless to attempt to shut our eyes to obvious facts. The West has for years possessed shorter and consequently cheaper routes to the seaboard, and in winter the cost of reaching-the Atlantic cities has always been and now is from 100 to 200 per cent, greater by rail than during the navigation season by the cheaper mode. This is easily proved. Let us look at the distance by the old route by the way of Suspension Bridge: Detroit to Suspension Bridge, is 232 miles; the Bridge to Albany, 300; Albany to Boston 200; total 732. Thus we see that the whole distance from Detroit to Boston is seven hundred and thirty-two miles, or one hundred and forty-eight _less_ than from Detroit to Portland. As regards shipments from Detroit to Boston, via the Grand Trunk, the matter is worse, for we have to add one hundred and three miles from Portland to Boston, making the old route two hundred and fifty-three miles shorter to that point than by the newly opened road. It is evident therefore, that the West is not likely to gain anything permanently by the new route, except in so far as it may open up some local trade, which, inconsiderable at first, may eventually assume considerable importance. Of course, what is true regarding Detroit, is also true with respect to every point west of us. Every one conversant with trade must admit that goods can be carried as cheap from any port in Europe to New York as to Portland. The distance from New York to Detroit, _via_ Albany and Suspension Bridge, is six hundred and eighty-two miles, or one hundred and ninety-eight miles less than from Portland to Detroit. Goods ought certainly to be carried cheaper from New York to Detroit than by a route near two hundred miles further. We learn that the New York Central Railroad Company are now perfecting a plan for ticketing passengers and goods from any point in the Western, Southern, and Southwestern States, and _vice versa_. Thus at least one important advantage to the West is already apparent, growing out of the comprehensive action of the Grand Trunk managers, while the action of the New York Central is the sure precursor of a momentous era in railroad annals. The present year is likely to witness the first battle in a war for the European and domestic trade of the West, that may in the end turn the entire current into other channels. It will be a strife of giants, and the prize the most magnificent ever battled for, either in the tented field or in the nobler contests of nations for commercial supremacy. That prize is the carrying trade of an empire fast rising into manly vigor, and destined to attain to a point during the present generation that will dazzle the world with its vastness and grandeur. On one side will be arrayed the Grand Trunk Railway, with its sixty million dollars of capital, backed by the government of Canada, and sustained by every merchant of the British North American colonies, aided by powerful friends in Europe--men of character, standing and capital, who will strain every nerve to supply their darling road with business, in which they will have the sympathy of the whole English people--for in both England and Canada the Grand Trunk is looked upon as a great triumph of national engineering skill, while at the same time it gratifies the national pride, as it gives the world one more convincing proof of that indomitable pluck that is the chief secret of the great celebrity attained by the merchants of the "fast anchored isle" for commercial enterprise. On the other side will be marshaled the forces of the "Grand Trunk" lines of railroad leading to the Western States from the Atlantic seaboard. The most prominent on the list is the New York Central Railroad, with her natural allies, the Great Western of Canada, the Hudson River Railroad, and the Western Railroad of Massachusetts. Next in order, as parties in the struggle, are the New York and Erie, the Pennsylvania Central, and the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, not to speak of the local roads in Ohio, Indiana, and Michigan, that will be affected more or less in the contest for supremacy. The Grand Trunk will fight under one banner, and that banner will carry on its broad folds the commercial prestige of the British Empire, and will have the sympathy of the British people. This, which will probably carry with it, as a coincident, plenty of the "sinews of war," will be decidedly a vantage ground to stand upon. The American interests will come into the field under different leaders, having no unity of action, and hating and fearing each other; who have never had confidence in each others' words or actions; who have never displayed any generosity toward each other; whose dealings with each other have been marked by cheating and bad faith, as the breaking of all convention treaties has proved. Under such a load of demoralization, all of them combined are perhaps not more than a match for the Grand Trunk. One of the American roads will have to stand in the van and sustain the first onset, and the elected one will be the NEW YORK CENTRAL. In every point of view it is the one best able to do so. It is managed and controlled by men of large experience and iron will--men who do not know what defeat is, and who, come what may, will show that their metal has the true ring. The result of such a contest none can foresee; albeit after the smoke of the battle is cleared away, the wreck will only show that it has been a costly and useless fight for the stockholders, and the conviction that God's highways are superior to man's will gain strength, insomuch as to assume far more practical importance than it has hitherto attained. The only method of carrying on a successful trade between the Western States and the seaports of Europe, is by water, and to this conclusion all must come, in the end, on both sides of the Atlantic. In order to make the trade productive of substantial benefit to all interested in it, the West must have free course down the St. Lawrence, and an enlargement of the Canadian canals, so that vessels of say eighteen hundred tons can pass down to the ports of Montreal and Quebec without unloading, and continue on their way to Europe without breaking bulk. A depth of fourteen feet water, with locks of corresponding capacity on the canals would accomplish this important end. The multifarious and rapidly increasing products of the Great West, her timber, flour, wheat, corn, oats, rye, barley, pork, beef, butter, lard, cheese, meal, and every description of agricultural produce could then be laid down in the ports of England so cheaply that it would greatly reduce the cost of the necessaries of life, and give a new impetus to the manufacturing interest of Great Britain. At the same time it would directly tend to cheapen every article that the West requires to import, thus proving of double advantage to our producers. In both cases the producer and consumer would be brought face to face, to the obvious advantage of all concerned. The manufacturing prosperity of England depends upon an unlimited supply of cheap labor, and that supply cannot be had unless she can supply such laborers with an unlimited supply of cheap food. The West has the capacity not only to furnish an inexhaustible quantity of cheap food, but it can purchase and consume a larger amount of the productions of English skill and labor than any other section of the world. Why, then, cannot both parties hit on some scheme that will bring them more closely into the fellowship of trade? It can be done, if both will unite to obtain an unimpeded outlet via the St. Lawrence for vessels and steamers of heavy burden. So far as Quebec and Montreal are concerned, it is very difficult to say whether the consummation of the proposed enlargement would redound most to their benefit, or to that of our Western lake cities. In both cases the gain would be beyond computation. The two important Canadian cities named would become at once important seaports. They would become two of the depots for the vast commerce of two continents, and would derive great benefits from the opening up of a local traffic with the West, which at present amounts to but very little, so far as they are concerned. Our lake cities would all become large commercial centres, and would supply the population of the region tributary to them, respectively, with dry goods, crockery, hardware, paints, oils, and all kinds of imported merchandise, at a cheaper rate by a considerable per centage, than they could be purchased at New York, or any city on the Atlantic. Detroit would be much nearer Liverpool than Buffalo now is by the usual route, and Chicago and Milwaukee would be almost as near, practically. A few figures will show the decided advantage of water over rail as a medium of transporting the bulky products of the West to market. It has already been shown that a ton of any kind of freight cannot be laid down at Portland from Detroit, by rail, under $8.80, without a loss to the stockholders, nor to Boston under $9.65, except with the same result; nor at New York _via_ the Great Western, New York Central, and Hudson River roads under $6.82, without actual loss to those roads, so that the case would stand thus:--Detroit to Portland, per ton, _via_ G. T. R., $8.80; Detroit to Boston, do. do., $9.85; Detroit to New York, $6.82. Add $4.00 per ton for ocean freights, and we have in each case respectively, $12.80, $13.85, and $10.82 per ton to Liverpool. Now we maintain that a screw steamer of 1800 tons burden, costing, when completed, $150,000, can carry much cheaper than a road like the Grand Trunk, costing $60,000,000, or the New York Central and its connections. A steamer of that capacity would carry 1,500 tons of freight; 600 tons of coal would run her across the Atlantic, and she could coal from Chicago or Detroit to Newfoundland, and from the latter point to Liverpool. By doing this, she could carry 300 tons more freight than if she coaled for the entire voyage from Chicago to Liverpool. All the principal exports and imports of Michigan, Indiana, Western Ohio, Kentucky, &c., would find their way to Detroit, and this point would of necessity become the great centre of the direct trade between Europe and the States above mentioned. Two steamers per week could be run with profit on the route during the season of navigation; each steamer would make two round trips and a half per season of seven months' navigation, allowing two months for each round trip. At this rate sixteen ocean steamers would be required to make up a semi-weekly line, and were the Canadian canals enlarged and ready for use by the middle of next April, there would be at once sufficient trade to sustain them, at much cheaper rates for freight and passage than is now charged by any route or combination of routes in existence, as the following will show conclusively: Each round trip would give the following sums for freight and passage:--1500 tons of freight at $6 per ton, $9,000; 40 cabin passengers at $50 each, $2,000; 50 steerage do. do. $25 each, $1,250. Total for the trip out, $12,250. Inward bound:--600 tons freight at $6, $3,600; 75 cabin passengers at $60, $4,500; 300 steerage do. do., $30, $9,000--$17,100. Add outward receipts, $12,250. Total, $29,350. The total cost of the trip, including insurance, would not exceed $14,000. Total net profits, $15,250. It will be seen by the above figures that our staple products can be carried to England in the right kind of vessels, at one half the cost that railroads and connecting steamers can perform the same service, even when the latter carry at a rate that brings no profit to the shareholders, while the former would pay large dividends. At the rates named for passage (but little more than one-half the present cost of going from Detroit to England) crowds of the European settlers in this country would flock to the mother country to see dear friends and relatives, and tens of thousands of the American people would embrace the opportunity to behold the tombs and temples and wonders of the land from whence their ancestors came. A feeling of friendship of the true stamp would spring up spontaneously between the Anglo-Saxon races on each side of the Atlantic that never could be severed, and which would alternately shed the blessings of Christianity and civilization to every corner of the world. Such free intercourse would show that to be appreciated by each other they only need to be better acquainted. And it is our firm belief, that the day that beholds the commencement of direct trade between the old world and in the inland seas of the Great West, by vessels of the class named, will see a day of glory and promise brighter and greater than has ever yet dawned on any efforts put forth to subdue the world by human means, to peace and universal brotherhood. Our readers are aware that a trade of great importance has sprung up within two or three years between Detroit and other lake ports, and the leading seaports of Europe. The particulars of its inauguration are already familiar to the public. Of the vessels which cleared hence in this trade in 1858, one was owned and sent out by a merchant of this city; another was loaded by a Cleveland house; the others were all owned or chartered by Capt. D. C. Pierce, the enterprising pioneer of the trade. His first venture on the _Kershaw_, notwithstanding some few incidental circumstances that worked to his disadvantage, was productive of some direct profit, but a much greater profit inured to himself, and those who followed him in this important commerce, by his becoming well versed in the European trade, insomuch as to be enabled to avail himself of the peculiar advantages offered by each market, as well as in determining the character of freight most profitable to carry. The cheapest, best and safest means of transporting the diversified products of the West, and particularly the region of which Detroit is the centre, to the European markets, returning with foreign fabrics in exchange, had long challenged the attention of capitalists, who saw in it the germ of a mighty commerce, but seemed to lack the practical knowledge and tact to put the ball in motion. Last year twenty-one vessels cleared from the different lake ports, mostly from Detroit. Another important point which is now in a fair way to be gained, is the making of European consumers acquainted with the fact that their wants can be supplied to any desired extent. When this information becomes general the consumption must be vastly stimulated, affording one of the most inviting fields for enterprise known in the commercial annals of the world. The resources of the State are amply sufficient to afford employment for half a century to a tenfold larger number of vessels than have yet engaged in it. By a carefully compiled estimate, it has been ascertained that in prosperous times the annual product of our _pineries_ is hard upon TEN MILLION DOLLARS. Large as this sum is, it is the opinion of those who are well qualified to form an estimate, that it may easily be surpassed by the product of our hard timber. Take for example the region around Saginaw Bay, which is perhaps the most remarkable locality in the world as respects the quality and variety of hard wood timber. Here, for near a hundred miles in extent, upon streams debouching into the bay, are dense forests of the choicest oak, with a profusion of hickory, black walnut, white ash, whitewood, and other desirable varieties. The manufacture of agricultural implements, as well as many other articles that afford employment to the toiling millions of the old world, must receive a new impetus when it is found that wood admirably adapted to their construction can be had direct from our forests at the moderate rate at which it will bear transportation. So of birds-eye maple for cabinet ware, red elm for carriage hubs, and other varieties applicable to specific uses. We have designated only such as abound in great plenty. The profusion of the growth is in fact equaled only by its accessibility, the whole country being so permeated by streams that it can be floated off with very little trouble. The Saginaw District, important and extensive as it is, comprises but a small portion of our hard-wood lumber region. In addition to numerous almost interminable forests in the north, equally accessible and almost equally valuable, there are extensive regions in the interior where timber abounds of such choice quality as to abundantly warrant railroad transportation hither. Although some of the shipments last season were of the far-famed Canada oak, shippers all concur in assuring us that the Michigan timber was held in as high estimation, if not higher, than any other offered in the foreign market. A most significant fact, coming right to the point, came under our observation a few months since. In the summer of 1858, five passenger cars for the Michigan Southern Road were built at Adrian, which unprejudiced judges pronounced the finest ever built in the United States. Every foot of timber in them--as well as every pound of iron--was of Michigan production. Last spring, after being in use some twenty months, these cars were for the first time overhauled for repairs, along with a number of eastern cars which had been in use for a like period of time, when it was found that the latter, owing to the inferior quality of timber, cost for repairs nearly as many dollars as the Michigan cars did cents! We have the authority of gentlemen of the highest respectability for stating this as a literal fact. The following is a complete list of the vessels which cleared for European ports the past year, together with the character of their cargoes, respectively, and the port to which they sailed:-- Bark D. C. Pierce, Staves, Liverpool. " Allies, Lumber and staves, Cork. " W. S. Pierson, Lumber and staves, Greenock. " Massillon, Lumber and staves, Liverpool. Brig J. G. Deshler, Staves, Glasgow. " Caroline, Lumber and staves, Liverpool. " Black Hawk, Staves, London. Schr R. H. Harmon, Staves, Liverpool. " J. F. Warner, Staves, Liverpool. " Gold Hunter, Staves, Cork. " Dousman, Staves, London. " Valeria, Lumber and staves, Liverpool. " Vanguard, Staves, Liverpool. " Grand Turk, Lumber, Hamburg. " St. Helena, Lumber and staves, Cork. " Chieftain, Lumber and staves, London. " C. H. Walker, Lumber and staves, Liverpool. " M. S. Scott, Lumber, Hamburg. " E. Bates, Lumber and staves, Liverpool. " H. Barclay, Staves, London. " Republican, Lumber and staves, Cadiz. " Messenger, Staves, &c. Calais. Of the above, Messenger cleared from Buffalo; the Pierson and Republican hailed from Milan, Ohio; the Massillon and Valeria from Cleveland; the Scott loaded at St. Joseph, and was sent out by a Milwaukee house; all the others either loaded at this port, or were owned or chartered here. Eight of the number were chartered by Messrs. Aspinwall & Son, and two of the others were owned here. The following is the aggregate amount of lumber and staves shipped to Europe the past year, exclusive of the cargoes from Cleveland, Milan, and Buffalo:-- West India staves No. 692,057 Standard pipe staves, No. 142,662 Lumber, feet 474,693 [A Quebec standard pipe is equal to four West India staves.] The Lily of Kingston, was the first vessel that ever passed down from the lakes to the ocean, bound to an European port. Her destination was Liverpool. This was about the year 1847. She afterward sailed in the Quebec and Liverpool trade, but was lost, we believe, on her third ocean voyage. As collateral to this trade, an important commerce has sprung up between the lake cities and the Atlantic ports which promise to increase rapidly. Prior to 1857, the passage of vessels from the Welland Canal to the ocean was of very rare occurrence. As a matter of curiosity, we present a complete statement of the vessels which have passed through the canal bound for Atlantic or European ports, with the year of sailing, avoiding a repetition of the list above given. The Dean Richmond, and those clearing in 1857 and 1858, all sailed for Europe. Those designated in this list as having sailed in 1859, all cleared for Atlantic ports: 1847 American steam revenue cutter Dallis. " Canadian barque Arabia. 1848 American barque Eureka. 1850 Canadian schooner Scotia. 1854 Canadian schooner Cherokee. 1855 Canadian bark Reindeer. 1856 American schooner Dean Richmond. 1857 American bark C. J. Kershaw. " English schooner Madeira Pet. 1858 American brig Black Hawk. " American schooner R. H. Harmon. " American schooner Col. Cook. " American schooner Correspondent. " American bark D. C. Pierce. " American schooner D. B. Sexton. " American schooner John E. Warner. " American bark H. E. Warner. " American bark C. J. Kershaw. " American schooner C. Reeve. " American schooner Harvest. " American bark Parmelia Flood. 1859 American bark Magenta. " American brig Sultan. " American brig Indus. " American brig Kate L. Bruce. " Canadian schooner Union. " American schooner Kyle Spangler. " American schooner Muskingum. " American schooner Adda. " American schooner Clifton. " American schooner Metropolis. " American schooner Energy. " American schooner W. B. Castle. " American schooner Alida. " American tug Uncle Ben. " American tug Cushman. " American schooner Typhoon. " American schooner Sarah Hibbert. Presuming that those who may hereafter become interested in this commerce, would like the benefit of the experience of those who have already embarked it, we have procured some valuable information for their benefit. First, as to the kind of timber most profitable to ship: Although black walnut appears to be growing in favor, and where once it has been used is again inquired for, yet a decided preference is given to oak, with the qualities of which all are entirely familiar. Choice, selected oak commands more money for cabinet purposes in all the foreign markets than the same quality of black walnut. Contrary to previous expectation, it is not likely that the latter can ever be brought into general use in Great Britain. It is the greatest mahogany market in the world, and that wood is in universal use, particularly the common or cheap kind. If ever so common, it is not liable to warp, which cannot be said of black walnut, although, as we have before intimated, those who have worked it, praise it very highly. Beech, elm and ash, are used for a great many purposes, and are in good demand, but oak commands more money than either of them, and is therefore the most profitable to ship at present. The fact is not generally known, but the information has been purchased at a dear rate, that the purchase of lumber for the foreign market by board-measure, instead of cubic, involves a heavy loss. In European markets all lumber is sold by the cubic foot, so that the cost of sawing is completely thrown away. Black walnut, for example, cannot be laid down in Detroit, or any lake port, under $18 to $20 per M., while the lumber can be obtained for $125 to $150 per M. cubic feet, 1,000 feet cubic measure being equal to 12,000 feet board measure. Thus in purchasing by cubic measure, the buyer pays only $125 to $150 for an amount that by board measure would cost $216 to $240, making a clear difference of _ninety dollars_ upon only one thousand cubic feet, equal to $900 upon a cargo of some of the vessels engaged in the trade last year. The same rule would apply substantially to other kinds of lumber. Independent of this, a decided preference is given to lumber in the log, owing to the good condition in which it can be delivered. There is one more point which manufacturers as well as shippers should bear in mind. The value of much of the lumber sent out was greatly impaired by being attached to the heart, which is the most porous part of the tree, and therefore most liable to crack. To obviate this objection the saw should pass upon each side of the heart, thus leaving the whole of it attached to a single piece of timber, instead of one or more pieces, and thereby making only one cull. By observing this rule a difference will be made in the market of thirty or forty per cent. Are staves or lumber the more profitable to ship? This depends upon circumstances. Last year it was very dull for both. For staves especially the season could not, for various reasons, have been more unfavorable. In the first place, the grape crop was a very short one, not only in France, but in all the vine countries, including the Canaries. This, of course, greatly lessened the demand for staves, and there were consequently very few taken from England to France, although French vessels are in the habit of taking them for ballast at a merely nominal rate, owing to the difficulty they experience in procuring return freights from England. The short crops in Canada and the great scarcity of money, forced an unusual number of laborers in that country into the stave and lumber business. Under advices that heavy shipments were in prospect, coupled with the general check upon business on account of the war, prices became depressed. Notwithstanding all this, the shipments hence, being early in the market, sold to advantage, and may therefore be considered as a signal success, under the circumstances. The smallest vessel going out from here netted a freight of $3,500. The most striking feature with regard to Detroit, in a commercial point of view, is her admirable location, which constitutes her the metropolis of a vast region, than which no city off the seaboard can boast one equally grand or important. The region embraces a circuit of some three thousand miles, composed of land and water, which both seem to vie with each other in contributing to the material prosperity of our city, while every interest involved is benefited in some degree by her. In the far north, where the rugged coast of the upper peninsula is lashed by the waters of the monarch of lakes, Detroit enterprise assists in redeeming the hidden treasures of the earth from their state of profitless inertion. There is not a hardy delver in the mines who is not familiar with the skill of Detroit machinists, nor an echo in all the majestic wilds skirting that noble expanse of waters, that has not been awakened by Detroit steamers. Further down upon the limpid waters of Lake Huron, where the army or rather the navy of fishermen set their nets for the capture of the finny tribes, here, too, our city possesses an interest almost as direct as if the canvas of their tiny crafts were spread within sight of her spires, the product comprising one of the most important staples in her multiform commerce. Last, but not least, is the great lumber region with which the prosperity of Michigan is so largely identified. The population of this region, as well as of the others we have referred to, raise almost literally nothing for their own consumption, their respective pursuits being inconsistent with that of tillers of the soil, so that in addition to the usual stores required by farmers, they have to purchase their breadstuffs and similar supplies. The bulk of these are bought of our dealers, this being not only the most convenient, but the cheapest and best market, as is amply proven by experience. Under the appropriate head will be found a complete and authentic statement of the commerce of the Saut St. Mary Canal, by which it will be seen that the aggregate value of the upward-bound freight is estimated at $5,298,640. The up-freight nearly all carried by steamers, of which the number running the entire season was seven, three from Detroit, one from Chicago, and three from Cleveland. The Detroit boats have generally been loaded to their utmost capacity, while we have the word of the Cleveland captains to the effect that two-thirds of their cargoes are usually taken on at this port. We must therefore be clearly within bounds in claiming that three-fourths of the above amount is part and parcel of the commerce of our city which would show our Lake Superior exports to be $3,960,000. In seasons in which the crops of our Canadian neighbors partially fail--a common occurrence within the past few years, but which we hope may never occur again--they naturally become our customers; and since the partial destruction of the wheat crop in Ohio last summer by frost, there have been considerable shipments of breadstuffs to Cleveland, Toledo, Sandusky, etc., which may very properly be included in the home traffic. The shipments of flour and grain for the supply of our home trade by lake craft, from the opening of navigation for the year 1859, as appears by the books of our Custom House, are as follows: Flour. Wheat. Corn. Port Huron 10,885 253 6,916 Saginaw 3,790 30 Cleveland 6,155 28,057 1,146 Thunder Bay 106 Green Bay 175 Northport 175 Sandusky 705 Huron, O. 660 Toledo 665 616 Lake Superior 11,321 Other American ports 245 Malden 1,289 160 14,548 Chatham 3,671 1,736 Wallaceburg 705 Goderich 318 1,274 Saugeen 168 Bayfield 200 Other Canadian ports 1,330 95 749 There were also 7,446 bushels oats to Port Huron, and 588 bushels do. to other ports, beside 3,400 bushels corn, and 11,962 bushels oats which were included in the heavy shipments to Lake Superior. We give the places for which vessels cleared; many of the shipments were for intermediate ports. Besides the flour and grain there were large shipments of pork, butter, lard, meal, etc., etc. The above were all by water. There were in addition large local shipments to various points on the Great Western, the Detroit and Milwaukee, and other roads, that may with equal propriety be regarded as pertaining to the home trade. The article of corn is one to secure customers, for in Canada it is not essential there should be short crops there. Large amounts are taken for the supply of the numerous distilleries on that side. A single house in our city has sold the past year 100,000 bushels for that purpose. During the year commodities have been interchanged by lake craft between Detroit and no fewer than sixty-three lake and river ports, to say nothing of the hundreds of towns and cities on the various railroads that are daily trading with us. We have not included those ports to which the bulk of our surplus produce is forwarded, but only such as come strictly within the scope of our subject. There are few places where trade develops statistics of similar character, or anything approximating thereto, while there are plenty of cities of no inconsiderable pretensions, and even great advantages, that would think themselves made if they possessed one-fourth the commercial facilities we enjoy. Within the past year, by the opening up of new and most important channels of railway communication, our position with respect to the great railway system of the continent, is rendered all that could be desired. In that regard it is indeed difficult to point out how any improvement could be made. With respect to our local advantages, however, admirable as they are, there is yet much in store for us. The signs are far more favorable than at any former period for the rapid settlement of the State, as well as for the more adequate development of her resources. We are constantly receiving intelligence that some new source of wealth has been revealed within our borders, or that one previously discovered is likely to surpass the expectations at first entertained. These events must not only tend directly to hasten the settlement of the State, but also add in a still greater ratio to her commercial importance and her wealth. If we were to fail to refer, in this connection, to the law passed by our legislature last winter, providing for the reclamation of the "swamp lands," technically so called, and inaugurating an admirable system of State roads throughout all the upper portions of the State, we should be ignoring decidedly the most pregnant of the signs of promise. In adopting so well-timed and beneficent a measure, our law-givers have proved themselves worthy guardians of a commonwealth whose interests so plainly bespeak a much greater degree of wise legislation than has heretofore been wielded for her benefit. Next in importance to these wholesome measures, is the law providing for the appointment of Commissioners of Emigration--one resident here, and the other stationed in New York. Those seeking homes in the West have only to be made aware of the unequaled inducements presented by our State, to secure immense accessions to our population. Detroit does not alone reap the benefit of her advantageous position. It is shared by all interests, but perhaps by none others to so great an extent as the tillers of the soil. It is a most significant fact that breadstuffs and provisions not unfrequently bring as high prices here as in New York, giving producers all the advantages at home of a seaboard market, and virtually putting the cost of shipment into their pockets. Thus a farmer whose land possesses a nominal value of ten or twenty dollars per acre, can enjoy all the pecuniary advantages of a location near one of the largest eastern cities, where farms are valued at one to two hundred dollars per acre. This fact alone should go very far toward transforming our northern wilderness into cultivated fields. As a matter of interest, and to some extent of curiosity, we present a comparative statement exhibiting the ruling prices of extra Michigan flour twice a month throughout the year, in Detroit, New York and Liverpool, and also the prices in the latter market, for the corresponding dates in the year 1858: Liverpool, '58. Liv'L, '59. N. York, '59. Detroit, '59. Jan. 1st. 5 76a6 74 4 80a5 04 4 95a5 15 5 00a5 12 " 15th. 5 76a6 24 4 80a5 04 5 60a5 85 5 00a5 12 Feb. 1st. 5 76a6 24 4 80a5 04 5 90a6 40 5 75a6 00 " 15th. 5 52a6 00 4 80a5 04 5 90a6 25 6 25a6 50 Mar'h 1st. 5 52a6 24 4 80a5 04 6 30a6 50 6 25a6 50 " 15th. 5 52a6 24 4 80a5 04 6 50a6 75 6 50a6 75 April 1st. 5 28a5 52 4 80a5 04 6 30a6 75 a6 75 " 15th. 5 28a5 76 4 80a5 04 6 00a6 60 a6 50 May 1st. 5 28a5 52 5 04a5 28 6 25a6 75 a6 50 " 15th. 5 28a5 52 6 00a6 24 7 30a7 85 a8 00 June 1st. 5 04a5 28 a5 76 7 00a7 40 a7 50 " 15th. 5 04a5 28 a5 76 6 70a7 05 7 12a7 25 July 1st. 5 04a5 28 a 6 00a6 50 a7 25 " 15th. 5 08a5 40 5 04a5 28 5 45a6 00 7 00a7 12 Aug. 1st. 5 28a5 40 4 80a5 52 4 90a5 50 4 75a4 87 " 15th. 5 04a5 28 5 04a5 52 4 30a4 65 4 50a4 75 Sept. 1st. 5 16a5 40 5 04a5 52 4 40a5 00 4 62a4 75 " 15th. 5 16a5 40 4 80a5 52 4 65a4 85 4 25a4 50 Oct. 1st. 5 04a5 28 5 28a5 76 4 75a5 10 4 62a4 75 " 15th. 5 04a5 28 5 28a5 76 4 80a5 20 a4 75 Nov. 1st. 5 04a5 28 5 52a6 00 5 00a5 30 a5 00 " 15th. 4 80a5 04 5 76a6 24 5 24a5 45 a5 12 Dec. 1st. 4 80a5 04 6 76a7 00 5 45a5 65 a5 12 " 15th. 4 80a5 04 6 76a7 00 5 48a5 65 a5 12 The Detroit mills manufacture excellent flour, and it is to be regretted that they are not capable of making a much larger quantity of their well-known brands. There are six flouring mills of different capacities in the city, and although they are generally at full work such is the demand for flour they make, that they are very often not able to supply their customers. These mills ought to be enlarged, or others built. Detroit, the commercial metropolis of a great wheat-growing State, should be capable of manufacturing an immense quantity of flour. The increased expenditure of money, in the purchase of wheat, would be very beneficial to the trade of the city. For the last fifteen years, the exports of breadstuffs from the United States have fluctuated very much. In 1846 they amounted to nearly twenty-eight millions of dollars, and rose in 1847 to sixty-nine millions. In 1848 they fell to thirty-seven, and in 1852 to twenty-six millions. In 1853 they amounted to nearly thirty-three millions, and in 1854 they rose to about sixty-millions, but fell in 1855 to about thirty-nine millions, and again rose in 1857 to seventy-seven millions. In 1858 they again declined to about fifty millions. We cannot accurately detail the exports of 1859, but they have been very light on account of fall in the European market, after the termination of the war in Italy. During these years there were various causes for the remarkable fluctuations which we have noted; namely, famine in Ireland, the Crimean war, and the failures of the harvest at home and abroad, nor have these exportations been regularly divided or spread over the various months of each year. They have increased or diminished according to the European demand, governed by the supply at home and regulated by advices from the other side of the Atlantic. It is likely that the export of breadstuffs in 1860 will be very considerable. Michigan possesses many advantages over her sister States, and these enable her to bear up against monetary panics better than they. Her immense length of lake coast is indented with excellent harbors, which invite commerce from every quarter, and furnish excellent outlets for her surplus produce or mineral wealth. The great and diversified resources of the State support her in the evil day, and bring her through a commercial crisis in safety. From the ushering in of the year to the close, there is not a day in which the marts of commerce are not enlivened by the contributions of grain or live stock from our fields, fish from our lakes, lumber from our forests, or ores of various kinds from our inexhaustible mines. According to the census returns of 1840, the State of Michigan produced 2,157,108 bushels of wheat, there were 190 flouring mills at work, employing 491 hands, and producing 202,880 barrels of flour annually. In 1853 this State produced 7,275,032 bushels of wheat, there were 245 flouring mills at work, employing 604 persons, and manufacturing 1,000,000 barrels of flour in a year. It will be seen that the flouring mills have increased greatly both in number and capacity since 1840, and that very large quantities of flour are now manufactured in the interior of the State, a circumstance which partly accounts for the comparatively small quantity of wheat that is now exported. The number of flouring mills have doubtless increased since 1853, and as steam power has been applied in many instances their manufacturing capacity must now be very great. Farmers are beginning to understand the importance of disposing of their produce near home, and having the surplus exported in a manufactured state, instead of sending away the raw material; the bran and "shorts" being very valuable for mixing with the food of horses, cattle, and swine. A flouring mill is a great benefit in a rural district, it furnishes the farmer with a home market, and when he receives the price of his produce, there are many domestic wants which must be supplied, and on this account we always see stores and mechanics' shops clustering around a mill, and villages springing up in places where the solitude of the forest was, until lately, unbroken by a sound. It is evident that the mill power of Michigan is increasing rapidly, and that in future the greater part of the surplus grain crop will be exported in a manufactured state. In former years the prices of grain in the United States were controlled by the European markets, and consequently the grain trade of the Western States was governed by the produce merchants in the Atlantic ports, but lately the whole order of things seems to have been reversed, as breadstuffs of every kind were dearer in the Western than in the Eastern markets. There were several reasons for this anomaly. On account of the ravages of insects, and other causes which we have alluded to, farmers were induced to place very little reliance on the wheat crop, and many were driven into other branches of husbandry, and in some places wheat became scarce. Add to this the rapid increase of the population which created a local demand for all kinds of food, and caused immense quantities of breadstuffs to be required in places where a few years before there was no market for anything. The rapid and extraordinary growth of Detroit and all the Western cities, and the formation of new settlements, created a home market for Western produce, for the population of cities being consumers of the fruits of the land, instead of producers, have always a wonderful effect on the markets of their localities, and the pioneers in the forest or prairie must for a time depend on the older settlements for subsistence. From a defective system of agriculture the soil of the old States has been deteriorating for several years. In Massachusetts the hay crop declined twelve per cent. from 1840 to 1850, notwithstanding the addition of 90,000 acres of mowing lands and the grain crop depreciated 6000 bushels, although no less than 6000 acres had been added to the tillage lands of that State. In 1840 the wheat crop of New York was about twelve and a quarter millions of bushels, and only nine millions in 1850, a decrease of 25 per cent., while the Indian corn in the same State increased during the same period from about ten to twenty millions of bushels. The harvest of 1859, found several parts of the country entirely destitute of flour, and the farmers with a fixed and firm determination never again to allow themselves to run out of the staff of life. The number and capacity of the flouring mills have increased considerably since 1853, so that it is probable that there are at present more than three hundred of them at work in the State, and the number of hands employed by them cannot be much less than twelve hundred. It is probable that they are now capable of manufacturing 1,25,000 barrels of flour annually, and this quantity would require 5,625,000 bushels of wheat. Add to this the large quantity of seed required for sowing an increased breadth of land, and the portion of the crop kept for domestic use, and the result will be sufficient to explain the reason why so little wheat has been exported from Michigan this season. There are about 50,000 families in this State who depend on agriculture for subsistence; all of these had suffered more or less inconvenience from failure of the wheat crop, and the high price of flour for the last few years, and it is no wonder that they should endeavor to secure a full supply of wheat or flour of the produce of the late harvest, and a very large portion of the crop was disposed of in this way. Since the Reciprocity Treaty came into operation, there has been considerable exportation of flour from Detroit to Canada on account of the repeated failures of the wheat crop in that country, and thus a new market for Michigan produce has been opened near home. Some of these sources of demand are trifling when standing alone, but the aggregate makes a very large amount. It is considered that about half the produce of the wheat crop still remains in the hands of the farmers and may be expected to reach the market gradually. Michigan wants woolen and cotton, and various other factories to provide employment for the over-crowded population of her cities and villages, and to open a market for all her produce. The farmers of Great Britain and Ireland could not pay the high rents and taxes which are imposed on them, were it not for their proximity to the great manufacturing cities of England. The cotton factories of Manchester, the woolen factories of Leeds and Huddersfield, the hardware works of Birmingham and Sheffield, and the potteries of Staffordshire, employ hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children, who consume the fruits of the soil, and create a steady demand for the farmer's stock and grain. All these manufactures were fostered by protective laws until they had attained a magnitude and importance which enabled them to protect themselves by the wealth of their proprietors and the excellence of their products. Large cities always afford a market for farm produce, and on this account exert a very beneficial influence on agriculture. The population of London is about two and a half millions, and they are possessed of so much wealth, and are so fastidious in their requirements, that almost every part of the world contributes to supply them with the necessaries or luxuries of life. The rapid growth of the cities of Michigan afford a home market for the fruits of the soil. A great deal of land in the old settlements of this State has been exhausted by a too frequent repetition of the wheat crop, and is now being employed as pasture for sheep and cattle. After remaining in grass for a few years, this land will be in excellent condition for producing wheat, especially when fertilized with that plentiful supply of barn-yard dung which the raising of stock always produces. There are some varieties of wheat which are much better suited to the climate and soil of Michigan than others, as they are in a great measure able to withstand the combined attacks of wheat insects and the various diseases to which the plant is liable. These are now fast supplanting the worn out grain, and as every malady has its cure or preventive, it is probable that the introduction of the best kind of seeds, the alternation between grass and tillage, and the supply of rich manure which the raising of stock creates will have a very great tendency to improve the wheat crop of this State. It is remarkable fact although the wheat crop has rather declined in the majority of States, the corn crop has steadily increased in all of them. Thus in 1840, the entire corn crop of the United States amounted to 400,000,000 of bushels; in 1850 it was nearly 600,000,000, of bushels. The crop of 1855 was between 7 and 800,000,000 and that of 1858 was fully 800,000,000 of bushels. Taking into consideration the large breath of land planted in 1859 and the damage by frost, we might with safety set down the crop as amounting to 800,000,000 bushels. Last year our importations from Indiana were large, but since the new crop came in, that State has been shipping largely toward the Ohio river, and we get comparatively little. The immense distilleries of Cincinnati consume a very large quantity of corn annually, and Indiana is beginning to find a good market in that quarter. The demand for Michigan corn is always active on account of its excellent milling qualities, and on this account it generally sells from wagons as high, or a shade higher than the outside figure for Western corn from store. The corn crop of Illinois has been much injured by the frosts of June and July, and on this account the receipts in Chicago up to this date have been much lighter than usual. The European potato crop has been greatly damaged by rot, and it is probable that a large export of corn will take place from this country in order to supply a deficiency occasioned by this failure. It is said that several New York capitalists have gone west and purchased corn and provisions, storing them up until next spring, anticipating at that time a considerable advance in price. The generality of farmers have sorted their corn carefully this year and used up the unripe and inferior part for feeding hogs and cattle: there is a large quantity of very good corn in the country, which will no doubt command a good price in the spring. Indian corn is one of the staple productions of Michigan, and can be raised with success in any suitable soil in the lower peninsula. According to the statistics of 1850 this State produced nearly 6,000,000 of bushels that year. It is probable that the census of the present year will show a vast increase in the amount. In 1850 the value of this crop in all the States amounted to nearly $300,000,000, being about equal to the united values of the wheat, hay, and cotton crops, and it has perhaps doubled since that date. In fact the value of the corn crop to Michigan and all the other States can not be estimated, as it is much used for the food of man and all the domestic animals, and to it the American farmer is indebted for much of his prosperity, for without it he would not be able to bring his cattle and hogs into the market at the right time and in proper condition. Heretofore the amount of pork packed has always been insufficient to meet the demand, and the deficiency has been supplied by importations from other cities, chiefly from Cincinnati. This season not only has there been a considerable increase in the number packed, but the market opens a great deal duller than last year, when the Canada trade and the building of the Detroit and Port Huron link of the Grand Trunk Railway induced a fair demand. Cincinnati is the greatest provision market on the continent or in the world. At that place speculation has been quite rife for the past two or three years, operators obtaining a controlling interest in the stock for the purpose of putting up prices. Last year the plan did not work well, owing to various causes, one of which was the small number of works in progress, such as railroads, etc., the supply of the laborers upon such works, being the life of the provision trade. Heavy losses were sustained, but it is said that the sufferers were a different class from that regularly engaged in the trade. This season the speculative fever has again prevailed. The issue has yet to be revealed. Last year nearly 1,000 head of cattle were slaughtered here, all of which were forwarded to Lake Superior as soon as packed. The price of mess beef has ranged from $8.50 to $12.00. About the first of July prices reached their highest point. During the fall the range has been from $8.50 to $10.00. When the marshy lands, skirting our watercourses in St. Clair, Macomb, Wayne, and Monroe counties, shall have been drained, (which will, no doubt, be consummated at no distant day,) a large tract will be rendered available for grazing, which will prove equal for that purpose to any in the Union. Butter and cheese will then become a leading article in our commerce. Potatoes constitute another of our staple products, and, in seasons of scarcity elsewhere, large purchases are made for shipment, but being generally based on present demand, they can hardly be called speculative. The crop of 1857 was rather meagre, and last spring and summer prices ruled high, going up to $1.20 for a short time in June. Last year we had an abundant crop, since which, under a limited export demand, prices have ruled low. The receipts at this point, from all sources, did not vary greatly from 175,000 bushels, of which 80,500 bushels were exported, chiefly to Ohio and the upper country. It is claimed, that southern Michigan produces more fine fruit than any other locality of the same extent in the United States, if not on the globe. At the same time almost every quarter of the State is constantly improving both in quality and quantity. This fact is creditable to the sagacity of our agriculturists, for probably in nothing else can an equal amount of profit be realized with the same outlay. Our market is not an important one for live stock, much of the greater share of the receipts by rail being through freight. Our wholesale market is mainly governed by that at the East, buyers for shipment are always on the look-out, and whenever anything can be purchased that affords even a moderate margin, it is promptly taken. Extra cattle are always sought for by our butchers, and command full rates. A spirit of emulation on the subject of fine stock is pervading the minds of our farmers, and, as a consequence, its quality is rapidly improving. At the last State Fair, the display of cattle was such as to elicit the admiration of good judges from abroad. There are so many interests claiming the attention of our agriculturists, that the idea of becoming famous as to _quantity_, is perhaps precluded; if so, they may well rest content in the attainment of high rank in point of _quality_. The raising of fine sheep is constantly attracting more and more attention, and from the progress already made by our State, she bids fair at no distant day to take a position in advance of all her sister States. The year 1859 opened with rather flattering prospects for wool-growers. The last year's stock was nearly exhausted before the new clip came into the market. Prices of woolen fabrics were advancing, and bid fair to rule high. On the eve of the wool season prices declined in the Eastern markets, although there was no particular reason for this unfavorable turn. It was considered at the time, that the fall in prices was occasioned by a regular combination among buyers to break down the market. The news of the passage of the Ticino by the Austrians, and the actual commencement of hostilities in Italy, arrived in this country before the wool was brought into the market, and this circumstance was seized on as a pretext for lowering the price of the new clip. Buyers were very industrious in circulating reports that a general European war was commencing, and, as it was not known how affairs would terminate, it would be unsafe for American buyers to make investments in the wool trade, except at prices that would leave a large margin for profit. It was fortunate that farmers did not take the same view of transatlantic complications, for they refused to sell except at remunerating prices, a decision which caused some of the Eastern buyers to retire from the market in disgust. Almost the entire press of Michigan supported the views of the farmers on this occasion, and declared that they could see no reason why the war in Italy should affect the prices of wool in America, especially as all the domestic clip, and a very large quantity of foreign wool would be manufactured in this country. Michigan produces excellent wool. There are numerous flocks of French, Spanish, and Saxon Merinos in this State, which have been selected or bred with the greatest care, and the wool produced by them cannot be surpassed in any of the Western States. There are also flocks of coarse-wooled sheep which produce heavy fleeces, and when fattened for the butcher make excellent mutton. In 1840 the wool clip of this State was about 150,000 lbs., in 1850 something over 2,000,000 lbs., and 1859 it amounted to nearly 4,000,000 lbs. It will be seen by these figures that it has nearly doubled during the last nine years. There are but few woolen manufactories in Michigan, and the most of the wool clip of this State is purchased by Eastern manufacturers. A considerable portion of it goes to Boston and other parts of Massachusetts. We want a large woolen factory in Detroit, where everything that is necessary for its operation can be easily procured. We want more manufactories of every kind in Michigan. Our city is largely interested in the shipping business, and its trade gives employment to a larger number of side-wheel steamboat lines than any other three cities on the entire chain of lakes. During the last season, the following regular lines of steamers were in successful operation: Detroit and Cleveland. Detroit and Toledo. Detroit and Sandusky. Detroit and Saginaw. Detroit and New Baltimore. Detroit and Maiden. Detroit, G. Bay and Buffalo. Detroit and Lake Superior. Detroit and Port Huron. Detroit and Chatham. Detroit and Wallaceburg. Detroit and Gibraltar. Two of the above routes sustain opposition lines, and to the list might be added the line of lake steamers to Buffalo, and the line to Goderich, which though not run last year, will probably be in successful operation the coming season, making in all sixteen lines. It is significant that the late financial revulsion, which fell with such crushing weight upon the shipping interest all over the country did not occasion the withdrawal of any of our steamboat lines, save one. As a still more striking fact, we may state that until last season none of the cities located in the vast region between the foot of Lake Michigan and the foot of Lake Erie, has for many years past supported a single line of steamers that did not make Detroit a terminus. Last year a line was put in successful operation between Buffalo and Cleveland, and another between the latter place and Toledo, but it ought to be added that both of these were established by Detroit enterprise. In addition to the line above enumerated, we have daily lines of propellers to Ogdensburg, Buffalo, Dunkirk and to the Upper Lakes, which do an immense freighting business. We are indebted to Captain J. H. Hall, the public-spirited proprietor of the Detroit shipping-office for following statement of the number of vessels that passed Detroit in 1859: _Number of Vessels passing Detroit, 1859._ No. Times. Steamers passed up, 194 Propellers, " 492 Barks, " 273 Brigs, " 295 Schooners, " 1,811 ----- Total number up, 3,065 No. Times. Steamers passed down, 195 Propellers, " 503 Barks, " 284 Brigs, " 314 Schooners, " 1,825 ----- Total number down, 3,121 Greatest number passed up in one day, eighty-five; greatest number down, seventy-three. The number of entries and clearances reported at the Custom House during the year is as follows: Arrived. Cl'd. Jan. 48 70 Feb. 49 71 March 161 288 April 334 375 May 438 586 June 458 568 July 403 597 Aug. 461 519 Sept. 316 481 Oct. 288 319 Nov. 294 316 Dec. 45 71 During the past year the amount of total losses has been light, not greater, probably, than the number of vessels built, so that although the classification is slightly changed, there is no material change so far as concerns the aggregate tonnage. Detroit owns, therefore, _nearly one-sixth of the entire tonnage of the lakes_. As a matter of some interest we present a comparative statement showing the tonnage, steam, and total, of a number of the more important maritime places in the country, taken from the report of the Register of the Treasury on Commerce and Navigation: Steam tonnage. Total tonnage. New York 118,638 1,432,705 New Orleans 70,072 210,411 Philadelphia 22,892 219,851 Baltimore 18,821 194,488 Pittsburg 42,474 56,824 Cincinnati 23,136 26,541 Chicago 8,151 67,001 St. Louis 55,515 61,266 Boston 9,452 448,896 Buffalo 42,640 73,478 Detroit 35,266 62,485 Charleston, S. C. 8,230 60,196 The following exhibits the number and tonnage of vessels owned in this district--nearly all of them in this city--on the 31st of December, 1859: Number Tons. 95ths Steamers 73 29,175 02 Propellers 32 6,090 81 Barks 4 1,337 08 Brigs 7 1,877 75 Schooners 131 19,671 56 Scows and all others 136 4,322 68 --- ------ -- Total 383 62,485 05 In 1857 301 52,991 50 --- ------ -- Increase in two years 82 9,493 50 The following was the aggregate tonnage of the lakes in December 1858: AMERICAN. 69 Side-wheel steamers register tons 44,562 110 Propellers do. 45,562 70 Tugs (propellers) do. 6,880 46 Barks do. 18,788 79 Brigs do. 22,558 711 Schooners do. 166,725 109 Scows do. 11,848 ---- ------- 1194 Total 316,923 CANADIAN. 67 Side-wheel steamers, register tons 25,966 16 Propellers do. 4,631 4 Tugs (propellers) do. 388 19 Barks do. 5,697 16 Brigs do. 2,988 186 Schooners do. 19,311 13 Scows do. 609 ---- ------- 321 Total 59,580 The Michigan Central was the first railroad built in the State, and since its completion has been known as one of the best managed in the West. Its beneficial effects to the region of country through which it passes, is incalculable. On its line, have sprung up a number of beautiful towns and villages as if by magic, while many of those that had an existence prior to its construction have grown into flourishing cities. Ypsilanti, Ann Arbor, Jackson, Marshall, Battle Creek, Albion, Kalamazoo, Niles, and others that might properly be included, all located upon this road, are beautiful places, noted for their thrift and enterprise as well as for their rapid advances in all that pertains to well-regulated cities. Their commerce is rapidly increasing and the country along the entire route will vie with that traversed by the great thoroughfares of any of the older States along the seaboard. The Central was commenced and partially built by the State, but in 1844, passed into the possession of the company now owning it, who completed it to Chicago. A telegraph line has been in use for some years past along the entire line of the road, with an office at each station, by which means the exact position of each train may be at all times known at each and every point. To this admirable system may be attributed in a very great degree the extraordinary exemption of the road from serious accidents, while its advantages are very great in every point of view respecting the general management. The eastern terminus of the road being at Detroit, it has the full advantages of the numerous connections at this point, the Great Western and Grand Trunk Railways, the important steamboat route from Cleveland, the lines of Detroit and Buffalo propellers with their immense freight traffic, as well as the numerous other steamboat routes of which our city is the nucleus. At Chicago it has the advantages of connection with all the roads radiating from that flourishing city. Freight is now taken from Chicago to Portland without breaking bulk but once. An important "feeder" is the Joliet Cut-off, by means of which it has a direct connection with St. Louis, via the Chicago, Alton, and St. Louis Railroad. An important arrangement was consummated last summer with the latter road, for the direct transmission of freight between this city and St. Louis. Fifty cars have been diverted to this route, under the name of the "Detroit and St. Louis Through Freight Line." The time between the two cities is thirty-eight hours. The advantages of this line to shippers are very considerable, and the arrangement is adding, and will continue to add, materially to the commerce of our city. A commendable progressive spirit has latterly been evinced by the managers generally, of our railroads, in the transmission of freight, especially live stock and grain. The improvement is a most grateful one to shippers, who have ordinarily quite enough anxiety and vexation to suffer in the fluctuations of the market and subjection to unlooked for and onerous charges, without having superadded unreasonable exposure and deterioration of their property while en route to market. In this movement the management of the Central has fully sympathized. Their stock and grain cars have received high commendations from those for whose benefit they were intended. The entire equipment of the road is such as to comport with them; the safety, comfort and convenience of the public, being constantly kept in view, regardless of the cost incurred. The three staunch and magnificent steamers belonging to the company, the Plymouth Rock, Western World and Mississippi, owing to the hard times have been laid up at their dock since the fall of 1857, to the great regret of the public generally, as well as to the detriment of the business interest of our city. With the return of a more prosperous era they will doubtless be again placed in commission. The line formed by these boats is the most pleasant and expeditious medium of communication between the East and the West and Southwest, and cannot fail to be well patronized, especially now that the Dayton and Michigan Railroad is completed, which will bring a large amount of both freight and passenger traffic by way of Detroit that formerly sought other routes. The rolling stock now on the road consists of ninety-eight engines, seventy first class passenger cars, twelve second class cars; twenty-nine baggage cars, and two thousand seven hundred and seventy-eight freight cars, making a total of two thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine cars and all of which were built in the company's own shops. This road is one hundred and eighty-eight miles long, and has been in operation throughout its whole extent since November, 1858. It is deserving of the distinctive appellation of the _Back Bone Road of Michigan_, having been of incalculable value in developing the resources of the region through which it is located, decidedly one of the richest and most important in the West. The principal towns and cities upon its line are Pontiac, Fentonville, St. Johns, Ionia, Grand Rapids and Grand Haven. The growth of these places has received a great impetus since its completion, while numerous villages have also sprung into being as if by magic at various points along the line. These changes are plainly visible in the improved trade of our city, and the increase from the same cause, must continue to be strongly marked. Last season over one-fourth of the wheat and wool received here was by this new route, and a number of vessels loaded at the company's noble and spacious wharf for European ports direct. Within the year past, the company have completed one of the finest railway wharves in the world. It is 1,500 feet long by 90 broad, the west end of which is occupied by the freight house, the dimensions of which are 450 by 132 feet. One of the most important events to Detroit and the entire West, that has transpired for many years, is the completion of this great thoroughfare. The link from Port Huron to this city was opened to traffic on the 21st of November, since which date the businesses crowding upon it has fully equaled its capacity. It is the Minerva of railways, having reached at a single bound a condition of prosperity outrivaling many of the oldest established roads on the continent. It possesses important advantages over any other road both for freight and passenger traffic. Being of uniform gauge, no change of cars will be necessary from Sarnia to Portland; and being also under the management of one corporation, it affords better facilities for the protection of passengers and the preservation of their baggage than where they are required to pass over lines under the control of different and perhaps conflicting corporations. Having only one set of officers quartered upon its exchequer, it can afford to do business at lower proportionate rates, than a number of shorter lines, each having a different set to salary, while the delay and vexation which not unfrequently arise from short routes, being compelled to wait upon each other's movements, will all be avoided, which is certainly no small consideration both to passengers and shippers. The harbor of Portland is one of the finest and most eligible in the world, and our immediate connection with a point of such importance is of itself a matter deserving particular mention. Portland district, as appears by the official statement of the tonnage of the United States, made to June, 1857, then owned 145,242 tons of shipping, being the ninth port in the Union in point of tonnage; she is very largely interested in the West India trade, her annual imports of molasses exceeding those of any port in the United States. She offers, therefore, to the Western States, peculiar facilities for procuring at a cheap rate the products of the West Indies. The harbor is without any bar, and so easy of access that no pilots are required, and strangers, with the sailing directions given in the American Coast Pilot, have brought their ships into it with safety. There are no port charges, harbor dues, or light-house fees, excepting the official custom house fees. The Grand Trunk Railway is likely to become the avenue through which an immense tide of immigration will pour into Michigan. It will be a favorite route for emigrants, who will thus avoid the rascally impositions of the swindlers and Peter Funks of New York, who have given that city an unenviable notoriety throughout the world. It is predicted that more immigrants will hereafter come by the new route than by all others put together. There is no valid reason why this prediction should not prove strictly true. This is therefore a matter likely to be of vast importance to our State, with a large share of her territory as yet an unbroken wild, offering tempting inducements to the hardy settler. The completion of this stupendous bond of connection between the Eastern and Western States, Canada and Europe, will render markets available which were before difficult of access, and enable far-distant countries to exchange their products at all seasons. The Grand Trunk may be called the first section of the PACIFIC RAILROAD, as it already communicates with the Mississippi through Michigan, Illinois and Wisconsin Railroads, and we expect to see the line completed from the Mississippi to California. It is not easy to form an estimate of the amount of traffic and intercourse that the 1,150 miles of Grand Trunk Railway will bring to Michigan and the neighboring States. A junction has been already formed with that model of western lines the Michigan Central by which freight and passengers reach Chicago and the numerous lines which diverge from that great commercial city. It is probable that another junction will be made with the Detroit and Milwaukee Railway by means of a branch from Port Huron to Owasso. In this case there will be a direct line across Michigan connecting with the Milwaukee railroads by the ferry across the lake, and penetrating into Iowa, Minnesota, Nebraska, and Oregon by lines which have not yet been traced on the railway maps of the United States. The ostensible western terminus of this road is at Windsor, opposite our city, but it is practically as much a Detroit road as any that can be named. The connections with the other routes centering here is made by a number of ferry boats of the most staunch and powerful description. The receipts by this route of general merchandise consigned to the cities and points westward of us is immense, and it enjoys a large and growing local traffic. The main line of the Southern Michigan and Northern Indiana Railroad, which taps a rich and important portion of Michigan, is 461 miles in length. The business on this line has recently shown a decided improvement. The D. and T. Road, which is 65 miles in length, was opened to traffic in January 1857. It was built by the "Detroit, Monroe, and Toledo Railroad Company," who leased it to the Michigan Southern Road. It is now an important link in the great railway system extending from the East to the Great Southwest, of which system, Detroit, from its favorable position, has become the centre and soul. Since the opening of the Grand Trunk, in November, a large amount of freight has passed through, billed for Liverpool direct, a species of freight which must steadily increase. L. P. Knight is agent at Detroit. The office is in the depot building of the Detroit and Milwaukee Railway. The Dayton and Michigan Railroad was completed last fall, placing us within a few hours' ride of the Queen City of the West. This is justly regarded as a most important route to our city, and will develop new features to some of our leading business interests. The consumer of our State will have the benefit of lower prices for the products of Kentucky, Tennessee, Louisiana, and the West Indies. The want of direct communication between Detroit and New Orleans has long been felt. Sugars and molasses can now be laid down here for fifty cents per 100 lbs., including all charges from New Orleans, via the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers, and D. and M. Railway, giving us, in a word, the benefits of as low freights in winter as in summer. With the cost of transportation thus reduced to a merely nominal standard, prices of Southern products will be upon an average no higher here than in Louisville. It is more than probable, nay, quite certain, that the advantages which must ultimately accrue to the State from our connection with Cincinnati _per se_, if not so general, will be even more marked and important than those to which we have above referred. The prices of provisions will be equalized, giving our lumbermen and miners the benefit of reduced rates throughout most of the year, and when speculation is rampant, and the price of pork, the great staple of our neighbors, reaches an extreme figure--as has been the case for two successive seasons, and will be the case again--our farmers will reap the benefit of the movement. The growth of Cincinnati is altogether without parallel in the world, taking into account the character of that growth--its _quality_, so to speak. All its great interests, particularly its manufactures, have kept pace with its numerical increase. It is indeed difficult to determine whether manufactures or commerce is most intimately identified with its prosperity. The connection with her will give us new and desirable customers for some of our surplus products, particularly our choice lumber. The entire line of the Flint and Pere Marquette Railroad, as located, is 172-1/2 miles; track laid and completed, 7-3/4 miles; additional length graded 24-1/2 miles, the ties for which have all been delivered. It is thought that hereafter twenty miles per year will be completed without difficulty until the whole is completed. This road will be important in developing the resources of a very rich tract of country. On the line of Amboy, Lansing, and Grand Traverse Railroad, the entire distance from Owasso to Lansing, twenty-six miles, is ready for the iron, except three miles. On the division from Lansing to Albion, thirty-six miles, the work of grading and furnishing ties is progressing, and some one hundred men at work. Between Owasso and Saginaw, thirty-three miles, arrangements are nearly completed to start the work. The work of grading and preparing for the iron is done by local subscriptions, of which $3,000 per mile has been subscribed and is being paid. The existence of copper on the shores of Lake Superior appears to have been known to the earliest travelers, but it has been only a few years since it has entered largely into Western commerce. But the country had long been a favorite resort for fur traders, and as long ago as 1809, and perhaps still further back, the Northwest Company (British) owned vessels on Lake Superior. This organization was at that period the great trading company of the region in question, the operations of the Hudson's Bay Company being confined chiefly to the region further north. At the period of which we speak, the bulk of the trading was done by means of birch canoes, some of them large enough to carry two or three tons. With these, the traders passed up to the Indian settlements in the fall, with goods, provisions, and trinkets, usually returning to the trading posts during the month of June with the furs which they had procured in exchange. Mackinac and the Saut were trading posts at an early day. At a somewhat later period, the Northwest Company had an agency on an island in Lake Huron, not far from the month of Saut river. The formation of the American Fur Company was of more recent date, that company dating its origin during the war of 1812, or soon after. Prior to the building of the canal, a number of steamers had been taken over the portage to Lake Superior, but so far as our knowledge extends, only one or two craft larger than a canoe were ever taken over the rapids, one of which was the schooner Mink. She was built of red cedar, on Lake Superior, about the year 1816, and was of some forty tons burden. She became the property of Mack & Conant, who had her brought down the rapids. In making the descent she suffered some injury by striking against a rock, but, notwithstanding this mishap, she lived long enough to ride out many a stormy sea, running for several years in the trade between Buffalo and the City of the Straits. Shubael Conant, Esq., at this day an honored citizen of Detroit, was one of the firm that purchased the Mink. In the spring of 1845, the fleet on Lake Superior consisted of the schooner White Fish, belonging to the Hudson's Bay Company, the Siscowit, belonging to the American Fur Company, and the Algonquin, owned by a Mr. Mendenhall. The same year the schooners Napoleon, Swallow, Uncle Tom, Merchant, Chippewa, Ocean, and Fur Trader, were all added. In 1845, the propeller Independence, the first steamer that ever floated on Lake Superior, was taken across the portage, and the next year the Julia Palmer followed her, she being the first side-wheel steamer. In the winter of 1848-9, the schooner Napoleon was converted into a propeller. In 1850, the propeller Manhattan was hauled over by the Messrs. Turner, and the Monticello in 1851, by Col. McKnight. The latter was lost the same fall, and Col. McK. supplied her place the next winter with the Baltimore. In 1853 or 1854, E. B. Ward took over the Sam Ward, and Col. McKnight took the propeller Peninsula over in the winter of 1852 or 1853. In the spring of 1855, the Saut Canal was completed, since which date the trade with that important region has rapidly grown into commanding importance. It will be seen by the table below that the importations of machinery, provisions, supplies, and merchandise, for the past year amounted to $5,298,640, while the exports of copper, iron, fur and fish amount to $3,071,069. The following are the names of the steam craft now regularly employed in this trade: S. B. Illinois. Prop. Mineral Rock. S. B. Lady Elgin. Prop. Montgomery. S. B. North Star. Prop. Northern Light. Prop. Marquette. Prop. Iron City. A number of other steam-craft made occasional trips last year, and next season it is expected that another line will be placed on the route permanently. The Detroit shipping-office has published the names of ninety-six sail vessels that have been engaged in the iron trade the past year. Rapid as this trade has increased, it is destined, no doubt, to yet undergo a still greater transformation. The latent resources of the Upper Peninsula are of a character and magnitude that defy all estimates of their future greatness. With regard to the importance of the trade to our city, and the steps to be taken to retain it, ample comments have already appeared in the _Tribune_, both editorially and in the form of communications, to which we can add nothing. The aggregate amount of tolls collected in May, July, August and September, was $10,374.18, a large increase over the corresponding months last year. Including the probable amount for the months not reported, and we have at the lowest not less probably than $16,000, as the tolls for 1859. Number of passengers: May, 2,493; June, 1,764; July, 2,116; August, 2,617; September, 1,538; October, 1,015. It is _now_ almost universally admitted that the State of Michigan possesses in her soil and timber the material source of immense wealth. While in years past it has been difficult to obtain satisfactory information concerning the real condition and natural resources of a large portion of the surface of the Lower Peninsula, the re-survey of portions of the government land, the exploration of the country by parties in search of pine, the developments made by the exploring and surveying parties along the lines of the Land Grant Railroads, and the more recent examinations by the different commissions for laying out the several State roads under the Acts passed by the last Legislature, have removed every doubt in reference to the subject. The universal testimony from all the sources above mentioned, seems to be that in all the natural elements of wealth the whole of the northern part of the Peninsula abounds. The pine lands of the State, which are a reliable source of present and future wealth, are so located and distributed as to bring almost every portion of the State, sooner or later in connection with the commerce of the lakes. The pine timber of Michigan is generally interspersed with other varieties of timber, such as beech, maple, white-ash, oak, cherry, etc., and in most cases the soil is suited to agricultural purposes. This is particularly the case on the western slope of the Peninsula, on the waters of Lake Michigan and along the central portion of the State. On the east and near Lake Huron, the pine districts are more extensively covered with pine timber, and generally not so desirable for farming purposes. There are good farming lands, however, all along the coast of Lake Huron and extending back into the interior. A large proportion of the pine lands of the State are in the hands of the Canal Company, and individuals who are holding them as an investment, and it is no detriment to this great interest, that the whole State has been thus explored and the choicest of the lands secured. The developments which have thus been made of the quality and extent of the pine districts, have given stability and confidence to the lumbering interest. And these lands are not held at exorbitant prices, but are sold upon fair and reasonable terms, such as practical business men and lumber men will not usually object to. It is a remarkable fact that almost every stream of water in the State, north of Grand River, penetrates a district of pine lands, and the mouths of nearly all these streams are already occupied with lumbering establishments of greater or less magnitude. Those lumber colonies are the pioneers, and generally attract around them others who engage in agriculture, and thus almost imperceptibly the agricultural interests of the State are spreading and developing in every direction. The want of suitable means of access alone prevents the rapid settlement of large and fertile districts of our State, which are not unknown to the more enterprising and persevering pioneers, who have led the way through the wilderness, and are now engaged almost single-handed in their labors, not shrinking from the privations and sufferings which are sure to surround these first settlements in our new districts. The Grand Traverse region, with its excellent soil, comparatively mild climate, and abundance of timber of every description, is attracting much attention, and extensive settlements have already commenced in many localities in that region. The coast of Lake Michigan, from Grand River north, for upward of one hundred miles to Manistee River, presents generally a barren, sandy appearance, the sand hills of that coast almost invariably shutting out from the view the surrounding country. North of the Manistee, however, this characteristic of the coast changes, and the hard timber comes out to the lake and presents a fine region of country extending from Lake Michigan to Grand Traverse Bay and beyond, embracing the head waters of the Manistee River. This large tract of agricultural land is one of the richest portions of the State, and having throughout its whole extent extensive groves of excellent pine timber interspersed, it is one of the most desirable portions of the Peninsula. Grand Traverse Bay, the Manistee and the River Aux Becs Scies are the outlets for the pine timber, and afford ample means of communication between the interior and the lake for such purposes. The proposed State roads will, if built, do much toward the settlement of this region. A natural harbor, which is being improved by private enterprise, is found at the mouth of the River Aux Becs Scies, and a new settlement and town has been started at this point. This is a natural outlet for a consideration portion of the region just described. The lands here, as in other localities in the new portions of the State, are such as must induce a rapid settlement whenever the means of communication shall be opened. The valley of the Muskegon embraces every variety of soil and timber, and is one of the most attractive portions of the Peninsula. The pine lands upon this river are scattered all along the valley in groups or tracts containing several thousand acres each, interspersed with hard timber and surrounded by fine agricultural lands. The Pere Marquette River and White River, large streams emptying into Lake Michigan, pass through a region possessing much the same characteristics. This whole region is underlaid with lime rocks, a rich soil, well watered with living springs, resembling in many features the Grand River Valley. Beds of gypsum have been discovered on the head waters of the Pere Marquette. The unsettled counties in the northern portion of the State, the northern portion of Montcalm and Gratiot, Isabella, Gladwin, Clare and a portion of Midland, are not inferior to any other portion. There is a magnificent body of pine stretching from the head of Flat River in Montcalm county to the upper waters of the Tettibiwassee, and growing upon a fine soil well adapted to agriculture. This embraces a portion of the Saginaw Valley, and covers the high ground dividing the waters of Lakes Huron and Michigan. The eastern slope of the Peninsula embraces a variety of soil and timber somewhat different in its general features from other portions of the State. The pine lands of this region are near the coast of the lake, and lie in large tracts but with good agricultural land adjoining. There are in the Lower Peninsula, in round numbers, about 24,000,000 acres of land. Taking Houghton Lake, near the centre of the State, as a point of view, the general surface may be comprehended as follows: The Muskegon Valley to the southwest following the Muskegon River in its course to Lake Michigan. The western slope of the Peninsula directly west, embracing the pine and agriculture districts along the valleys of several large streams emptying into Lake Michigan. The large and beautiful region to the northwest embracing the valley of the Manistee and the undulating lands around the Grand Traverse Bay. Northward, the region embraces the head-waters of the Manistee and Au Sauble, with the large tracts of excellent pine in that locality, and beyond, the agricultural region extending to Little Traverse Bay and the Straights of Mackinaw. To the northeast, the valley of the Au Sauble, and the pine region of Thunder Bay. To the east, the pine and hard timber extending to Saginaw Bay. To the southeast, the Saginaw Valley; and to the south, the high lands before described in the central counties. That portion of the State south of Saginaw and the Grand River Valley is so well known that a description here would be unnecessary. Thus we have yet undeveloped over half the surface of this Peninsula, embracing, certainly, 12,000,000 to 15,000,000 of acres, possessing stores of wealth in the timber upon its surface, reserving soil for the benefit of those, who, as the means of communication are opened, will come in and possess it, and thus introduce industry and prosperity into our waste places. We have not the figures at hand, but it is probable that at least one-tenth of the area north of the Grand River is embraced in the pine region. The swamp lands granted to the State will probably cover nearly double the area of the pine lands proper. The remainder for the most part is covered with a magnificent growth of hard timber suited to the necessities of our growing population and commerce. The statistics herein furnished will give some idea of the importance and value of the lumber traffic in this States. The trade in pine timber, lumber, shingles and other varieties of lumber, with the traffic in staves form one of the most important branches of manufacture and commerce in our own State, and this trade alone is now accomplishing more for the development and settlement of the country than all other causes in operation. The lumber manufactories in Detroit and its suburbs are eleven in number. The following are the names of the proprietors and the amount cut last year by each: FT. LUMBER. PCS. LATH. H. A. & S. G. Wight 6,500,000 2,220,000 Samuel Pills 3,500,000 482,000 -- Moffat (est) 1,500,000 H. B. Benson 3,254,029 W. Warner & Co. 194,370 Brooks & Adams 3,800,000 Baughman, Hubbard & Co. 3,378,080 1,043,300 Kibbee, Fox & Co. 3,000,000 800,000 N. Reeve 800,000 20,000 Davis & David 2,000,000 Copeland 1,000,000 ---------- --------- Total 29,426,479 4,745,300 The aggregate of capital employed by these mills is $1,440,000. The above amount is no criterion of their capacity. The same mills cut 46,000,000 feet in 1856, and nearly the same in 1857, and their probable capacity is 54,000,000. Warner & Co., run their mill only about five weeks last year, and are now about retiring from business. One of the others sustained a temporary loss of business by fire. The product will in the aggregate be doubled next season. The logs sawed in Detroit are procured from St. Clair River, Black River, Mill Creek and, Belle River. As a large share of that sold here has been on contract, there has been no great fluctuation in the market at this point. On the first of July the rates by the cargo were $25a$26 for clear and $19a$20 for second clear; on the first of October, $24 for clear, and $18 for second clear. Last winter and spring were very unfavorable for lumbering. Owing to the small quantity of snow, but few logs were got out, and many of them being on small streams, owing to the failure of the usual spring freshets, were not sawed, so that upon the whole the mills of the State turned out only about half the amount of their capacity. The market opened in the spring with flattering prospects. Buyers from a number of important points in the Eastern States, previously deriving their supplies from Maine, visited our State, anxious to secure contracts for choice lumber, and the opinion prevailed that the demand would exceed the supply. The prospect encouraged manufacturers to make unwonted exertions in turning out all the stock that could be rendered available, which involved increased expense. In some places, as was the case at Saginaw, a very large amount was got out in the early part of the summer. About the close of June, the market experienced a sudden and unlooked-for depression, after which prices tended speedily downward, falling to such a low point before the close of the season that manufacturers on the west coast generally suspended their shipments. Those on the east coast continued to ship, but their shipments to a very great extent still remain unsold. We are cognizant of 7,000,000 feet held in that way by only four manufacturers. The accounts this winter are very favorable, but the idea that obtains, fixing the amount at a very high figure, is vague and erroneous. The true state of the case is, that manufactures, as a general thing, in view of the depressed condition of the trade, have been making calculations to do a light business, and got out their logs sooner than they expected, and will on the whole do rather more than they had anticipated, having gone into the woods lighthanded. The most experienced judges concur in fixing the amount of logs got out this winter on River St. Clair, at Port Huron and Saginaw Bay, but not including the rivers above, at 175,000,000 feet. In the Saginaws, it is ascertained that about 100,000,000 will be got out. Taking the entire east coast, it is thought the logs this winter would exceed those of last by fifteen to twenty per cent. By Custom House statements of shipments, added to actual receipts at one of the receiving points--Chicago--it will be seen below that for 1859 a little over 269,000,000 feet is the amount of shipments arrived at. These figures, taken in connection with the estimates of those competent to judge, render it certain that the actual amount shipped out of the State did not vary materially from 400,000,000 feet. There being no penalty involved in the failure of masters of vessels to report, there is great carelessness in the matter. The Cleveland, Toledo and Sandusky shipments, are at the outside, not more than half reported. Those reported to Buffalo, Oswego, etc., are a little nearer the truth, but they fall considerably below the mark. The amount made in 1859, did not vary materially from that shipped. In the district embracing the River St. Clair, Port Huron and the Lake Shore, 6,000,000 feet more were wintered over last year than this. On the west coast it was different generally, so that the variation in the aggregate cannot be much either way. The capacity of the mills in the pine lumber region is 900,000,000 feet, or possibly a little more. As regards the amount of shingles made, even dealers are much in the dark. To add 50 per cent. to the Custom House returns would certainly be within bounds for the eastern coast. This would give 120,000,000 as the amount. For the west coast, if we take the amount received at Chicago, say 165,000,000, with an additional twenty-five per cent. for that received at Milwaukee, and then estimate that two-thirds of the whole amount were from the west coast of Michigan, which is doubtless true, we have 137,500,000 as the amount shipped by the coast, making 267,500,000 for the whole State. The improved demand for staves has greatly stimulated the production, and in localities where the production of pine lumber is decreasing, that of staves is taking its place. At Saginaw 2,500,000 were got out last year, and this year there will be full as much, or more. The greatest activity prevails, and dressing by machinery has been started. At Lakeport, Burchville, Lexington, Port Sanilac, Forester, Point aux Barque, and Foresterville, 850,000 were got out last year; from Port Huron and St. Clair 750,000. The amount turned out in the whole State could not have been short of 20,000,000. An immense amount of lath were turned out. A mill that can turn out three millions of lumber, generally makes one million of lath. On this basis about 133,000,000 must have been turned out. The supply generally exceeds the demand. The lumber on the east coast is worth at the mills $9 per M.; that on the west coast $7. At the average of $8, the amount made last year would be worth $3,200,000. The value of shingles at $2 per M., was $515,000, and the lath at $1 per M., are worth $133,000. We are enabled to present a nearly complete list of names of owners, with the amount of capital respectively, which will be of some interest, both at home and abroad. So far as the east coast is concerned, the figures are in the main entirely reliable, being upon the authority of one of the best men in the State who knows whereof he advises. Those for the west coast, thought not perhaps so strictly correct as the others, will as a general thing be found within bounds. We hope the statistics will prove an incentive to lumbermen to be more particular hereafter in furnishing information: BLACK RIVER. Name. Capital. J. & J. Bayard $15,000 Sweetser & Bayard 7,000 Comstock mill 7,000 Davis' mill 8,000 R. Wadham's mills 10,000 MILL CREEK. Bunce's mill 4,000 L. Brockway 2 mills 5,000 John H. Westbrook 4,000 PORT HURON. G. S. Lester 24,000 Haynes & Baird 24,000 Howard & Bachelor 15,000 Fish, two mills 35,000 Welles 24,000 Avery 75,000 Bunce 24,000 Hibbard 40,000 Black River mill 35,000 LOCKPORT. Farrand 10,000 BURCHVILLE. Woods, two mills 30,000 John S. Minor 7,000 LEXINGTON. Hubbard 8,000 Jenks & Co. 20,000 Stevens & Davis 10,000 Hitchcock & Co. 30,000 BARK SHANTY. Oldfield 10,000 FORESTER. Emely 50,000 GIBRALTAR. Colin Campbell 10,000 ALGONAC. Daniels & Ripley 15,000 Smith 24,000 NEWPORT. E. B. Ward 20,000 Rust 10,000 B. S. Horton 10,000 ST. CLAIR. Moore & Scott 20,000 W. Truesdale 2 mills 60,000 E. Smith 15,000 Smith & Chamberlin 5,000 Oaks & Holland, two mills 40,000 St. Clair 30,000 FORESTVILLE E. B. Ward 50,000 Breckinridge 2,000 VICKSBURG. Williams & Mills, three mills 55,000 CHEBOYGAN. Three mills 100,000 CHERRY CREEK. Peninsular Bank 15,000 HURON COUNTY. Luddington 12,000 Hubbard & Co. 50,000 Donahue 30,000 Armstrong & Co. 10,000 Smith & Co. 50,000 W. R. Stafford 15,000 Pt Austin Company 100,000 Crawford & Co. 10,000 BAY CITY. Clark, Ballou & Co. 35,000 Moore & Smith 30,000 Geo. Lord & Co. 24,000 Saml. Pitts 30,000 Beeson & Wheeler 24,000 Beebe & Atwood 10,000 Henry Doty 35,000 McEwing & Brother 30,000 Bangor mills 35,000 Drake mills 24,000 Henry Raymond 30,000 Catlin & Jennison 10,000 Miller & Butterfield 14,000 Frost & Bradley 35,000 PORTSMOUTH. J. J. McCormick 10,000 Portsmouth mill 15,000 Budd's mill 14,000 Partridge mill 24,000 H D Braddack & Co. 14,000 Watson & Southard 14,000 ZILWAUKEE. J. J. Westervelt 35,000 CARROLLTON. Name Unknown 35,000 EAST SAGINAW. Garrison & Co. 24,000 I. Hill 20,000 Holland 10,000 Copeland & Co. 10,000 Cushing & Co. 36,000 L. B. Curtis 24,000 Wm. Gallagher 14,000 Atwater mill 30,000 SAGINAW CITY. V. A. Payne 30,000 Curtis & King 30,000 New mill 20,000 G D Williams & Son 20,000 D. Rust & Brother 50,000 TITTIBIWASSEE, PINE RIVER AND SWAN CREEK. Eight mills 65,000 CASS, BAD, AND SHIAWASSEE RIVERS. Seven mills 50,000 LAPEER. D. Farrer 8,000 W. Williams 15,000 Crofoot & Baldwin 15,000 Manwaring & Co. 21,000 Wm. Peters 14,000 Thorp's mill 14,000 H. D. Torner 8,000 Lawrence & M'Arthur 7,000 Wm. Peter 30,000 Sixteen small mills 85,000 N. H. Hart 21,000 Rogers & Jenness 24,000 Smith & Jenness 15,000 Smith 14,000 J. B. Wilson 14,000 James Farrell 10,000 White & Peter 10,000 W. H. Crapo 60,000 H. L. Hemingway 6,000 PINE RUN. McFarren 20,000 MONTROSE. Name unknown 30,000 ALPENA AND VICINITY. G. N. Fletcher & Co. 35,000 Lockwood & Miner 25,000 Harris & Co. 35,000 Smith & Chamberlain 15,000 D. D. Oliver 5,000 Whitmore & Co. 25,000 SANILAC COUNTY. J. L. Woods & Co. 5,000 Mason & Luce 17,500 Stevenson & Davis 20,000 AU SAUBLE HIGHLANDS. Harris's mill 24,000 RIFLE RIVER, SAGANIN, COQUALIN, AND SAND BEACH. Six mills 85,000 TUSCOLA COUNTY. A. Watson 10,000 W. A. Hart 10,000 Perry 5,000 Others 30,000 Edmunds & North 14,000 Richardson & Bro. 14,000 Holmes 5,000 FLINT AND VICINITY. Eleven mills 715,000 There are also others on the east slope of the lower peninsula, representing a capital of say--$120,000. Beyond the lower peninsula, there are some very heavy manufactories, particularly around Green Bay, (Michigan) generally estimated at $1,000,000, but which it would be safe to put at--$750,000. Total capital, including Detroit,-- $5,360,000 WESTERN SLOPE--OTTAWA COUNTY. Name. Capital. Ferry & Co. 50,000 W. M. Ferry, Jr. 50,000 Joseph Weld & Co. 30,000 T. W. White & Co. 50,000 Becker & Spoons 40,000 Richard Roberts 24,000 Jno. Haire 24,000 E. Jewitt 15,000 Plugger & Nyn 24,000 Howard & Co. 14,000 Ryerson & Morris, 2 mills 65,000 Chapin, Marsh & Foss 50,000 Smith, Forbes & Co. 35,000 Trowbridge, Way & Son 65,000 J. B. Bailey 14,000 Porter & Slyfield 14,000 C. Davies & Co. 50,000 Durkee, Truesdell & Co. 40,000 George Ruddmain 40,000 Lewis & Davis 24,000 Eldridge & Co. 24,000 Carleton & Co. 24,000 Ferry & Son 40,000 Lind & Slater 50,000 Young, Savedge & Co. 30,000 Amos Norton 40,000 Benj. Smith 30,000 Rhodes, Cloyn & Co. 24,000 Hatch & Merritt 15,000 C. Hart 10,000 L. G. Mason & Co. 35,000 Beidler & Co. 40,000 Mears & Co. 24,000 Hill & Co. 24,000 Colgrove & Co. 18,000 Wm. Thompson 14,000 Harris & Co. 8,000 Jno. Ford 8,000 Denton & Co. 14,000 Carleton & Co. 10,000 Jos. Dalton & Bro. 10,000 S. Lawrence 12,000 Edward Dalton 8,000 E. W. Merrill & Co. 14,000 Reed & Co. 10,000 Brown & Grist 8,000 KENT COUNTY. Jennison & Bro. 14,000 W. T. Powers 2,000 Seymour 24,000 Gooch & Webber 5,000 A. McFarland 4,000 Thos. Myers 21,000 George Funck 8,000 S. Lapham 5,000 A. House 5,000 Farrell & Sons 10,000 J. C. Clements 15,000 T. Spencer 8,000 Dewey & Co. 14,000 Reed & Plum 5,000 N. H. Withey 5,000 Knickerbuck 4,000 Robert Konkle 10,000 A. Roberts & Son 25,000 White, Worden & Co. 25,000 C. C. Comstock 9,500 D. Porter 5,000 Chase, Harris & Co. 8,000 C. W. Taylor 6,000 D. Caswell 12,000 Hubbard, Hitchcock & Co. 16,000 NEWAYGO COUNTY. Newaygo Company 80,000 Name unknown 24,000 J. M. Wood, 2 mills 25,000 James Botchford 10,000 R. P. Mitchell 5,000 Weaver 3,000 Amos Bigelow, 4,000 STONY CREEK, OCEANA COUNTY. Campbell, Wheeler & Co. 25,000 PERE MARQUETTE, BLACK CREEK AND BIG SAUBLE. C. Mears & Co., 3 mills 95,000 SPRING CREEK. Hopkins & Co. 24,000 MANISTEE. Coles 80,000 McVicker &Ingleman 24,000 One near Manistee 24,000 John C. Haines 55,000 John Stranch 40,000 GRAND TRAVERSE. Hanna, Lay & Co. 32,000 A. S. Wadsworth 15,000 WHITE RIVER. Amos Rathbone 24,000 MECOSTA. Leonard, Ives, & Co. 20,000 MONTCALM COUNTY. Bruce 10,000 Slaght 14,000 E. Gregory & Co. 20,000 LELANAW COUNTY. Averill & Son 2,000 BEC SCIE'S RIVER. R. Gardner 15,000 Chamberlin & Co. 20,000 Name unknown 2,000 Harris & Co. 10,000 IONIA COUNTY. Estimated Aggregate 100,000 All others, on West Slope, estimated 350,000 Capital Western Slope 2,669,500 Total Capital of State $8,029,500 An intelligent gentleman who, at our instance, visited all the establishments around Saginaw, and procured statistics, reports the amount of lumber manufactured as follows: Place. No. of Mills. Feet. Bay City 11 20,000,000 Portsmouth 4 5,000,000 Zilwaukee 1 3,000,000 Carrollton 1 2,800,000 East Saginaw 8 19,750,000 Saginaw City 4 14,000,000 Bad River 2 4,500,000 Rafted Lumber 4,000,000 ---------- Total 73,050,000 Valuation, at $8.50 per M. $620,925 Of the above lumber, 63,000,000 has been shipped; the rest is now on the docks. Shingles manufactured 25,000,000 at $2.50 $62,500 Lath " 5,000,000 at 1.00 5,000 Oak Staves and shipped 2,000,000 at 30.00 60,000 Add Lumber 620,925 -------- Total $748,425 The supply of pine in some few localities is becoming exhausted, and some few mills have ceased operating. This is the case at Lexington, but the machinery and capital have been taken elsewhere. At the present ratio of consumption, the supply of pine must rapidly become diminished, but profitable employment will then be found in the manufacture of hemlock and hard-wood. Some little has already been done in the way of turning out hemlock. The manufacture of hard-wood lumber is increasing very rapidly. The copper interest of Michigan was first brought into public notice by the enormous speculations and the mad fever of 1845. The large spur of country which projects far out into the lake, having its base resting on a line drawn across from L'Anse Bay to Ontonagon, and the Porcupine Mountains for its spine, became the El Dorado of all copperdom of that day. In this year the first active operations were commenced at the Cliff Mine, just back of Eagle River harbor. Three years later, in 1848, work was undertaken at the Minnesota, some fifteen miles back from the lake at Ontonagon. The history of the copper mines on Lake Superior shows that even the best mines disappointed the owners in the beginning. We give the facts relative to the three mines at present in the Lake Superior region to illustrate this. The Cliff Mine was discovered in 1845, and worked three years without much sign of success; it changed hands at the very moment when the vein was opened which proved afterward to be so exceedingly rich in copper and silver, producing now on an average 1,500 tons of stamp, barrel, and mass copper per annum. The Minnesota Mine was discovered in 1848, and for the first three years gave no very encouraging results. The first large mass of native copper of about seven tons was found in a pit made by an ancient race. After that discovery much money was spent before any other further indications of copper were found. This mine yields now about 2,000 tons of copper per annum, and declared, for the year 1858, a net dividend of $300,000. The dividends paid since 1852 amount to upward of $1,500,000 on a paid-up capital of $66,000. The same has been experienced at the Pewabic Mine. That mine commenced operations in the year 1855, with an expenditure of $26,357, which produced $1,080 worth of copper; the second year it expended $40,820, and produced $31,492 of copper; in 1857 $24,484 of expenses produced $44,058 worth of copper; 1858, the amount expended was $109,152, and the receipts for copper $76,538; the total expense amounts to $235,816, and the total receipts for copper to $153,168, leaving an excess of expenses amounting to $82,648, which is, however, amply covered by the extensive works established above and below ground at the mine. The Pewabic will undoubtedly take its place among the dividend-paying mines of the present year. It is scarcely ten years that mining has been properly commenced in that remote region. At that time it was difficult, on account of the rapids of St. Mary's River, to approach it by water with large craft. Being more than a thousand miles distant from the centre of the Union, destitute of all the requirements for the development of mines; every tool, every part of machinery, every mouthful of provisions had to be hauled over the rapids, boated along the shores for hundreds of miles to the copper region, and there often carried on the back of man and beast to the place where copper was believed to exist. Every stroke of the pick cost tenfold more than in populated districts; every disaster delayed the operations for weeks and months. The opening of the Saut Canal has changed all this and added a wonderful impetus to the business, the mining interests, and the development of the Lake Superior country. Nearly one hundred different vessels, steam and sail, have been engaged the past season in its trade, and the number of these is destined largely to increase year by year, an indication of the growth of business and the opening up of the country. For the growth in the copper interest we have only to refer to the shipments from that region year by year. These, in gross, are as follows: 1853 2,535 tons. 1854 3,500 " 1855 4,544 " 1856 5,357 " 1857 6,094 " 1658 6,025 " 1859 6,245 " The same facts of development would hold generally true, with regard to the other industrial interests of that vast country. It remains yet almost wholly "a waste, howling wilderness." At Marquette, Portage Lake, Copper Harbor, Eagle River, Eagle Harbor, and Ontonagon, and the mines adjacent, are the only places where the primeval forests have given place to the enterprise of man, and these in comparison with the whole extent of territory embraced in this region, are but mere insignificant patches. What this country may become years hence, it would defy all speculations now to predict, but there seems no reason to doubt that it will exceed the most sanguine expectations. The copper region is divided into three districts, viz., the Ontonagon, the most northern, the Keweenaw Point, the most eastern, and the Portage Lake, lying mostly below and partially between the range of the two. In the first are situated the Minnesota, the Rockland, the National, and a multitude of other mines of lesser note, profit, or promise. In the Cliff, the Copper Falls, and others. In the last are the Pewabic, Quincy, Isle Royale, Portage, Franklin, and numerous others. Each district has some peculiarities of product, the first developing the masses, while the latter are more prolific in vein-rock, the copper being scattered throughout the rock. There have been since 1845 no less than 116 copper-mining companies organized under the general law of our State. The amount of capital invested and now in use, or which has been paid out in explorations and improvements, and lost, is estimated by good judges at $6,000,000. The nominal amount of capital stock invested in all the companies which have charters would reach an indefinite number of millions. As an offset to this, it may be stated that the Cliff and Minnesota mines have returned over $2,000,000 in dividends from the beginning of their operations, and the value of these two mines will more than cover the whole amount spent in mining, and for all the extravagant undertakings which have been entered upon and abandoned. While success has been the exception and failure the rule in copper speculations, yet it must be admitted that these exceptions are remarkably tempting ones. Doubtless there is immense wealth still to be developed in these enterprises, and this element of wealth in the Lake Superior region is yet to assume a magnitude now unthought of. The copper is smelted mainly in this city, Cleveland, and Boston, the works in this city being the largest. There is one establishment at Pittsburg which does most of the smelting for the Cliff Mine, we believe; one at Bergen, N. Y., and one at New Haven, Conn. There are two at Baltimore, but they are engaged on South American Mineral. The Bruce Mines on the Canada side of Lake Huron have recently put smelting works in operation on their location. Prior to this the mineral was barreled up and shipped to London, being taken over as ballast, in packet ships, at low rates. The amount of copper smelted in this city we can only judge by the amount landed here, but this will afford a pretty accurate estimate. The number of tons landed here, in 1859, was 3,088. The copper yield of Lake Superior will produce between 60 and 70 per cent, of ingot copper, which is remarkably pure. The net product of the mines for 1859, is worth in the markets of the world nearly or quite $2,000,000. This large total shows the capabilities of this region and affords us some basis of calculation as to the value and probable extent of future development. Beside the amount already noticed as landed here there were 1,268 tons brought to this city from the Bruce Mines, and sent on to London. The mineral of this location is of a different quality from that of Lake Superior and not near so productive of pure copper. The price of ingot copper in New York the past season has arranged from 20-1/2 to 23-1/2 cents per pound, averaging full 22-1/2 cents. There are indications that Michigan is slowly but surely taking the rank to which she is entitled in the manufacture as well as production of iron. The first shipment of pig iron of any consequence was made by the Pioneer Company in the fall of 1858. Dr. Russell, of this city, is turning out large quantities. His works went into operation about two years and a half ago, but were burned after running sixty days. They were immediately rebuilt by the enterprising proprietor. The Lake Superior iron has been proclaimed the best in the world, a proposition that none can successfully refute. Its qualities are becoming known in quarters where it would naturally be expected its superiority would be admitted reluctantly, if at all. It is now sent to New York and Ohio, and even to Pennsylvania--an agency for its sale having been established in Pittsburg. For gearing, shafting, cranks, flanges, and, we ought by all means, to add, car-wheels, no other should be used, provided it can be obtained. A large amount of capital is invested in the iron interest in Michigan, as the following figures prove: Pioneer $150,000 Jackson 300,000 Collins 150,000 Cleveland 300,000 Lake Superior and Iron Mountain R. R. Co. 700,000 Northern Michigan Iron Company 110,000 Wyandotte Rolling Mills 236,000 Eureka Iron Company 117,000 Dr. G. B. Russell's 60,000 Ford & Philbrick's Steam Forge 25,000 --------- 2,148,000 Marquette is the only point on Lake Superior where the iron ore deposits have been worked. There are deposits of iron in the mountains back of L'Anse, but this wonderful region leaves nothing more to be desired for the present. At a distance of eighteen miles from the lake, are to be found iron mountains named the Sharon, Burt, Lake Superior, Cleveland, Collins, and Barlow, while eight miles further back lie the Ely and St. Clair mountains. Three of these mountains are at present worked, the Sharon, the Cleveland, and the Lake Superior, and contain enough ore to supply the world for generations to come. The mountains farther back embrace tracts of hundreds of acres rising to a height of from four to six hundred feet, which, there is every reason to believe, from the explorations made, are solid iron ore. The extent of the contents of these mountains is perfectly fabulous, in fact, so enormous as almost to baffle computation. The ore, too is remarkably rich, yielding about seventy per cent. of pure metal. There are now in operation at Marquette three Iron Mining Companies, and two blast furnaces for making charcoal pig iron, the Pioneer and Meigs. The Pioneer has two stacks and a capacity of twenty tons of pig iron per day; the Meigs one stack, capable of turning out about eleven tons. The Northern Iron Company is building a large bituminous coal furnace at the mouth of the Chocolate River, three miles south of Marquette, which will be in operation early in the summer. Each of the mining companies, the Jackson, Cleveland and Lake Superior, have docks at the harbor for shipment, extending out into the spacious and beautiful bay which lies in front of Marquette to a sufficient length to enable vessels of the largest dimension to lie by their side and to be loaded directly from the cars, which are run over the vessels and dumped into chutes, which are made to empty directly into the holds. The process of loading is therefore very expeditious and easy. The amount of shipments of ore for 1859, from Marquette to the ports below, reaches 75,000 gross tons in round numbers, and the shipments of pig iron, 6,000 gross tons more. To this must be added the amount at Marquette when navigation closed, the amount at the mines ready to be brought down, and the amount used on the spot. This will give a total product of the iron mines of Michigan for the past year of between _ninety and one hundred thousand tons_. These mining companies simply mine and ship the ore and sell it. Their profit ranges between seventy-five cents and one dollar per ton. The quality of the iron of Lake Superior is conceded by all to be the best in the world, as the analysis of Prof. Johnson, which we reproduce, shows. The table shows the relative strength per square inch in pounds. Salisbury, Conn., iron 58,009 Swedish (best) 58,184 English cable 59,105 Centre county, Pa. 59,400 Essex county, N. Y., 59,962 Lancaster county, Pa. 58,661 Russia (best) 76,069 Common English and American 30,000 Lake Superior 89,582 The manufacture of pig iron at Marquette will probably be carried on even more extensively as the attention of capitalists is directed to it. The following may be considered a fair statement of the cost of producing one ton of pig iron at the Pioneer Iron Co.'s works: 1-1/2 tons iron ore, at $1.50 per ton $2 50 125 bushels charcoal at 7 cents per bushel 8 75 Fluxing 50 Labor 2 50 Incidental expenses 1 00 ------ Cost at the works 15 00 Freight on R. R. and dockage 1 37 ------ Cost on board vessel $16 36 The quantity of wood required for charcoal for both furnaces, is immense. The pioneer furnace requires 2,500 bushels of coal in twenty-four hours; and in blast as they are, day and night, for six months, and at a yield of forty bushels of coal to a cord of wood, it would require 15,000 cords of wood to keep them going. The company has had 120,000 cords chopped this season. This vast consumption of wood will soon cause the country to be completely stripped of its timber. Coal will then come into use. The business of manufacturing pig iron may be extended indefinitely, as the material is without limit, and the demand, thus far, leaving nothing on hand. These facts exhibit the untold wealth of Michigan in iron alone, and point with certainty to an extent of business that will add millions to our invested capital, dot our State with iron manufactories of all kinds, and furnish regular employment to tens of thousands of our citizens, while our raw material and our wares shall be found in all the principal markets of the world. The superior fish, found in such profusion in our noble lakes and rivers, while they afford a highly-prized luxury for immediate consumption, from one of our leading articles of export, and are very justly regarded as constituting one of our greatest interests. It is estimated by men of intelligence that the value of our yearly catch of fish is greater than that of all taken in fresh waters in the thirty-two remaining States of the Union. This may at first blush seem like a broad assertion, but it is no doubt strictly within bounds. If the claim be not too much of the nature of a truism, we may add that so far as quality is concerned the superiority of our finny tribes is even more strongly marked than in regard to quantity. In the sluggish streams that abound in "ten degrees of more effulgent clime," the fish partake of the slimy properties of their native element; it is only in the limpid waters of the North that they are found of flavor so unexceptionable as to please an epicurean taste, or exalt them to the dignity of a staple of commerce. Fish possess peculiar qualities to commend them as an article of food, independent of the arbitrary preference of the epicure. They are universally esteemed as a wholesome and nutritious diet. In that pleasant work, Irving's "Astoria," a tribe of Indians are described who subsisted entirely on fish, whose rotund appearance contrasted strongly with the physique of their brethren of the forest. The profusion with which the finny tribes propagate their species is a peculiarity said to be imparted to those who partake freely and regularly of them for food, a supposition which would seem to be strongly supported by facts. Fishermen are proverbial for the number of their descendants. One of the tribe who dries his nets in Sarnia, is the happy father of nineteen children, and we can cite numerous proofs almost equally striking in support of this theory. The fisheries have always been a leading subject in the government policy of seaboard nations. They are a prime source of revenue, and have been the cause of numerous wars. The serious controversy between the United States and Great Britain concerning the Newfoundland fisheries, is still fresh in the memory of our readers. Recently the earnest attention of the French government has been directed to propositions for the artificial propagation of fish, as a means of affording good and cheap food to the people at a merely nominal cost. The gradual diminution of the species, as well as the ultimate extinction of the large birds and quadrupeds, is everywhere a condition of advanced civilization and the increase and spread of an industrial population. To provide a remedy for the evil, the science of pisciculture has latterly attracted no small degree of attention, and, at this time, gentlemen prominently identified with our fishing interest have it in contemplation to stock lakes in the interior of Michigan with a view to the prosecution of the science. Most of the fish packed on Lake Huron, and rivers St. Clair and Detroit, find their way into the Ohio market. The trade with that State has rapidly increased, but in its early stages it had some difficulties to contend with, to one of which we will briefly allude. Some twelve or fourteen years ago, a large quantity of fish, not less than 8,000 to 10,000 barrels, which had been caught in Lake Superior, were in the possession of a single dealer, who had them stored in the large warehouse recently torn down at the Detroit and Milwaukee Railway depot. He had opportunities to dispose of them at $8 per barrel, but refused to sell them for less than $10, and the result was that they were kept so long that many of them spoiled. They were complained of as a nuisance, and 1,500 barrels were turned out into the river at one time. Part of the lot was, however, sent to Ohio, and the effect was, for a time, extremely prejudicial to our trade, requiring a great deal of explanation before the Cincinnati dealers could be again induced to stand in the position of customers. But when confidence once more became fairly restored, the circumstance seemed to have the effect to precipitate the trade between the two cities. At least it grew rapidly from that day, our neighbors purchasing freely of our staple articles and sending us sugar and molasses in return. Thus, as in Samson's time, honey was gathered from the carcass of the dead lion. Ohio has become a very large consumer of our fish, and her influence is being extended rapidly into Indiana. The habits of fish are as interesting as anything in the animal economy, constituting a beautiful study for the lover of nature; but this branch does not come within the scope of our article, and we must content ourselves with a brief description of the principal varieties, particularly such as are held in highest repute for packing, with such statistics as we have been able to procure. Whitefish are more highly prized than any other kind found in our waters, being decidedly the most delicious in a fresh state, and when packed command a higher price than any other by $1 per bbl. They are found in the Straits and all the Lakes. They spawn in the fall, in the Straits, and in shoals and on reefs about the Lakes. They are caught in seines, gill nets, trap nets, and with spears; never with hooks. Those found in Detroit river come up from Lake Erie regularly in the fall to deposit their spawn. They were found in our lakes and rivers in vast quantities when the white men first visited their shores. They constituted, with other kinds, the principal food of the white and Indian voyagers as they coasted around the lakes, and were invaluable to the first settlers of the country, who, perhaps in some cases, but for the assistance they afforded, would have been compelled to relinquish their settlements. They could catch a supply at any time, and they then had an unfailing resort when their crops failed. Whitefish were a great favorite with the Indians. They would give many times their weight in trout or any other species in exchange for them. It is said that a person can subsist longer upon them than upon any other kind. Their ordinary weight is from 3 to 5 lbs, length 15 inches, though some have been caught weighing not less than 18 lbs. They are a beautiful fish, and when first taken out of the water and struggle and flounder in the sun, they exhibit all the colors of the rainbow, but they soon expire, and when dead they are of a delicate white color. The trout, pike, and muscalonge devour them without mercy. Some of these voracious kinds have been caught with the remains of six white-fish in them. The Detroit River white-fish are more juicy and better flavored than those caught in the upper lakes, probably from the fact that they feed on more delicate food, but those found in Lake Superior surpass all others in size. They were once so numerous that eight thousand were taken at a single haul. At present a haul of one or two thousand is thought a very good one. In all the rivers they are growing scarce very gradually, but surely. The ratio of decrease cannot be arrived at with any degree of precision. A few years ago they were mostly taken with gill nets, and when they fell of in one place, a corresponding increase would be found in another. Now they are taken with trap nets along the shore. The trap nets are a decided advantage over gill nets. They allow the fish to be kept alive, and they are taken out at leisure; they are therefore of better quality. Pickerel are also held in high esteem. They are good either fresh, or salted and dried, and for packing, rank next in value to white, although held nominally at the same price as trout when packed. They generally run up the rivers and lakes in the spring to spawn, where they are caught in considerable numbers. Average weight, 2 lbs; large, 20 lbs; common length, 15 inches. Lake or Mackinaw trout are as voracious as pike. They are chiefly caught on Lake Huron with gill nets and hooks. Saginaw Bay appears to be a favorite resort with them. Some winters large quantities are caught in the Bay through the ice, with a decoy fish and spear. They spawn in the fall, generally in the bays and inlets. Average weight 5 lbs; large 75 lbs. Siscowits are mostly found in Lake Superior, and are preferred by some to any other kind. They are of the trout family, and for fat are unequaled; they are mostly taken in gill nets. They spawn in the fall, and are very superior for packing. They are also of some value for their oil. Common weight 4 pounds, length 16 inches. Large herrings are very good fish, found only in the straits and large lakes. They spawn in the fall; but few are caught. Average weight 1-3/4 pounds; common length 10 inches. In addition to the above the muskelonge--a large and delicious variety--black and white bass, rock bass, perch, sturgeon, and at least twenty other kinds, abound in our waters; a minute description of which we are compelled to forego. Whitefish are taken both spring and fall, chiefly the latter; spring is the season for pickerel; trout are taken at all seasons. Something over a year since some excitement was occasioned by a mode of fishing adopted by a party of fishermen on Detroit river, who stationed nets over a mile and a half in extent across the mouth of the stream, a proceeding that was not only calculated to destroy the value of the seine fisheries above, but which would ultimately have driven the fish out of the river altogether. A formidable opposition was of course arrayed against this unusual and unwarrantable proceeding, and the party found it expedient to desist, but the Legislature, which met shortly after, failed to pass an inhibitive measure. This action, or rather want of action, would have been considered extraordinary in a State less favored by nature. We have fortunately been able to procure estimates of the amount of the catch at all the various fisheries, together with other leading statistics; and with the view of imparting to the subject a more general interest, we include two or three points beyond the limits of the State. The estimates are furnished by gentlemen of intelligence and experience, and may be relied on as substantially correct: Sandusky fisheries, catch mostly sold fresh: Whitefish, valuation $50,000 Pickerel, bass, etc 40,000 Value of seines and fixtures 16,000 Paid for wages 37,000 Maumee River, pickerel, white bass, etc., etc., mostly sold fresh: Valuation $50,000 Seines and fixtures $15,000 Paid for wages 12,000 Maumee Bay and Monroe County, Michigan, white fish and pickerel: Valuation $20,000 Pounds, seines, and fixtures 9,000 Paid for wages 10,000 Detroit River, nearly all white: Valuation $75,000 Seines, fishing grounds, and fixtures 40,000 Paid for wages 20,000 St. Clair River and Rapids, mostly pickerel: Valuation $11,000 Cost of fixtures 2,000 Paid for wages 1,200 Port Huron to Point au Barque, 3,000 barrels, mostly white: Valuation $25,000 Au Sauble 6,000 barrels, 3/4 white, the rest trout: Valuation $50,000 Boats, nets, etc. 13,000 Paid for wages 7,000 Thunder Bay and vicinity, above Sauble River, 6,000 barrels, mostly white: Valuation $50,000 Saginaw Bay and River, 2,000 barrels pickerel and 1,500 white and trout: Valuation $32,000 Tawas, 600 barrels, mostly white: Valuation $5,000 Between Thunder Bay and Mackinac, 500 barrels, mostly white: Valuation $4,500 Mackinac, including all brought there, 7,500 barrels, 3/4 or 7/8 white: Valuation $62,000 Beaver Islands and neighborhood, 7,000 barrels, nearly all white: Valuation $59,000 Green Bay in Michigan, 3,000 barrels, all white: Valuation $25,500 Island between De Tour and the Saut, 1,000 barrels, 2/3 white, the rest trout: Valuation $8,000 Green Bay in Wisconsin, 2,500 barrels white and 500 barrels pickerel, all packed: Valuation $25,000 Of the catch of Lake Huron, only an inconsiderable amount are sold fresh. On Detroit River about 4,000 barrels were packed last year. Having procured specific information of the cost of outfit and amount paid for wages at the Sauble fisheries, we have taken such expenditures as the basis for those of all the upper lake fisheries in proportion to the catch, which in the main will doubtless prove substantially correct. At the Sauble last season there were sixteen boats employed for two months, and eight for the rest of the season. The value of the boats was $200 each, and the nets, etc., cost an additional sum of $600 for each, making the aggregate value of the boats and their outfit about $13,000. About forty men were employed on an average during the season, receiving a probable aggregate of $7,000 for wages. Taking these outlays, etc., as a fair average, and we have the following result: From Port Huron to the Beavers, inclusive, together with Green Bay in Michigan, and the Saut Islands: Cost of outfit $83,500 Amount paid for wages 45,000 Average number of men 300 The amount shipped from Lake Superior, as appears from the report of the Superintendent of the Saut canal is 4,000 barrels. This is probably not a tithe of what might be done. The mouth of almost every stream in that region affords good fishing grounds, which is also true of most of the islands, particularly Isle Royale, where the siscowit is very abundant. The fisheries on the east coast of Lake Michigan have for about six years past increased very rapidly in importance, some years gaining 100 per cent, on the year preceding. A few years since a party of Norwegians came on and embarked in the business, which they have prosecuted ever since with advantage and profit. Trained in the severe school of their rugged northern home, they exhibit the greatest daring, going out in their tiny craft during the heaviest gales. They frequently venture out twenty-five miles from shore, almost meeting their countrymen from the Wisconsin side of the lake, who are engaged in the same hazardous calling. We have the following returns: Little Traverse, 600 barrels: Valuation $4,000 300 nets and 6 boats, worth 1,800 Paid for wages 575 Big Point Sauble, 1,500 barrels: Valuation $12,000 600 nets and 8 boats 3,600 Paid for wages 1,700 Little Point Sauble, 2,000 barrels: Valuation $16,500 750 nets and 10 boats 4,500 Paid for wages 2,000 White Lake, 1,500 barrels: Valuation $12,000 500 nets and 5 boats 3,000 Paid for wages 1,600 Grand Haven, 4,000 barrels: Valuation $32,800 800 nets and 8 boats 4,000 Paid for wages 5,000 Saugatuck, 2,000 barrels: Valuation $16,000 600 nets and 6 boats 3,600 Paid for wages 2,500 South Haven, 2,100 barrels: Valuation $16,800 600 nets and 6 boats 1,200 Paid for wages 2,500 St. Joseph's 3,500 barrels: Valuation $28,000 1,200 nets and 9 boats 7,500 Paid for wages New Buffalo, 300 barrels: Valuation $3,000 400 nets and 5 boats 2,600 Paid for wages 450 Michigan City, 3,000 barrels: Valuation $30,000 1,020 nets and 18 boats 8,000 Paid for wages 4,400 Showing an aggregate of 21,000 barrels, of which about 18,000 barrels are salted; valuation $169,800; value of fixtures $43,600; estimated amount paid for wages, $22,000. The fishing grounds of Michigan City are almost entirely within our State. The number of barrels include those sold fresh as well as salted, there being a considerable quantity of the former, in some of the fisheries last named, Michigan City and New Buffalo especially, from whence they are sent packed in ice to the different towns in Michigan; also to Lafayette and Indianapolis, Indiana, to Louisville, Kentucky, to Cincinnati, and also to Chicago, where they are repacked in ice, and some of them find their way to St. Louis, Cairo, etc. From St. Joseph and Grand Haven there are large quantities sent fresh to Chicago and Milwaukee, where they are repacked in ice. At a fair estimate for the few small fisheries on this coast from which we have no return, together with those on the west coast of Lake Michigan, they are worth at least $60,000, but we have no data by which to form an estimate of the proportion packed. The number of men employed, and the consequent expense, varies according to the method employed. With seines the occupation is very laborious, and requires a much stronger force than pound nets. One set of hands can manage a number of the latter. Some of the fisheries on Detroit and St. Clair rivers use seines altogether, to draw which, horse-power is brought into requisition in some cases. A double set of men are employed, working alternately day and night, and the exposure is a most disagreeable feature of the business, particularly in bad weather. The great bulk of the aggregate catch continues to be taken with seines or gill nets, but pound (or trap) nets are on the increase. They have been in use below Lake Huron more or less for the past four or five years, but it is only about two years since their introduction in the upper lakes. With these nets 100 barrels of white-fish have been taken at a single haul. Of course their general use must produce a material diminution in the supply. As regards capital invested, there is in particular instances a wide difference. George Clark, Esq., nine miles below Detroit, has $12,000 invested in his grounds, owing mostly to the cost of removing obstructions. But this is an exception. The barrels for packing constitute no inconsiderable item of this vast and important trade. Their manufacture is a regular branch in Port Huron, but most of them are made by the fishermen when not engaged in their regular vocation. They are made at all the villages and fishing stations on Lake Huron, pine being generally easy of access. The barrels are worth 62-1/2 cents each; half-barrels, 50 cents. Over two-thirds of the packages used are halves, but our estimated totals of the catch represent wholes. Formerly the nets used also to be made almost entirely by the fishermen, who usually procured the twine from Detroit. Latterly, many of them have been brought from Boston already made. Salt is another large item. For packing and repacking, about one-fourth of a barrel is used to each barrel of fish. For the amount packed, therefore, in the fisheries we have described, about 20,000 barrels are used. Total proceeds of Michigan fisheries $620,000 Total proceeds of all enumerated 900,000 Total capital invested 252,000 Paid for wages 171,000 Aggregate of barrels salted, say 80,000 bbls. Cost of packages 70,000 Cost of salt 22,000 The catch at the Sauble and Thunder Bay showed a falling off last season, owing not to the want of fish, but to the unfavorable weather. At these points they congregate only from October to the close, and the weather being very rough last fall, the catch was comparatively light. Mackinac has been famous as the greatest fishing point on the lakes. Gill nets are mostly in vogue. The work in that locality is mostly done by half-breeds, in the employ of the merchants, the latter furnishes the salt, and paying them in trade, of which the outfit generally constitutes a part. But with the late general depression, prices declined some thirty or forty per cent., and consequently the business, previously quite lucrative, lost its attraction for the time being. The merchants advanced the means in summer, and could not realize until the ensuing year. Small holders were obliged to sell, some of the time by forcing the market, and this added to the difficulty experienced by large holders in obtaining returns. Much has been said in reference to the coal fields of Michigan, and within the past two or three years, explorations, with a view of developing these deposits, have been conducted in different portions of the State. There is no longer any doubt of the existence of a valuable field of coal in central Michigan. There have been openings at different points in the State; at Jackson and Sandstone, in Jackson county; at Owasso and Corunna in Shiawassee county; at Flint in Genesee county, and at Lansing, coal has been found deposited in veins of from twenty inches to four feet in thickness. Most of the openings have been upon veins outcropping at the surface of the ground, and there has been little difficulty in procuring samples of coal from these veins in many localities in the State. These deposits of coal found at, and near the surface, are producing coal in limited quantities in different localities, but no works have been prosecuted with a view to supplying any but a limited local demand. From the surface evidences of a coal field on the line of the Detroit and Milwaukee Road near Owasso, and from explorations and developments already made, some specimens of the coal having been produced and shipped to Detroit, it has been determined to prosecute the work at that point. In Jackson county, however, the matter of mining has become an enterprise of some magnitude, and we are enabled to give some facts and figures which exhibit in some measure the importance to the State of this new branch of industry. There are several "workings" of coal in the vicinity of Jackson, and several companies have been formed for the purpose of mining coal. Considerable coal has been mined and sold from these different workings and mines. The principal mine, and one which in all its arrangements and provisions is equal to any mine in the country, is that of the Detroit and Jackson Coal and Mining Company. The works of this Company are at Woodville station on the line of the Michigan Central Railroad, about three and a half miles west of Jackson city. The mine is situated on the north side of the Railroad and about half a mile from the main track. The Coal Company have built a side track from the Central Road to the mouth of their shaft. The shaft from which the coal is taken is ninety feet deep, and at the bottom passes through a vein of coal about four feet in thickness. This vein has been opened in different directions for several hundred feet from the shaft, and with a tram-road through the different entries the coal is reached and brought from the rooms to the shaft, and then lifted by steam to the surface. This coal has been transported to different points in the State and is rapidly coming into use for all ordinary purposes, taking the place of many of the Ohio coals and at a reduced cost. The mine to which reference is made is within _four hours'_ ride of Detroit, on the Central Road, and a visit of two hours (which can be accomplished any day, by taking the morning train, leaving the city at 9 45 and returning so as to reach here at half past six in the evening,) will repay any one for the trouble. The station is called Woodville, and is only three and a half miles west of Jackson. Michigan, hitherto a heavy importer of salt, is in a fair way not only to have amply sufficient for her own wants, but something perhaps to spare. To aid in developing our saline resources, the Legislature wisely provided a bounty upon the production, which has already brought forth good fruits. At Grand Rapids, salt water has been discovered much stronger than that of the Syracuse springs, requiring only twenty-nine gallons to produce a bushel.--Arrangements have been almost perfected for commencing the manufacture upon a very extensive scale. At Saginaw, within a few days, at the depth of 620 feet, copious volumes of brine were revealed. This is also stronger than any in New York. From some cause, it is sought to keep this information a secret, but it is fair to presume it would soon have leaked out. The salt both at Grand Rapids and Saginaw, is a beautiful article, of great purity. When Nature formed the Grand River and Saginaw valleys, she seems to have been engaged in an animated contest with herself. The developments are such as to warrant the conviction that other and perhaps equally valuable salt springs lie hidden in the intervening space between those valleys. These and other discoveries plainly indicate that the employment of a large amount of capital in developing the latent resources of Michigan would amply "pay." The inexhaustible plaster beds of Grand Rapids constitute one of the prime sources of prosperity of that enterprising metropolis of the Grand River Delta. Our whole State has also a great interest in the trade, the material being, it is admitted, a better fertilizer than the imported article. CHAPTER XV. Desirableness of a trip to the Lakes -- Routes of travel -- Interesting localities -- Scenery -- Southern coast -- Portage Lake -- Dr. Houghton -- Ontonagon -- Apostles' Islands -- Return trip -- Points of interest -- St. Mary's River -- Lake St. George -- Point de Tour -- Lake Michigan -- Points of interest -- Chicago. A trip to the northern lakes, for variety and beauty of scenery to such as are seeking enjoyment and pleasure, possesses advantages over every other route of travel in the United States, and with the exception of the works of art and the classical associations of the old world, is unsurpassed by any on the globe. To such as are in quest of health, no comparison can be instituted, as it has been demonstrated that the Northwest, especially in the region of the lakes, possesses the most invigorating climate in the world. A reference to the mortuary tables removes all doubt on this point. In the town of Marquette, on Lake Superior, containing a population of over three thousand, there were during the last year but eight deaths, and only a portion of that number was from disease. Our object in this chapter is to notice the various routes of travel to the interesting localities in the Northwest. During the summer months the most pleasant mode of conveyance is by water. The Hudson River boats, compared with which no inland steamers are superior, leave, every day, the foot of Courtland street for Albany. By taking passage on an evening boat, after a quiet night's rest the traveler will find himself at Albany the next morning, where he can take the cars for Buffalo, at which point he will be able to take a steamer for Detroit. From thence he can take a steamer for Superior City, passing through Lakes St. Clair and Huron, and up the Saut St. Mary to Lake Superior. On the route from the Saut he will pass the following points, Point Iroquois, White-Fish Point, Point Au Sable, Pictured Rocks, Grand Island, Marquette, Manitou Island, Copper Harbor, Eagle Harbor, Eagle River, Ontonagon, La Point, Bayfield and Point De Tour. The usual time occupied in passing over this route is about twenty-four hours. In leaving the Saut above the Rapids the steamer enters Lequamenon, passing Iroquois Point fifteen miles distant on the southern shore, while Gros Cap, on the Canada shore, can be seen about four miles distant. The porphyry hills, of which this point is composed, rise to a height of seven hundred feet above the lake, and present a grand appearance. North of Gros Cap is Goulais Bay, and in the distance a bold headland named Goulais Point can be seen. Indeed the whole north shore presents a scene of wild grandeur. Near the middle of Lequamenon Bay is Parisien Island which belongs to Canada; opposite to this island on the north is seen Croulee Point, an interesting locality in the vicinity of which are numerous islands. Still further on the steamer passes Mamainse Point, another bold headland once the seat of the works of the Quebec Copper Mining Company, but now abandoned in consequence of their unproductiveness; some fifteen or twenty miles further north, is located the Montreal Company's copper mine. The traveler has now fairly entered the vast mineral region of Lake Superior, and passes along a coast hundreds of miles in extent, "abounding in geological phenomena, varied mineral wealth, agates, cornelian, jasper, opal, and other precious stones, with its rivers, bays, estuaries, islands, presque isles, peninsulas, capes, pictured rocks, transparent waters, leaping cascades, and bold highlands, lined with pure veins of quartz, spar and amethystine crystals, full to repletion with mineral riches, reflecting in gorgeous majesty the sun's bright rays, and the moon's mellow blush; overtopped with ever verdant groves of fir, cedar, and mountain ash, while the back ground is filled up with mountain upon mountain, until, rising in majesty to the clouds, distance loses their inequality resting against the clear vault of Heaven." On the southern shore, beyond White Fish Point, immense sand hills can be seen rising from four hundred to one thousand feet in height. After passing Pictured Rocks, which we have elsewhere described, the steamer approaches Grand Island, the shores of which present a magnificent appearance. This island is about one hundred twenty-five miles from the Saut and is about ten miles long and five wide. It is wild and romantic. The cliffs of sandstone broken into by the waves form picturesque caverns, pillars, and arches of great dimensions. Forty-five miles further is the town of Marquette one of the most flourishing places on the borders of the lake, and the entrepot of the vast mineral wealth in that region. Near this place are the Carp and Dead rivers, both which have rapids and falls of great beauty. Sailing in a northwestern direction the steamer passes Standards Rock, a solitary and dangerous projection, rising out of the lake at the entrance of Keweenaw Bay. At the head of this bay stands the harbor of L'Anse a short distance from which are located a Roman Catholic and Methodist mission house and church, both of which, on each sides of the bay where they are located, are surrounded by Indian tribes and settlements. Passing along, the steamer enters Portage Lake an extensive and beautiful sheet of water extending nearly the entire breadth of the peninsula of Keweenaw Point, which is a large extent of land jutting out into Lake Superior, from ten to twenty miles wide and sixty in length. This whole section abounds in silver and copper ores. After passing Manitou Island, Copper Harbor, one of the best on the lake is reached. At this place there is a flourishing village. The next points are Agate Harbor, Eagle Harbor, and Eagle River Harbor. It was at this point that the lamented Dr. Houghton was drowned in October 1845. He was the State Geologist of Michigan, and while coming down from a portage to Copper Harbor, with his four Indian companions _du voyage_, the boat was swamped in a storm about a mile and a half from Eagle River. Two of the _voyageurs_ were saved by being thrown by the waves upon the rocks ten feet above the usual level of the waters. The next point, three hundred and thirty-six miles from the Saut, is Ontonagon situated at the mouth of a river of the same name. A flourishing town is located here having several churches. In its vicinity are the Minnesota, Norwich, National, Rockland, and several other copper mines of great productiveness; silver is also found intermixed with the copper ore, which abounds in great masses. La Point, four hundred and ten miles from the Saut and eighty-three from Superior City, which is next reached, is situated on Madeline Island, one of the group of the Twelve Apostles. It was settled at an early day by the Jesuit Missionaries and the American Fur Traders. The population is mixed, consisting of Indians, French, Canadians and Americans. It has long been the favorite resort of the "red man" as well as the "pale face," and possesses a historic interest to travelers. The adjacent islands of the Twelve Apostles grouped together a short distance from the main land, present during the summer months a most lovely and beautiful appearance. Cliffs from one to two hundred feet, may be seen rising above the waters, crowned with the richest foliage. Passing Rayfield, a village on the mainland, and Ashland, a settlement at the head of Chag-wamegon Bay, and the Maskeg and Montreal Rivers, the steamer, after rounding Point de Tour, enters Fon du Lac, a noble bay at the head of Lake Superior, twenty miles in width and fifty miles in length, on the shore of which stands Superior City, near the mouth of St. Louis River. This is a flourishing place, possessing great commercial importance, and which, at no distant day, must be connected with the mouth of the Columbia River and Puget Sound. On the return trip coasting along the northwest, the steamer passes numerous points of interest. At the extreme west end of Lake Superior, seven miles northwest from Superior City, stands the village of Portland. Along the shore northward are bold sandy bluffs and highlands which are supposed to be rich in mineral wealth. Encampment, the name of a river, island, and village, is a romantic spot. Immense cliffs of greenstone are to be seen rising from two hundred to three hundred feet above the water's edge; northward along the shore porphyry abounds in great quantity. This point is noted for the singular agitation of the magnetic needle. Hiawatha, Grand Portage, Pigeon Bay, Pie Island, Thunder Cape, and Thunder Bay, surrounded by grand scenery; Isle Royale, Fort William, a strong post of the Hudson Bay Company. Black Bay, Nepigon Bay, on the extreme north of the lake. St. Ignace Island, State Islands, Pic Island Michipicoten Island, formerly the seat of Lake Superior Silver Mining Company of Canada. Montreal Island, Carabon Island and other points of interest. Re-entering the Saut the steamer shapes her course for Mackinaw. The Garden River settlement, an Indian village ten miles below the Saut, is on the Canada shore. A mission church and several dwellings occupied by Chippewa Indians may be found here. The St. Mary's River presents the finest scenery. A traveler in describing it says, "There is a delicious freshness in the countless evergreen islands that dot the river in every direction from the Falls to Lake Huron." The next point is Church's Landing on Sugar Island, opposite to which is Squirrel Island belonging to the Canadians. Lake George twenty miles below the Saut is an expansion of the River which at this point is five miles wide. The steamer soon enters the Nebish Rapids, after passing Lake George, and the main land of Canada, stretching out to the north in a dreary wilderness, is lost sight of. Sugar Island which is a large body of fertile land belonging to the United States, near the head of St. Joseph's Island is next reached, and then in succession, Nebish Island, Mud Lake, another expansion of the river, Lime Island, Carltonville, St. Joseph's Island, a large and fertile body of land belonging to Canada, once the site of a fort; Drummond Island, belonging to the United States, and Point De Tour, at the mouth of the river, the site of a light-house and settlement. The other points of interest are Round Island, Bois Blanc, at the head of Lakes Huron and Mackinac, all of which we have elsewhere described. At east the steamer enters the Straits of Mackinaw, and the site of the old fort and town heave in view. These straits are from four to twenty miles in width, and extend east and west about twenty miles. Lake Michigan now spreads out its beautiful sheet of water, second in size to Superior, and invites the traveler to sail along its shores and among its islands. The points of interest are, La Gros Cap, a picturesque headland; Garden and Hog Islands, Great and Little Beaver Islands, Fox Island, on the west of which is the entrance to Green Bay, and on the east the entrance to Grand Traverse Bay, the Great or north Manitou, and the Little or south Manitou Islands, Kewawnee, Two Rivers, Manitoulin and Sheboygan, Port Washington, Milwaukee, Racine, Waukegan and other places of minor importance. After passing the localities on the western shore, at length Chicago is seen in the distance, stretching along for miles and presenting a fine appearance. From this point the traveler can return to New York, by way of Detroit, through Canada on the railroad, or he may if he chooses take a southern route. Such are the facilities for travel that the tourist will be at no loss during the entire season in finding excellent steamers and good accommodations. Steamers of the first class leave Cleveland on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays of each week, for Lake Superior, touching at the various ports on the route. Persons in the West or South, who may desire to visit the lakes can thus be at any time accommodated. Should the tourist prefer taking another route from Buffalo, instead of passing over Lake Erie and up the Detroit River, he can go direct to Collingwood at the foot of Georgian Bay, and from thence can take steamer for Saut St. Mary, Chicago or any other point he may desire in the Northwest. THE END. 
41394	----	+--------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Words with bold characters are enclosed between | | (+) plus signs and words in italics are enclosed | | between (_) underlines. | +--------------------------------------------------+ [Illustration: A SOUTHERN MICHIGAN WOODLOT] UNIVERSITY BULLETIN NEW SERIES, SEPTEMBER, 1915 VOL. XVII, NO. 10 UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN BOTANICAL GARDEN AND ARBORETUM MICHIGAN TREES A HANDBOOK OF THE NATIVE AND MOST IMPORTANT INTRODUCED SPECIES _By_ CHARLES HERBERT OTIS, FORMERLY CURATOR WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY GEORGE PLUMER BURNS, FORMERLY DIRECTOR [Illustration] Ann Arbor PUBLISHED BY THE REGENTS 1915 COPYRIGHT, 1915 BY THE REGENTS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN THIRD EDITION, REVISED THE ANN ARBOR PRESS, PRINTERS ANN ARBOR, MICH. TABLE OF CONTENTS. PAGE A Southern Michigan Woodlot--_Frontispiece_. Map of Michigan (Showing Details Mentioned in the Bulletin) iv Introduction v Acknowledgments vii How to Study the Trees ix Artificial Keys, How Made and Used xviii Summer Key to the Genera xxi Winter Key to the Genera xxvii Manual of Trees (Description of Species, with Summer and Winter Keys to the Species) xxxiii Glossary 231 Index to the Artificial Keys 241 Index to the Trees 242 [Illustration: MAP OF MICHIGAN SHOWING ONLY LOCATIONS MENTIONED IN THE MANUAL] INTRODUCTION The idea of a bulletin on Michigan trees was first suggested by Prof. Volney M. Spalding. It was thought that a bulletin devoted entirely to the study of certain phases of tree life in Michigan would stimulate interest in the study of our trees, and influence many more people to associate themselves with the growing number of tree lovers and with the supporters of the movement for better forest conditions in the state. The bulletin has been under consideration for a number of years and much of the material given herein has been used in the classes in forest botany at the University of Michigan. It remained, however, for the present Curator of the Botanical Garden and Arboretum to get the material into shape for publication, and the present bulletin is the result of his industry and perseverance. The preparation of the drawings and manuscript has been made by him in connection with his work in the Garden. The distinctive feature of the bulletin lies in its keys. The keys commonly published are based upon characters which are present but a short time during the year, or which can be used only by an advanced student of botany. This bulletin presents two keys. One is based upon characters which are present all summer; the other uses the winter characters as a basis for identification. By the use of the keys any person should be able to name and learn the characteristics of the trees of Michigan at any time of the year. These keys should prove of special value to our students in the public schools, to members of nature study clubs, and to the students in the forestry schools of the state. The order of arrangement and the nomenclature are essentially those of "Gray's New Manual of Botany." Following a tendency which is steadily gaining favor, all species names are printed with a small letter, regardless of their origin. For the convenience of the general reader, other scientific names which are found in botanical manuals _in common use_ are printed in parenthesis. In the case of exotics which are not included in the Manual, other authorities have been followed. Sudworth's "Check List of the Forest Trees of the United States" (U. S. Dept. Agr., Div. Forestry, Bul. 17) is in most cases authority for the common names. They are names appearing in common use today in some part of the state. The first name given is that recommended by Sudworth for general use. The drawings have been made from living or herbarium material and are original. They are accurately drawn to a scale, which is given in each case. In their preparation the author has endeavored to call attention to the salient characters. In the drawings of buds and twigs certain points, bundle-scars, etc., have been emphasized more than is natural. In the descriptions the attempt has been made to bring out those points of similarity and contrast which are most useful for identification. As the bulletin is not written especially for technical students of botany, the author thought best to use as few technical terms as possible in the descriptions. In some cases it was impossible to avoid such terms, but with the help of the glossary the meaning can be easily understood. Any person desiring to get a more complete knowledge of trees should consult one of the larger manuals. The arrangement used for the illustration and discussion of each single tree makes it possible for the student to compare the drawings with the description without turning a page. It is believed that with the aid of the drawings and descriptions given in this bulletin any person will be able to name the trees which grow in his yard, park, or woodlot. If, however, any difficulty is found in naming the trees, the Curator will be glad to name any specimens which may be mailed to him. He would be glad to get in touch with persons interested in Michigan trees and to receive any additional information relating to the subject. Data concerning the distribution of the trees in the state, and the addition of other Michigan trees to the present list would be of especial value. GEORGE PLUMER BURNS. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Grateful acknowledgment is hereby made to Miss Sarah Phelps, who has done most of the inking in and given life to the author's pencil-drawings; to Mr. J. H. Ehlers for his valuable assistance in the preparation of many of the drawings and in the collection of working material; to Prof. Henri Hus, who has read all of the proof and who has at various times rendered valuable assistance; to Prof. F. C. Newcombe and to Prof. Ernst Bessey for the loan of sheets, from the herbariums of the University of Michigan and Michigan Agricultural College; and especially to Prof. Geo. P. Burns in whose inspiration this bulletin had its inception and under whose direction the work has progressed to completion. CHAS. H. OTIS. HOW TO STUDY THE TREES People are everywhere associated with trees. Trees give cooling shade in our parks and dooryards and along our highways; they lend their beauty to the landscape and relieve it of monotony; they yield many kinds of fruits, some of which furnish man and the animals of the forest with food; and they furnish vast quantities of lumber for a multitude of uses. How important it is, then, that every person, whether school-child or grown-up, should become acquainted with our trees. Most people know a few of our commonest trees, but are ignorant of the great wealth of tree forms about them. Some who may have wished to go further have been hindered for lack of a teacher or dismayed by the very multitude of manuals to which they have had access. In beginning a study of the trees the student should start on a solid foundation, eliminating the uncertainties and the errors which no doubt have appeared and retaining only the established facts. Once started he should go slowly, assimilating each new discovery before seeking another. He should begin with the trees nearest home, and, as he gradually grows to know these in all their aspects, should extend his trips afield. Not only should he be able to name the trees when they are fully clothed in their summer dress, but he should as readily know these same trees when the leaves have fallen and only the bare branches stand silhouetted against the sky. Then, and only then, will he derive the utmost satisfaction from his efforts. The characters which are used in studying the trees are habit, leaves, flowers, fruit, buds, bark, distribution and habitat. These will be discussed briefly in the next few pages, the same order that is used in the detailed descriptions of species being maintained in the present discussion. A few drawings will also be added to make clear certain points and to show comparative forms. NAME.--Every tree has one or several common names and a scientific or Latin name. Some of these common names are merely local, others have a more extended use. Some few names apply to totally different species. Thus, Cottonwood in Michigan is _Populus deltoides_, in Idaho and Colorado _Populus angustifolia_, in California _Populus fremontii_ and in Kentucky _Tilia heterophylla_. While it should not be forgotten that in common speech it is proper as well as convenient to call trees by their common names, yet, in view of the many uncertainties pertaining to their use, a scientific name is at times absolutely essential to the clear understanding of what is meant. Latin is the language in universal use by all scientists. No longer used by any civilized nation, it has become a dead language and consequently never changes. Its vocabulary and its constructions will a thousand years hence be the same as they are today. Being in universal use among scientists of all nationalities no confusion arises from the use of a Latin word. The Oak in Germany is known as _Eiche_, in France as _chêne_ and in Spain as _roble_, but the Latin word _Quercus_ is the same for all these countries. A scientific name as applied to trees consists of at least two parts, as _Quercus alba_; the first named is the genus and is always written with a capital letter, the second is the species and is written with a small letter, the two names constituting the briefest possible description of the particular tree. It is customary to add to these the name or an abbreviation of the name of the person who first gave the name to the tree, as _Quercus alba L._, the abbreviation standing for Linnaeus. Sometimes a third name is used, as _Acer saccharum nigrum_, referring in this case to a variety of the ordinary Sugar Maple. Genera which bear a relationship to each other are placed in the same family, the family name always having the characteristic ending--_aceae_. Related families are again grouped into orders, with the characteristic ending--_ales_. Orders are in like manner arranged into larger groups, called classes, and the latter into still larger groups, divisions, etc., each with its characteristic ending. Thus, _Acer saccharum nigrum_ (_Michx. f._) _Britt_. is classified as follows: Division--Spermatophyta Subdivision--Angiospermae Class--Dicotyledoneae Order--Sapindales Family--Aceraceae Genus--Acer Species--saccharum Variety--nigrum. HABIT.--Habit, or the general appearance of a plant, is an important character of identification, especially as we become more and more familiar with the trees. Two main types are recognized, based on the manner of branching of the trunk, the upright and the spreading. In the one the trunk extends straight upwards without dividing, as is typical in most of the conifers, and in the other the trunk divides to form several large branches and the broad, spreading crown of most of our broad-leaf trees. The crown in either case may be regular in outline or very irregular, straggling or straight-limbed. Moreover, the tree growing in the open, where there is no crowding and there is plenty of light, may differ very greatly from the tree in the forest, where the struggle for existence becomes very keen. A short, thick trunk and low, spreading, many-branched crown characterizes the tree in the open, whereas the forest tree has a long, slender, clean trunk and a narrow crown of few branches. In the descriptions of trees in this bulletin, unless otherwise stated, the habit in the open is the one given. Again, the tree may have been injured by storm or insect at some period of its growth and its natural symmetry destroyed. Moreover, the age of a tree has a great influence on its outline, young trees being generally narrow and more or less conical, broadening out as they become older. We may say, then, that each tree has an individuality of its own, little eccentricities similar to those that make people different from one another. And just as we have little difficulty in recognizing our friends at a distance by some peculiarity of walk or action, so are we able to recognize a great many trees at a distance by some peculiarity of form or habit. [Illustration: I. LEAF OUTLINES Lanceolate. Ovate. Heart-shaped. Halberd-shaped. Linear. Elliptical. Oblong. Oval. Orbicular. Oblanceolate. Spatulate. Obovate.] [Illustration: II. LEAF TIPS Acuminate. Acute. Obtuse. Emarginate. Mucronate.] LEAVES.--With the advent of spring the buds of our broad-leaf trees swell and burst and the leaves come forth and clothe the trees with mantles of green, hiding the branches which have been bare through the cold winter months. The evergreens, too, take on new color and begin a new period of growth. It is the leaves which the beginner finds most interesting and in which he finds a ready means of identification. It must be remembered, however, that leaves vary greatly in size and shape and general appearance. How large are the leaves on a flourishing sprout and how small on a stunted tree of the same species growing near by, but under adverse circumstances. How different are the leaves of the big white oak standing in the yard; they are hardly lobed on the lowermost branches, while higher up they are deeply cut. Yet, in spite of the many modifications that leaves undergo, the leaves of any one species have certain rather constant characters which are found in all forms, and the student will have little difficulty in selecting and recognizing typical leaves. [Illustration: III. LEAF MARGINS Serrate. Doubly Serrate. Crenate. Undulate. Sinuate. Lobed. Dentate.] Leaves are either persistent, as in most of our conifers, which stay green all winter, or they turn various colors with the frost and fall early in autumn; often they hang dead and lifeless far into the winter. The points about leaves which we are accustomed to consider are the position or arrangement of the leaves on the branch, whether simple or compound, size, shape, texture, color, amount and character of pubescence, character of the margin, venation, etc. The following diagrams will serve to illustrate some of the ordinary forms and shapes of leaves, their margins, etc. [Illustration: IV. PARTS OF A FLOWER Perfect Flower. Stamen. Pistil. a. Sepal (Calyx). b. Petal (Corolla). c. Stamen. d. Pistil. e. Anther. f. Filament. g. Stigma. h. Style. i. Ovary.] FLOWERS.--Every tree when old enough bears flowers in its proper season. Some of these, as the Catalpas, Locusts and Horse-chestnuts are very showy, others, like the Oaks and Hickories, are comparatively inconspicuous; some are brilliantly colored, others are of the same color as the leaves. Nevertheless, the flowers are very accurate means of classification, and their only drawback is that they last for such a short period of time each year. [Illustration: V. TYPES OF INFLORESCENCES Spike. Raceme. Panicle. Corymb. Umbel. Cyme.] Just as we have male and female in the animal world, so we have male and female in the plant world. A few of our trees, as the Locust, Basswood and Cherries have perfect flowers, bearing both stamens and pistil. The great majority, however, have unisexual flowers, bearing stamens or pistils, but not both. When both male and female flowers are found on the same tree, the flowers are said to be monoecious, and when male flowers occur on one tree and the female on a different tree, the flowers are said to be dioecious. The Cottonwood is dioecious, and the little seeds are surrounded by a tuft of long, white hairs which enables the wind to carry them to considerable distances from the parent tree, to the disgust of people living within range. Many cities forbid the planting of Cottonwood on account of the "cotton." Since in some cases it is desirable to plant this rapid-growing tree, as in cities burning large amounts of soft coal, it is a distinct advantage to know that male trees are lacking in the objectionable "cotton" and may be planted safely. Before trees can produce fruit their flowers must be fertilized, i.e., pollen from the anther of a stamen must come in contact with the stigma of a pistil. Some flowers are self-fertilized, others are cross-fertilized. For a long time it was not known how fertilization was accomplished, but now we know that many insects, like the nectar-loving bees and butterflies, and in other cases the wind transport the pollen from one flower to another, often miles being traversed before the right kind of flower or a flower in the right stage of development is found. And many are the modifications of flowers to insure this transference of pollen. FRUIT.--So numerous and so varied are the forms of tree fruits that it would only be confusing to enumerate their various characters. Some fruits, as the achenes of the Poplars and Willows, are so small and light that they are carried long distances by the wind; others, like the hickory nuts and walnuts, are too heavy to be wind-blown. Many fruits are of considerable economic and commercial importance and are gathered and marketed on a large scale; such are the hickory nuts, walnuts, chestnuts, etc. Some, not esteemed by man, form an important article of diet for the birds and small animals of the forest. Unfortunately, there are a number of limitations to the usefulness of fruit for identification purposes. Some trees require years to mature their fruit. Many trees, while producing an abundance of fruit at certain intervals, bear none at all or only very small and uncertain quantities between the years of abundance. Again, in the case of dioecious trees, only the female or pistillate bear fruit. Notwithstanding these limitations tree fruits are a very valuable aid to the student, and he should always search closely for evidences of their presence and character. [Illustration: VI. WINTER TWIG OF RED MULBERRY a. Tip-scar. b. Lateral bud. c. Leaf-scar. d. Stipule-scars.] WINTER-BUDS.--Buds, with their accompanying leaf-and stipule-scars form the basis of tree identification in winter. The size, color, position with reference to the twig, number and arrangement and character of bud-scales, etc., are all characters of the greatest value in winter determinations. Buds are either terminal or lateral, depending on their position on the twig. A lateral bud is one situated on the side of a twig in the axil of a leaf-scar. A terminal bud is one situated at the end of a twig, where it is ready to continue the growth of the twig the following spring. In the keys an important consideration is the presence or absence of the terminal bud. Inasmuch as the determination of this point gives the beginner some trouble at first, it is hoped that the accompanying diagrams and explanatory remarks will make the distinction clear. [Illustration: VII. WINTER TWIG OF BLACK WALNUT a. Terminal bud. b. Lateral bud. c. Leaf-scar. d. Bundle-scars. e. Pith.] In the Elms, Willows, Basswood and many other species the terminal bud and a small portion of the tip of the twig dies and drops off in late autumn, leaving a small scar at the end of the twig (a, fig. VI). The presence of this tip-scar indicates that the terminal bud is absent. Often a lateral bud will be found very close to the tip-scar (b, fig. VI), which, bending into line with the twig, makes it appear terminal. However, the presence of a leaf-scar immediately below it shows it to be a lateral bud (c, fig. VI). In some large twigs the eye unaided will serve to find the tip-scar, but with the smaller twigs a hand-lens is necessary. The arrangement, size and shape of the leaf-scars (c, fig. VII) are important factors in identification by winter characters. Within the leaf-scars are one or more dots (d, fig. VII), sometimes quite inconspicuous, often very prominent. These are the scars left by the fibro-vascular bundles which run through the petiole into the blade of the leaf, and are designated as bundle-scars. There may be only one as in Sassafras and Hackberry, two as in Ginkgo, three as in the Poplars and Cherries, or many; and they may be arranged in a U- or V-shaped line, or they may be without definite order. Often stipule-scars (d, fig. VI) occur on either side of the leaf-scar; these are scars left by the fall of a pair of small leaflets called stipules and located at the base of the leaves, and their form varies according to the form of the stipules which made them. BARK.--The woodsman uses the bark of a tree more than any other character in distinguishing the trees about him, and he is often able to use this character alone with much accuracy at great distances. However, the appearance of bark differs so greatly with the age of the tree and with its environment that it is difficult to describe it accurately. Some characters are distinctive, however, and serve as a ready means of identification; such characters are the peeling of the Sycamore and Paper Birch, the "shagging" of the Shagbark Hickory, the spicy taste of Sassafras bark and the mucilaginous inner bark of the Slippery Elm. WOOD.--It is not expected that the information given under this heading will be of any particular value in identifying living trees. Often, however, the student finds himself in the midst of felling operations, when the information concerning the wood is of considerable value. DISTRIBUTION AND HABITAT.--To a lesser extent do distribution and habitat of a species aid in the identification of a tree. It is a distinct aid to know that the Chestnut is native in south-eastern Michigan only and that the Mountain Ash does not extend south of Ludington. So too, knowing the water-loving habit of the Swamp White Oak, we would not expect to find this same tree flourishing on the top of a hard, dry hill. The characters, then, which are used to identify the trees about us are many. Not all will be available at any one time, not all have been mentioned in the foregoing pages nor in the manual. It is our opinion, however, that the student will not be greatly handicapped by this lack of detail, but rather that he will take great interest and genuine pleasure in discovering these things for himself. ARTIFICIAL KEYS, HOW MADE AND USED An artificial key is a scheme for easily and quickly identifying any unknown object under consideration. This bulletin being devoted to the trees of Michigan, the keys to be found herein are intended to make it possible for any person, even if his botanical training be meager, to determine what trees grow about any home or farm, city park or woodlot in the state. With certain modifications and limitations they may prove useful in other localities as well. Since many people are unfamiliar with the construction and use of keys for identification, it will be the purpose of the following paragraphs to briefly outline the principles of construction and the manner of using the keys to be found here. The keys are based on the most striking similarities and differences which the various parts of trees--twigs, buds, leaves, etc.--show, i. e., those characters which stand out in bold relief, which catch the eye at first sight. Two alternatives are presented, either a character _is_ or _is not_ present; these are the only choices possible. Indeed, further divisions are unnecessary and only lead to confusion and possible oversight. The two diametrically opposed characters are said to be coördinate in rank. In the keys they are preceded by the same letter or letters (_a_ and _aa_ or _b_ and _bb,_ etc.) and are set at the same distance from the left margin of the page. Often _a_ and _aa,_ or _b_ and _bb_ are further divisible into other groups; in every case the characters are opposed (a positive and a negative) and are given coördinate rank. It is desirable for mechanical reasons to divide the main divisions of the key more or less evenly, but this is not always feasible, nor should it be religiously adhered to. Suppose as a concrete example that it is desired to construct a key to distinguish five houses in a city block. Three of these are of wood construction, two are of brick, and of the two wooden houses one is painted white and one brown. We may classify them as follows: a. Houses wood. b. Body paint brown. _Smith's house_ bb. Body paint white. c. Trimmings green color. _Jones' house_ cc. Trimmings slate color. _Brown's house_ aa. Houses brick. b. Roof gray slate. _Johnson's house_ bb. Roof red tile. _Public Library_ It is desirable in many cases to add other characters to lessen the liability of confusion, where the characters chosen are not distinct, and to show the user that he is on the right track. Thus, in the example just given, green color and slate color under certain defects of the eye, a coating of dust or deficiencies of the light might be confused, under which circumstances we would be justified in adding to the above statements without the criticism of description being made. Thus: bb. c. Trimmings green color; gable roof. _Jones' house_ cc. Trimmings slate color; mansard roof. _Brown's house_ The keys in this bulletin are constructed on the above principles. They are not in all cases as simple as the illustration just used, but if the reader has mastered the house illustration he will have little or no trouble with the larger keys. Suppose that (during a summer stroll) you come across a large tree with rough, hard bark and thin, lobed leaves which you do not know. Turning to the _Summer Key to the Genera_ you find first _a. Leaves simple_, and contrasted with this _aa. Leaves compound._ Obviously the leaf is simple and the genus sought lies in that portion of the key preceding _aa_, i.e., under _a._ _b_ and _bb_ under _a_ give you a choice between _Leaves needle-shaped_, _awl-shaped_, _strap-shaped_ or _scale-like_ and _Leaves broad and flat_. The leaf being broad and flat you pass to _c_ and _cc_ under _bb_. Here you have a choice between _Leaves alternate or clustered_ and _Leaves opposite or whorled_. Inspection shows the arrangement to be opposite, and you know that the genus sought lies in that portion of the key between _cc_ and _aa_. Passing to _d_ and _dd_ under _cc_ gives the choice between _Margin of leaves entire or only slightly undulate_ and _Margin of leaves serrate to lobed_. The leaf is deeply lobed. It is then either a _Viburnum_ or an _Acer_, and the fact that the leaf-margin is lobed and not finely serrate brings the chase down to _Acer_. Before going further go back over the key and make careful note of the particular characters which were used to separate this genus from the other genera and try to fix these in mind. This done, turn to the page indicated, where you will find a _Summer Key to the Species of Acer_. You run through this key in the same manner that you did the genus key. If you have been careful in your search you will finally stop at _Acer saccharum_. Once more pause and go back over this key and try to fix in mind the characters which were used to separate the various species, especially the difference between your tree and _Acer platanoides_, which it so closely resembles. This done, turn to the page indicated and compare the characters of your tree with the drawings and descriptions. If you are satisfied with your diagnosis, well and good. If you find that you are wrong, go over the keys again and find wherein you were led astray. Before you leave the tree take a sample of leaf properly labeled which you can press between the pages of an old magazine and save for future reference. Do this with other trees which you may find and when you get home lay them out side by side so that the labels will not show and compare them. A few trials of this kind will serve to form a mental picture of each leaf which you will remember. A very helpful practice for the beginner is that of making keys based upon various characters. Practice keys of this kind will bring out the differences and likenesses of trees as will no other means, and characters which have hitherto escaped the eye will be prominently brought forward. Nor should the student take his characters from books, but rather should he go to the woods and get his knowledge first hand. It is hardly necessary to state that the key is a valuable crutch while learning to walk, but once the leg is strong enough to bear the weight it should be discarded, lest it become a burden. A key has for its main object the guidance of the student through the preliminary steps leading to a more intimate knowledge of the trees. When once he knows a tree, instinctively, because of long acquaintance with it, just as he knows people, then the need for a key will have ceased. SUMMER KEY TO THE GENERA[A] a. Leaves simple. b. Leaves needle-shaped, awl-shaped, strap-shaped or scale-like. c. Leaves in clusters of 2-many. d. Leaves in clusters of 2-5, sheathed, persistent for several years. PINUS, p. 4. dd. Leaves in fascicles of 8-many, on short, lateral branchlets, deciduous in autumn. LARIX, p. 17. cc. Leaves solitary, not clustered. d. Leaves opposite. e. Twigs flattened; leaves all of one kind, scale-like, decurrent on the stem; fruit a small, pale brown cone. THUJA, p. 31. ee. Twigs essentially terete; leaves of two kinds, either scale-like, or else awl-shaped, often both kinds on the same branch, not decurrent on the stem; fruit berry-like, bluish. JUNIPERUS, p. 33. dd. Leaves alternate or spirally-whorled. e. Leaves flattened, soft to the touch. f. Leaves 1/2-1-1/4 inches long, sessile, aromatic; cones 2-4 inches long; bark of trunk with raised blisters containing resin. ABIES, p. 27. ff. Leaves seldom over 1/2 inch long, short-petioled, not aromatic; cones about 3/4 inch long; bark of trunk without raised blisters. TSUGA, p. 29. ee. Leaves 4-sided, harsh to the touch. PICEA, p. 18. bb. Leaves broad and flat. c. Leaves alternate or clustered, never opposite nor whorled. d. Margin of leaves entire or only slightly undulate. e. Leaves heart-shaped or rounded; fruit a legume. CERCIS, p. 167. ee. Leaves oval, ovate or obovate; fruit not a legume. f. Branches armed with stout, straight spines; fruit large, orange-like. MACLURA, p. 133. ff. Branches without spines; fruit small, not orange-like. g. Fruit an acorn. QUERCUS, p. 96. gg. Fruit a drupe or berry. h. Twigs spicy-aromatic when bruised; leaves of many shapes on the same branch. SASSAFRAS, p. 139. hh. Twigs not spicy-aromatic; leaves not of many shapes on the same branch. i. Leaves thick, abruptly pointed, very lustrous above, not clustered at the ends of the branches. NYSSA, p. 209. ii. Leaves thin, long-pointed, not lustrous above, clustered at the ends of the branches. CORNUS, p. 202. dd. Margin of leaves serrate, toothed or lobed. e. Margin of leaves serrate to toothed. f. Branches armed with stiff, sharp thorns. CRATAEGUS, p. 151. ff. Branches not armed. g. Base of leaves decidedly oblique. h. Leaf-blades about as long as they are broad, heart-shaped. TILIA, p. 201. hh. Leaf-blades 1-1/2 - 2 times as long as they are broad, oval to ovate. i. Leaves thin, coarsely but singly serrate; fruit a globular drupe, ripe in autumn. CELTIS, p. 131. ii; Leaves thick, coarsely and doubly serrate; fruit a samara, ripe in spring. ULMUS, p. 122. gg. Base of leaves essentially symmetrical. h. Teeth coarse, 2-5 per inch of margin. i. Leaves very glabrous both sides; fruit a prickly bur. j. Leaves 3-5 inches long, very lustrous beneath; bark close, smooth, steel-gray. FAGUS, p. 93. jj. Leaves 6-8 inches long, not lustrous beneath; bark fissured, brownish. CASTANEA, p. 95. ii. Leaves pubescent or white-tomentose, at least beneath; fruit not a prickly bur. j. Leaves 2-4 inches long, broadly ovate to suborbicular; fruit a very small capsule, falling in spring. POPULUS, p. 44. jj. Leaves 4-7 inches long, oblong-lanceolate to obovate; fruit an acorn, falling in autumn. QUERCUS, p. 96. hh. Teeth fine, 6-many per inch of margin. i. Leaf-petioles laterally compressed; leaves tremulous. POPULUS, p. 44. ii. Leaf-petioles terete; leaves not tremulous. j. Leaf-blades at least 3 times as long as they are broad. k. Twigs brittle; fruit a very small capsule, falling in spring. SALIX, p. 34. kk. Twigs tough; fruit a fleshy drupe, falling in late summer or autumn. PRUNUS, p. 152. jj. Leaf-blades not more than twice as long as they are broad. k. Leaf-blades about twice as long as they are broad. l. Margin of leaves singly serrate; fruit fleshy. m. Lenticels conspicuous; pith whitish or brownish; bark easily peeled off in papery layers; buds ovoid. PRUNUS, p. 152. mm. Lenticels inconspicuous; pith greenish; bark not separable into papery layers; buds narrow-conical. AMELANCHIER, p. 149. ll. Margin of leaves doubly serrate; fruit not fleshy. m. Trunk fluted; fruit inclosed within a halberd-shaped involucre. CARPINUS, p. 83. mm. Trunk not fluted; fruit not inclosed within a halberd-shaped involucre. n. Bark of trunk gray-brown, broken into narrow, flattish pieces loose at the ends; fruit in hop-like strobiles. OSTRYA, p. 81. nn. Bark of trunk white, yellow or dark brown, platy or cleaving off in papery layers; fruit not in hop-like strobiles. BETULA, p. 84. kk. Leaf-blades almost as broad as they are long. l. Lower side of leaves more or less downy; sap milky; leaves not crowded on short, spur-like branchlets; fruit berry-like, black. MORUS, p. 135. ll. Lower side of leaves glabrous; sap not milky; leaves crowded on short, spur-like branchlets; fruit a large, green pome. PYRUS, p. 142. ee. Margin of leaves distinctly lobed. f. Fruit an acorn. QUERCUS, p.96. ff. Fruit not an acorn. g. Leaves fan-shaped, with many fine veins radiating from the base of the blade. GINKGO, p. 3. gg. Leaves not fan-shaped, without many fine veins radiating from the base of the blade. h. Leaf-lobes entire. i. Leaf-petioles 5-6 inches long; leaves lustrous above; twigs not aromatic when bruised. LIRIODENDRON, p. 137. ii. Leaf-petioles about 1 inch long; leaves dull above; twigs spicy-aromatic when bruised. SASSAFRAS, p. 139. hh. Leaf-lobes sinuate-toothed to serrate. i. Leaf-lobes coarsely sinuate-toothed. PLATANUS, p. 141. ii. Leaf-lobes serrate. j. Branches armed with stiff, sharp thorns; sap not milky. CRATAEGUS, p. 151. jj. Branches unarmed; sap milky. MORUS, p. 135. cc. Leaves opposite or whorled. d. Margin of leaves entire or only slightly undulate. e. Leaves 3-5 inches long; spray fine; fruit an ovoid, scarlet drupe. CORNUS, p. 202. ee. Leaves 5-12 inches long; spray coarse; fruit a long, slender-cylindrical capsule. CATALPA, p. 222. dd. Margin of leaves serrate to lobed. e. Margin of leaves finely serrate. VIBURNUM, p. 229. ee. Margin of leaves distinctly lobed. ACER, p. 172. aa. Leaves compound. b. Leaves alternate. c. Leaves simple-pinnate. d. Branchlets armed with short, sharp prickles. ROBINIA, p. 169. dd. Branchlets unarmed. e. Leaflets entire with the exception of 2 or more coarse, glandular teeth at the base. AILANTHUS, p. 171. ee. Leaflets serrate the entire length. f. Upper leaflets less than 1 inch broad. g. Trunk and large branches armed with stout spines; leaflets 3/4-1-1/2 inches long. GLEDITSIA, p. 165. gg. Trunk and large branches unarmed; leaflets 2-3 inches long. PYRUS, p. 142. ff. Upper leaflets 1-5 inches broad. g. Leaflets 5-11; pith homogeneous. CARYA, p. 66. gg. Leaflets 11-23; pith chambered. JUGLANS, p. 60. cc. Leaves bi-pinnate. d. Trunk and large branches armed with stout spines; leaflets 3/4 - 1-1/2 inches long, GLEDITSIA, p. 165. dd. Trunk and large branches unarmed; leaflets 2 - 2-1/2 inches long. GYMNOCLADUS, p. 163. bb. Leaves opposite. c. Leaves pinnately compound; fruit a samara. d. Leaflets 3-5; samaras paired. ACER, p. 172. dd. Leaflets 7-11, exceptionally 5; samaras not paired. FRAXINUS, p. 210. cc. Leaves digitately compound; fruit a prickly bur. AESCULUS, p. 194. WINTER KEY TO THE GENERA[B] a. Leaves persistent and green throughout the winter, needle-shaped, awl-shaped or scale-like. b. Leaves in clusters of 2-5, sheathed. PINUS, p. 5. bb. Leaves solitary, not clustered. c. Leaves opposite. d. Twigs flattened; leaves all of one kind, scale-like, decurrent on the stem; fruit a small, pale brown cone. THUJA, p. 31. dd. Twigs essentially terete; leaves of two kinds, either scale-like, or else awl-shaped, often both kinds on the same branch, not decurrent on the stem; fruit berry-like, bluish. JUNIPERUS, p. 33. cc. Leaves alternate or spirally-whorled. d. Leaves flattened, soft to the touch. e. Leaves 1/2 - 1-1/4 inches long, sessile, aromatic; cones 2-4 inches long; bark of trunk with raised blisters containing resin. ABIES, p. 27. ee. Leaves seldom over 1/2 inch long, short-petioled, not aromatic; cones about 3/4 inch long; bark of trunk without raised blisters. TSUGA, p. 29. dd. Leaves 4-sided, harsh to the touch. PICEA, p. 19. aa. Leaves not persistent and green throughout the winter, but deciduous in early autumn. b. Twigs, branches or trunks armed with stiff, sharp prickles, spines or thorns. c. Thorns or spines not exceeding 1/2 inch in length on the branches. d. Spines in pairs at each node; buds rusty-hairy, 3-4 superposed; fruit a flat pod. ROBINIA, p. 169. dd. Spines one at each node; buds glabrous, not superposed; fruit orange-like. MACLURA, p. 133. cc. Thorns or spines much exceeding 1/2 inch in length on the branches. d. Thorns usually branched, situated above the nodes; lateral buds superposed, the lower covered by bark; fruit a flat pod. GLEDITSIA, p. 165. dd. Thorns unbranched on twigs, situated at the nodes; lateral buds not superposed, not covered by bark; fruit a small pome. CRATAEGUS, p. 151. bb. Twigs, branches or trunks unarmed. c. Leaf-scars mainly crowded on short, stout, lateral shoots. d. Bundle-scar 1; fruit a cone, usually present. LARIX, p. 17. dd. Bundle-scars 2; fruit a globose drupe falling in autumn. GINKGO, p. 3. cc. Leaf-scars distributed along the lateral branches. d. Leaf-scars (or some of them) 3 at a node, i. e., whorled. CATALPA, p. 223. dd. Leaf-scars 1-2 at a node, i.e., not whorled. e. Leaf-scars 2 at a node, i.e., opposite. f. Terminal buds 1/2 - 1-1/2 inches long, resin-coated; twigs very stout. AESCULUS, p. 195. ff. Terminal buds rarely exceeding 1/2 inch in length, not resin-coated; twigs not conspicuously stout. g. Leaf buds with 1 pair of scales visible. h. Buds scurfy-pubescent. VIBURNUM, p. 229. hh. Buds glabrous. CORNUS, p. 203. gg. Leaf buds with 2 or more pairs of scales visible. h. Bundle-scars usually 3, distinct, separated. ACER, p. 174. hh. Bundle-scars many, minute, more or less confluent in a U-shaped line. FRAXINUS, p. 211. ee. Leaf-scars 1 at a node, i.e., alternate. f. Bundle-scars 1-3. g. Bundle-scar only 1, or appearing as 1. h. Twigs bright green, spicy-aromatic; bundle-scar appearing as a horizontal line; terminal bud present; pith homogeneous. SASSAFRAS, p. 139. hh. Twigs brownish, not spicy-aromatic; bundle-scar appearing as a large dot; terminal bud absent; pith chambered. CELTIS, p. 131. gg. Bundle-scars 3 or in 3 compound, but distinct groups. h. Terminal bud present. i. Stipule-scars present. j. First scale of lateral bud directly in front, i.e., exactly above the center of the leaf-scar; twigs brittle; pith somewhat star-shaped in cross-section. POPULUS, p. 45. jj. First scale of lateral bud not directly in front, i. e., to one side of the center of the leaf-scar; twigs not brittle; pith circular in cross-section. PRUNUS, p. 153. ii. Stipule-scars absent. j. Buds bright to dark red, the terminal 1/8 - 1/4 inch long. k. Branches contorted, bearing many short, spur-like branchlets; fruit an apple an inch or more in diameter, light green. PYRUS, p. 143. kk. Branches not contorted, not bearing short, spur-like branchlets; fruit berry-like, 1/2 inch long, blue-black. NYSSA, p. 209. jj. Buds brownish to gray, the terminal exceeding 1/4 inch in length. k. Buds narrow-conical, sharp-pointed; leaf-scars small, narrowly crescent-shaped; twigs about 1/16 inch thick; pith homogeneous; fruit berry-like, not present. AMELANCHIER, p. 149. kk. Buds broadly conical to ovoid, blunt-pointed; leaf-scars conspicuous, broadly heart-shaped; twigs about 1/4 inch thick; pith chambered; fruit a nut, often present. JUGLANS, p. 61. hh. Terminal bud absent (sometimes present on short shoots of _Betula_). i. Stipule-scars present. j. Bud-scale only 1 visible; twigs brittle. SALIX; p. 34. jj. Bud-scales 2 or more; twigs not brittle. k. Bark smooth, close, warty or peeling into papery layers, but not flaky nor rough-ridged. l. Tip of bud appressed; fruit berry-like. CELTIS, p. 131. ll. Tip of bud not appressed; fruit not berry-like. m. Trunk fluted; catkins not present in winter; lenticels not elongated horizontally; low tree or bushy shrub. CARPINUS, p. 83. mm. Trunk not fluted; catkins usually present in winter; lenticels elongated horizontally; large trees. BETULA, p. 85. kk. Bark flaky or rough-ridged, not warty nor peeling off in papery layers. l. Bundle-scars depressed, conspicuous; bark thick, more or less deeply furrowed. ULMUS, p. 123. ll. Bundle-scars not depressed, inconspicuous; bark thin, broken into narrow, flattish strips, loose at the ends. OSTRYA, p. 81. ii. Stipule-scars absent. j. Buds silky-pubescent, depressed; twigs stout, clumsy, blunt, with conspicuous leaf-scars. GYMNOCLADUS, p. 163. jj. Buds glabrous, not depressed; twigs slender, with inconspicuous leaf-scars. k. Buds 1/8 inch long, obtuse, somewhat flattened and appressed; pith with reddish longitudinal streaks. CERCIS, p. 167. kk. Buds 1/8-1/4 inch long, acute, not flattened nor appressed; pith without reddish streaks. PRUNUS, p. 153. ff. Bundle-scars 4-many. g. Bundle-scars in a single U-shaped line. h. Terminal bud present; fruit berry-like; a shrub or small tree. PYRUS, p. 143. hh. Terminal bud absent; fruit not berry-like; large trees. i. Stipule-scars present; twigs slender. j. Stipule-scars encircling the twig; leaf-scars nearly surrounding the bud; bark peeling off in thin plates, exposing the lighter colored inner bark. PLATANUS, p. 141. jj. Stipule-scars not encircling the twig; leaf-scars not nearly surrounding the bud; bark thick, rough-ridged, not exposing the inner bark. ULMUS, p. 123. ii. Stipule-scars absent; twigs very stout. j. Bundle-scars usually not more than 5. GYMNOCLADUS, p. 163. jj. Bundle-scars usually 6-12. AILANTHUS, p. 171. gg. Bundle-scars variously grouped or scattered, but not in a single line. h. Terminal bud present. i. Stipule-scars present. j. Stipule-scars encircling the twig; visible bud-scales 2, united. LIRIODENDRON, p. 137. jj. Stipule-scars not encircling the twig; visible bud-scales more than 2, not united. k. Buds 4 times as long as broad, not clustered at the tips of vigorous shoots; fruit a prickly bur. FAGUS, p. 93. kk. Buds not 4 times as long as broad, usually clustered at the tips of vigorous shoots; fruit an acorn. QUERCUS, p. 98. ii. Stipule-scars absent. CARYA, p. 67. h. Terminal bud absent (occasionally present in _Castanea_). i. Bud at end of twig very obliquely unsymmetrical, mucilaginous when chewed. TILIA, p. 201. ii. Bud at end of twig symmetrical, not mucilaginous when chewed. j. Bud-scales 2-3 visible; pith star-shaped in cross-section; sap not milky; fruit a prickly bur, present; large tree. CASTANEA, p. 95. jj. Bud-scales 4-8 visible; pith not star-shaped in cross-section; sap milky; fruit berry-like, not present; small tree. MORUS, p. 135. MANUAL OF TREES DESCRIPTION OF SPECIES WITH SUMMER AND WINTER KEYS TO THE SPECIES [Illustration: +Ginkgo. Maidenhair Tree+ 1. Winter twig, × 1/2. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1.] +GINKGOACEAE+ +Ginkgo.[C] Maidenhair Tree+ _Ginkgo biloba L._ [_Salisburia adiantifolia Smith_] HABIT.--A slender tree in youth, with slender, upright branches, becoming broader with age and forming a symmetrical, pyramidal crown; probably 60-80 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 2-4 feet. LEAVES.--Clustered at the ends of short, spur-like shoots, or scattered alternately on the long terminal branches; simple; 2-5 inches broad; more or less fan-shaped; usually bilobed and irregularly crenate at the upper extremity; thin and leathery; glabrous, pale yellow-green on both sides; petioles long, slender; turning a clear, golden yellow before falling in autumn. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; dioecious; the staminate in short-stalked, pendulous catkins, 1 to 1-1/2 inches long, yellow; the pistillate more or less erect on the shoot, long-stalked, consisting of 2 naked ovules, one of which usually aborts. FRUIT.--Autumn; a more or less globose drupe, orange-yellow to green, about 1 inch in diameter, consisting of an acrid, foul-smelling pulp inclosing a smooth, whitish, somewhat flattened, almond-flavored nut. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud about 1/8 inch long, conical, smooth, light chestnut-brown; lateral buds divergent, usually only on rapid-growing shoots. BARK.--Twigs gray-brown and smooth; thick, ash-gray and somewhat roughened on the trunk, becoming more or less fissured in old age. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, close-grained, yellow-white to light red-brown, with thin, lighter colored sapwood. NOTES.--Origin in dispute, but probably a native of northern China. Extensively cultivated in China and Japan, where its fruit is esteemed. Easily propagated from seed. Thrives in deep, well-drained, rich soil. Practically free from insect and fungous attacks, and little harmed by the smoke of cities. Probably hardy throughout the southern half of the Lower Peninsula. +SUMMER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF PINUS+ a. Leaves 5 in a cluster; cones 4-10 inches long. _P. strobus_, p. 7. aa. Leaves 2 in a cluster; cones less than 4 inches long. b. Leaves 1-3 inches long. c. Leaves about 1 inch long, divergent; cones sessile, pointing forward towards the tip of the branch, persistent 10-15 years, opening very unevenly. _P. banksiana_, p. 9. cc. Leaves 1-1/2-3 inches long, slightly divergent; cones stout-stalked, pointing away from the tip of the branch, maturing in second season, opening evenly. _P. sylvestris_, p. 13. bb. Leaves 3-6 inches long. c. Bark of trunk red-brown; cones maturing in second season, about 2 inches long; cone-scales thickened at the apex, but unarmed. _P. resinosa_, p. 15. cc. Bark of trunk gray to nearly black; cones maturing in first season, 2-3 inches long; cone-scales thickened at the apex and topped with a short spine. _P. laricio austriaca_, p. 11. +WINTER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF PINUS+ a. Leaves 5 in a cluster; cones 4-10 inches long. _P. strobus_, p. 7. aa. Leaves 2 in a cluster; cones less than 4 inches long. b. Leaves 1-3 inches long. c. Leaves about 1 inch long, divergent; cones sessile, pointing forward towards the tip of the branch, persistent 10-15 years, opening very unevenly. _P. banksiana_, p. 9. cc. Leaves 1-1/2-3 inches long, slightly divergent; cones stout-stalked, pointing away from the tip of the branch, maturing in second season, opening evenly. _P. sylvestris_, p. 13. bb. Leaves 3-6 inches long. c. Bark of trunk red-brown; cones maturing in second season, about 2 inches long; cone-scales thickened at the apex, but unarmed. _P. resinosa_, p. 15. cc. Bark of trunk gray to nearly black; cones maturing in first season, 2-3 inches long; cone-scales thickened at the apex and topped with a short spine. _P. laricio austriaca_, p. 11. [Illustration: +White Pine+ 1. Cluster of leaves, × 1. 2. Cross-sections of leaves, enlarged. 3. Partly opened cone, × 3/4. 4. Cone-scale with seeds, × 1.] +PINACEAE+ +White Pine+ _Pinus strobus L._ HABIT.--A large tree 60-80 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 2-4 feet; forming a wide, pyramidal crown. Formerly trees 100-150 feet in height and 5-7 feet in trunk diameter were not exceptional. LEAVES.--In clusters of five; 3-5 inches long; slender, straight, needle-shaped, 3-sided, mucronate; pale blue-green. Persistent about 2 years. FLOWERS.--June; monoecious; the staminate oval, light brown, about 1/3 inch long, surrounded by 6-8 involucral bracts; the pistillate cylindrical, about 1/4 inch long, pinkish purple, long-stalked. FRUIT.--Autumn of second season, falling during the winter and succeeding spring; pendent, short-stalked, narrow-cylindrical, often curved, greenish cones, 4-10 inches long; scales rather loose, slightly thickened at the apex; seeds red-brown, 1/4 inch long, with wings 1 inch long. WINTER-BUDS.--Oblong-ovoid, sharp-pointed, yellow-brown, 1/4-1/2 inch long. BARK.--Twigs at first rusty-tomentose, later smooth and light brown, finally thin, smooth, greenish; thick, dark gray on the trunk, shallowly fissured into broad, scaly ridges. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, compact, straight-grained, easily worked, light brown, with thin, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Upper Peninsula and Lower Peninsula north of Allegan, Eaton and St. Clair Counties. Often planted as an ornamental tree farther south. HABITAT.--Prefers a light, fertile loam; sandy soils of granite origin. NOTES.--Rapid of growth. Small seedlings easily transplanted. Formerly very abundant, but rapidly nearing extinction through destructive lumbering. [Illustration: +Jack Pine. Scrub Pine+ 1. Cluster of leaves, × 1. 2. Cross-section of leaf, enlarged. 3. Branchlet with unopened cone, × 1. 4. Branchlet with opened cone, × 1. 5. Cone-scale with seeds, × 1.] +PINACEAE+ +Jack Pine. Scrub Pine+ _Pinus banksiana Lamb._ [_Pinus divaricata (Ait.) Du Mont de Cours._] HABIT.--Usually a small tree 20-30 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 8-12 inches; forming a crown varying from open and symmetrical to scrubby, stunted, and variously distorted. LEAVES.--In clusters of two; about 1 inch long; narrow-linear, with sharp-pointed apex; stout, curved or twisted, divergent from a short sheath; dark gray-green. Persistent 2-3 years. FLOWERS.--May-June; monoecious; the staminate in oblong clusters 1/2 inch long, composed of many sessile, yellow anthers imbricated upon a central axis; the pistillate in subglobose clusters, composed of many carpel-like, purple scales (subtended by small bracts) spirally arranged upon a central axis. FRUIT.--Autumn of second or third season, but remaining closed for several years and persistent on the tree for 10-15 years; erect, usually incurved, oblong-conical, sessile cones, 1-1/2-2 inches long; scales thickened at the apex; seeds triangular, nearly black, 3/8 inch long, with wings 1/3 inch long. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/4 inch long, ovoid, rounded, pale brown; lateral buds smaller. BARK.--Twigs yellow-green, becoming purple, finally dark red-brown and rough with the persistent bases of fallen leaves; thin, dark red-brown on the trunk, with shallow, rounded ridges, rough-scaly on the surface. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, close-grained, light brown, with thick, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Common from Clare County northward; occurs sparingly along the lake shore as far south as Grand Haven on the west and Port Austin on the east. HABITAT--Sandy, sterile soil. NOTES.--Cones open unevenly. Slow of growth. Difficult to transplant. [Illustration: +Austrian Pine. Black Pine+ 1. Cluster of leaves, × 1. 2. Cross-section of leaf, enlarged. 3. Unopened cone, × 1. 4. Partly opened cone, × 1/2. 5. Cone-scale with seeds, × 1.] +PINACEAE+ +Austrian Pine. Black Pine+ _Pinus laricio austriaca Endl._ [_Pinus austriaca Höss._] HABIT.--A large tree 60-80 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 2-4 feet; forming a massive, spreading crown of stiff, strong branches. LEAVES.--In clusters of two; 3-6 inches long; slender, rigid, sharp-pointed, curved towards the twig; deep green on both faces. Persistent 3-6 years. FLOWERS.--May-June; monoecious; the staminate cylindrical, subsessile, bright yellow, about 3/4 inch long; the pistillate cylindrical, small, bright red, subsessile. FRUIT.--Autumn of first season, opening two years after full size is attained and remaining on the tree several years; erect, sessile, long-ovoid cones 2-3 inches long; scales smooth, lustrous, thickened at the apex and topped with a short spine in the center; seeds red-brown, 1/4 inch long, with wings 3/4 inch long. WINTER-BUDS.--Oblong-conical, sharp-pointed, red-brown, resinous, about 1/2 inch long. BARK.--Twigs brownish to olive-brown and smooth, becoming darker with age; thick, gray to nearly black on old trunks and coarsely and deeply fissured. WOOD.--Light, strong, very resinous, red-brown, with thick, yellowish to reddish white sapwood. NOTES.--Perfectly hardy. Adapts itself to a variety of soils. Well adapted for screens and wind-breaks. Easily transplanted when small. Grows rapidly. [Illustration: +Scotch Pine. Scotch Fir+ 1. Cluster of leaves, × 1. 2. Cross-section of leaf, enlarged. 3. Unopened cone, × 1. 4. Partly opened cone, × 1. 5. Cone-scale with seeds, × 1.] +PINACEAE+ +Scotch Pine. Scotch Fir+ _Pinus sylvestris L._ HABIT.--A large tree 60-80 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-2 feet; the side branches persist, forming a massive, wide-spreading crown. LEAVES.--In clusters of two; 1-1/2-3 inches long; stiff, more or less twisted, spreading slightly from a short sheath; bluish-or often glaucous-green. Persistent 3-4 years. FLOWERS.--May-June; monoecious; the staminate ovoid, short-stalked, yellowish, about 1/4 inch long; the pistillate oblong, reddish, short-stalked, about 1/4 inch long. FRUIT.--Autumn of second season, falling as soon as ripe; pendent, stout-stalked, ovoid-conical cones 1-1/2-2-1/2 inches long; scales dull gray-brown, thickened at the apex into 4-sided, recurved points; seeds red-brown, nearly 1/4 inch long, with wings about 3/4 inch long. WINTER-BUDS.--Oblong-ovoid, sharp-pointed, red-brown, resinous, about 1/4 inch long. BARK.--Twigs reddish to orange-brown, becoming grayish; thick, dark orange-brown on old trunks and coarsely and deeply fissured. WOOD.--Light, stiff, straight-grained, strong, heavy, hard, resinous, red-brown, with thick, yellow to reddish white sapwood. NOTES.--Very rapid of growth. Reaches perfection only in cold or elevated regions. Adapts itself to a variety of soils. A valuable ornamental tree. Very useful for screens or shelter belts. [Illustration: +Red Pine, Norway Pine+ 1. Cluster of leaves, × 1. 2. Cross-section of leaf, enlarged. 3. Opened cone, × 1. 4. Cone-scale with seeds, × 1.] +PINACEAE+ +Red Pine. Norway Pine+ _Pinus resinosa Ait._ HABIT.--A large tree 70-80 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 2-3 feet; stout, horizontal branches, form a broad, rounded, rather open crown. LEAVES.--In clusters of two; 4-6 inches long; slender, straight, needle-shaped, sharp-pointed, flexible, from elongated, persistent sheaths; lustrous dark green. Persistent 4-5 years. FLOWERS.--April-May; monoecious; the staminate in oblong, dense clusters, 1/2-3/4 inch long, composed of many sessile, purple anthers imbricated upon a central axis; the pistillate single or few-clustered at the end of the branchlets, subglobose; scales ovate, scarlet, borne on stout peduncles covered with pale brown bracts. FRUIT.--Autumn of second season, falling the next summer; ovoid-conical, nearly sessile cones, about 2 inches long; scales thickened at the apex; seeds oval, compressed, light mottled-brown, with wings 1/2-3/4 inch long. WINTER-BUDS.--About 3/4 inch long, ovoid or conical, acute, red-brown, with rather loose scales. BARK.--Twigs orange-brown, becoming rough with the persistent bases of leaf-buds; thick and red-brown on the trunk, shallowly fissured into broad, flat ridges. WOOD.--Light, hard, very close-grained, pale red, with thin, yellow to white sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Very abundant in Clare County and northward; frequent on the east side of the state as far south as Port Huron. HABITAT.--Sandy plains and dry woods. NOTES.--Rapid of growth on the better soils. Difficult to transplant. [Illustration: +Tamarack+ 1. Autumn branchlet, with leaves and cones, × 1. 2. Cross-section of leaf, enlarged. 3. Fruiting branchlet in winter, × 1. 4. Cone-scale with seeds, × 2.] +PINACEAE+ +Tamarack+ _Larix laricina (DuRoi) Koch_ [_Larix americana Michx._] HABIT.--A tree sometimes 80-100 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-2 feet; forming a broad, open, irregular crown of horizontal branches. LEAVES.--Scattered singly along the leading shoots or clustered on the short lateral branchlets; linear, with blunt apex; rounded above, keeled beneath; about 1 inch long; bright green; sessile. Deciduous in early autumn. FLOWERS.--April-May, with the leaves, monoecious; the staminate sessile, subglobose, yellow, composed of many short-stalked anthers spirally arranged about a central axis; the pistillate oblong, short-stalked, composed of orbicular, green scales (subtended by red bracts) spirally arranged about a central axis. FRUIT.--Autumn of first season, but persistent on the tree for a year longer; ovoid, obtuse, light brown, short-stalked cones, 1/2-3/4 inch long; seeds 1/8 inch long, with pale brown wings widest near the middle. WINTER-BUDS.--Small, globose, lustrous, dark red. BARK.--Twigs at first grayish, glaucous, later light orange-brown, and finally dark brown; red-brown and scaly on the trunk. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, very strong, coarse-grained, very durable, light brown, with thin, nearly white sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Common throughout the state. HABITAT.--Prefers cold, deep swamps, or in the north coming out on the drier uplands. NOTES.--Becomes a picturesque tree in old age. Should be transplanted while dormant. +SUMMER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF PICEA+ a. Leaves 3/4-1 inch long, sharp-pointed; twigs glabrous. b. Cones 1-2 inches long, maturing in first season; leaves ill-scented when bruised. _P. canadensis_, p. 21. bb. Cones 3-6 inches long, maturing in second season; leaves not ill-scented when bruised. _P. abies_, p. 25. aa. Leaves 1/8-3/8 inch long, blunt-pointed; twigs rusty-pubescent. _P. mariana_, p. 23. +WINTER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF PICEA+ a. Leaves 3/4-1 inch long, sharp pointed; twigs glabrous. b. Cones 1-2 inches long, maturing in first season; leaves ill-scented when bruised. _P. canadensis_, p. 21. bb. Cones 3-6 inches long, maturing in second season; leaves not ill-scented when bruised. _P. abies_, p. 25. aa. Leaves 1/8-3/8 inch long, blunt-pointed; twigs rusty-pubescent. _P. mariana_, p. 23. [Illustration: +White Spruce+ 1. Winter branchlet, x. 2. Leaves, × 1. 3. Cross-section of leaf, enlarged. 4. Unopened cone, × 1. 5. Partly opened cone, × 1. 6. Cone-scale with seeds, × 1.] +PINACEAE+ +White Spruce+ _Picea canadensis (Mill.) BSP._ [_Picea alba Link_] HABIT.--A tree 50-60 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-2 feet; forming a rather broad, open, pyramidal crown. LEAVES.--Spirally arranged, but crowded on the upper side of the branches by the twisting of those on the under side; awl-shaped, 4-sided, incurved; dark blue-green; about 3/4 inch long; ill-scented when bruised. Persistent for several years. FLOWERS.--April-May; monoecious; the staminate oblong-cylindrical, long-stalked, 1/2-3/4 inch long, composed of many spirally arranged, red anthers; the pistillate oblong-cylindrical, composed of broad, reddish scales (subtended by orbicular bracts) spirally arranged upon a central axis. FRUIT.--Autumn or early winter of first season, falling soon after discharging the seeds; pendent, slender, oblong-cylindrical, nearly sessile cones, 1-2 inches long; seeds about 1/8 inch long, with large wings oblique at the apex. WINTER-BUDS.--Broadly ovoid, obtuse, light brown, 1/8-1/4 inch long. BARK.--Twigs smooth, gray-green, becoming orange-brown, finally dark gray-brown; thin, light gray-brown on the trunk, separating into thin, plate-like scales. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, straight-grained, light yellow, with sapwood of the same color. DISTRIBUTION.--Common in the northern half of the Lower Peninsula and throughout the Upper Peninsula. HABITAT.--Low, damp woods; banks of streams; borders of lakes; high rocky or sandy slopes; loves the cold winters. NOTES.--A vigorous and beautiful tree in regions sufficiently cold. [Illustration: +Black Spruce+ 1. Winter branchlet, × 1. 2. Leaves, × 2. 3. Cross-sections of leaves, enlarged. 4-5. Opened cones, × 1. 6. Cone-scale with seeds, × 1.] +PINACEAE+ +Black Spruce+ _Picea mariana (Mill.) BSP._ [_Picea nigra Link_] HABIT.--A small tree 20-30 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 6-10 inches; forming a narrow-based, conical, more or less irregular crown of short, slender, horizontal branches; often small and stunted. LEAVES.--Spirally arranged, spreading in all directions; awl-shaped, 4-sided, blunt at the apex, more or less incurved; stiff; dark blue-green and glaucous; 1/8-3/8 inch long. Persistent for several years. FLOWERS.--April-May; monoecious; the staminate subglobose, about 1/2 inch long, composed of many spirally arranged, dark red anthers; the pistillate oblong-cylindrical, composed of broad, purple scales (subtended by rounded, toothed, purple bracts) spirally arranged upon a central axis, about 1/2 inch long. FRUIT.--Autumn of first season, but persistent on the branch for many years; pendent, ovoid, short-stalked cones, about 1 inch long; seeds about 1/8 inch long, with pale brown wings 1/2 inch long. WINTER-BUDS.--Ovoid, acute, light red-brown, puberulous, 1/8 inch long. BARK.--Twigs at first green and rusty-pubescent, becoming dull red-brown and rusty-pubescent; thin, gray-brown on the trunk, separating into thin, appressed scales. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, pale yellow-white, with thin, pure white sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Occurs sparingly in southern Michigan; more abundant in the northern portions. HABITAT.--Cold, sphagnous bogs and swamps; shores of lakes. NOTES.--Short-lived. Undesirable for ornamental planting. Growing to its largest size in the far north. [Illustration: +Norway Spruce+ 1. Branchlet with partly opened cone, × 1/2. 2. Leaf, × 3. 3. Cross-sections of leaves, enlarged. 4. Cone-scale with seeds, × 1.] +PINACEAE+ +Norway Spruce+ _Picea abies (L.) Karst._ [_Picea excelsa Link_] HABIT.--A tree 50-70 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-3 feet; forming a dense, conical, spire-topped crown of numerous, drooping branches which persist nearly to the ground. LEAVES.--Spirally arranged along the twig; crowded; 3/4-1 inch long; rigid, curved, acute; lustrous, dark green. Persistent 5-7 years. FLOWERS.--May; monoecious; the staminate ovoid to subglobose, long-stalked, reddish to yellowish, 3/4-1 inch long; the pistillate cylindrical, sessile, erect, 1-1/2-2 inches long. FRUIT.--Autumn of first season; sessile, cylindrical cones 3-6 inches long, pendent from the tips of the uppermost branches; sterile scales very short, toothed; seeds red-brown, rough, 1/8 inch long, with long wings. WINTER-BUDS.--Ovoid, acute, red-brown, not resinous, about 3/8 inch long. BARK.--Twigs red- or orange-brown, smooth or corrugated; becoming thin and gray-brown on old trunks, slightly fissured, scaly. WOOD.--Light, strong, tough, elastic, soft, fine-grained, white, with thick, indistinguishable sapwood. NOTES.--Grows to a height of 120-150 feet in northern Europe and Asia. Perfectly hardy in Michigan. Easily transplanted. Adapts itself to a variety of soils and climates. Grows rapidly, but is short-lived in our country. Desirable for ornamental planting. Useful for shelter belts. [Illustration: +Balsam Fir+ 1. Winter branchlet, × 1. 2-3. Leaves, × 2. 4. Cross-section of leaf, enlarged. 5. Unopened cone, × 1. 6. Cone-scale with seeds, × 1.] +PINACEAE+ +Balsam Fir+ _Abies balsamea (L.) Mill._ HABIT.--A slender tree 40-60 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 12-18 inches; branches in whorls of 4-6, forming a symmetrical, open crown widest at the base and tapering regularly upward. LEAVES.--Scattered, spirally arranged in rows, on young trees extending from all sides of the branch, on old trees covering the upper side of the branch; narrowly linear, with apex acute or rounded; 1/2-1-1/4 inches long; lustrous, dark green above, pale beneath; sessile; aromatic. Persistent 8-10 years. FLOWERS.--May; monoecious; the staminate oblong-cylindrical, yellow, 1/4 inch long, composed of yellow anthers (subtended by scales) spirally arranged upon a central axis; the pistillate oblong-cylindrical, 1 inch long, composed of orbicular, purple scales (subtended by yellow-green bracts) spirally arranged upon a central axis. FRUIT.--Autumn of first season; oblong-cylindrical, erect, puberulous, dark purple cones, 2-4 inches long, about 1 inch thick; seeds 1/4 inch long, shorter than their light brown wings. WINTER-BUDS.--Globose, orange-green, resinous, 1/8-1/4 inch in diameter. BARK.--Twigs at first grayish and pubescent, becoming gray-brown and smooth; thin and smooth on young trunks, pale gray-brown and marked by swollen resin chambers; red-brown on old trunks and somewhat roughened by small, scaly plates. WOOD.--Very light, soft, weak, coarse-grained, perishable, pale brown, with thick, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Occasional in the southern half of the Lower Peninsula, frequent in the northern half; abundant in the Upper Peninsula. HABITAT.--Prefers cool, moist, rich soil; low, swampy ground; well-drained hillsides. NOTES.--Grows rapidly. Short-lived. Easily transplanted. [Illustration: +Hemlock+ 1. Fruiting branch viewed from beneath, × 1/2. 2. Leaf, × 3. 3. Cross-section of leaf, enlarged. 4. Branchlet with partly opened cone, × 1. 5. Cone-scale with seeds, × 3.] +PINACEAE+ +Hemlock+ _Tsuga canadensis (L.) Carr._ HABIT.--A large tree 60-80 feet high, with a trunk 2-4 feet in diameter; forming a rather broad, open, somewhat irregular-pyramidal crown of slender, horizontal branches. LEAVES.--Spirally arranged around the branch, but appearing 2-ranked by the twisting of their petioles; linear, flat, rounded at the apex; about 1/2 inch long; dark yellow-green and shining above, hoary beneath; short-petioled. Persistent about 3 years. FLOWERS.--April-May; monoecious; the staminate axillary, short-stalked, light yellow, about 3/8 inch long, composed of subglobose clusters of stamens; the pistillate terminal, oblong, pale green, 1/8 inch long, the scales short, pinkish. FRUIT.--Autumn of first season, gradually losing their seeds during the winter and falling the next spring; oblong-ovoid, acute, short-stalked, red-brown cones, about 3/4 inch long; seeds 1/8 inch long, with wings about twice as long. WINTER-BUDS.--Ovoid, obtuse, red-brown, slightly puberulous, 1/16 inch long. BARK.--Twigs at first pale brown and pubescent, becoming glabrous, gray-brown; thick, red-brown or gray on the trunk, deeply divided into narrow, rounded, scaly ridges. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, brittle, coarse- and crooked-grained, not durable, ill-smelling, light red-brown, with thin, darker colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Throughout the state, with the exception of the south-eastern portion; scarce on the east side of the state, more common on the west, becoming very abundant in Emmet County. HABITAT.--Prefers well-drained uplands and slopes of ravines. NOTES.--A favorite hedge plant. Useful for ornamental planting in shady situations. [Illustration: +Arborvitae. White Cedar+ 1. Fruiting branchlet, × 1. 2. Tip of branchlet, enlarged. 3. Cone-scale with seeds, × 3.] +PINACEAE+ +Arborvitae. White Cedar+ _Thuja occidentalis L._ HABIT.--A tree 40-50 feet high, with a short, often buttressed trunk 1-2 feet in diameter, often divided into 2-3 secondary stems; forming a rather dense, wide-based, pyramidal crown. LEAVES.--Opposite, 4-ranked, scale-like, appressed; ovate, obtuse or pointed, keeled in the side pairs, flat in the others; 1/8-1/4 inch long; yellow-green, often becoming brown in winter; strongly aromatic when crushed. Persistent 1-2 years. FLOWERS.--April-May; usually monoecious; the staminate minute, globose, yellow, composed of 4-6 stamens arranged oppositely on a short axis; the pistillate small, oblong, reddish, composed of 8-12 scales arranged oppositely on a short axis. FRUIT.--Early autumn of first season, but persistent on the branch through the winter; erect, short-stalked, oblong-ovoid, pale brown cones, about 1/2 inch long, composed of 8-12 loose scales; seeds 1/8 inch long, ovate, acute, winged. WINTER-BUDS.--Naked, minute. BARK.--Twigs yellow-green, becoming light red, finally smooth, lustrous, dark orange-brown; thin, light red-brown on the trunk, slightly furrowed or deciduous in ragged strips. WOOD.--Light, soft, brittle, rather coarse-grained, durable, fragrant, pale yellow-brown, with thin, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Throughout the Upper Peninsula, Lower Peninsula as far south as Montcalm County. HABITAT.--Prefers moist soil in low swamps and along river-banks. NOTES.--Slow of growth. Tolerant of all soils and exposures. Especially useful for hedges or narrow evergreen screens. [Illustration: +Red Juniper. Red Cedar+ 1. Branchlet with awl-shaped leaves, × 1. 2. Tip of branchlet, showing awl-shaped leaves, enlarged. 3. Fruiting branchlet with scale-like leaves, × 1. 4. Tip of branchlet, showing scale-like leaves, enlarged.] +PINACEAE+ +Red Juniper. Red Cedar+ _Juniperus virginiana L._ HABIT.--A medium-sized tree 30-40 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-2 feet; forming an irregular, pyramidal or rounded crown. LEAVES.--Opposite, of two kinds: (1) sessile, scale-like, closely appressed, overlapping, 4-ranked, ovate, acute, 1/16 inch long, (2) sessile, awl-shaped, loosely arranged, 1/4-1/2 inch long. Persistent 5-6 years. FLOWERS.--May; usually dioecious; minute; the staminate oblong-ovoid, composed of 4-6 shield-like scales, each bearing 4-5 yellow, globose pollen sacs; the pistillate ovoid, composed of about 3 pairs of flesh, bluish scales, united at the base and bearing 2 ovules. FRUIT.--Autumn of first or second season; subglobose, berry-like strobile, about 1/4 inch in diameter, dark blue and glaucous; flesh sweet and resinous; seeds 2-3. WINTER-BUDS.--Naked, minute. BARK.--Twigs greenish to red-brown and smooth; thin, light red-brown on the trunk, exfoliating lengthwise into long, narrow, persistent strips, exposing the smooth, brown inner bark. WOOD.--Light, soft, close-grained, brittle, weak, durable, very fragrant, dull red, with thin, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Occurs sparingly throughout the state; most abundant in the southern portion. HABITAT.--Prefers loamy soil on sunny slopes; dry, rocky hills; also borders of lakes and streams, peaty swamps. NOTES.--Slow of growth. Long-lived. Should be transplanted with ball of earth. Tolerant of varied soils and situations. +SUMMER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF SALIX+[D] a. Leaf-petioles without glands. b. Leaves 1/4-3/4 inch broad; petioles broad and flat. _S. nigra_, p. 37. bb. Leaves 3/4-1/4 inches broad; petioles slender and terete. _S. amygdaloides_, p. 39. aa. Leaf-petioles glandular above. b. Leaves 1/4-1/2 inch broad, sharp-serrate; tree with weeping habit. _S. babylonica_, p. 43. bb. Leaves 1/2-1-1/2 inches broad, blunt-serrate; tree with upright habit. _S. fragilis_, p. 41. +WINTER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF SALIX+ The classification of the Willows is a task for the specialist, even when leaves and both staminate and pistillate flowers are obtainable. It is impractible for the novice to attempt the determination of species of Salix with winter characters alone. Consequently the usual winter key is omitted. +SALICACEAE+ +Willow+ _Salix (Tourn.) L._ The genus _Salix_ is represented in Michigan by thirty or more distinct species, and there are many more hybrids. The majority of these are shrubs, only a few becoming truly arborescent. Because of the similarity of their botanical characters, the frequency with which they hybridize, and the facility with which they respond to their environment only an expert is competent to identify the species so abundant along our water courses and on the banks of our lakes and swamps. The scope of this work being necessarily limited, it has been deemed best to describe but two of our native willows and two of our foreign neighbors which are frequently planted. [Illustration: +Black Willow+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1. 4. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1. 7. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 8. Fruiting branchlet, × 1.] +SALICACEAE+ +Black Willow+ _Salix nigra Marsh._ HABIT.--A tree 30-50 feet high, with a short trunk, 1-2 feet in diameter; stout, spreading branches form a broad, rather irregular, open crown. Often a shrub. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-6 inches long, 1/4-3/4 inch broad; lanceolate, very long-pointed, often curved at the tip; finely serrate; thin; bright green and rather lustrous above, paler and often hairy beneath; petioles very short, more or less pubescent. FLOWERS.--April-May, with the leaves; dioecious; borne in crowded, slender, hairy catkins, 1-3 inches long; calyx 0; corolla 0; scales yellow, villous, stamens 3-6; ovary ovoid-conical, short-stalked, with stigmas nearly sessile. FRUIT.--June; ovoid-conical capsule, 1/8 inch long, containing many minute seeds which are furnished with long, silky, white hairs. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds narrow-conical, acute, lustrous, red-brown, 1/8 inch long. BARK.--Twigs glabrous or pubescent, bright red-brown, becoming darker with age; thick, dark brown or nearly black on old trunks, deeply divided into broad, flat ridges, often becoming shaggy. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, close-grained, light red-brown, with thin, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Common throughout the state. HABITAT.--Banks of streams and lake-shores. NOTES.--Branchlets very brittle at the base, and these, broken off by the wind, are carried down stream, often catching in the muddy banks and there taking root. [Illustration: +Almondleaf Willow+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Lateral bud, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1. 4. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 7. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 8. Fruiting branchlet, × 1/2.] +SALICACEAE+ +Almondleaf Willow+ _Salix amygdaloides Anders._ HABIT.--A tree 30-40 feet high, with a straight, columnar trunk 1-2 feet in diameter; straight, ascending branches form a rather narrow, rounded crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 2-6 inches long, 3/4-1-1/4 inches broad; lanceolate to ovate-lanceolate, long-pointed; finely serrate; thin and firm; light green and shining above, pale and glaucous beneath; petioles slender, 1/2-3/4 inch long. FLOWERS.--April, with the leaves; dioecious; borne in crowded, slender, pubescent catkins 2-3 inches long; calyx 0; corolla 0; scales yellow, villous both sides; stamens 5-9; ovary oblong-conical, with stigmas nearly sessile. FRUIT.--May; 1-celled, globose-conical capsule, 1/4 inch long, containing many minute seeds which are furnished with long, silky, white hairs. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds broadly ovoid, gibbous, lustrous, dark brown, 1/8 inch long. BARK.--Twigs glabrous, lustrous, dark orange or red-brown becoming darker orange-brown; thick and brown on old trunks, irregularly fissured into flat, connected ridges. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, close-grained, light brown, with thick, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Common throughout the state. HABITAT.--Banks of streams. NOTES.--Hybridizes freely with other willows, making its identification difficult. [Illustration: +Crack Willow. Brittle Willow+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1. 4. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 7. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 8. Fruiting branchlet, × 1/2.] +SALICACEAE+ +Crack Willow. Brittle Willow+ _Salix fragilis L._ HABIT.--A tree 50-60 feet high, with a short, stout trunk 3-4 feet in diameter; stout, spreading branches form a broad, open crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-6 inches long, 1/2-1-1/2 inches broad; lanceolate, long-pointed; finely glandular-serrate; thin and firm; lustrous, dark green above, paler beneath, glabrous both sides; petioles short, stout, with 2 glands at the junction of blade and petiole. FLOWERS.--April-May, with the leaves; dioecious; borne in slender, pubescent catkins 1-3 inches long; calyx 0; corolla 0; scales blunt, somewhat pubescent; stamens usually 2; ovary abortive, with stigmas nearly sessile. Staminate trees rare. FRUIT.--April-May; 1-celled, long-conical, short-stalked capsule, about 1/4 inch long, containing many minute seeds which are furnished with long, silky, white hairs. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds long-conical, pointed, glabrous, bright red-brown, about 1/4 inch long. BARK.--Twigs pubescent, yellow-green, often reddish, becoming glabrous, lustrous, brown; thick, gray on the trunk, smooth in young trees, very rough, irregularly scaly-ridged in old trees. WOOD.--Light, soft, tough, close-grained, red-brown, with thick, whitish sapwood. NOTES.--A native of Europe and Asia, where it is a valuable timber tree. Hardy throughout the state and of very rapid growth. Thrives in rich, damp soil. Easily grown from cuttings. The twigs are very brittle at the base and are easily broken by the wind, hence the name Brittle Willow. [Illustration: +Weeping Willow. Napoleon's Willow+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1. 4. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 6. Fruiting branchlet, × 1/2.] +SALICACEAE+ +Weeping Willow. Napoleon's Willow+ _Salix babylonica L._ HABIT.--A tree 40-50 feet high, with a short, stout trunk 3-4 feet in diameter; the long, slender branchlets, often many feet in length, droop in graceful festoons, giving to the tree a weeping habit. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-7 inches long, 1/4-1/2 inch broad; linear to linear-lanceolate, long-pointed; finely sharp-serrate; thin and firm; glabrous, dark green above, paler beneath; petioles 1/2 inch or less in length, glandular above, often hairy. FLOWERS.--April-May, with the leaves; dioecious; borne in slender, nearly glabrous catkins 1-2 inches long; calyx 0; corolla 0; scales ovate-lanceolate, slightly hairy; ovary ovoid-conical, very short-stalked, with stigmas longer than the style. Staminate trees apparently do not occur in the United States. FRUIT.--May-June; 1-celled, narrow-ovoid, sessile capsule, about 3/16 inch long, containing many minute seeds which are furnished with long, silky, white hairs. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds narrow-conical, sharp-pointed, somewhat flattened, brownish, 1/8-1/4 inch long. BARK.--Twigs glabrous, olive-green; thick and gray on old trunks, rather smooth, or irregularly fissured into shallow, firm ridges. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, close-grained, light brown, with thick, whitish sapwood. NOTES.--A native of Europe and Asia. Often grown in cemeteries. Easily propagated by cuttings. Rapid of growth in rich, damp soil. Sometimes winter-killed because the wood is not ripened. SUMMER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF POPULUS a. Leaf-petioles essentially terete. b. Petioles and lower sides of leaves pubescent; leaves heart-shaped. _P. candicans_, p. 55. bb. Petioles and lower sides of leaves glabrous; leaves ovate-lanceolate. _P. balsamifera_, p. 53. aa. Leaf-petioles strongly flattened. b. Petioles and lower sides of leaves tomentose; twigs pubescent. _P. alba_, p. 47. bb. Petioles and lower sides of leaves glabrous; twigs glabrous. c. Leaves distinctly deltoid in shape. d. Leaves broader than they are long, abruptly acuminate at the apex; marginal teeth not conspicuously incurved; branches erect and more or less appressed to the main stem, forming a narrow, spire-like crown. _P. nigra italica_, p. 59. dd. Leaves longer than they are broad, more or less taper-pointed at the apex; marginal teeth rather conspicuously incurved; branches spreading, forming a broad crown. _P. deltoides_, p. 57. cc. Leaves ovate to nearly orbicular in shape. d. Margin of leaves coarsely sinuate-toothed; leaves 3-5 inches long. _P. grandidentata_, p. 51. dd. Margin of leaves finely serrate; leaves less than 3 inches long. _P. tremuloides_, p. 49. +WINTER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF POPULUS+ a. Branches erect, more or less appressed to the main stem, forming a narrow, spire-like crown. _P. nigra italica_, p. 59. aa. Branches spreading, forming a broad crown. b. Terminal buds 1/8-1/4 inch long, not resinous. c. Buds and twigs more or less conspicuously white-downy; twigs green. _P. alba_, p. 47. cc. Buds and twigs not conspicuously white-downy; twigs usually red-brown. d. Terminal buds about 1/8 inch long, puberulous, dusty-looking; lateral buds widely divergent; twigs rather coarse. _P. grandidentata_, p. 51. dd. Terminal buds about 1/4 inch long, glabrous, lustrous; lateral buds more or less appressed; twigs rather slender. _P. tremuloides_, p. 49. bb. Terminal buds 1/2-1 inch long, sticky-resinous. c. Terminal buds about 1/2 inch long; buds not fragrant; twigs usually yellow, more or less strongly angled. _P. deltoides_, p. 57. cc. Terminal buds nearly 1 inch long; buds fragrant; twigs usually red-brown and seldom strongly angled. _P. balsamifera_[E] p. 53. _P. candicans_[E] p. 55. [Illustration: +White Poplar+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 2. 4. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 7. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 8. Fruit, × 1/2.] +SALICACEAE+ +White Poplar+ _Populus alba L._ HABIT.--A large tree 60-80 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 2-4 feet, forming a large, spreading, rounded or irregular crown of large, crooked branches and sparse, stout branchlets. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 2-4 inches long and almost as broad; broadly ovate to suborbicular; irregularly toothed, sinuate, or sometimes 3-5-lobed; glabrous, dark green above, white-tomentose to glabrous beneath; petioles long, slender, flattened, tomentose. FLOWERS.--April-May, before the leaves; dioecious; the staminate catkins thick, cylindrical, 2-4 inches long; the pistillate catkins slender, 1-2 inches long; calyx 0; corolla 0; stamens 6-16, with purple anthers; stigmas 2, branched, yellow. FRUIT.--May-June; ovoid, 2-valved capsules, 1/8-1/4 inch long, borne in drooping catkins 2-4 inches long; seeds light brown, surrounded by long, white hairs. WINTER-BUDS.--Ovoid, pointed, not viscid, downy, about 1/4 inch long. BARK.--Twigs greenish, covered with a white down, becoming greenish gray and marked with darker blotches; dark gray and fissured at the base of old trunks. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, difficult to split, reddish yellow, with thick, whitish sapwood. NOTES.--A native of Europe and Asia. Hardy in Michigan. Grows rapidly in good soils; thrives in poor soils and exposed situations. Roots deep, producing numerous suckers for a considerable distance from the tree. [Illustration: +Aspen+ 1. Winter twig, × 2. 2. Leaf, × 1. 3. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1/2.] +SALICACEAE+ +Aspen+ _Populus tremuloides Michx._ HABIT.--A small, slender tree generally 35-45 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 8-15 inches; forming a loose, rounded crown of slender branches. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 1-1/2-2-1/2 inches long and broad; broadly ovate to suborbicular; finely serrate; thin and firm; lustrous, dark green above, dull and pale beneath; petioles slender, laterally compressed. Tremulous with the slightest breeze. FLOWERS.--April, before the leaves; dioecious; the staminate catkins 1-1/2-3 inches long, the pistillate at first about the same length, gradually elongating; calyx 0; corolla 0; stamens 6-12; stigmas 2, 2-lobed, red. FRUIT.--May-June; 2-valved, oblong-cylindrical, short-pedicelled capsules 1/4 inch long; seeds light brown, white-hairy. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud about 1/4 inch long, narrow-conical, acute, red-brown, lustrous; lateral buds often appressed. BARK.--Twigs very lustrous, red-brown, becoming grayish and roughened by the elevated leaf-scars; thin, yellowish or greenish and smooth on the trunk, often roughened with darker, horizontal bands or wart-like excrescences, becoming thick and fissured, almost black at the base of old trunks. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, close-grained, not durable, light brown, with thin, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Common throughout the state, but most abundant in the Upper Peninsula. HABITAT.--Prefers moist, sandy soil and gravelly hillsides. NOTES.--One of the first trees to cover burned-over lands. Grows rapidly. Usually short-lived. Propagated from seed or cuttings. [Illustration: +Largetooth Aspen+ 1. Winter twig, × 2. 2. Leaf, × 1. 3. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1/2.] +SALICACEAE+ +Largetooth Aspen+ _Populus grandidentata Michx._ HABIT.--A medium-sized tree 30-50 feet high, with a slender trunk 12-20 inches in diameter; forming a loose, oval or rounded crown of slender, spreading branches and coarse spray. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-5 inches long, two-thirds as broad; orbicular-ovate; coarsely and irregularly sinuate-toothed; thin and firm; dark green above, paler beneath, glabrous both sides; petioles long, slender, laterally compressed. FLOWERS.--April, before the leaves; dioecious; the staminate in short-stalked catkins 1-3 inches long; the pistillate in loose-flowered, long-stalked catkins at first about the same length, but gradually elongating; calyx 0; corolla 0; stamens 6-12, with red anthers; stigmas 2, 2-lobed, red. FRUIT.--May; 2-valved, conical, acute, hairy capsules 1/8 inch long, borne in drooping catkins 4-6 inches long; seeds minute, dark brown, hairy. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/8 inch long, ovoid to conical, acute, light chestnut, puberulous, dusty-looking. BARK.--Twigs greenish gray and at first hoary-tomentose, becoming lustrous, orange or red-brown and finally greenish gray; thick, dark red-brown or blackish at the base of old trunks, irregularly fissured, with broad, flat ridges. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, close-grained, light brown, with thin, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--A common tree in the northern portions of the Lower Peninsula, but rare in the Upper Peninsula. HABITAT.--Prefers rich, moist, sandy soil; borders of swamps; river-banks; hillsides. NOTES.--Grows rapidly in many soils. Easily transplanted. Short-lived. Useful for temporary effect. Propagated from seed or cuttings. [Illustration: +Balm of Gilead. Balsam+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 3/4. 3. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Catkin of pistillate flower, × 1/2. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1/2.] +SALICACEAE+ +Balm of Gilead. Balsam+ _Populus balsamifera L._ HABIT.--A tree 60-75 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-3 feet; forming a rather narrow, open, pyramidal crown of few, slender, horizontal branches. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-6 inches long, about one-half as broad; ovate to ovate-lanceolate; finely crenate-serrate; thin and firm; lustrous, dark green above, paler beneath; petioles 1-1/2 inches long, slender, terete, smooth. FLOWERS.--April, before the leaves; dioecious; the staminate in long-stalked catkins 3-4 inches long; the pistillate in loose-flowered, long-stalked catkins 4-5 inches long; calyx 0; corolla 0; stamens 20-30, with bright red anthers; ovary short-stalked; stigmas 2, wavy-margined. FRUIT.--May-June; 2-valved, ovoid, short-pedicelled capsules 1/4 inch long, borne in drooping catkins 4-6 inches long; seeds light brown, hairy. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud about 1 inch long, ovoid, long-pointed, brownish, resin-coated, sticky, fragrant. BARK.--Twigs red-brown, becoming dark orange, finally green-gray; thick, grayish on old trunks, and shallowly fissured into broad, rounded ridges, often roughened by dark excrescences. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, close-grained, light red-brown, with thick, nearly white sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Occurs throughout the entire state, but is more abundant and of greater size in the northern portions. HABITAT.--Prefers river bottom-lands and borders of swamps. NOTES.--Rapid in growth. Spreads from the roots. Most useful for shelter belts. Easily transplanted. Propagated from cuttings. [Illustration: +Hairy Balm of Gilead. Balsam+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1/2.] +SALICACEAE+ +Hairy Balm of Gilead. Balsam+ _Populus candicans Ait._ [_Populus balsamifera candicans (Ait.) Gray_] HABIT.--A tree 50-70 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-3 feet; more spreading branches than in _P. balsamifera_, forming a broader and more open crown. LEAVES.--Resemble those of _P. balsamifera_, but more broadly heart-shaped and more coarsely serrate; more or less pubescent when young; petioles pubescent. FLOWERS.--Similar to those of _P. balsamifera_. FRUIT.--Similar to that of _P. balsamifera_. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud about 1 inch long, ovoid, long-pointed, dark red-brown, resinous throughout, viscid, very aromatic. BARK.--Twigs reddish or olive-green, with occasional longitudinal gray lines, covered with a fragrant, gummy secretion, becoming gray-green; dark gray, rough, irregularly striate and firm on old trunks. WOOD.--Resembles that of _P. balsamifera_, but is somewhat heavier. DISTRIBUTION.--Indigenous to the northern portions of the state, but often cultivated and occasionally escaping in the southern portion. HABITAT.--In a great variety of soils and situations. NOTES.--Grows rapidly in all soils and situations. Suckers readily from the roots. Propagated from cuttings. [Illustration: +Cottonwood+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate catkin, × 1/2. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1/2.] +SALICACEAE+ +Cottonwood+ _Populus deltoides Marsh._ [_Populus monilifera Ait._] HABIT.--A stately tree attaining a height of 70-90 feet and a trunk diameter of 3-5 feet; forming a spreading, open, symmetrical crown of massive, horizontal branches and stout, more or less angled branchlets. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-6 inches long, nearly as broad; broadly deltoid-ovate; coarsely crenate-serrate above the entire base; thick and firm; lustrous, dark green above, paler beneath; petioles 2-3 inches long, slender, compressed laterally. FLOWERS.--April-May, before the leaves; dioecious; the staminate in short-stalked, densely-flowered catkins 3-4 inches long; the pistillate in short-stalked, few-flowered catkins elongating to 6-8 inches; calyx 0; corolla 0; stamens very numerous, with red anthers; stigmas 3-4, spreading. FRUIT.--May; 2-4-valved, short-stalked capsules, borne in drooping catkins 5-10 inches long; seeds light brown, densely cottony. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/2 inch long, conical, acute, very resinous, shining, brownish. BARK.--Twigs and young stems smooth, yellow-green; old trunks ashy gray, deeply divided into straight furrows with broad, rounded ridges. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, close-grained, dark brown, with thick, whitish sapwood; warps badly and is difficult to season. DISTRIBUTION.--Entire Michigan; rare in the northern portions. HABITAT.--Prefers rich, moist soil; river-banks; river-bottoms; lake-shores; grows well in drier situations. NOTES.--Rapid of growth, consequently an excellent tree for immediate effect. Propagated from cuttings. [Illustration: +Lombardy Poplar+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 3/4. 4. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged.] +SALICACEAE+ +Lombardy Poplar+ _Populus nigra italica DuRoi_ [_Populus fastigiata Desf._] [_Populus dilatata Ait._] HABIT.--A tree 75-100 feet high, with a short, ridged and buttressed trunk 4-6 feet in diameter and a narrow, spire-like crown of erect branches. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 2-4 inches long, and usually somewhat broader than long; broad-deltoid, abruptly acuminate; finely but bluntly crenate-serrate; thick and firm; dark green and shining above, lighter and more or less lustrous beneath; petioles slender, laterally compressed, 1-2 inches long. FLOWERS.--April-May, before the leaves; dioecious; the staminate in sessile, dark red, cylindrical catkins about 3 inches long; the pistillate not present in the United States; calyx 0; corolla 0; stamens about 8, with white filaments and purple anthers. FRUIT.--Not formed in the United States in the absence of pistillate flowers. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud conical, slightly angled, taper-pointed, glutinous, about 3/8 inch long; lateral buds smaller, appressed. BARK.--Twigs glabrous, shining yellow, becoming gray; thick and gray-brown on old trunks, deeply and irregularly furrowed. WOOD.--Light, soft, easily worked, not liable to splinter, weak, not durable, light red-brown, with thick, nearly white sapwood. NOTES.--Thought to be a native of Afghanistan. Very rapid in growth. Short-lived. Spreads by means of suckers and fallen branches. Useful for ornamental purposes. Because of crowding the limbs die early, which remain and cause the tree to look unsightly. +SUMMER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF JUGLANS+ a. Leaflets 11-17, the terminal usually present; pith of twigs chocolate-brown; bark of trunk rather smooth, or fissured, with broad, flat, whitish ridges; fruit elongated, sticky-downy. _J. cinerea_, p. 63. aa. Leaflets 13-23, the terminal often lacking; pith of twigs cream colored; bark of trunk rough, brownish or blackish, deeply furrowed by broad, rounded ridges; fruit globose, not sticky-downy. _J. nigra_, p. 65. +WINTER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF JUGLANS+ a. Pith chocolate-brown; leaf-scar with downy pad above; fruit elongated, sticky-downy; terminal bud 1/2-3/4 inch long; bark rather smooth, or fissured, with broad, flat, whitish ridges. _J. cinerea_, p. 63. aa. Pith cream colored; leaf-scar without downy pad above; fruit globose, not sticky-downy; terminal bud 1/3 inch long; bark rough, brownish or blackish, deeply furrowed by broad, rounded ridges. _J. nigra_, p. 65. [Illustration: +Butternut+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/6 3. Leaflet, × 1/2 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1/2.] +JUGLANDACEAE+ +Butternut+ _Juglans cinerea L._ HABIT.--A medium-sized tree 40-60 feet high, with a short trunk 2-3 feet in diameter; forming a wide-spreading crown of large, horizontal branches and stout, stiff branchlets. LEAVES.--Alternate, compound, 15-30 inches long. Leaflets 11-17, 2-4 inches long and one-half as broad; sessile, except the terminal; oblong-lanceolate; finely serrate; thin; yellow-green and rugose above, pale and soft-pubescent beneath. Petioles stout, hairy. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; monoecious; the staminate in cylindrical, greenish, drooping catkins 3-5 inches long; calyx 6-lobed, borne on a hairy bract; corolla 0; stamens 8-12, with brown anthers; the pistillate solitary or several on a common peduncle, about 1/3 inch long, their bracts and bractlets sticky-hairy; calyx 4-lobed, hairy; corolla 0; styles 2; stigmas 2, fringed, spreading, bright red. FRUIT.--October; about 2-1/2 inches long, cylindrical, pointed, greenish, sticky-downy, solitary or borne in drooping clusters of 3-5; nuts with rough shells, inclosing a sweet, but oily kernel; edible. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/2-3/4 inch long, oblong-conical, obliquely blunt, somewhat flattened, brownish, pubescent. BARK.--Twigs orange-brown or bright green, rusty-pubescent, becoming smooth and light gray; gray and smoothish on young trunks, becoming brown on old trunks, narrow-ridged, with wide furrows. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, coarse-grained, light brown, with thin, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Of common occurrence in the southern half of the Lower Peninsula. HABITAT.--Prefers low, rich woods; river-banks; low hillsides. NOTES.--Leaves appear late and fall early. Pith chambered, chocolate-brown. Large trees usually unsound. Not easily transplanted. [Illustration: +Black Walnut+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/6. 3. Leaflet, × 1/2. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, back view, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1/2.] +JUGLANDACEAE+ +Black Walnut+ _Juglans nigra L._ HABIT.--A large tree 60-80 feet high, with a massive trunk 2-5 feet in diameter; forming an open, capacious crown of heavy branches and coarse branchlets. LEAVES.--Alternate, compound, 1-2 feet long. Leaflets 13-23, the terminal often lacking, 2-4 inches long and one-half as broad; sessile; ovate-lanceolate, taper-pointed; sharp-serrate; thin; yellow-green and glabrous above, lighter and soft-pubescent beneath. Petioles stout, pubescent. Foliage aromatic when bruised. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; monoecious; the staminate in cylindrical, greenish, drooping catkins 3-5 inches long; calyx 6-lobed, borne on a hairy bract; corolla 0; stamens numerous, with purple anthers; the pistillate solitary or several on a common peduncle, about 1/4 inch long, their bracts and bractlets hairy; calyx 4-lobed, pubescent; corolla 0; styles and stigmas 2. FRUIT.--October; globose, 1-1/2-2 inches in diameter, smooth, not viscid; solitary or borne in clusters of 2-3; nuts with irregularly furrowed shell, inclosing a sweet, edible kernel. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/3 inch long, ovoid, obliquely blunt, slightly flattened, silky-tomentose. BARK.--Twigs brownish and hairy, becoming darker and smooth; thick, brownish or blackish on the trunk and deeply furrowed by broad, rounded ridges. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, strong, close-grained, very durable in contact with the soil, rich dark brown, with thin, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Lower Peninsula as far north as Bay City, but more abundant in the southern portion of its range. HABITAT.--Prefers rich bottom-lands and fertile hillsides. NOTES.--Leaves appear late and fall early. Fruit very aromatic. Pith chambered, cream colored. The juices from the husk stain the hands brown. Not easily transplanted. Often infested with caterpillars. +SUMMER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF CARYA+ a. Bark of trunk essentially smooth, not deeply furrowed nor shaggy; husk of fruit less than 1/8 inch thick. b. Leaflets usually 5-7, glabrous beneath; buds dome-shaped, greenish; kernel of nut sweet. c. Twigs long-hairy; fruit less than 1 inch long. _C. microcarpa_, p. 75. cc. Twigs glabrous or nearly so; fruit 1-1/2-2 inches long. _C. glabra_, p. 77. bb. Leaflets usually 7-11, more or less downy beneath; buds elongated, bright yellow; kernel of nut bitter. _C. cordiformis_, p. 79. aa. Bark of trunk deeply furrowed or shaggy; husk of fruit more than 1/8 inch thick. b. Twigs more or less pubescent; leaflets 5-7, more or less pubescent beneath. c. Twigs brownish; buds densely hairy; fruit 1-1/2-2 inches long. _C. alba_, p. 73. cc. Twigs orange; buds merely puberulous; fruit 1-3/4-2-1/2 inches long; (leaflets usually 7). _C. laciniosa_, p. 71. bb. Twigs tending to be glabrous; leaflets usually 5, glabrous beneath. _C. ovata_, p. 69. +WINTER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF CARYA+ a. Bark of trunk essentially smooth, not deeply furrowed nor shaggy; husk of fruit less than 1/8 inch thick. b. Terminal bud narrow, long-pointed, flattish, bright yellow; kernel of nut bitter. _C. cordiformis_, p. 79. bb. Terminal bud broad, dome-shaped, not bright yellow; kernel of nut sweet. c. Buds greenish; twigs glabrous; fruit 1-1/2-2 inches long. _C. glabra_, p. 77. cc. Buds red-brown; twigs long-hairy; fruit less than 1 inch long. _C. microcarpa_, p. 75. aa. Bark of trunk deeply furrowed or shaggy; husk of fruit more than 1/8 inch thick. b. Twigs more or less pubescent; buds more or less pubescent. c. Buds 1/2-3/4 inch long, densely hairy; outer bud-scales deciduous in autumn; twigs brownish; fruit 1-1/2-2 inches long. _C. alba_, p. 73. cc. Buds about 1 inch long, merely puberulous; outer bud-scales persistent until spring; twigs orange colored; fruit 1-3/4-2-1/2 inches long. _C. laciniosa_, p. 71. bb. Twigs tending to be glabrous; buds glabrous or nearly so. _C. ovata_, p. 69. [Illustration: Shagbark Hickory. Shellbark Hickory 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1/3. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1/2.] +JUGLANDACEAE+ +Shagbark Hickory. Shellbark Hickory+ _Carya ovata (Mill.) K. Koch_ [_Hicoria ovata (Mill.) Britt._] [_Carya alba Nutt_.] HABIT.--A tree 60-80 feet high, with a slender, columnar trunk 1-2 feet in diameter; forming a narrow, somewhat open crown of stout, slightly spreading limbs and stout branchlets. LEAVES.--Alternate, compound, 8-14 inches long. Leaflets usually 5, the upper 5-7 inches long and 2-3 inches broad; sessile, except the terminal; obovate to oblong-lanceolate; finely serrate; thick and firm; glabrous, dark green above, paler beneath and glabrous or puberulous. Petioles stout, smooth or hairy. Foliage fragrant when crushed. FLOWERS.--May, after the leaves; monoecious; the staminate hairy, greenish, in pendulous, ternate catkins 4-5 inches long, on a common peduncle about 1 inch long; scales 3-parted, bristle-tipped; stamens 4, with bearded, yellow anthers; the pistillate in 2-5-flowered spikes, 1/3 inch long, brown-tomentose; calyx 4-lobed, hairy; corolla 0; stigmas 2, large, fringed. FRUIT.--October; globular, 1-2 inches long, with thick husk separating completely; nut usually 4-ridged, with thick shell and large, sweet, edible kernel. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/2-3/4 inch long, broadly ovoid, obtuse, dark brown, pale-tomentose or nearly glabrous. BARK.--Twigs brownish, more or less downy, becoming smooth and grayish; thick and grayish on old trunks, separating into thick strips 1-3 feet long, free at one or both ends, giving a characteristic shaggy appearance. WOOD.--Heavy, very hard and strong, tough, close-grained, elastic, light brown, with thin, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Common in the Lower Peninsula as far north as Roscommon County. HABITAT.--Prefers light, well-drained, loamy soil; low hillsides; river-banks. NOTES.--Hardy throughout its range. Moderately rapid in growth. Difficult to transplant. [Illustration: Shellbark Hickory. King Nut 1. Winter twig, × 1/2. 2. Leaf, × 1/4. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1/2.] +JUGLANDACEAE+ +Shellbark Hickory. King Nut+ _Carya laciniosa (Michx. f.) Loud._ [_Hicoria laciniosa (Michx. f.) Sarg._] [_Carya sulcata Nutt._] HABIT.--A tree 60-80 feet high, with a tall, slender trunk 2-3 feet in diameter; forming a narrow, oblong crown of small, spreading branches. LEAVES.--Alternate, compound, 1-2 feet long. Leaflets usually 7, the upper 5-9 inches long, 3-5 inches broad, larger than the lowest pair; sessile or short-stalked; oblong-lanceolate to obovate, taper-pointed; finely serrate; thick and firm; lustrous, dark green above, paler and soft-pubescent beneath. Petioles stout, glabrous or pubescent, often persistent on the branches during the winter. Foliage fragrant when crushed. FLOWERS.--May, after the leaves; monoecious; the staminate in pendulous, ternate catkins 5-8 inches long, slender, yellow-green, on common peduncles 1 inch long; scales 3-lobed, tomentose; stamens 4, with yellow, hairy anthers; the pistillate in crowded, 2-5-flowered spikes, tomentose; calyx 3-toothed, hairy; corolla 0; stigmas 2, light green. FRUIT.--October; oblong to subglobose, 1-3/4-2-1/2 inches long, with very thick, woody husk, splitting to the base; nut 4-6-ridged, with thick, hard shell and large, sweet kernel. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud about 1 inch long, ovoid, obtuse, dark brown, puberulous. BARK.--Twigs orange and more or less pubescent, becoming darker in the first winter, and finally grayish; on the trunk 1-2 inches thick, light gray, separating into broad, thick plates 3-4 feet long, persistent on the trunk for many years. WOOD.--Heavy, very hard, strong, tough, close-grained, very elastic, dark brown, with thin, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Occurs in the southern portion of the Lower Peninsula, but is rather a rare tree. HABITAT.--Prefers deep, rich bottom-lands. NOTES.--Rapid in growth. May be distinguished from other hickories by orange colored branchlets. [Illustration: Mocker Nut Hickory 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/3. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1/2.] +JUGLANDACEAE+ +Mocker Nut Hickory+ _Carya alba (L.) K. Koch_ [_Hicoria alba (L.) Britt._] [_Carya tomentosa Nutt._] HABIT.--A tree 50-70 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-2-1/2 feet; forming a wide crown of strong, upright branches and stout branchlets. LEAVES.--Alternate, compound, 8-12 inches long. Leaflets usually 5-7, sometimes 9, the upper 5-8 inches long, 3-4 inches broad; sessile, except the terminal; oblong- to obovate-lanceolate; minutely or sometimes coarsely serrate; thick and firm; lustrous, dark yellow-green above, paler and more or less pubescent beneath. Petioles pubescent. Foliage fragrant when crushed. FLOWERS.--May, after the leaves; monoecious; the staminate in pendulous, ternate catkins 4-5 inches long, slender, green, hairy; scales 3-lobed, hairy; stamens 4-5, with red anthers; the pistillate in crowded, 2-5-flowered, tomentose spikes; calyx toothed, hairy; corolla 0; stigmas 2, hairy. FRUIT.--October; globose to globose-oblong, 1-1/2-2 inches long, with thick husk splitting nearly to the base; nut 4-ridged, red-brown, with very thick, hard shell and small, sweet kernel. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/2-3/4 inch long, broadly ovoid, red-brown, pilose; outermost scales fall in early autumn. BARK.--Twigs at first brown-tomentose, becoming smooth and grayish; on the trunk thick, hard, grayish, slightly ridged by shallow, irregular fissures, becoming rugged on very old trunks. WOOD.--Very heavy, hard, strong, tough, close-grained, elastic, dark brown, with thick, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Southern Peninsula as far north as Grand Rapids and Flint. Infrequent. HABITAT.--Prefers rich, well-drained soil, but grows well in various situations, if they are not too wet. NOTES.--Hardy throughout its range. Difficult to transplant. [Illustration: +Small Pignut Hickory+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/3. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1.] +JUGLANDACEAE+ +Small Pignut Hickory+ _Carya microcarpa Nutt._ [_Hicoria odorata (Marsh.) Sarg._] [_Hicoria microcarpa (Nutt.) Britt._] [_Hicoria glabra, v. odorata Sarg._] HABIT.--A tree usually 50-70 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-3 feet; forming an oblong or sometimes rounded crown of slender, spreading branches. LEAVES.--Alternate, compound, 8-12 inches long. Leaflets usually 5-7, the upper 3-6 inches long, 2-2-1/2 inches broad; sessile, except the terminal; oblong to ovate-lanceolate, long-pointed; sharply serrate; thick and firm; glabrous, dark yellow-green above, lighter beneath. Petioles long, glabrous. Foliage fragrant when crushed. FLOWERS.--May, after the leaves; monoecious; the staminate in pendulous, ternate catkins 3-7 inches long, slender, greenish, glabrous; stamens 4, with orange anthers; the pistillate in 2-5-flowered spikes, 1/4 inch long; calyx 4-toothed, hairy; corolla 0; stigmas 2, yellow. FRUIT.--September; subglobose or globose-oblong, less than 1 inch long, with thin husk splitting nearly to the base; nut obscurely 4-ridged, with thin shell and small, sweet kernel. WINTER-BUDS.--1/4-1/2 inch long, dome-shaped, red-brown, smooth. BARK.--Twigs greenish, long-hairy, becoming reddish and finally gray; thick, hard and grayish on the trunk, divided by shallow fissures into narrow plates, and more or less shaggy. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, strong, tough, close-grained, elastic, dark brown, with thick, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Confined to the most southern portions of the Lower Peninsula. HABITAT.--Prefers well-drained slopes and hillsides. NOTES.--Resembles _C. glabra_, but the nut is much smaller. [Illustration: +Pignut Hickory+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/4. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 2/3.] +JUGLANDACEAE+ +Pignut Hickory+ _Carya glabra (Mill.) Spach._ [_Hicoria glabra (Mill.) Britt._] [_Carya porcina Nutt._] HABIT.--A tree usually 50-65 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-3 feet; forming a low, rather narrow, open crown of slender, often contorted branches. LEAVES.--Alternate, compound, 8-12 inches long. Leaflets usually 5-7, the upper 3-6 inches long, 2-2-1/2 inches broad; subsessile, except the terminal; oblong to obovate-lanceolate, taper-pointed; sharply serrate; thick and firm; glabrous, dark yellow-green above, paler beneath. Petioles long, slender, glabrous or pubescent. Foliage fragrant when crushed. FLOWERS.--May, after the leaves; monoecious; the staminate in pendulous, ternate catkins 3-7 inches long, slender, yellow-green, tomentose; scales 3-lobed, nearly glabrous; stamens 4, with orange anthers; the pistillate in crowded, 2-5-flowered spikes, 1/4 inch long; calyx 4-toothed, hairy; corolla 0; stigmas 2, yellow. FRUIT.--October; variable in size and shape, 1-1/2-2 inches long, with thin husk splitting half-way and sometimes nearly to the base; nut obscurely 4-ridged, with thin or thick, hard shell and small, sweet or slightly bitter kernel which is hard to remove. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/4-1/2 inch long, dome-shaped, greenish or grayish, smooth or finely downy. BARK.--Twigs greenish, nearly glabrous, becoming reddish, and finally grayish; thick, hard and grayish on the trunk, with a firm, close surface divided by small fissures and sometimes broken into plates. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, very strong, tough, close-grained, elastic, dark brown, with thick, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Occurs only in the extreme southern portion of the Lower Peninsula. Common within its range. HABITAT.--Prefers deep, rich loam, but grows in any well-drained soil; dry ridges and hillsides. NOTES.--Hardy and desirable for ornamental purposes. Difficult to transplant. Not adapted to street use. [Illustration: +Bitternut Hickory+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/3. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1.] +JUGLANDACEAE+ +Bitternut Hickory+ _Carya cordiformis (Wang.) K. Koch_ [_Hicoria minima (Marsh.) Britt._] [_Carya amara Nutt._] HABIT.--A tall, slender tree 50-75 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-2-1/2 feet; forming a broad crown of slender, stiff, upright branches, widest near the top. LEAVES.--Alternate, compound, 6-10 inches long. Leaflets 5-11, the upper 4-6 inches long and one-fourth as broad; sessile, except the terminal; lanceolate to oblong-lanceolate, long-pointed; coarsely serrate; thin and firm; glabrous, bright green above, paler and more or less downy beneath. Petioles slender, hairy. Foliage fragrant when crushed. FLOWERS.--May, after the leaves; monoecious; the staminate slightly pubescent, in pendulous, ternate catkins 3-4 inches long, on a common peduncle about 1 inch long; scales 3-lobed, hairy; stamens 4, with bearded, yellow anthers; the pistillate in 2-5-flowered spikes 1/2 inch long, scurfy-tomentose; calyx 4-lobed, pubescent; corolla 0; stigmas 2, greenish. FRUIT.--October; obovate to globular, about 1 inch long, coated with yellow, scurfy pubescence, with very thin husk splitting half-way to the base, with sutures winged at the top; nut quite smooth, with thin shell and small, bitter kernel. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud about 3/4 inch long, long-pointed, flattish, granular-yellow; lateral buds more or less 4-angled. BARK.--Twigs greenish and more or less downy, becoming brownish, and finally grayish; gray, close, smooth on the trunk, often reticulately ridged, but rarely broken into plates. WOOD.--Heavy, very hard, strong, tough, close-grained, dark brown, with thick, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Of common occurrence in the southern half of the Lower Peninsula. HABITAT.--Prefers a rich, loamy or gravelly soil; low, wet woods; along the borders of streams; but also found on high, dry uplands. NOTES.--Grows most rapidly of all the hickories, but is apt to show dead branches. Should be propagated from the seed, as it is not easily transplanted. [Illustration: +Hornbeam. Ironwood+ 1. Winter twig, × 1/2. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1/2. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1/2.] +BETULACEAE+ +Hornbeam. Ironwood+ _Ostrya virginiana (Mill.) K. Koch_ HABIT.--A small tree usually 20-30 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 8-12 inches; forming a broad, rounded crown of many long, slender branches and a slender, stiff spray. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-5 inches long, about one-half as broad; oblong-ovate; sharply doubly serrate; thin and very tough; dull, dark green above, paler and more or less pubescent beneath; petioles short, slender, pubescent. FLOWERS.--April-May, with the leaves; monoecious; the staminate in drooping, cylindrical catkins from wood of the previous season, usually in threes; stamens 3-14, crowded on a hairy torus; the pistillate in erect, lax catkins on the season's shoots, usually in pairs, each flower inclosed in a hairy, sac-like involucre. FRUIT.--September; strobiles, resembling clusters of hops, 1-2 inches long, borne on slender, hairy stems; nuts small and flat, inclosed by sac-like involucres. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds 1/8-1/4 inch long, ovoid, acute, red-brown. BARK.--Twigs at first light green, becoming lustrous, red-brown, and finally dull dark brown; thin, gray-brown on the trunk, very narrowly and longitudinally ridged. WOOD.--Heavy, very strong and hard, tough, close-grained, durable, light red-brown, with thick, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Common throughout the entire state. HABITAT.--Prefers dry, gravelly slopes and ridges. NOTES.--Often grows in shade of other trees. Not easily transplanted. Rather slow of growth. Too small for street use. [Illustration: +Blue Beech. Water Beech+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1/2.] +BETULACEAE+ +Blue Beech. Water Beech+ _Carpinus caroliniana Walt._ HABIT.--Usually a low, bushy tree or large shrub, 10-30 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 6-12 inches; trunk short, usually fluted; slender zigzag branches and a fine spray form a close, flat-topped crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 2-4 inches long and one-half as broad; ovate to oval, long-pointed; sharply doubly serrate; thin and firm; dull green above, lighter beneath, turning scarlet and orange in autumn; petioles short, slender, hairy. FLOWERS.--May, after the leaves; monoecious; apetalous; the staminate catkins 1-1-1/2 inches long, their scales greenish, boat-shaped, each bearing 3-20 stamens; the pistillate catkins 1/2-3/4 inch long, their scales hairy, greenish, each bearing 2 pistils with long, scarlet styles. FRUIT.--Ripens in midsummer, but often remains on the tree long after the leaves have fallen; in loose, terminal strobiles; involucre halberd-shaped, inclosing a small, ovate, brownish nut. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds 1/8 inch long, narrow-ovoid, acute, puberulous, brownish. BARK.--Twigs pale green, hairy, becoming lustrous, dark red the first winter; trunk and large limbs thin, smooth, close, dark bluish gray, often mottled with lighter or darker patches. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, tough, very strong, close-grained, light brown, with thick, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Common throughout the state. HABITAT.--Prefers a deep, rich, moist soil along the borders of streams and swamps. Often found in drier situations in the shade of other trees. NOTES.--Propagated from seed. Not easily transplanted. Slow of growth. Seldom found in masses. +SUMMER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF BETULA+ a. Bark of trunk white, separating freely into thin, papery layers; twigs without wintergreen taste; leaves usually solitary, not aromatic. _B. alba papyrifera_, p. 91. aa. Bark of trunk not white, usually dark colored, not separating freely into papery layers; twigs with more or less wintergreen taste; leaves solitary or in pairs, aromatic. b. Bark dirty-yellow, breaking into strips more or less curled at the edges; leaves solitary or in pairs, slightly aromatic; twigs with slight wintergreen taste. _B. lutea_, p. 89. bb. Bark dark red-brown, cleaving off in thick, irregular plates (resembles bark of Black Cherry); leaves in pairs, strongly aromatic; twigs with strong wintergreen taste. _B. lenta_, p. 87. +WINTER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF BETULA+ a. Bark of trunk white, separating freely into thin, papery layers; twigs without wintergreen taste. _B. alba papyrifera_, p. 91. aa. Bark of trunk not white, usually dark colored, not separating into papery layers; twigs with more or less wintergreen taste. b. Bark dirty-yellow, breaking into strips more or less curled at the edges; twigs with slight wintergreen taste. _B. lutea_, p. 89. bb. Bark dark red-brown, cleaving off in thick, irregular plates (resembles bark of Black Cherry); twigs with strong wintergreen taste. _B. lenta_, p. 87 [Illustration: +Sweet Birch. Black Birch. Cherry Birch+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1/2. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruiting branchlet, × 1/2. 8. Fruit, enlarged.] +BETULACEAE+ +Sweet Birch. Black Birch. Cherry Birch+ _Betula lenta L._[F] HABIT.--A medium-sized tree 70-80 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-3 feet; slender, wide-spreading, pendulous branches, forming a narrow, rounded, open crown. LEAVES.--Alternate in pairs, simple, 3-4 inches long and one-half as broad; outline variable, ovate to oblong-ovate; sharply doubly serrate, with slender, incurved teeth; dull, dark green above, light yellow-green beneath; petioles short, stout, hairy, deeply grooved above; aromatic. FLOWERS.--April, before the leaves; monoecious; the staminate catkins 3-4 inches long, slender, pendent, yellowish; the pistillate catkins 1/2-3/4 inch long, erect or suberect, greenish. FRUIT.--Ripens in autumn; sessile, glabrous, erect strobiles, 1-1-1/2 inches long and half as thick; scales glabrous; nuts slightly broader than their wings. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds about 1/4 inch long, conical, sharp-pointed, red-brown, divergent. BARK.--Twigs light green, becoming lustrous, red-brown in their first winter; very dark on old trunks, cleaving off in thick, irregular plates. Resembles bark of Black Cherry. Inner bark aromatic, spicy. WOOD.--Heavy, very hard and strong, close-grained, dark red-brown, with thin, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Scattered throughout the state; rare in the south, more abundant and of larger size in the north. HABITAT.--Grows in any situation, but prefers moist, rocky slopes and rich uplands. NOTES.--Hardy throughout its range. Easily transplanted. [Illustration: +Yellow Birch. Gray Birch+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1/2. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruiting branchlet, × 1/2. 8. Fruit, × 10.] +BETULACEAE+ +Yellow Birch. Gray Birch+ _Betula lutea Michx. f._ HABIT.--A tree 60-80 feet high and 2-4 feet in trunk diameter; numerous slender, pendulous branches form a broad, open, rounded crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, solitary or in pairs, simple, 3-5 inches long and one-half as broad; ovate to oblong-ovate; sharply doubly serrate; dull dark green above, yellow-green beneath; petioles short, slender, grooved, hairy; slightly aromatic. FLOWERS.--April, before the leaves; monoecious; the staminate catkins 3-4 inches long, slender, pendent, purplish yellow; the pistillate catkins sessile or nearly so, erect, almost 1 inch long, greenish. FRUIT.--Ripens in autumn; sessile or short-stalked, erect, glabrous strobiles, about 1 inch long and half as thick; scales downy on the back and edges; nut about as broad as the wing. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds about 1/4 inch long, conical, acute, chestnut-brown, more or less appressed; bud-scales more or less pubescent. BARK.--Twigs, branches and young stems smooth, very lustrous, silvery gray or light orange; becoming silvery yellow-gray as the trunk expands and breaking into strips more or less curled at the edges; old trunks becoming gray or blackish, dull, deeply and irregularly fissured into large, thin plates; somewhat aromatic, slightly bitter. WOOD.--Heavy, very strong and hard, close-grained, light brown tinged with red, with thin, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Throughout the state, but more abundant and of larger size northward. HABITAT.--Prefers rich, moist uplands, but grows in wet or dry situations. NOTES.--One of the largest deciduous-leaved trees of Michigan. Easily transplanted, but not desirable as a street tree. [Illustration: +Paper Birch. Canoe Birch. White Birch+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruiting branchlet, × 1/2. 8. Fruit, × 3-1/2.] +BETULACEAE+ +Paper Birch. Canoe Birch. White Birch+ _Betula alba papyrifera_ (_Marsh._) _Spach_. [_Betula papyrifera Marsh._] HABIT.--A tree 50-75 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-3 feet, forming in youth a compact, pyramidal crown of many slender branches, becoming in old age a long, branchless trunk with a broad, open crown, composed of a few large limbs ascending at an acute angle, with almost horizontal branches and a slender, flexible spray. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 2-3 inches long, 1-1/2-2 inches broad; ovate; coarsely, more or less doubly serrate; thick and firm; glabrous, dark green above, lighter beneath, covered with minute black glands; petioles stout, yellow, glandular, glabrous or pubescent. FLOWERS.--April, before the leaves; monoecious; the staminate catkins clustered or in pairs, 3-4 inches long, slender, pendent, brownish; the pistillate catkins about 1-1/2 inches long, slender, erect or spreading, greenish; styles bright red. FRUIT.--Ripens in autumn; long-stalked, cylindrical, glabrous, drooping strobiles, about 1-1/2 inches long; scales hairy on the margin; nut narrower than its wing. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds 1/4 inch long, narrow-ovoid, acute, flattish, slightly resinous, usually divergent. BARK.--Twigs dull red, becoming lustrous orange-brown; bark of trunk and large limbs cream-white and lustrous on the outer surface, bright orange on the inner, separating freely into thin, papery layers, becoming furrowed and almost black near the ground. WOOD.--Light, hard, strong, tough, very close-grained, light brown tinged with red, with thick, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Lansing and northward. Common in central Michigan as a small tree. Of larger size in the Upper Peninsula. HABITAT.--Prefers rich, moist hillsides; borders of streams, lakes and swamps; but is also found in drier situations. NOTES.--A rapid grower in youth. The bark is used by the Indians and woodsmen for canoes, wigwams, baskets, torches, etc. [Illustration: +Beech. White Beech+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 3/4. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Bur, opened, × 1. 8. Nut, × 1.] +FAGACEAE+ +Beech. White Beech+ _Fagus grandifolia Ehrh._ [_Fagus atropunicea_ (_Marsh._) _Sudw._] [_Fagus ferruginea Ait._] [_Fagus americana Sweet_] HABIT.--A beautiful tree, rising commonly to a height of 50-75 feet, with a trunk diameter of 2-4 feet; in the forest, tall and slender, with short branches forming a narrow crown, in the open with a short, thick trunk and numerous slender, spreading branches, forming a broad, compact, rounded crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-5 inches long, one-half as broad; oblong-ovate, acuminate; coarsely serrate, a vein terminating in each tooth; thin; dark blue-green above, light yellow-green and very lustrous beneath; petioles short, hairy. FLOWERS.--April-May, with the leaves; monoecious; the staminate in globose heads 1 inch in diameter, on long, slender, hairy peduncles, yellow-green; calyx campanulate, 4-7-lobed, hairy; corolla 0; stamens 8-10; the pistillate on short, hairy peduncles in 2-flowered clusters surrounded by numerous awl-shaped, hairy bracts; calyx urn-shaped, 4-5-lobed; corolla 0; ovary 3-celled; styles 3. FRUIT.--Ripens in autumn; a prickly bur borne on stout, hairy peduncles, persistent on the branch after the nuts have fallen; nuts usually 3, 3/4 inch long, sharply tetrahedral, brownish; sweet and edible. WINTER-BUDS.--Nearly 1 inch long, very slender, cylindrical, gradually taper-pointed, brownish, puberulous. BARK.--Twigs lustrous, olive-green, finally changing through brown to ashy gray; close, smooth, steel-gray on the trunk, often mottled by darker blotches and bands. WOOD.--Hard, tough, strong, very close-grained, not durable, difficult to season, light or dark red, with thin, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Common in the Lower Peninsula, especially in the northern portions; rare in the Upper Peninsula. HABITAT.--Prefers deep, rich, well-drained loam, but is found and does well on a great variety of soils. NOTES.--Hardy throughout its range. Desirable for landscape work because of its clean trunk and limbs, deep shade, and freedom from insect pests. Often suckers from the roots. [Illustration: +Chestnut+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 6. Prickly bur, opened, × 1/2. 7. Nut, × 1/2.] +FAGACEAE+ +Chestnut+ _Castanea dentata_ (_Marsh._) _Borkh._ [_Castanea vesca, v. americana Michx._] [_Castanea sativa, v. americana Sarg._] HABIT.--A tree 60-80 feet high, forming a short, straight trunk 2-4 feet in diameter, divided not far above the ground into several stout, horizontal limbs and forming a broad, open, rounded crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 6-8 inches long, 2-3 inches broad; oblong-lanceolate, long-pointed at the apex; coarsely serrate with stout, incurved, glandular teeth; thin; dull yellow-green above, lighter beneath, glabrous; petioles short, stout, puberulous. FLOWERS.--June-July, after the leaves; monoecious; the staminate catkins 6-8 inches long, slender, puberulous, bearing 3-7-flowered cymes of yellow-green flowers; calyx 6-cleft, pubescent; stamens 10-20; the androgynous catkins 2-1/2-5 inches long, puberulous, bearing 2-3 prickly involucres of pistillate flowers near their base; calyx campanulate, 6-lobed; styles 6. FRUIT.--Ripens in autumn; round, thick, prickly burs, about 2 inches in diameter, containing 1-3 nuts; nuts compressed, brownish, coated with whitish down at the apex; sweet and edible. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds 1/4 inch long, ovoid, acute, brownish. BARK.--Twigs lustrous, yellow-green, becoming olive-green and finally dark brown; old trunks gray-brown, with shallow fissures and broad, flat ridges. WOOD.--Light, soft, coarse-grained, weak, easily split, very durable in contact with the soil, red-brown, with very thin, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--South-eastern Michigan, as far north as St. Clair County. Abundant in eastern Monroe County and Wayne County. HABITAT.--Pastures; hillsides; glacial drift; well-drained, gravelly or rocky soil. NOTES.--A rapid grower and living to a great age. Difficult to transplant. Subject to a disease which threatens extermination in this country. +SUMMER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF QUERCUS+ a. Leaves deeply cut or lobed. b. Leaf-lobes acute, bristle-tipped; fruit maturing in the second season. c. Lower surface of leaves more or less pubescent. d. Leaf-lobes usually 7; buds hoary-tomentose; bark of trunk deeply furrowed and scaly; inner bark yellow; cup-scales of acorn hoary-pubescent; nut ovoid; large tree, common in Michigan. _Q. velutina_, p. 117. dd. Leaf-lobes usually 3 (at apex of the leaf only); buds rusty-hairy; bark of trunk divided into nearly square plates; inner bark not yellow; cup-scales of acorn rusty-tomentose; nut subglobose; shrubby tree, rare in Michigan. _Q. marilandica_, p. 119. cc. Lower surface of leaves glabrous or nearly so. d. Cup of acorn top-shaped or cup-shaped, inclosing one-third to one-half of the nut. e. Kernel of nut yellow; buds glabrous, lustrous, slightly angular; inner bark of trunk yellow; trunk provided with pins or stubs of dead branches near the ground. _Q. ellipsoidalis_, p. 115. ee. Kernel of nut whitish; buds pubescent above the middle, not angular; inner bark of trunk red; trunk not provided with pins or stubs of branches near the ground. _Q. coccinea_, p. 113. dd. Cup of acorn saucer-shaped, inclosing only the base of the nut. e. Upper surface of leaves usually lustrous, especially on the lower branches; lowermost branches of trees growing in the open drooping nearly to the ground; nut about 1/2 inch long _Q. palustris_, p. 111. ee. Upper surface of leaves usually dull; lowermost branches of trees growing in the open not drooping; nut about 1 inch long. _Q. rubra_, p. 109. bb. Leaf-lobes rounded, not bristle-tipped; fruit maturing in the first season. c. Leaves cut nearly to the midrib by a pair of deep sinuses near the middle of the leaf; branches corky-ridged; nut 1/2-1-1/2 inches long, deeply seated in a large, conspicuously fringed cup. _Q. macrocarpa_, p. 103. cc. Leaves not cut by a pair of deep sinuses; branches not corky-ridged; nut about 3/4 inch long, about one-fourth covered by a thin, tomentose, warty cup. _Q. alba_, p. 101. aa. Leaves not deeply cut nor lobed. b. Margin of leaf entire to sinuate-crenate, but not toothed; acorns on stalks 1/2-4 inches long. c. Margin of leaf entire, or only slightly undulate; acorns on peduncles 1/2 inch long, the nut about 1/2 inch long; bark on branches not breaking into large, papery scales. _Q. imbricaria_, p. 121. cc. Margin of leaf sinuate-crenate, rarely lobed; acorns on stems 1-4 inches long, the nut about 1 inch long; bark on branches breaking into large, papery scales which curl back _Q. bicolor_, p. 105. bb. Margin of leaf coarsely toothed; acorns sessile or on stalks less than 1/2 inch long. _Q. muhlenbergii_, p. 107. +WINTER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF QUERCUS+ a. Terminal buds usually about 1/8 inch long. b. Twigs thick-tomentose; entire bud pale-pubescent; branches corky-ridged; cup of acorn conspicuously fringed at the rim. [1][G] _Q. macrocarpa_, p. 103. bb. Twigs glabrous; buds glabrous, or only slightly or partially pubescent; branches without corky ridges; cup of acorn not conspicuously fringed at the rim. c. Bark on branches breaking into large, papery scales which curl back; buds pilose above the middle; acorns on pubescent stems 1-4 inches long. [1] _Q. bicolor_, p. 105. cc. Bark on branches not breaking into large, papery scales; buds glabrous; acorns sessile or very short-stalked. d. Bark of trunk ash-gray or nearly white, flaky; acorns maturing in autumn of first season; kernel of nut sweet. e. Buds conical, acute; bud-scales scarious on the margins; nut white-downy at the apex. [1] _Q. muhlenbergii_, p. 107. ee. Buds broadly ovoid, obtuse; bud-scales not scarious on the margins; nut not white-downy at the apex. [1] _Q. alba_, p. 101. dd. Bark of trunk light to dark brown, smoothish or only slightly fissured; acorns maturing in autumn of second season; kernel of nut bitter. e. Lateral buds widely divergent; bud-scales scarious on the margins; lowermost branches of trees growing in the open not drooping nearly to the ground. [2] _Q. imbricaria_, p. 121. ee. Lateral buds more or less appressed; bud-scales not scarious on the margins; lowermost branches of trees growing in the open drooping nearly to the ground. [2] _Q. palustris_, p. 111. aa. Terminal buds usually about 1/4 inch long (slightly smaller in _Q. ellipsoidalis_). b. Buds conspicuously hairy or tomentose. c. Buds rusty-hairy, acute at the apex; cup-scales of acorn rusty-tomentose; inner bark of trunk not yellow; shrubby tree, rare in Michigan. [2] _Q. marilandica_, p. 119. cc. Buds hoary-tomentose, obtuse at the apex; cup-scales of acorn hoary-pubescent; inner bark of trunk yellow; large tree, common in Michigan. [2] _Q. velutina_, p. 117. bb. Buds glabrous, or pubescent only above the middle. c. Buds strictly glabrous throughout, lustrous; inner bark of trunk yellow or whitish. d. Buds obtuse at the apex; trunk provided with pins or stubs of dead branches near the ground; inner bark of trunk yellow; nut 1/2-3/4 inch long, inclosed for one-third to one-half of its length in a top-shaped cup; kernel of nut yellow. [2] _Q. ellipsoidalis_, p. 115. dd. Buds acute at the apex; trunk not provided with pins or stubs of branches near the ground; inner bark of trunk whitish; nut about 1 inch long, inclosed only at the base by a shallow, saucer-shaped cup; kernel of nut white. [2] _Q. rubra_, p. 109. cc. Buds pale-pubescent above the middle, but usually glabrous below, not lustrous; inner bark of trunk red. [2] _Q. coccinea_, p. 113. [Illustration: +White Oak+ 1. Winter twig, × 2. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1.] +FAGACEAE+ +White Oak+ _Quercus alba L._ HABIT.--A large tree 60-80 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 2-4 feet; forming a short, thick trunk with stout, horizontal, far-reaching limbs, more or less gnarled and twisted in old age, and a broad, open crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 5-9 inches long, about one-half as broad; obovate to oblong; 5-9-lobed, some with broad lobes and shallow sinuses, others with narrow lobes and deep, narrow sinuses, the lobes usually entire; thin and firm; glabrous, bright green above, pale or glaucous beneath; often persistent on the tree through the winter. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; monoecious; the staminate in hairy catkins 2-3 inches long; the pistillate sessile or short-peduncled, reddish, tomentose; calyx campanulate, 6-8-lobed, yellow, hairy; corolla 0; stamens 6-8, with yellow anthers; stigmas red. FRUIT.--Autumn of first season; sessile or short-stalked acorns; cup with small, brown-tomentose scales, inclosing one-fourth of the nut; nut oblong-ovoid, rounded at the apex, about 3/4 inch long, light brown; kernel sweet and edible. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/8 inch long, broadly ovoid, obtuse; scales smooth, dark red-brown. BARK.--Twigs at first bright green, tomentose, later reddish, and finally ashy gray; thick, light gray or whitish on old trunks, shallowly fissured into broad, flat ridges. WOOD.--Very heavy, strong, hard, tough, close-grained, durable, light brown, with thin, light brown sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Rare in the Upper Peninsula, common in the Lower Peninsula, especially in the lower half. HABITAT.--Grows well in all but very wet soils, in all open exposures. NOTES.--Slow and even of growth. Difficult to transplant. [Illustration: +Bur Oak+ 1. Winter twig, × 2. 2. Leaf, × 1/3. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1.] +FAGACEAE+ +Bur Oak+ _Quercus macrocarpa Michx._ HABIT.--A large tree 60-80 feet high, with a trunk 2-4 feet in diameter; great, spreading branches form a broad, rugged crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 6-10 inches long and one-half as broad; obovate to oblong, wedge-shaped at the base; crenately lobed, usually cut nearly to the midrib by two opposite sinuses near the middle; thick and firm; dark green and shining above, pale-pubescent beneath; petioles short, stout. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; monoecious; the staminate in slender, hairy catkins 4-6 inches long; the pistillate sessile or short-stalked, reddish, tomentose; calyx 4-6-lobed, yellow-green, downy; corolla 0; stamens 4-6, with yellow anthers; stigmas bright red. FRUIT.--Autumn of first season; sessile or short-stalked acorns; very variable in size and shape; cup typically deep, cup-shaped, tomentose, fringed at the rim, inclosing one-third or all of the nut; nut broad-ovoid, 1/2-1-1/2 inches long, brownish, pubescent; kernel white, sweet and edible. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/8 inch long, broadly ovoid or conical, red-brown, pale-pubescent. BARK.--Twigs yellow-brown, thick-tomentose, becoming ash-gray or brownish; branches with corky ridges; thick and gray-brown on the trunk, deeply furrowed. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, strong, tough, close-grained, very durable, brownish, with thin, pale sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Common throughout both peninsulas. HABITAT.--Prefers rich, moist soil; bottom-lands; but is tolerant of many soils. NOTES.--Rather slow of growth. Difficult to transplant. [Illustration: +Swamp White Oak. Swamp Oak+ 1. Winter twig, × 2. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1.] +FAGACEAE+ +Swamp White Oak. Swamp Oak+ _Quercus bicolor Willd._ [_Quercus platanoides (Lam.) Sudw._] HABIT.--A large tree 50-70 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 2-3 feet; forming a rather open, rugged crown of tortuous, pendulous branches and short, stiff, bushy spray. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 5-7 inches long, 3-5 inches broad; obovate to oblong-obovate; coarsely sinuate-crenate or shallow-lobed; thick and firm; dark green and shining above, whitish and more or less tomentose beneath; petioles stout, about 1/2 inch long. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; monoecious; the staminate in hairy catkins 3-4 inches long; the pistillate tomentose, on long, tomentose peduncles, in few-flowered spikes; calyx deeply 5-9-lobed, yellow-green, hairy; corolla 0; stamens 5-8, with yellow anthers; stigmas bright red. FRUIT.--Autumn of first season; acorns on pubescent stems 1-4 inches long, usually in pairs; cup cup-shaped, with scales somewhat loose (rim often fringed), inclosing one-third of the nut; nut ovoid, light brown, pubescent at the apex, about 1 inch long; kernel white, sweet, edible. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/8 inch long, broadly ovoid to globose, obtuse; scales light brown, pilose above the middle. BARK.--Twigs at first lustrous, green, becoming red-brown, finally dark brown and separating into large, papery scales which curl back; thick, gray-brown on the trunk, deeply fissured into broad, flat, scaly ridges. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, strong, tough, coarse-grained, light brown, with thin, indistinguishable sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Southern half of Lower Peninsula. HABITAT.--Prefers moist, rich soil bordering swamps and along streams. NOTES.--Fairly rapid in growth and reasonably easy to transplant. [Illustration: +Chinquapin Oak. Chestnut Oak. Yellow Oak+ 1. Winter twig, × 2. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1.] +FAGACEAE+ +Chinquapin Oak. Chestnut Oak. Yellow Oak+ _Quercus muhlenbergii Engelm._ [_Quercus acuminata (Michx.) Houba_] HABIT.--A medium-sized tree 40-50 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-3 feet; erect, somewhat short branches form a narrow, rounded crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 4-7 inches long, 1-4 inches broad; oblong-lanceolate to obovate; coarsely toothed; thick and firm; lustrous, yellow-green above, pale-pubescent beneath; petioles slender, about 1 inch long. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; monoecious; the staminate in hairy catkins 3-4 inches long; the pistillate sessile or in short spikes, hoary-tomentose; calyx campanulate, 5-8-lobed, yellow, hairy; corolla 0; stamens 5-8, with yellow anthers; stigmas red. FRUIT.--Autumn of first season; sessile or short-stalked acorns; cup with small scales, hoary-tomentose, inclosing one-half of the nut; nut ovoid, about 3/4 inch long, light brown; kernel sweet, sometimes edible. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/8 inch long, conical, acute; scales chestnut-brown, scarious on the margin. BARK.--Twigs greenish at first, becoming gray-brown, finally gray or brown; thin, silvery gray or ash colored and flaky on the trunk. WOOD.--Heavy, very hard, strong, close-grained, durable, dark brown, with thin, pale brown sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Confined to the southern half of the Lower Peninsula. HABITAT.--Prefers a limestone soil; dry hillsides; rich bottom-lands; rocky river-banks. NOTES.--Grows uniformly until maturity. Leaves resemble those of the Chestnut. A form which differs from the type in having broader, obovate leaves broadest above the middle and a flaky bark has been described and named _Quercus Alexanderi Britton_. [Illustration: +Red Oak+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1.] +FAGACEAE+ +Red Oak+ _Quercus rubra L._ HABIT.--A large tree 70-80 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 2-4 feet; forming a broad, rounded crown of a few large, wide-spreading branches and slender branchlets. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 5-9 inches long, 4-6 inches broad; oval to obovate; 5-11-lobed with coarse-toothed, bristle-tipped lobes tapering from broad bases and wide, oblique, rounded sinuses; thin and firm; dull dark green above, paler beneath; petioles stout, 1-2 inches long. FLOWERS.--April-May, when the leaves are half grown; monoecious; the staminate in hairy catkins 4-5 inches long; the pistillate on short, glabrous peduncles; calyx 4-5-lobed, greenish; corolla 0; stamens 4-5, with yellow anthers; stigmas long, spreading, bright green. FRUIT.--Autumn of second season; sessile or short-stalked acorns; cup shallow, saucer-shaped, inclosing only the base of the nut; scales closely appressed, more or less glossy, puberulous, bright red-brown; nut oblong-ovoid with a broad base, about 1 inch long, red-brown; kernel white, very bitter. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/4 inch long, ovoid, acute, light brown, smooth. BARK.--Twigs lustrous, green, becoming reddish, finally dark brown; young trunks smooth, gray-brown; old trunks darker, shallowly fissured into thin, firm, broad ridges; inner bark light red, not bitter. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, strong, coarse-grained, light red-brown, with thin, darker colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Southern portion of Lower Peninsula as far north as Roscommon County. HABITAT.--Prefers rich, moist loam; glacial drift; stream-banks. Grows well in all well-drained soils. NOTES.--Grows rapidly. A good street tree. [Illustration: +Pin Oak+ 1. Winter twig, × 3. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1.] +FAGACEAE+ +Pin Oak+ _Quercus palustris Muench._ HABIT.--A medium-sized tree 40-50 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-2 feet; forming an oblong or pyramidal crown of many upright, spreading branches, the lowermost drooping nearly to the ground. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 4-6 inches long, 2-4 inches broad; obovate to ovate; 5-7-lobed by deep, wide, rounded sinuses, the lobes few-toothed, bristle-tipped; thin and firm; very lustrous, dark green above, paler beneath; petioles slender. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; monoecious; the staminate in hairy catkins 2-4 inches long; the pistillate tomentose, borne on short, tomentose peduncles; calyx 4-5-lobed, hairy; corolla 0; stamens 4-5, with yellow anthers; stigmas recurved, bright red. FRUIT.--Autumn of second season; sessile or short-stalked acorns; cup saucer-shaped with scales closely appressed, dark red-brown, inclosing only the base of the nut; nut nearly hemi-spherical, about 1/2 inch in diameter, light brown; kernel bitter. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/8 inch long, ovoid or conical, acute, light brown, smooth. BARK.--Twigs dark red and tomentose at first, becoming lustrous, green, finally gray-brown; thick, gray-brown and smoothish on the trunk. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, strong, coarse-grained, light brown, with thin, darker colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Confined to the most southern portions of the Lower Peninsula. HABITAT.--Prefers moist, rich soil; river-bottoms; borders of swamps. NOTES.--Grows rapidly and uniformly. Easily transplanted. The tiny branchlets at a distance give the impression of the tree being full of pins. [Illustration: +Scarlet Oak+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1/2. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1.] +FAGACEAE+ +Scarlet Oak+ _Quercus coccinea Muench._ HABIT.--A tree 40-50 feet high and 12-15 inches in trunk diameter; long, slender branches form a rather open, rounded crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-6 inches long and nearly as broad; broadly obovate to oval; 5-9-lobed by deep, wide, rounded sinuses, the lobes toothed and bristle-tipped; thin and firm; shining, bright green above, paler beneath, both sides glabrous; turning brilliant scarlet in autumn; petioles slender, 1-2 inches long. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; monoecious; the staminate in glabrous catkins 3-4 inches long; the pistillate on pubescent peduncles 1/2 inch long, bright red, pubescent; calyx 4-5-lobed, reddish, pubescent; corolla 0; stamens usually 4, with yellow anthers; stigmas long, spreading, bright red. FRUIT.--Autumn of second season; sessile or short-stalked acorns; cup top-shaped to cup-shaped, with closely imbricated, slightly puberulous, red-brown scales, inclosing about one-half of the nut; nut usually short-ovoid, 1/2-3/4 inch long, light red-brown; kernel whitish, bitter. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud about 1/4 inch long, broadly ovoid, acute, dark red-brown, pale-pubescent above the middle. BARK.--Twigs at first scurfy-pubescent, later lustrous, green, finally smooth, light brown; thick, dark gray or brown on old trunks, shallowly fissured, scaly; inner bark red, not bitter. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, strong, coarse-grained, light red-brown, with thick, darker brown sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Lower Peninsula, southern half. HABITAT.--Prefers a light, dry, sandy soil. NOTES.--Rapid of growth. Desirable for ornamental planting. [Illustration: +Hill's Oak. Northern Pin Oak. Black Oak+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1/2. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1.] +FAGACEAE+ +Hill's Oak. Northern Pin Oak. Black Oak+ _Quercus ellipsoidalis E. J. Hill_ HABIT.--A tree 50-60 feet high, with a short trunk 2-3 feet in diameter; forming a rather narrow, oblong crown of upright and horizontal branches. Many small, drooping branches are sent out near the ground, which eventually die; and it is to the stubs or pins which persist about the trunk that the appelation Pin Oak is due. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-7 inches long and about as broad; oval to nearly orbicular; narrowly 5-7-lobed by deep, wide, rounded sinuses, the lobes few-toothed, bristle-tipped; thin and firm; lustrous, bright green above, paler beneath, both sides glabrous except for the tufts of hairs in the axils of the veins beneath; petioles slender, glabrous. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; monoecious; the staminate in puberulous catkins 2-3 inches long; the pistillate red, tomentose, borne on stout, tomentose, 1-3-flowered peduncles; calyx 2-5-lobed or-parted, glabrous except at the apex, which is fringed with long, twisted hairs; corolla 0; stamens 2-5, with short filaments; stigmas 3, recurved, dark red. FRUIT.--Autumn of second season; short-stalked or nearly sessile acorns; cup top-shaped, with scales thin, puberulous, inclosing one-third to one-half of the nut; nut ellipsoid, 1/2-3/4 inch long, light brown, puberulous; kernel yellow, bitter. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/8-1/4 inch long, ovoid, rather obtuse, slightly angular, lustrous, red-brown. BARK.--Twigs bright red-brown, covered with matted, pale hairs, becoming glabrous, dark gray or brown; thin, dull gray to dark brown, rather smooth or closely ribbed on the trunk; inner bark yellow. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, strong, coarse-grained, red-brown, with thin, paler sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--South-western part of the Lower Peninsula, but limits not definitely known. HABITAT.--Well-drained uplands, especially on clays; occasionally on the borders of ponds and in low woods. NOTES.--A new and comparatively little known species. [Illustration: +Yellow Oak. Black Oak+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1.] +FAGACEAE+ +Yellow Oak. Black Oak+ _Quercus velutina Lam._ HABIT.--A medium-sized tree 50-60 feet high and 1-3 feet in trunk diameter; slender branches and stout branchlets form a wide-spreading, rounded crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 5-10 inches long, 3-8 inches broad; ovate to oblong; usually 7-lobed, some with shallow sinuses and broad, rounded, mucronate lobes, others with wide, rounded sinuses extending half-way to the midrib or farther and narrow-oblong or triangular, bristle-tipped lobes, the lobes more or less coarse-toothed, each tooth bristle-tipped; thick and leathery; dark green and shining above, pale and more or less pubescent beneath; petioles stout, yellow, 3-6 inches long. FLOWERS.--May, when the leaves are half grown; monoecious; the staminate in pubescent catkins 4-6 inches long; the pistillate reddish, on short, tomentose peduncles; calyx acutely 3-4-lobed, reddish, hairy; corolla 0; stamens usually 4-5, with acute, yellow anthers; stigmas 3, divergent, red. FRUIT.--Autumn of second season; sessile or short-stalked acorns; cup cup-shaped or turbinate, inclosing about one-half of the nut; scales thin, light brown, hoary; nut ovoid, 1/2-3/4 inch long, red-brown, often pubescent; kernel yellow, bitter. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/4 inch long, ovoid to conical, obtuse, strongly angled, hoary-tomentose. BARK.--Twigs at first scurfy-pubescent, later glabrous, red-brown, finally mottled gray; thick and nearly black on old trunks, deeply furrowed and scaly; inner bark thick, yellow, very bitter. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, strong, coarse-grained, bright red-brown, with thin, paler sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Southern half of the Lower Peninsula. HABITAT.--Prefers glacial drift; dry or gravelly uplands; poor soils. NOTES.--Rapid of growth. Undesirable for street use. [Illustration: +Black Jack+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1/2. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1.] +FAGACEAE+ +Black Jack+ _Quercus marilandica Muench._ HABIT.--A small, shrubby tree 20-30 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 6-14 inches; spreading, often contorted branches form a rounded or obovoid crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 5-7 inches long and broad; broad-obovate; more or less 3-lobed at the apex, the lobes entire or toothed, bristle-tipped, very variable in size and shape; thick and leathery; very lustrous and dark green above, yellowish and scurfy-pubescent beneath; petioles short, stout. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; monoecious; the staminate in slender, hoary catkins 2-4 inches long; the pistillate rusty-tomentose, on short, rusty-tomentose peduncles; calyx 4-5-lobed, thin, scarious, tinged with red, pale-pubescent; corolla 0; stamens 4, with apiculate, red anthers; stigmas recurved, dark red. FRUIT.--Autumn of second season; short-stalked acorns; cup turbinate, with large, red-brown, rusty-tomentose scales, inclosing about one-half of the nut; nut subglobose, about 3/4 inch long, yellow-brown, puberulous; kernel yellowish. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/4 inch long, ovoid, acute, prominently angled; scales light red-brown, rusty-hairy. BARK.--Twigs at first light red and scurfy, later glabrous, red-brown, and finally brown or ashy gray; thick and almost black on the trunk, divided into nearly square plates. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, strong, dark brown, with thick, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Southern Michigan (Ann Arbor and Lansing). HABITAT.--Dry, sandy or clay barrens. NOTES.--Rare in Michigan. [Illustration: +Shingle Oak+ 1. Winter twig, × 2. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1/2. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1.] +FAGACEAE+ +Shingle Oak+ _Quercus imbricaria Michx._ HABIT.--A tree 40-50 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-2 feet; forming a rather open, rounded crown of slender, horizontal branches. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 4-6 inches long, 1-2 inches broad; oblong-lanceolate to oblong-obovate; entire or somewhat undulate; thin, very lustrous, dark green above, paler and pubescent beneath; petioles stout, pubescent, 1/2 inch long. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; monoecious; the staminate in slender, hoary-tomentose catkins 2-3 inches long; the pistillate on slender, tomentose peduncles; calyx 4-lobed, yellow, downy; corolla 0; stamens 4-5, with yellow anthers; stigmas short, recurved, greenish yellow. FRUIT.--Autumn of second season; acorns on stout peduncles 1/2 inch long; cup cup-shaped, with red-brown, downy scales, inclosing one-third to one-half of the nut; nut subglobose, about 1/2 inch long, dark brown, often striate; kernel very bitter. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/8 inch long, ovoid, acute, lustrous, brown. BARK.--Twigs lustrous, dark green, becoming brown; thick on old trunks, light brown and slightly fissured. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, coarse-grained, light red-brown, with thin, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Of rare occurrence in Michigan. Reported in Kalamazoo, St. Joseph and Washtenaw Counties, Lower Peninsula. HABITAT.--Rich uplands; fertile river-bottoms. NOTES.--Desirable for ornamental uses. Hardy. Rapid of growth. +SUMMER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF ULMUS+ a. Leaves essentially smooth on both sides; branches often with corky, wing-like ridges; lowermost branches usually short and strongly drooping; main trunk usually continuous into the crown without dividing, giving to the tree a narrow-oblong outline. _U. racemosa_, p. 129. aa. Leaves usually rough on one or on both sides; branches without corky ridges; lowermost branches not short, not strongly drooping; main trunk usually dividing into several large limbs, giving to the tree a more or less vase-shaped outline. b. Leaves usually rough above, but smooth beneath, with petioles glabrous; bark of trunk gray, deeply fissured into broad, scaly ridges; inner bark not mucilaginous. _U. americana_, p. 127. bb. Leaves usually rough both sides, with petioles hairy; bark of trunk dark red-brown, shallowly fissured into large, loose plates; inner bark mucilaginous. _U. fulva_, p. 125. +WINTER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF ULMUS+ a. Buds conspicuously rusty-tomentose; twigs more or less pubescent; inner bark very mucilaginous when chewed. _U. fulva_, p. 125. aa. Buds not conspicuously rusty-tomentose; twigs glabrous; inner bark not mucilaginous. b. Bundle-scars usually 3; buds 1/8 inch long, glabrous; twigs without corky ridges; outline of tree vase-shaped. _U. americana_, p. 127. bb. Bundle-scars usually 4-6 in a curved line; buds 1/4 inch long, somewhat pilose; twigs often with corky ridges; outline of tree narrow-oblong. _U. racemosa_, p. 129. [Illustration: +Slippery Elm. Red Elm+ 1. Winter twig, × 2. 2. Leaf, × 1. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1. 4. Perfect flower, enlarged. 5. Fruit, × 1.] +URTICACEAE+ +Slippery Elm. Red Elm+ _Ulmus fulva Michx._ [_Ulmus pubescens Walt._] HABIT.--A medium-sized tree 40-60 feet high, with a short trunk 1-2 feet in diameter; spreading branches form a broad, open, flat-topped crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 4-7 inches long, about one-half as broad; ovate-oblong; coarsely doubly serrate; thick and firm; dark green and rough above, paler and somewhat rough beneath; petioles short, stout, hairy. FLOWERS.--March-April, before the leaves; mostly perfect; borne on short pedicels in crowded fascicles; calyx campanulate, 5-9-lobed, green, hairy; corolla 0; stamens 5-9, with dark red anthers; stigmas 2, reddish purple. FRUIT.--May; semi-orbicular, 1-seeded samaras, short-stalked in dense clusters; seed cavity brown-tomentose; wings smooth, nearly 3/4 inch long. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds ovoid, obtuse, dark brown, rusty-tomentose, 1/4 inch long. BARK.--Twigs at first bright green and pubescent, becoming light to dark brown or grayish; thick on old trunks, dark red-brown, shallowly fissured into large, loose plates; inner bark mucilaginous. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, strong, very close-grained, durable, easy to split while green, dark red-brown, with thin, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Of frequent occurrence throughout the state. HABITAT.--Prefers stream-banks and bottom-lands; rich, moist hillsides; rocky ridges and slopes. NOTES.--Grows more rapidly than _U. americana_. [Illustration: +White Elm. American Elm. Water Elm+ 1. Winter twig, × 2. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Flower, enlarged. 5. Fruit, × 2.] +URTICACEAE+ +White Elm. American Elm. Water Elm+ _Ulmus americana L._ HABIT.--A tree 75-100 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 2-6 feet; commonly dividing 20-30 feet above the ground into a few large branches which rise upward and outward to form a vase-shaped outline. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 4-6 inches long, one-half as broad; obovate-oblong to oval; coarsely doubly serrate; thick and firm; dark green and rough above, pale and pubescent or glabrous beneath; petioles short and stout. FLOWERS.--March-April, before the leaves; mostly perfect; small, brown to red; borne on slender pedicels in loose fascicles; calyx campanulate, 5-9-lobed; corolla 0; stamens 4-9, with bright red anthers; ovary 2-celled; styles 2, green. FRUIT.--May; ovate, 1-seeded samaras, smooth both sides, hairy on the margin, 1/2 inch long, long-stemmed in crowded clusters. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds ovoid, acute, flattened, glabrous, brown, 1/8 inch long. BARK.--Twigs at first light green and downy, becoming glabrous, red-brown, finally ash-gray; on old trunks thick, ash-gray, deeply fissured into broad, scaly ridges. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, strong, tough, difficult to split, coarse-grained, light brown, with thick, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Common throughout the state. HABITAT.--Prefers deep, rich, moist loam; bottom-lands; stream-banks. NOTES.--Grows rapidly. Long-lived. The roots run along near the surface of the ground for a great distance. An ideal street tree. [Illustration: +Cork Elm. Rock Elm+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1. 5. Flower, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1.] +URTICACEAE+ +Cork Elm. Rock Elm+ _Ulmus racemosa Thomas_ [_Ulmus Thomasi Sarg._] HABIT.--A large tree sometimes reaching a height of 100 feet and a trunk diameter of 5 feet, but usually somewhat smaller; strongly drooping lateral and lower branches form a narrow, oblong crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-6 inches long, one-half as broad; obovate to oblong-oval, more or less dished; coarsely doubly serrate; thick and firm; lustrous, dark green above, pale-pubescent beneath; petioles pubescent, 1/4 inch long. FLOWERS.--March-April, before the leaves; mostly perfect; greenish; borne on slender, drooping pedicels in loose racemes; calyx campanulate, 7-8-lobed; corolla 0; stamens 7-8, with purple anthers; ovary hairy, 2-styled. FRUIT.--May; ovate, 1-seeded samaras, pubescent all over, 1/2 inch long. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds ovoid, acute, brown, pilose, 1/4 inch long. BARK.--Twigs at first light brown and pubescent, becoming lustrous, red-brown, finally gray-brown with corky, wing-like ridges; thick and grayish on the trunk, with wide fissures separating broad, flat, scaly ridges. WOOD.--Heavy, very strong and tough, close-grained, light red-brown, with thick, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Frequent in the southern third of the Lower Peninsula. HABITAT.--Dry, gravelly uplands; rocky ridges and slopes; heavy clay soils; river-banks. NOTES.--A good street tree, but less graceful in habit than _U. americana_. [Illustration: +Hackberry. Nettle-tree+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 3/4. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1.] +URTICACEAE+ +Hackberry. Nettle-tree+ _Celtis occidentalis L._ HABIT.--A medium-sized tree, 40-60 feet high, with a short, straight trunk 1-2 feet in diameter which branches a few feet from the ground into a few large limbs and many slender, horizontal, zigzag branches, forming a broad, rounded crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 2-4 inches long and one-half as broad; ovate to ovate-lanceolate, oblique at the base, usually long-pointed; coarsely serrate above the entire base; thin; glabrous, light green above, paler beneath, turning light yellow late in autumn; petioles short, slender, hairy. FLOWERS.--May, with or soon after the leaves; polygamo-monoecious; greenish; inconspicuous; on slender pedicels; the staminate in clusters at the base of the shoot, the pistillate usually solitary in the axils of the upper leaves; calyx greenish, deeply 5-lobed; corolla 0; stamens 5; ovary 1-celled. FRUIT.--September-October, remaining on the tree through the winter; slender-stalked, fleshy, globular drupes, 1/4 inch long, dark purple; edible. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds light brown, 1/4 inch long, ovoid, acute, flattened, the tip appressed. BARK.--Twigs greenish, puberulous, becoming lustrous, red-brown in their first winter; on old trunks thick, light brown or silvery gray, broken into deep, short ridges or warty excrescences. WOOD.--Heavy, soft, coarse-grained, weak, light yellow, with thick, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Common throughout the Lower Peninsula. HABITAT.--Prefers rich, moist, well-drained soil, but will grow on gravelly or rocky hillsides. Common along river-banks. NOTES.--Hardy throughout its range. Grows slowly and irregularly in youth. Easily transplanted. Not desirable as a street tree, but appears well in ornamental grounds. Very tolerant of shade. [Illustration: +Osage Orange+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 7. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 8. Fruit, × 1/4.] +URTICACEAE+ +Osage Orange+ _Maclura pomifera (Raf.) Schneider_ [_Toxylon pomiferum Raf._] [_Maclura aurantiaca Nutt._] HABIT.--A tree 20-30 feet high, with a short trunk 1-2 feet in diameter; divides into a few large limbs with curving branches, forming a symmetrical, rounded crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-5 inches long, 2-3 inches broad; ovate to oblong-lanceolate; entire; thick and firm; dark green and shining above, paler beneath; petioles slender, pubescent, 1-1/2-2 inches long. FLOWERS.--June, after the leaves; dioecious; the staminate slender-pedicelled, borne in a dense raceme at the end of long, slender, drooping peduncles; the pistillate in dense, globose heads at the end of short, stout peduncles; calyx 4-lobed, hairy; corolla 0; stamens 4; style covered with white, stigmatic hairs. FRUIT.--Autumn; pale green, orange-like, 4-5 inches in diameter, composed of numerous small drupes, crowded and grown together. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds depressed-globular, partly hidden in the bark, pale brown. BARK.--Twigs at first bright green, pubescent, becoming orange-brown and armed with stout, straight, axillary spines; dark orange-brown on the trunk and deeply furrowed. WOOD.--Heavy, very hard and strong, flexible, coarse-grained, very durable, bright orange, with thin, lemon colored sapwood. NOTES.--A native of the South, but hardy throughout Michigan. A desirable ornamental tree. Extensively planted for hedges. [Illustration: +Red Mulberry+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1. 4. Spike of staminate flowers, × 1. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Spike of pistillate flowers, × 1. 7. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 8. Fruit, × 1.] +URTICACEAE+ +Red Mulberry+ _Morus rubra L._ HABIT.--A small tree 20-30 feet high, with a short trunk 10-15 inches in diameter; forming a dense, round-topped crown of stout, spreading branches and more or less zigzag, slender branchlets. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-5 inches long, nearly as broad; outline variable, ovate to semi-orbicular, often 3-5-lobed; coarsely serrate; thin; dark blue-green and smooth or rough above, pale and more or less downy beneath; petioles 1-2 inches long, smooth, exuding a milky juice when cut. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; monoecious or dioecious; the staminate in dense spikes 1-2 inches long, on short, hairy peduncles; the pistillate in dense spikes about 1 inch long, on short, hairy peduncles; calyx 4-lobed, hairy; corolla 0; stamens 4, with green anthers; stigmas 2, spreading. FRUIT.--July; 1 inch long; consisting of drupes about 1/32 inch long, each inclosed in a thickened, fleshy calyx; berry-like; bright red at first, finally blackish; sweet, juicy, edible. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds ovoid, abruptly pointed, 1/4 inch long, lustrous, light brown. BARK.--Twigs greenish and more or less downy, becoming smooth and brownish; trunk dark brown tinged with red and more or less furrowed. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, rather tough, coarse-grained, very durable, pale orange, with thick, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Southern portion of the Lower Peninsula, as far north as the Muskegon river. HABITAT.--Prefers rich soil in river-bottoms. NOTES.--Easily transplanted. Grows rapidly in good, moist soil. [Illustration: +Tulip Poplar. Tulip-tree. White-wood+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Fruit (opened and partly disseminated), × 1/2.] +MAGNOLIACEAE+ +Tulip Poplar. Tulip-tree. White-wood+ _Liriodendron tulipifera L._ HABIT.--A large tree 70-100 feet high, with a columnar trunk 2-5 feet in diameter; forming a rather open, conical crown of slender branches. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 5-6 inches long and broad; 4-lobed; entire; lustrous, dark green above, pale or glaucous beneath, turning clear yellow in autumn; petioles slender, angled, 5-6 inches long. FLOWERS.--May-June, after the leaves; perfect; terminal; solitary on stout peduncles; tulip-shaped, greenish yellow, 1-1/2-2 inches long; sepals 3, greenish, early deciduous; petals 6, in 2 rows, greenish yellow with an orange spot at the base, early deciduous; stamens numerous, somewhat shorter than the petals; pistils numerous, clinging together about a central axis; ovary 1-celled. FRUIT.--September-October; a narrow, light brown cone 2-1/2-3 inches long, composed of numerous carpels; carpels long, flat, with a 1-2-seeded nutlet at the base, separating from the slender spindle at maturity. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/2-1 inch long, obtuse, flattish, dark red, covered with a glaucous bloom. BARK.--Twigs smooth, lustrous, reddish, becoming brownish, and at length gray; ashy gray, thin and scaly on young trunks, becoming thick, brownish, and deeply furrowed with age. WOOD.--Light, soft, brittle, weak, easily worked, light yellow or brown, with thin, cream-white sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Lower Peninsula south of the Grand River. Formerly common, but becoming rare. HABITAT.--Prefers deep, rich, rather moist soil, but adapts itself readily to any good, light soil. NOTES.--Difficult to transplant, but rapid of growth when once established. Not disfigured by insect enemies. Good for ornamental planting. [Illustration: +Sassafras+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaves, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 7. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 8. Fruit, × 1/2.] +LAURACEAE+ +Sassafras+ _Sassafras variifolium (Salisb.) Ktse._ [_Sassafras sassafras (L.) Karst._] [_Sassafras officinale Nees & Eberm._] HABIT.--Usually a large shrub, but often a small tree 20-40 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 10-20 inches; stout, often contorted branches and a bushy spray form a flat, rather open crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-6 inches long, 2-4 inches broad; oval to oblong or obovate; entire or 1-3-lobed with deep, broad sinuses and finger-like lobes; thin; dull dark green above, paler beneath; petioles slender, about 1 inch long. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; dioecious; greenish yellow; on slender pedicels, in loose, drooping, few-flowered racemes 2 inches long; calyx deeply 6-lobed, yellow-green; corolla 0; stamens of staminate flower 9, in 3 rows, of pistillate flower 6, in 1 row; ovary 1-celled. FRUIT.--September-October; an oblong-globose, lustrous, dark blue berry, 3/8 inch long, surrounded at the base by the scarlet calyx, borne on club-shaped, bright red pedicels. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal buds 1/3 inch long, ovoid, acute, greenish, soft-pubescent, flower-bearing; lateral buds much smaller, sterile or leaf-bearing. Aromatic. BARK.--Twigs glabrous, lustrous, yellow-green, spicy-aromatic, becoming red-brown and shallowly fissured when 2-3 years old; thick, dark red-brown and deeply and irregularly fissured into firm, flat ridges on old trunks. WOOD.--Soft, weak, brittle, coarse-grained, very durable in the soil, aromatic, dull orange-brown, with thin, light yellow sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Southern portion of Lower Peninsula as far north as Grayling. HABITAT.--Prefers well-drained, stony or sandy soil; woods; abandoned fields; peaty swamps. NOTES.--Rapid of growth. Suckers freely. Difficult to transplant. Propagated easily from seed. [Illustration: +Sycamore. Button-wood. Buttonball-tree+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, side view, × 1. 3. Vertical section of twig, summer bud and leaf petiole, enlarged. 4. Leaf, × 3/8. 5. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 6. Staminate flower, enlarged. 7. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 8. Fruit, × 3/8. 9. Achene, enlarged.] +PLATANACEAE+ +Sycamore. Button-wood. Buttonball-tree+ _Platanus occidentalis L._ HABIT.--A large tree 70-100 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 3-8 feet; commonly dividing near the ground into several large secondary trunks, forming a broad, open, irregular crown of massive, spreading branches. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 5-10 inches long and broad; broadly ovate in outline; more or less 3-5-lobed by broad, shallow sinuses, the lobes sinuate-toothed; thin and firm; bright green above, paler beneath, glabrous both sides; petioles stout, puberulous, 1-2 inches long. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; monoecious; borne in dense heads; the staminate dark red, on short, axillary peduncles; the pistillate greenish, on long, slender, terminal peduncles; sepals 3-6, minute; petals 3-6, minute; stamens 3-6, usually 4; styles long, incurved, red. FRUIT.--October, persistent on the limbs through the winter; brown heads about 1 inch in diameter, on slender, glabrous stems 3-6 inches long. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds 1/4-3/8 inch long, conical, blunt, lustrous, pale brown; forming in summer within the petiole of the leaf. BARK.--Twigs pale green and tomentose, becoming smooth, dark green, finally grayish; thick, red-brown on the trunk and broken into oblong, plate-like scales, separating higher up into thin plates which peel off, exposing the greenish or yellowish inner bark. WOOD.--Heavy, tough, hard, rather weak, coarse-grained, difficult to split, light red-brown, with thick, darker colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Lower Peninsula as far north as Roscommon County. HABITAT.--Prefers rich bottom-lands along the borders of rivers and lakes. NOTES.--Rapid of growth. Bears transplanting well. Often planted as a shade tree. Fungous diseases disfigure it seriously. +SUMMER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF PYRUS+ a. Leaves simple; fruit a light green pome an inch or more in diameter; branches contorted, bearing many short, spur-like branchlets. _P. coronaria_, p. 145. aa. Leaves compound; fruit berry-like, 1/4 inch in diameter, bright red; branches not contorted, not bearing many short, spur-like branchlets. _P. americana_, p. 147. +WINTER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF PYRUS+ a. Bundle-scars 3 or in 3 compound, but distinct groups; buds 1/8-1/4 inch long; branches contorted, bearing many short, spur-like branchlets; fruit a pome an inch or more in diameter, light green. _P. coronaria_, p. 145. aa. Bundle-scars 4-many in a single U-shaped line, not forming 3 distinct groups; buds about 1/2 inch long; branches not contorted, not bearing many short, spur-like branchlets; fruit berry-like, 1/4 inch in diameter, bright red. _P. americana_, p. 147. [Illustration: +Sweet Crab. American Crab+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 3/4. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Vertical section of flower with petals removed, × 1/2. 6. Fruit, × 1/2.] +ROSACEAE+ +Sweet Crab. American Crab+ _Pyrus coronaria L._ [_Malus coronaria Mill._] HABIT.--Often a bushy shrub, but frequently a small tree 15-25 feet high, with a trunk 8-12 inches in diameter; forming a broad, rounded crown of rigid, contorted branches bearing many short, spur-like branchlets. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-4 inches long, almost as broad; ovate to nearly triangular; sharply and deeply serrate, sometimes lobed; membranaceous; bright green above, paler beneath, glabrous both sides; petioles long, slender, often with two dark glands near the middle. FLOWERS.--May, after the leaves; perfect; 1-1/2-2 inches across; very fragrant; borne on slender pedicels in 5-6-flowered umbels; calyx urn-shaped, 5-lobed, tomentose; petals 5, rose colored to white; stamens 10-20; ovary hairy; styles 5. FRUIT.--October; a depressed-globose pome, 1-1-1/2 inches in diameter, pale green, very fragrant, with a waxy surface. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/8-1/4 inch long, obtuse, bright red; lateral buds smaller. BARK.--Twigs at first hoary-tomentose, becoming glabrous, red-brown; thin, red-brown, breaking into longitudinal fissures on the trunk. WOOD.--Heavy, rather soft, close-grained, weak, red-brown, with thick, yellow sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Southern portion of the Lower Peninsula as far north as Roscommon County. HABITAT.--Rich, moist, but well-drained soil in thickets and along streams. NOTES.--An excellent ornamental tree or shrub for small gardens and shrubberies. The fruit is sometimes gathered for making preserves. [Illustration: +Mountain Ash+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1/3. 4. Vertical section of flower, enlarged. 5. Portion of a fruiting cyme, × 1.] +ROSACEAE+ +Mountain Ash+ _Pyrus americana (Marsh.) DC._ [_Sorbus americana Marsh._] HABIT.--A small tree 15-20 feet high, with a trunk diameter of not over a foot; branches slender, spreading, forming a narrow, rounded crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, compound, 6-9 inches long. Leaflets 9-17, 2-3 inches long and 1/2-3/4 inch broad; sessile or nearly so, except the terminal; lanceolate to oblong-lanceolate, taper-pointed; finely and sharply serrate above the entire base; membranaceous; glabrous, dark yellow-green above, paler beneath, turning clear yellow in autumn. Petioles slender, grooved, enlarged at the base. FLOWERS.--May-June, after the leaves; perfect; 1/8 inch across; borne on short, stout pedicels in many-flowered, flat cymes 3-5 inches across; calyx urn-shaped, 5-lobed, puberulous; petals 5, white; stamens numerous; styles 2-3. FRUIT.--October, but persistent on the tree throughout the winter; a berry-like pome, subglobose, 1/4 inch in diameter, bright red, with thin, acid flesh; eaten by birds in the absence of other food. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud about 1/2 inch long, ovoid, acute, with curved apex; lateral buds smaller, appressed; scales rounded on the back, purplish red, more or less pilose above, gummy. BARK.--Twigs at first red-brown and hairy, becoming glabrous, dark brown; thin, light gray-brown on the trunk, smooth, or slightly roughened on old trees; inner bark fragrant. WOOD.--Light, soft, close-grained, weak, pale brown, with thick, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Ludington and northward, principally along the shore of L. Michigan, but common throughout the Upper Peninsula. HABITAT.--Prefers rich, moist soil on river-banks and on the borders of cold swamps; rocky hillsides and mountains. NOTES.--More often a shrub. Easily transplanted, but slow of growth. One of the most beautiful trees of our northern forests. [Illustration: +Serviceberry+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Vertical section of flower, enlarged. 6. Fruiting branchlet, × 1/2.] +ROSACEAE+ +Serviceberry+ _Amelanchier canadensis (L.) Medic._ HABIT.--A small tree 25-40 feet in height, with a tall trunk 6-12 inches in diameter; forming a narrow, rounded crown of many small limbs and slender branchlets. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-4 inches long and about one-half as broad; ovate to obovate; finely and sharply serrate; glabrous, dark green above, paler beneath; petioles slender, about 1 inch long. FLOWERS.--April, when the leaves are about one-third grown; perfect; large, white, borne in drooping racemes 3-5 inches long; calyx 5-cleft, campanulate, villous on the inner surface; petals 5, strap-shaped, white, about 1 inch in length; stamens numerous; styles 5, united below. FRUIT.--June-August; globular, berry-like pome, 1/3-1/2 inch long; turning from bright red to dark purple with slight bloom; sweet and edible when ripe. WINTER-BUDS.--Yellow-brown, narrow-ovoid to conical, sharp-pointed, 1/4-1/2 inch long; bud-scales apiculate, slightly pubescent. BARK.--Twigs smooth, light green, becoming red-brown; thin, pale red-brown on the trunk, smoothish or divided by shallow fissures into narrow, longitudinal, scaly ridges. WOOD.--Heavy, very hard, strong, close-grained, dark red-brown, with thick, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Common throughout the state. HABITAT.--Prefers rich soil of dry, upland woods and hillsides. NOTES.--Hardy throughout the state. Grows in all soils and situations except in wet lands. [Illustration: +Dotted Haw+ _Crataegus punctata Jacq._ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Vertical section of flower, enlarged. 5. Fruit, × 1.] +ROSACEAE+ +The Haws, Thorns, Hawthorns or Thorn-apples+ _Crataegus L._ Owing to the complexity of the various forms in this group, the present state of uncertainty as to the value of certain characters, and the questionable validity of many of the assigned names, it is thought to be beyond the scope of this bulletin to give more than a general description of the group as a whole, recommending the more ambitious student to the various manuals and botanical journals and papers for more detailed information. The _Crataegi_ are generally low, wide-spreading trees or shrubs, with strong, tortuous branches and more or less zigzag branchlets usually armed with stiff, sharp thorns. The bark varies from dark red to gray and is shallowly fissured or scaly. The leaves are alternate, simple, generally serrate, often lobed, with short or long petioles. The flowers appear in May or June, with or after the leaves, in simple or compound corymbs, whitish or pinkish, perfect. The fruit is a red to yellow, sometimes blue or black pome, subglobose to pear-shaped, with usually dry and mealy flesh and 1-5 seeds. The winter-buds are small, nearly globose, lustrous brown. _Crataegus_ produces wood which is heavy, hard, tough, close-grained, red-brown, with thick, pale sapwood. The Haws are trees of the pasture-lands, the roadside, the open woods and the stream-banks, and are more common in the southern than in the northern portions of the state. Some of the species are desirable as ornaments in parks and gardens on account of their beautiful and abundant flowers and showy fruits. +SUMMER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF PRUNUS+ a. Leaves oblong-ovate to obovate, abruptly acuminate at the apex; marginal teeth not incurved. b. Margin of leaves sharp-serrate with spreading teeth; leaves not rugose, the veins not prominent; fruit 1/4-1/2 inch long, bright red, racemose, July-August; bark of trunk brown, smooth or only slightly fissured; usually a large shrub. _P. virginiana_, p. 157. bb. Margin of leaves crenate-serrate; leaves more or less rugose, the veins prominent; fruit about 1 inch long orange-red, clustered, August-September; bark of trunk gray-brown, early splitting off in large, thick plates; a small tree. _P. nigra_, p. 161. aa. Leaves oval to oblong-lanceolate, taper-pointed at the apex; marginal teeth incurved. b. Fruit light red, clustered, July-August; twigs usually less than 1/16 inch thick; pith of twigs brown; tree northern. _P. pennsylvanica_, p. 139. bb. Fruit black, racemose, August-September; twigs usually more than 1/16 inch thick; pith of twigs white; tree southern. _P. serotina_, p. 155. +WINTER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF PRUNUS+ a. Terminal bud present; bark of young trunks rather smooth. b. Buds clustered at the tips of all shoots; twigs usually less than 1/16 inch thick; pith of twigs brown. _P. pennsylvanica_, p. 159. bb. Buds not clustered, or clustered only on short, spur-like branchlets; twigs usually more than 1/16 inch thick; pith of twigs white. c. Buds usually 1/4 inch or less in length; bud-scales uniform in color, apiculate at the apex; bark on old trunks blackish, rough-scaly; small to large tree. _P. serotina_, p. 155. cc. Buds usually 1/4-1/2 inch long; bud-scales grayish on the margins, rounded at the apex; bark on old trunks brown, smooth or only slightly fissured; usually a large shrub. _P. virginiana_, p. 157. aa. Terminal bud absent; bark of young trunks early splitting off in large, thick plates. _P. nigra_, p. 161. [Illustration: +Black Cherry+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 3/4. 4. Margin of leaf, enlarged. 5. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 6. Vertical section of flower, enlarged. 7. Fruiting branchlet, × 1/2.] +ROSACEAE+ +Black Cherry+ _Prunus serotina Ehrh._ [_Padus serotina (Ehrh.) Agardh._] HABIT.--A medium-sized tree 40-50 feet high and 8-36 inches in trunk diameter; branches few, large, tortuous, forming a rather spreading, oblong or rounded crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 2-5 inches long, about one-half as broad; oval or oblong to oblong-lanceolate; finely serrate, with teeth incurved; subcoriaceous; dark green and very lustrous above, paler beneath, glabrous both sides; petioles short, slender, usually bearing 2 red glands near the blade. FLOWERS.--May-June, when the leaves are half grown; perfect; 1/4 inch across; borne on slender pedicels in many-flowered, loose racemes 4-5 inches long; calyx cup-shaped, 5-lobed; petals 5, white; stamens 15-20; stigma thick, club-shaped. FRUIT.--August-September; a globular drupe, 1/3-1/2 inch in diameter, nearly black, with dark purple, juicy flesh; slightly bitter, edible. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud about 1/4 inch long, ovoid, blunt to acute; scales keeled on the back, apiculate, light brown. BARK.--Twigs and branches red to red-brown; young trunks dark red-brown, smooth; blackish on old trunks and rough, broken into thick, irregular plates; bitter, aromatic. WOOD.--Light, rather hard, strong, close- and straight-grained, light brown or red, with thin, yellow sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Frequent in the southern half of the Lower Peninsula, rare in the northern half and the Upper Peninsula. HABITAT.--Prefers a rich, moist soil, but grows well on dry, gravelly or sandy soils. NOTES.--Grows very rapidly in youth. [Illustration: +Choke Cherry+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1. 4. Margin of leaf, enlarged. 5. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 6. Vertical section of flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1/2.] +ROSACEAE+ +Choke Cherry+ _Prunus virginiana L._ [_Padus virginiana (L.) Roemer_] HABIT.--Usually a large shrub, but sometimes a small tree 15-25 feet high, with a crooked, often leaning trunk 5-6 inches in diameter; forming a spreading, somewhat rounded crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 2-4 inches long, one-half as broad; obovate to oblong-obovate or oval, abruptly acuminate at the apex; finely and sharply serrate; dull dark green above, paler beneath, glabrous both sides; petioles short, slender, glandular at the apex. FLOWERS.--May, when the leaves are half grown; perfect; about 1/2 inch across; borne on short, slender pedicels in many-flowered racemes 3-6 inches long; calyx cup-shaped, 5-lobed; petals 5, white; stamens 15-20; stigma broad, on a short style. FRUIT.--July-August; a globular drupe, 1/4-1/2 inch in diameter, usually bright red, often yellow to almost black, with dark red flesh; astringent, but edible. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/4-1/2 inch long, conical, acute; scales rounded at the apex, light brown, smooth. BARK.--Twigs at first light brown or greenish, becoming red-brown, finally dark brown; thin, dark brown on the trunk, slightly fissured. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, close-grained, weak, light brown, with thick, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Common throughout the entire state. HABITAT.--Prefers a deep, rich, moist loam, but is common on less favorable sites. NOTES.--The most widely distributed tree of North America, extending from the arctic circle to Mexico, from the Rocky Mountains to the Atlantic Ocean. [Illustration: +Wild Red Cherry. Pin Cherry+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1. 4. Margin of leaf, enlarged. 5. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 6. Flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1.] +ROSACEAE+ +Wild Red Cherry. Pin Cherry+ _Prunus pennsylvanica L. f._ HABIT.--A slender tree, seldom over 30 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 8-10 inches; crown rather open, narrow, rounded, with slender, regular branches. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-5 inches long, 3/4-1-1/4 inches broad; oblong-lanceolate; finely and sharply serrate; bright green and shining above, paler beneath; petioles slender, 1/2-1 inch long, glandular near the blade. FLOWERS.--May-June, with the leaves; perfect; about 1/2 inch across, borne on slender pedicels in 4-5-flowered umbels, generally clustered, 2-3 together; calyx 5-cleft, campanulate; petals 5, white, 1/4 inch long; stamens 15-20. FRUIT.--July-August; a globular drupe, 1/4 inch in diameter, light red, with thick skin and sour flesh. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/8 inch long, broadly ovoid, rather blunt, brownish, smooth. BARK.--Twigs at first lustrous, red, marked by orange colored lenticels, becoming brownish; red-brown and thin on the trunk, peeling off horizontally into broad, papery plates; bitter, aromatic. WOOD.--Light, soft, close-grained, light brown, with thin, yellow sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Throughout the northern portion of the state, extending southward to Ionia County. HABITAT.--Abundant on sand-lands; roadsides; burned-over lands; clearings; hillsides. NOTES.--Rapid of growth. Short-lived. [Illustration: +Canada Plum. Red Plum+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1/2. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Vertical section of flower, × 1. 6. Fruiting branchlet, × 1/2.] +ROSACEAE+ +Canada Plum. Red Plum+ _Prunus nigra Ait._ [_Prunus americana, v. nigra Waugh_] HABIT.--A small tree 20-25 feet high and 5-8 inches in trunk diameter; usually divides 5-6 feet from the ground into a number of stout, upright branches, forming a narrow, rigid crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-5 inches long and one-half as broad; oblong-ovate to obovate, abruptly acuminate at the apex; doubly crenate-serrate; thick and firm; glabrous, light green above, paler beneath; petioles short, stout, bearing 2 large red glands near the blade. FLOWERS.--May, before the leaves; perfect; slightly fragrant; about 1 inch across; borne on slender, glabrous, red pedicels in 2-3-flowered umbels; calyx 5-lobed, dark red; petals 5, white; stamens 15-20, with purple anthers; ovary 1-celled; style 1; stigma 1. FRUIT.--August-September; a fleshy drupe, about 1 inch long, oblong-ovoid, with a tough, thick, orange-red skin nearly free from bloom, and yellow flesh adherent to the flat stone. Eaten raw or cooked. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds 1/8-1/4 inch long, ovate, acute, chestnut-brown. BARK.--Twigs green, marked by numerous pale excrescences, later dark brown; thin, gray-brown and smooth on young trunks, but soon splitting off in large, thick plates, exposing the darker inner bark. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, strong, close-grained, light red-brown, with thin, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Upper Peninsula and the Lower Peninsula north of Lansing. HABITAT.--Prefers rich, alluvial soil along streams. NOTES.--Suckers freely, forming low, broad thickets. [Illustration: +Coffeetree. Kentucky Coffeetree+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/4. 3. Leaflet, × 1/2. 4. Vertical section of staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Vertical section of pistillate flower, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1/4.] +LEGUMINOSAE+ +Coffeetree. Kentucky Coffeetree+ _Gymnocladus dioica (L.) Koch_ [_Gymnocladus canadensis Lam._] HABIT.--A slender tree 50-75 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 2-3 feet; divides near the ground into several stems which spread slightly to form a narrow, pyramidal crown; branchlets stout, clumsy, blunt, with conspicuous leaf-scars. LEAVES.--Alternate, bipinnately compound, 1-3 feet long. Leaflets 40 or more, 2-2-1/2 inches long and one-half as broad; short-stalked; ovate, acute; entire; thin and firm; dark green above, pale yellow-green and glabrous beneath. Petioles stout, terete, glabrous. Appear late in spring. FLOWERS.--June, after the leaves; dioecious; greenish white; the staminate short-stalked, in racemose corymbs 3-4 inches long; the pistillate long-stalked, in racemes 10-12 inches long; calyx tubular, hairy; petals 5, keeled, nearly white; stamens 10; ovary hairy. FRUIT.--Ripens in autumn, but remains closed until late in winter; short-stalked, red-brown legumes 6-10 inches long, 1-1/2-2 inches wide, containing 6-9 large, flat seeds. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds minute, depressed, 2 in the axil of each leaf, bronze-brown, silky-pubescent. BARK.--Twigs coated with short, dense, reddish pubescence, becoming light brown; thick, deeply fissured and scaly on the trunk, dark gray. WOOD.--Heavy, somewhat soft, strong, coarse-grained, very durable in contact with the soil, light red-brown, with thin, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Southern Michigan as far north as the Grand River. Infrequent. HABITAT.--Prefers bottom-lands and rich soil. NOTES.--The seeds in early days were used as a substitute for coffee. [Illustration: +Honey Locust. Three-thorned Acacia+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Vertical section through lateral buds, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1/4. 4. Leaflet, × 1. 5. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 6. Staminate flower, enlarged. 7. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 8. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 9. Fruit, × 1/3. 10. Spine from trunk, × 1/2.] +LEGUMINOSAE+ +Honey Locust. Three-thorned Acacia+ _Gleditsia triacanthos L._ HABIT.--A tree usually 50-75 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 2-3 feet; dividing near the ground into several large, upright branches which divide again into long, slender, horizontal branchlets; both trunk and large branches armed with stout, rigid, simple or branched spines. LEAVES.--Alternate, pinnately or bipinnately compound, 7-12 inches long. Leaflets 18 or more, 3/4-1-1/2 inches long, one-third as broad; lanceolate-oblong; remotely crenulate-serrate; thin; lustrous, dark green above, dull yellow-green beneath. Petioles and rachises pubescent. FLOWERS.--May-June, when the leaves are nearly full grown; polygamo-dioecious; the staminate in short, many-flowered, pubescent racemes; the pistillate in slender, few-flowered racemes; on shoots of the preceding season; calyx campanulate, hairy 3-5-lobed; petals 3-5, greenish; stamens 3-10; ovary 1-celled, woolly. FRUIT.--Autumn, falling in early winter; flat, pendent, twisted, brown legumes, 12-18 inches long, short-stalked in short racemes; seeds 12-14, oval, flattened. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds minute, 3 or more superposed, glabrous, brownish. BARK.--Twigs lustrous, red-brown, becoming gray-brown; thick on the trunk, iron-gray to blackish and deeply fissured into long, narrow ridges roughened by small scales. WOOD.--Hard, strong, coarse-grained, durable in contact with the ground, red-brown, with thin, pale sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Indigenous to the extreme southern portion of the state, but is planted as far north as Bay City. HABITAT.--Prefers deep, rich loam, but grows on a variety of soils. NOTES.--Grows rapidly and is long-lived and free from disease. Easily transplanted. The leaves appear late in spring and fall early in autumn. The stiff spines and long pods which litter the ground make the tree unsuitable for street or ornamental use. [Illustration: +Redbud. Judas-tree+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, front view, enlarged. 3. Portion of twig, side view, enlarged. 4. Leaf, × 1/2. 5. Flowering branchlet, × 1. 6. Vertical section of flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1/2.] +LEGUMINOSAE+ +Redbud. Judas-tree+ _Cercis canadensis L._ HABIT.--A small tree 20-30 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 10-15 inches; divided near the ground into stout, straggling branches to form a broad, flat crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 3-5 inches long and broad; heart-shaped or rounded; entire; thick; glabrous, dark green above, paler beneath, turning bright yellow in autumn; petioles slender, terete, enlarged at the base. FLOWERS.--April-May, before or with the leaves; perfect; 1/2 inch long; borne on short, jointed pedicels in fascicles of 4-8; calyx campanulate, 5-toothed, dark red; petals 5, rose color; stamens 10, in 2 rows. FRUIT.--June-July, remaining on the tree until early winter; a short-stalked legume 2-1/2-3 inches long, pointed at both ends, rose color; seeds 10-12, brownish, 1/4 inch long. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds 1/8 inch long, obtuse, somewhat flattened and appressed, brownish. BARK.--Twigs lustrous, brown, becoming dark or grayish brown; red-brown, deeply fissured, with a scaly surface on old trunks. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, coarse-grained, weak, dark red-brown, with thin, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Valleys of the Grand and Raisin Rivers and southward. HABITAT.--Prefers the borders of streams and rich bottom-lands, often in the shade of other trees. NOTES.--A rapid grower. Hardy within its range. Can be transplanted with success only when very young. Plants begin to produce flowers freely when 4-5 years old. Much used in landscape gardening. [Illustration: +Locust. Black Locust+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Vertical section through lateral buds, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1/2. 4. Raceme of flowers, × 1/2. 5. Flower, with part of corolla removed, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1/2.] +LEGUMINOSAE+ +Locust. Black Locust+ _Robinia pseudo-acacia L._ HABIT.--A tree 50-75 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 2-3 feet; forming a narrow, oblong crown of irregular, more or less contorted branches. LEAVES.--Alternate, compound, 8-14 inches long. Leaflets 7-21, short-petiolate, 1-2 inches long, about one-half as broad; ovate to oblong-oval; entire; very thin; dull dark green above, paler beneath, glabrous both sides. Petioles slender, pubescent. FLOWERS.--May-June, after the leaves; perfect; showy and abundant; very fragrant; borne on slender pedicels in loose, drooping racemes 4-5 inches long; about 1 inch long; calyx short, bell-shaped, 5-lobed, hairy; corolla papilionaceous, white, 5-petaled; stamens 10. FRUIT.--Late autumn, but persistent on the tree through the winter; a smooth, dark brown, flat pod 3-4 inches long, containing 4-8 small, flattish, brown seeds. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds minute, 3-4 superposed, partially sunken within the leaf-scar, rusty-hairy. BARK.--Twigs smooth, green, more or less rough-dotted at first, becoming red-brown and armed with prickles; dark red-brown and thick on old trunks, deeply furrowed into firm, sinuous ridges. WOOD.--Heavy, very strong and hard, close-grained, very durable in contact with the soil, brown, with very thin, pale yellow sapwood. NOTES.--Native to the Appalachian Mountains, but much planted in Michigan for ornamental and economic uses. Very rapid of growth in youth. Short-lived. Seriously attacked by borers. Spreads by underground shoots. [Illustration: +Ailanthus. Tree of Heaven+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/8. 3. Leaflet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate inflorescence, × 1/4. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1.] +SIMARUBACEAE+ +Ailanthus. Tree of Heaven+ _Ailanthus glandulosa Desf._ HABIT.--A handsome, rapid-growing, short-lived tree, attaining a height of 50-70 feet and a trunk diameter of 2-4 feet, with a spreading, rather loose and open crown and a coarse, blunt spray. LEAVES.--Alternate, pinnately compound, 1-3 feet long. Leaflets 11-41 in number, 2-6 inches long and about one-third as broad; ovate-lanceolate; entire with the exception of two or more coarse, glandular teeth at the base; glabrous, dark green above, paler beneath, turning a clear yellow in autumn or falling without change; ill-scented. Petioles smooth, terete, swollen at the base. FLOWERS.--June, when the leaves are full grown; polygamo-dioecious; small, yellow-green, borne in upright panicles 6-12 inches or more in length; calyx 5-lobed; petals 5, greenish, hairy; stamens 10. Staminate flowers ill-scented, pistillate almost free from odor. FRUIT.--October; 1-celled, 1-seeded samaras, spirally twisted, reddish or yellow-green, borne in crowded clusters. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds about 1/8 inch long, subglobose, brownish, downy. BARK.--Twigs yellowish to red-brown, velvety-downy; thin, grayish and shallowly fissured on old trunks. WOOD.--Soft, weak, of coarse and open grain, pale yellow, satiny, with thick, lighter colored sapwood. NOTES.--A native of China, but naturalized in the United States and planted frequently in southern Michigan as a foliage tree. Only the pistillate trees should be planted, as these are almost free from the objectionable odor of the staminate trees. The smoke and dust of our large cities have little effect on the foliage, and the trees are perfectly hardy in the southern part of the state. +SUMMER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF ACER+ a. Leaves simple; twigs usually without whitish bloom. b. Leaf-sinuses acute at the base. c. Leaf-lobes long and narrow, the sides of the terminal lobe diverging; leaves silvery white beneath; twigs rank-smelling when broken. _A. saccharinum_, p. 185. cc. Leaf-lobes short and broad, the sides of the terminal lobe converging; leaves not conspicuously white beneath; twigs not rank-smelling when broken. d. Leaves 2-4 inches broad, thin, not pentagonally 5-lobed; wings of fruit 3/4-1 inch long. e. Leaves distinctly white-downy beneath; twigs appressed-hairy, at least near the tip; fruit hanging in pendulous racemes, persistent on the tree until autumn; seed portion with pit-like depression on one side; usually a shrub or bushy tree. _A. spicatum_, p. 179. ee. Leaves not distinctly white-downy beneath; twigs glabrous; fruit hanging in clusters, falling in early summer; seed portion without pit-like depression on one side; medium-sized tree. _A. rubrum_, p. 187. dd. Leaves 4-7 inches broad, thick, pentagonally 5-lobed; wings of fruit 1-1/2 inches long. _A. pseudo-platanus_, p. 191. bb. Leaf-sinuses rounded at the base. c. Lower sides of leaves and petioles distinctly downy, the lobes undulate or entire; leaves very thick, drooping at the sides. _A. saccharum nigrum_, p. 183. cc. Lower sides of leaves and petioles essentially glabrous, the lobes serrate; leaves not thick, not drooping at the sides. d. Leaves coarsely and sparsely toothed or notched; bark not longitudinally white-striped; large trees. e. Twigs coarse; petioles exuding a milky juice when cut; wings of fruit diverging by nearly 180°; bark of the trunk closely fissured, not scaly. _A. platanoides_, p. 189. ee. Twigs slender; petioles not exuding a milky juice when cut; wings of fruit diverging only slightly; bark of the trunk deeply furrowed, often cleaving in long, thick plates. _A. saccharum_, p. 181. dd. Leaves finely and abundantly toothed; bark longitudinally white-striped; a bushy tree or shrub. aa. Leaves compound; twigs usually with whitish bloom. _A. negundo_, p. 193. +WINTER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF ACER+ a. Terminal buds usually under 1/4 inch in length. b. Buds white-woolly; twigs usually with a whitish bloom; opposite leaf-scars meeting; fruit often persistent on the tree until spring. _A. negundo_, p. 193. bb. Buds not white-woolly; twigs without whitish bloom; opposite leaf-scars not meeting; fruit not persistent on the tree in winter. c. Buds reddish or greenish; twigs bright red. d. Twigs strictly glabrous; buds glabrous; spherical flower buds clustered on the sides of the shoot; pith pink; large trees. e. Twigs rank-smelling when broken; tip of outer bud-scales often apiculate; tips of branches curving upwards; bark separating into long, thin flakes loose at the ends. _A. saccharinum_, p. 185. ee. Twigs not rank-smelling when broken; tip of outer bud-scales rounded; tips of branches not conspicuously curving upwards; bark rough-ridged, but seldom forming loose flakes. _A. rubrum_, p. 187. dd. Twigs appressed-hairy, at least near the tip; buds somewhat tomentose; spherical flower buds absent; pith brown; shrub or bushy tree. _A. spicatum_, p. 179. cc. Buds brownish; twigs brownish or grayish. d. Buds glabrous, or somewhat pubescent at the apex only; bark dark gray on the trunk. _A. saccharum_, p. 181. dd. Buds hoary-pubescent; bark sometimes almost black on the trunk. _A. saccharum nigrum_, p. 183. aa. Terminal buds usually 1/4-1/2 inch in length. b. Buds reddish; opposite leaf-scars meeting. c. Buds conspicuously stalked; bud-scales visible, 1 pair; bark longitudinally white-striped; small tree or large shrub. _A. pennsylvanicum_, p. 177. cc. Buds not conspicuously stalked; bud-scales visible, 2-3 pairs; bark not white-striped; large tree. _A. platanoides_, p. 189. bb. Buds bright green; opposite leaf-scars not meeting. _A. pseudo-platanus_, p. 191. [Illustration: +Striped Maple. Moosewood. Whistlewood+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Vertical section of staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 7. Vertical section of pistillate flower, enlarged. 8. Fruit, × 3/4.] +ACERACEAE+ +Striped Maple. Moosewood. Whistlewood+ _Acer pennsylvanicum L._ HABIT.--A small tree at best, more often a large shrub, seldom attaining a height of more than 30 feet, with a short trunk 5-8 inches through. The striped, upright branches form a rather compact crown. LEAVES.--Opposite, simple, 5-6 inches long and nearly as broad; 3-lobed above the middle with short, tapering lobes; palmately 3-nerved; sharply doubly serrate; rounded or heart-shaped at the base; glabrous, yellow-green above, paler beneath, turning pale yellow in autumn; petioles stout, grooved. FLOWERS.--May-June, when the leaves are nearly full grown; usually monoecious; large, bright yellow, bell-shaped, in slender, drooping racemes 4-6 inches long; calyx 5-parted; petals 5; stamens 7-8; ovary downy. FRUIT.--Ripens in autumn; glabrous, paired samaras in long, drooping, racemose clusters, the wings 3/4 inch long, widely divergent, and marked on one side of each nutlet by a small cavity. WINTER-BUDS.--Bright red; terminal bud nearly 1/2 inch long, short-stalked, with bud-scales keeled; lateral buds smaller, appressed. BARK.--Twigs light green, mottled with black, smooth; trunk and branches red-brown, marked longitudinally by broad, pale stripes. WOOD.--Light, soft, close-grained, pinkish brown, with thick, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Abundant in the Upper Peninsula, extending southward as far as Roscommon County in the Lower Peninsula. HABITAT.--Cool, rocky or sandy woods, usually in the shade of other trees. NOTES.--In the Northwoods the green shoots are browsed by deer and moose. Valued mostly for its aesthetic qualities. Of little or no economic value. [Illustration: +Mountain Maple+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1/2. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1.] +ACERACEAE+ +Mountain Maple+ _Acer spicatum Lam._ HABIT.--A bushy tree sometimes 25-30 feet high, with a short trunk 6-8 inches in diameter; small, upright branches form a small, rounded crown. More often a straggling shrub. LEAVES.--Opposite, simple, 4-5 inches long and two-thirds as broad; 3-lobed above the middle, the lobes coarsely crenate-serrate with pointed teeth, the sinuses usually wide-angled and acute at the base; thin; glabrous, dark green above, covered with a whitish down beneath, turning scarlet and orange in autumn; veining prominent; petioles long, slender, with enlarged base. FLOWERS.--June, after the leaves are full grown; polygamo-monoecious; small, yellow-green; in erect, slightly compound, many-flowered, long-stemmed, terminal racemes; calyx downy, 5-lobed; petals 5; stamens 7-8; ovary tomentose. FRUIT.--July; bright red, turning brown in late autumn; small, glabrous, paired samaras, in pendulous, racemose clusters. WINTER-BUDS.--Small, flattish, acute, bright red, more or less tomentose; the terminal 1/8 inch long, containing the flowers. BARK.--Twigs reddish, slightly hairy; very thin, red-brown, smooth or slightly furrowed on the trunk. WOOD.--Light, soft, close-grained, light brown, with thick, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Common in the Upper Peninsula; extends as far south as Saginaw Bay. HABITAT.--Damp forests; rocky woods; along streams; always in the shade of other trees. NOTES.--Forms much of the undergrowth of our northern forests. Little used, except for fire-wood. [Illustration: +Sugar Maple. Hard Maple. Rock Maple+ 1. Winter twig, × 2. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 7. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 8. Fruit, × 1.] +ACERACEAE+ +Sugar Maple. Hard Maple. Rock Maple+ _Acer saccharum Marsh._ [_Acer saccharinum Wang._] HABIT.--A stately tree 60-100 feet in height, with a trunk diameter of 3-4 feet; in the open forming stout, upright branches near the ground, in forests making remarkably clean trunks to a good height; the crown is a broad, round-topped dome. LEAVES.--Opposite, simple, 3-5 inches long and broad; usually 5-lobed (sometimes 3-lobed), the lobes sparingly wavy-toothed, the sinuses broad and rounded at the base; thin and firm; opaque, dark green above, lighter and glabrous beneath, turning yellow and red in autumn; petioles long, slender. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; polygamo-monoecious or dioecious; on thread-like, hairy pedicels in nearly sessile corymbs; greenish yellow; calyx campanulate, 5-lobed; corolla 0; stamens 7-8; ovary hairy. FRUIT.--September-October, germinating the following spring; paired samaras, glabrous, with wings about 1 inch long, diverging slightly. WINTER-BUDS.--Small, acute, red-brown, glabrous or somewhat pubescent toward the apex, the terminal 1/4 inch long, the lateral smaller, appressed. BARK.--Twigs smooth, pale brown, becoming gray and smooth on the branches; old trunks dark gray, deeply furrowed, often cleaving up at one edge in long, thick plates. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, strong, close-grained, tough, durable, light brown, with thin, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Found throughout the entire state. HABITAT.--Prefers moist, rich soil in valleys and uplands and moist, rocky slopes. NOTES.--The most important hardwood in Michigan. The tree which produces the bulk of the maple sugar of the market. [Illustration: +Black Maple. Black Sugar Maple+ 1. Winter twig, × 2. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1.] +ACERACEAE+ +Black Maple. Black Sugar Maple+ _Acer saccharum nigrum (Michx. f.) Britt._ [_Acer nigrum Michx._] HABIT.--A stately tree, sometimes reaching a height of 80 feet, with a trunk diameter of 2-3 feet; branches stout, forming a broad, rounded, symmetrical crown. LEAVES.--Opposite, simple, concave, 5-7 inches across, the breadth usually exceeding the length; usually 5-lobed at maturity, the two lower lobes being small, often reduced to a mere curve in the outline, the pointed lobes undulate or entire and narrowed from the broad, shallow sinuses; thick and firm; glabrous above, downy beneath; petioles stout, usually pendent, tomentose. The sides of the larger leaves often droop giving to the tree an air of depression. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; monoecious; in nearly sessile, umbel-like corymbs; about 1/4 inch long, yellow, on slender, hairy pedicels 2-3 inches long; calyx campanulate, pilose, 5-lobed; corolla 0; stamens 7-8; ovary hairy. FRUIT.--Ripens in autumn; glabrous, paired samaras, clustered on drooping pedicels; wings set wide apart, but only slightly diverging. WINTER-BUDS.--Small, ovoid, acute, with dark red-brown, acute scales, hoary-pubescent on the outer surface. BARK.--Twigs smooth, pale gray; becoming thick, deeply furrowed and sometimes almost black on the trunk. WOOD.--Hard, heavy, strong, close-grained, creamy white, with thin, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Lower Peninsula, south-eastern portion. HABITAT.--Prefers low, moist, rich soil of river-bottoms, but does well on gravelly soils and uplands. NOTES.--Very variable. A very good shade tree because of its dense foliage. It is claimed by some that the finest grades of maple sugar are made from the sap of this tree. [Illustration: +Silver Maple. Soft Maple+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1. 7. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 8. Fruit, × 1/2.] +ACERACEAE+ +Silver Maple. Soft Maple+ _Acer saccharinum L._ [_Acer dasycarpum Ehrh._] HABIT.--A beautiful tree, growing to a height of 60-80 feet, with a trunk diameter of 2-4 feet, usually separating near the ground into 3-4 upright stems which are destitute of branches for a considerable distance. Usually the long, slender branches bend downwards, but with their tips ascending in a graceful curve. Crown broad, especially in its upper portion. LEAVES.--Opposite, simple, 3-6 inches long and nearly as broad; usually 5-lobed by narrow, acute sinuses which extend nearly to the midrib, the lobes often sublobed, sharply toothed; light green above, silvery white beneath, turning pale yellow in autumn; petioles long, slender, drooping. FLOWERS.--March-April, before the leaves; polygamo-monoecious or dioecious; small, yellow-green, in crowded, sessile umbels; calyx 5-lobed (sometimes each lobe again divided); corolla 0; stamens 3-7; ovary hairy. FRUIT.--May, germinating as soon as it reaches the ground; paired samaras, large, glabrous, curving inwards, one samara often aborted. WINTER-BUDS.--Dark red, blunt; the terminal about 1/4 inch long, with bud-scales often apiculate at the apex; flower-buds clustered on side spurs. BARK.--Twigs smooth, red-gray, lustrous; young trunks gray, smooth; old trunks dark gray, more or less furrowed, separating into thin, loose scales. WOOD.--Hard, strong, close-grained, rather brittle, perishable, pale brown, with thick, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Lower Peninsula south of Saginaw Bay. HABITAT.--Prefers low, rich bottom-lands, subject to occasional inundation, but not in swamps. NOTES.--A rapid grower, adapting itself to a variety of soils. Does not do well on dry, elevated ground. The first tree to blossom in early spring. [Illustration: +Red Maple. Soft Maple+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 1. 4. Fascicle of staminate flowers, × 1. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Fascicle of pistillate flowers, × 1. 7. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 8. Fruit, × 3/4.] +ACERACEAE+ +Red Maple. Soft Maple+ _Acer rubrum L._ HABIT.--A medium-sized tree 40-50 feet high, occasionally in swamps 60-75 feet; trunk 1-3 feet in diameter; upright branches, which form a low, rather narrow, rounded crown. LEAVES.--Opposite, simple, 3-4 inches long and nearly as broad; 3-5-lobed by broad, acute sinuses, the lobes irregularly doubly serrate or toothed; glabrous, green above, whitish and generally glabrous beneath, turning bright scarlet in autumn; petioles long, slender. FLOWERS.--March-April, before the leaves; polygamo-monoecious or dioecious; in few-flowered fascicles on shoots of the previous year, the pistillate red, the staminate orange; sepals 4-5; petals 4-5; stamens 5-8; ovary smooth. FRUIT.--May-June, germinating immediately after reaching the ground; samaras small, on drooping pedicels 2-4 inches long; wings about 1 inch long, diverging at about a right angle. WINTER-BUDS.--Dark red, blunt; terminal bud about 1/8 inch long, with bud-scales rounded at the apex; flower-buds clustered on side spurs. BARK.--Twigs bright red, lustrous, becoming smooth and light gray on the branches; old trunks dark gray, ridged, separating into plate-like scales. WOOD.--Heavy, close-grained, not strong, light brown, with thick, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Throughout the entire state. HABITAT.--Prefers swamp-lands or banks of streams; rarely found on hillsides. NOTES.--A valuable shade and ornamental tree. Sugar has been made in small quantities from the sap. [Illustration: +Norway Maple+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Raceme of staminate flowers, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Raceme of pistillate flowers, × 1/2. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1/2.] +ACERACEAE+ +Norway Maple+ _Acer platanoides L._ HABIT.--A tall, handsome tree, with a height of 40-60 feet, and a trunk diameter of 1-2 feet, having a round, spreading crown of stout branches, resembling _A. saccharum_. Twigs coarse. LEAVES.--Opposite, simple, 5-7 inches broad, and almost as long; thin; 5-7-lobed at maturity, lobes remotely coarse-toothed with the teeth drawn out into filamentous points, separated by rounded, scallop-like sinuses; glabrous, bright green both sides, turning pale yellow in autumn; petioles long, slender, exuding a milky juice when cut. FLOWERS.--May-June, before or with the leaves; dioecious; large, yellow-green, in erect, short, flat racemes; sepals 5; petals 5; stamens 8. FRUIT.--Ripens in autumn and germinates the following spring; pendent on long stalks; large, glabrous, paired samaras, with wings 2 inches long, diverging by nearly 180°. WINTER-BUDS.--Yellow-green, red or dull red-brown; terminal bud about 1/4 inch long, broad, short-stalked, with bud-scales strongly keeled; lateral buds small, appressed; buds exuding a milky juice when cut. BARK.--Twigs lustrous, light brown to greenish; trunk dark gray, becoming closely fissured, not scaly. WOOD.--Moderately heavy, hard, close-grained, whitish or brownish, with white sapwood. NOTES.--Exotic from Europe. Extensively planted in cities for its abundant shade. The roots strike deep and spread laterally, enabling the tree to hold its own in a city environment. It holds its leaves two weeks longer in autumn than do our native maples. A rapid grower. [Illustration: +Sycamore Maple+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Perfect flower, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1/2.] +ACERACEAE+ +Sycamore Maple+ _Acer pseudo-platanus L._ HABIT.--A thrifty tree 50-60 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 2-3 feet; the crown roundish, spreading. LEAVES.--Opposite, simple, 4-7 inches across, and as long as broad; thick; pentagonally 5-lobed, the lobes more or less ovate, separated by very narrow, acute sinuses extending about half-way to the midrib, the lobes coarsely and irregularly blunt-serrate, crenate-serrate, or slightly lobed; upper surface dark green and shining, somewhat wrinkled, but paler dull green and glaucous beneath; petioles long, stout. FLOWERS.--April, before the leaves; polygamo-monoecious; large, greenish yellow, in pendent racemes of umbellate cymes of about three each; sepals 5; petals 5; stamens 8, hairy; ovary hairy. FRUIT.--Ripens in autumn and germinates the following spring; pendent on long stalks; large, glabrous, paired samaras, with wings 1-1/2 inches long, diverging at about a right angle. WINTER-BUDS.--Bright green; terminal bud 1/4-1/2 inch long, ovoid to subglobose, blunt, with bud-scales more or less keeled; lateral buds small, divergent. BARK.--Twigs lustrous, brown or gray, becoming slate colored on the branches; trunk gray or brownish, smooth or flaking off in short scales. WOOD.--Moderately heavy, hard, compact, brownish, with white sapwood. NOTES.--Exotic from Europe. Much planted in our cities, where it is thrifty, but short-lived. The crown is rather too broad for planting anywhere except on our widest streets. The leaves last two weeks longer in autumn than do those of our native maples. [Illustration: +Boxelder. Ash-leaved Maple+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1.] +ACERACEAE+ +Boxelder. Ash-leaved Maple+ _Acer negundo L._ [_Negundo aceroides Muench._] HABIT.--A sturdy little tree 30-50 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-2 feet. Trunk often divides near the ground into several stout, wide-spreading branches, forming a broad, unsymmetrical, open crown. LEAVES.--Opposite, pinnately compound. Leaflets 3-5 in number, 2-4 inches long, 1-1/2-2-1/2 inches broad; ovate or oval; nearly entire, irregularly and remotely coarse-toothed above the middle, or sometimes 3-lobed (often giving the leaflet a jagged outline); apex acute, base variable; glabrous or somewhat pubescent at maturity, with prominent veins. Petioles slender, 2-3 inches long, the enlarged base leaving prominent crescent-shaped scars partly surrounding the winter-buds. FLOWERS.--April, before or with the leaves; dioecious; small, yellow-green; the staminate in clusters on long, thread-like, hairy pedicels; the pistillate in narrow, drooping racemes; calyx hairy, 5-lobed; corolla 0; stamens 4-6; ovary pubescent. FRUIT.--Early summer, but hanging until late autumn or early spring; narrow, flat, winged samaras, in pairs, clustered in drooping, racemose clusters. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud 1/8-1/4 inch long, acute, inclosed in two dull red scales, often hoary or minutely pubescent; lateral buds obtuse, appressed. BARK.--Twigs greenish to purple, glaucous; trunk pale gray or light brown, deeply cleft into broad ridges. WOOD.--Light, soft, close-grained, weak, creamy white, with thick, hardly distinguishable sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Lower Peninsula as far north as Saginaw Bay. HABITAT.--Banks of streams and borders of swamps. Prefers deep, moist soil. NOTES.--Accommodates itself to almost any situation. Easily transplanted. Much planted for shade and ornament. Fast-growing, but short-lived. +SUMMER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF AESCULUS+ a. Leaflets usually 5; foliage ill-smelling when bruised; bark broken into thick plates; prickly bur about 1 inch in diameter. _A. glabra_, p. 199. aa. Leaflets usually 7; foliage not ill-smelling when bruised; bark broken into thin plates; prickly bur about 2 inches in diameter. _A. hippocastanum_, p. 197. +WINTER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF AESCULUS+ a. Terminal bud about 2/3 inch long; bud-scales covered with a glaucous bloom, not conspicuously resinous; bark broken into thick plates; prickly bur about 1 inch in diameter. _A. glabra_, p. 199. aa. Terminal bud 1-1-1/2 inches long; bud-scales conspicuously sticky-resinous, glistening; bark broken into thin plates; prickly bur about 2 inches in diameter. _A. hippocastanum_, p. 197. [Illustration: +Horse-chestnut+ 1. Winter twig, × 3/4. 2. Leaf, × 1/6. 3. Leaflet, × 1/2. 4. Flower, × 1. 5. Fruit, × 1/2.] +SAPINDACEAE+ +Horse-chestnut+ _Aesculus hippocastanum L._ HABIT.--A handsome tree, with a height of 40-60 feet and a trunk diameter of 1-2 feet, forming a broad, conical crown. The regularly occurring branches ascend from the trunk at first, gradually bend downwards as they lengthen, and end in a thick, upturning spray. LEAVES.--Opposite, digitately compound. Leaflets usually 7, rarely 5, 5-7 inches long, 1-1/2-2-1/2 inches broad; obovate, wedge-shaped at the base; irregularly and bluntly serrate; thick; rough, dark green above, paler beneath, turning a rusty yellow in autumn. Petioles long, grooved, swollen at the base. FLOWERS.--May-June, after the leaves; polygamo-monoecious; large, whitish, in showy, upright, terminal thyrses 8-12 inches long; pedicels jointed, 4-6-flowered; calyx campanulate, 5-lobed; petals 5, white, spotted with yellow and red, clawed; stamens 7, thread-like, longer than the petals. FRUIT.--October; a leathery, globular capsule about 2 inches in diameter, roughened with short spines; containing 1-3 large, smooth, lustrous, brown nuts, marked by large, pale scars. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal buds 1-1-1/2 inches long, acute, brownish, covered with glistening, resinous gum; inner scales yellowish, becoming 1-1/2-2 inches long in spring, remaining until the leaves are nearly half grown. BARK.--Twigs smooth, red-brown; trunk dark brown and broken into thin plates by shallow fissures; rich in tannin, bitter. WOOD.--Light, soft, close-grained, weak, whitish, with thin, light brown sapwood. NOTES.--A native of Greece, extensively cultivated throughout Europe and America, where it is a favorite shade tree. A double-flowered variety, _Aesculus hippocastanum, v. flòre plèno_, which bears no fruit is a common garden form. [Illustration: +Ohio Buckeye+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/6. 3. Leaflet, × 1/2. 4. Flower, × 2. 5. Fruit, × 1/2. 6. Nut, × 1/2.] +SAPINDACEAE+ +Ohio Buckeye+ _Aesculus glabra Willd._ HABIT.--A medium-sized tree 30-50 feet in height, with a trunk not over 2 feet in diameter; usually much smaller; slender, spreading branches, forming a broad, rounded crown; twigs thick. LEAVES.--Opposite, digitately compound. Leaflets usually 5, rarely 7, 3-6 inches long, 1-1/2-2-1/2 inches broad; ovate or oval, gradually narrowed to the entire base; irregularly and finely serrate; glabrous, yellow-green above, paler beneath, turning yellow in autumn. Petioles 4-6 inches long, slender, enlarged at the base. Foliage ill-smelling when bruised. FLOWERS.--April-May, after the leaves; polygamo-monoecious; small, yellow-green, in terminal panicles 5-6 inches long and 2-3 inches broad, more or less downy; pedicels 4-6-flowered; calyx campanulate, 5-lobed; petals 4, pale yellow, hairy, clawed; stamens 7, with long, hairy filaments. FRUIT.--October; a thick, leathery, prickly capsule, about 1 inch in diameter, containing a single large, smooth, lustrous, brown nut. A large pale scar gives the name "Buckeye". WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal buds 2/3 inch long, acute, resinous, brownish; inner scales yellow-green, becoming 1-1/2-2 inches long in spring and remaining until the leaves are nearly half grown. BARK.--Twigs smooth, red-brown, becoming ashy gray; old trunks densely furrowed and broken into thick plates; ill-smelling when bruised. WOOD.--Light, soft, close-grained, weak, whitish, with thin, light brown sapwood. NOTES.--A native of the Mississippi River Valley. Occasionally planted in southern Michigan for ornamental purposes, but is less popular than the Horse-chestnut. [Illustration: +Basswood+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Cyme of flowers, with its bract, × 1/2. 4. Flower, with two petals, petaloid scales and stamens removed, enlarged. 5. Stamen, enlarged. 6. Fruit, × 1/2.] +TILIACEAE+ +Basswood+ _Tilia americana L._ HABIT.--A tree usually 60-70 feet high, with a tall, straight trunk 2-4 feet in diameter; numerous slender branches form a dense, ovoid or rounded crown. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 5-6 inches long, 3-4 inches broad; obliquely heart-shaped; coarsely serrate; thick and firm; glabrous, dull dark green above, paler beneath; petioles slender, 1-2 inches long. FLOWERS.--June-July, after the leaves; perfect, regular; yellowish white, downy, fragrant; borne on slender pedicels in loose, drooping cymes, the peduncle attached for half its length to a narrow, oblong, yellowish bract; sepals 5, downy; petals 5, creamy white; stamens numerous, in 5 clusters; ovary 5-celled; stigma 5-lobed. FRUIT.--October; globose, nut-like, woody, gray, tomentose, about the size of peas. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds ovoid, acute, often lopsided, smooth, dark red, 1/4 inch long. BARK.--Twigs smooth, reddish gray, becoming dark gray or brown; dark gray and smooth on young stems, on old trunks thick, deeply furrowed into broad, scaly ridges. WOOD.--Light, soft, close-grained, tough, light red-brown, with thick sapwood of nearly the same color. DISTRIBUTION.--Common in most parts of the Lower Peninsula, frequent in the Upper Peninsula. HABITAT.--Prefers rich, well-drained, loamy soils. NOTES.--Rapid in growth. Easily transplanted. Recommended for street and ornamental planting. +SUMMER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF CORNUS+ a. Leaves mostly alternate; branches usually greenish; flowers not surrounded by large petal-like bracts; fruit globular, blue, borne many in loose clusters. _C. alternifolia_, p. 207. aa. Leaves opposite; branches usually reddish or yellowish; flowers surrounded by large petal-like bracts; fruit ovoid, scarlet, borne in close clusters of 3-4. _C. florida_, p. 205. +WINTER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF CORNUS+ a. Leaf-scars mostly alternate; buds light brown; branches usually greenish. _C. alternifolia_, p. 207. aa. Leaf-scars opposite; buds greenish; branches usually reddish or yellowish. _C. florida_, p. 205. [Illustration: +Flowering Dogwood. Dogwood. Boxwood+ 1. Winter twig, with leaf buds, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Winter twig, with flower bud, × 1. 4. Leaf, × 1/2. 5. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 6. Flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1.] +CORNACEAE+ +Flowering Dogwood. Dogwood. Boxwood+ _Cornus florida L._ HABIT.--A bushy tree with a height of 15-30 feet and a short trunk 8-12 inches in diameter; slender, spreading branches form a flat-topped crown. LEAVES.--Opposite, closely clustered at the ends of the branchlets, simple, 3-5 inches long, 2-3 inches broad; ovate to elliptical; obscurely wavy-toothed; thick and firm; bright green, covered with minute, appressed hairs above, pale and more or less pubescent beneath, turning bright scarlet in autumn; petioles short, grooved. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; perfect; greenish; in dense clusters, surrounded by 4 large, white or pinkish, petal-like bracts (often mistaken for the corolla), borne on short, stout peduncles; calyx 4-lobed, light green; petals 4, yellow-green; stamens 4, alternate with the petals; ovary 2-celled. FRUIT.--October; an ovoid, scarlet drupe, borne in close clusters of 3-4; flesh is bitter. WINTER-BUDS.--Leaf-buds narrow-conical, acute, greenish; flower-buds spherical or vertically flattened, grayish. BARK.--Twigs pale green, becoming red or yellow-green their first winter, later becoming light brown or red-gray; red-brown or blackish on the trunk, often separating into quadrangular, plate-like scales. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, strong, tough, close-grained, brownish, with thick, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Southern Michigan as far north as the Grand-Saginaw Valley. HABITAT.--Prefers rich, well-drained soil, usually under the shade of other trees. NOTES.--A valuable species for ornamental purposes. Rather slow of growth. [Illustration: +Blue Dogwood. Alternate-leaved Dogwood+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 3/4. 4. Flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Flower, enlarged. 6. Fruiting branchlet, × 1/2.] +CORNACEAE+ +Blue Dogwood. Alternate-leaved Dogwood+ _Cornus alternifolia L. f._ HABIT.--A small tree or large shrub reaching a height of 25-30 feet and a trunk diameter of 6-8 inches; more often smaller than this. The long, slender branches are arranged in irregular whorls, forming flat, horizontal tiers, giving the tree a storied effect. LEAVES.--Mostly alternate and clustered at the ends of the branchlets; simple, 3-5 inches long, 2-1/2-3 inches broad; oval or ovate, long-pointed, wedge-shaped at the base; obscurely wavy-toothed; thin; dark green, nearly glabrous above, paler and covered with appressed hairs beneath, turning yellow and scarlet in autumn; petioles slender, grooved, hairy, with clasping bases. FLOWERS.--May-June, after the leaves; perfect; borne on slender pedicels in many-flowered, irregular, open cymes from the season's shoots; calyx cup-shaped, obscurely 4-toothed, covered with fine, silky, white hairs; petals 4, cream colored; stamens 4; ovary 2-celled. FRUIT.--October; a globular, blue-black drupe, borne in loose, red-stemmed clusters; flesh bitter. WINTER-BUDS.--Leaf-buds small, acute, light brown; flower-buds spherical or vertically flattened. BARK.--Twigs greenish or reddish, becoming smooth, dark green; thin, dark red-brown and shallowly fissured on the trunk. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, close-grained, red-brown, with thick, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Scattered throughout both peninsulas. HABITAT.--Prefers moist, well-drained soil on the borders of streams and swamps, often in the shade of other trees. NOTES.--Hardy throughout the state. Easily transplanted. The only _Cornus_ with alternate leaves and branches. [Illustration: +Black Gum. Pepperidge+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Portion of twig, enlarged. 3. Leaf, × 3/4. 4. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 5. Staminate flower, enlarged. 6. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 7. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 8. Fruit, × 1/2.] +CORNACEAE+ +Black Gum. Pepperidge+ _Nyssa sylvatica Marsh._ [_Nyssa multiflora Wang._] HABIT.--A medium-sized tree 40-50 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-2 feet, forming a rounded to cylindrical crown of slender, spreading, pendulous branches and a stiff, flat spray. LEAVES.--Alternate, simple, 2-5 inches long, one-half as broad; oblong-obovate to oval; entire, or sometimes wavy-margined; thick and firm; very lustrous and dark green above, pale and often hairy beneath, turning bright scarlet, on the upper surface only, in autumn; petioles short. FLOWERS.--May-June, with the leaves; polygamo-dioecious; greenish; borne on slender, downy peduncles; the staminate slender-pedicelled, in many-flowered heads; the pistillate sessile, in several-flowered clusters; calyx cup-shaped, 5-toothed; petals 5; stamens 5-10; stigma stout, terete, recurved. FRUIT.--October; fleshy drupes, ovoid, blue-black, about 1/2 inch long, sour, in clusters of 1-3. WINTER-BUDS.--1/8-1/4 inch long, ovoid, obtuse, dark red. BARK.--Twigs greenish or light brown, smooth or often downy, becoming smooth, dark red-brown; thick, red-brown on old trunks, deeply furrowed. WOOD.--Heavy, soft, strong, very tough, difficult to split, not durable in contact with the soil, pale yellow, with thick, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Frequent in the southern half of the Lower Peninsula. Has been reported as far north as Manistee. HABITAT.--Prefers the borders of swamps and low, wet lands. Rarely flourishes in exposed situations. NOTES.--Of great ornamental value. Not easily transplanted. Pith of twigs with thin, transverse partitions. +SUMMER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF FRAXINUS+ a. Lateral leaflets sessile. _F. nigra_, p. 221. aa. Lateral leaflets petioluled. b. Twigs, petioles and lower sides of leaves pubescent. _F. pennsylvanica_, p. 215. bb. Twigs, petioles and lower sides of leaves essentially glabrous. c. Twigs prominently 4-angled. _F. quadrangulata_, p. 219. cc. Twigs terete. d. Lower sides of leaves essentially of the same color as the upper; leaflet-margins rather finely sharp-serrate. _F. pennsylvanica lanceolata_, p. 217. dd. Lower sides of leaves paler than the upper; leaflet-margins entire or obscurely serrate. _F. americana_, p. 213. WINTER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF FRAXINUS a. Twigs prominently 4-angled; fruit falling in early autumn. _F. quadrangulata_, p. 219. aa. Twigs terete; fruit often persistent on the tree until mid-winter or the following spring. b. Buds rusty-tomentose; twigs more or less downy. _F. pennsylvanica_, p. 215. bb. Buds not tomentose; twigs not downy. c. Terminal bud black or nearly so, showing 3 pairs of scales in cross-section; bud-scales apiculate at the apex; samaras with broad wings, the seed portion flattish; bark flaky, rubbing off on the hand. _F. nigra_, p. 221. cc. Terminal bud brownish, showing 4 pairs of scales in cross-section; bud-scales rounded at the apex; samaras with narrow wings, the seed portion terete; bark ridged, not flaky and rubbing off on the hand. d. Upper margin of leaf-scars deeply concave. _F. americana_, p. 213. dd. Upper margin of leaf-scars not concave, but straight across or projecting upward. _F. pennsylvanica lanceolata_, p. 217. [Illustration: +White Ash+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/4. 3. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1.] +OLEACEAE+ +White Ash+ _Fraxinus americana L._ HABIT.--A large tree 50-75 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 2-3 feet; forming an open, pyramidal crown of long, slender, lateral branches and a stout, rather sparse spray. LEAVES.--Opposite, pinnately compound, 8-12 inches long. Leaflets usually 7-9, 3-5 inches long, 1-2 inches broad; short-stalked; ovate to oblong-lanceolate; entire or obscurely serrate; thick and firm; glabrous, dark green above, paler beneath. Petioles glabrous, stout, grooved. FLOWERS.--May, before the leaves; dioecious; borne in loose panicles on shoots of the previous season; calyx campanulate, 4-lobed; corolla 0; stamens 2, rarely 3; ovary 2-celled. FRUIT.--August-September, persistent on the branches until mid-winter or the following spring; samaras 1-2 inches long, in crowded, drooping, paniculate clusters 6-8 inches long. WINTER-BUDS.--Short, rather obtuse; bud-scales apiculate, keeled, 4 pairs, rusty-brown. BARK.--Twigs at first dark green, becoming gray or light brown, often covered with a glaucous bloom; gray, deeply furrowed into firm, narrow, flattened ridges on the trunk. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, strong, close-grained, tough, brown, with thick, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Of common occurrence throughout the state. HABITAT.--Prefers a rich, moist, loamy soil, but grows in any well-drained situation; common along stream-beds. NOTES.--Grows rapidly. Easily transplanted. Fairly free from disease. Leaves appear late in spring. [Illustration: +Red Ash+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/3. 3. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1.] +OLEACEAE+ +Red Ash+ _Fraxinus pennsylvanica Marsh._ [_Fraxinus pubescens Lam._] HABIT.--A medium-sized tree 30-50 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-2 feet; stout, upright branches and slender branchlets form a compact, broad, irregular crown. LEAVES.--Opposite, pinnately compound, 10-12 inches long. Leaflets 7-9, 3-5 inches long, 1-1-1/2 inches broad; short-stalked; oblong-lanceolate to ovate; slightly serrate or entire; thin and firm; glabrous, yellow-green above, pale and silky-downy beneath. Petioles stout, pubescent. FLOWERS.--May, with the leaves; dioecious; borne in compact, downy panicles on shoots of the previous season; calyx cup-shaped, 4-toothed; corolla 0; stamens 2, rarely 3; ovary 2-celled. FRUIT.--Early autumn, persistent on the branches throughout the winter; samaras 1-2 inches long, in open, paniculate clusters. WINTER-BUDS.--Small, rounded; bud-scales rounded on the back, 3 pairs, rusty-brown, tomentose. BARK.--Twigs pale-pubescent at first, lasting 2-3 years or often disappearing during the first summer, finally ashy gray or brownish and often covered with a glaucous bloom; brown or dark gray on the trunk, with many longitudinal, shallow furrows; somewhat scaly. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, strong, brittle, coarse-grained, light brown, with thick, yellow-streaked sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Not a common tree. Most frequent in the southern half of the Lower Peninsula, but has been reported further north, i.e., Drummond's Island and Keweenaw County, Upper Peninsula. HABITAT.--Prefers wet or moist, rich loam; river-banks; swampy lowlands. NOTES.--A rapid grower in youth. Fairly immune from insect and fungous diseases. [Illustration: +Green Ash+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/3. 3. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 6. Pistillate flower, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1.] +OLEACEAE+ +Green Ash+ _Fraxinus pennsylvanica lanceolata (Borkh.) Sarg._ [_Fraxinus lanceolata Borkh._] [_Fraxinus viridis Michx. f._] Considered by some authors to be a distinct species, and by others a variety of _F. pennsylvanica Marsh._, which it resembles. The main points of difference are: The usual absence of pubescence from the branchlets, the underside of the leaflets, and the petioles. The rather narrower, shorter, and more sharply serrate leaflets. The color of the leaves, which is bright green on both sides. A very hardy tree, of rapid growth and desirable habit, making it useful for ornamental and street planting. Easily transplanted. Of rare occurrence in Michigan, but has been reported from several localities. [Illustration: +Blue Ash+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/2. 3. Flowering branchlet, × 1. 4. Flower, enlarged. 5. Fruit, × 1/2.] +OLEACEAE+ +Blue Ash+ _Fraxinus quadrangulata Michx._ HABIT.--A large tree 50-80 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-3 feet; small, spreading branches and stout, 4-angled, more or less 4-winged branchlets form a narrow crown. LEAVES.--Opposite, pinnately compound, 8-12 inches long. Leaflets 5-9, usually 7, 3-5 inches long, 1-2 inches broad; short-stalked; ovate-oblong to lanceolate, long-pointed; coarsely serrate; thick and firm; yellow-green above, paler beneath, glabrous. Petioles slender, glabrous. FLOWERS.--April, before the leaves; perfect; borne in loose panicles on shoots of the previous season; calyx reduced to a ring; corolla 0; stamens 2; ovary 2-celled. FRUIT.--September-October, falling soon after; samaras 1-2 inches long, in long, loose, paniculate clusters. WINTER-BUDS.--Short, rather obtuse; bud-scales rounded on the back, 3 pairs, dark red-brown, somewhat pubescent. BARK.--Twigs orange, rusty-pubescent, becoming brownish or grayish; on the trunk light gray tinged with red, irregularly divided into large, plate-like scales, often with the shaggy appearance of a Shagbark Hickory. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, close-grained, brittle, light yellow-streaked with brown, with thick, light yellow sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Occasionally in the southern half of the Lower Peninsula. Nowhere abundant. HABITAT.--Prefers rich, limestone hills, but grows well in fertile bottom-lands. NOTES.--Hardy and grows rapidly. A blue dye is made by macerating the inner bark in water. [Illustration: +Black Ash+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/3. 3. Staminate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 4. Staminate flower, enlarged. 5. Pistillate flowering branchlet, × 1/2. 6. Pistillate flowers, enlarged. 7. Fruit, × 1.] +OLEACEAE+ +Black Ash+ _Fraxinus nigra Marsh._ [_Fraxinus sambucifolia Lam._] HABIT.--A tall tree 60-80 feet high, with a trunk diameter of 1-2 feet; slender, upright branches form in the forest a narrow crown, in the open a rounded, ovoid crown. LEAVES.--Opposite, pinnately compound, 12-16 inches long. Leaflets 7-11, 3-5 inches long, 1-2 inches broad; sessile, except the terminal; oblong to oblong-lanceolate, long-pointed; remotely, but sharply serrate; thin and firm; dark green above, paler beneath, glabrous. Petioles stout, grooved, glabrous. FLOWERS.--May, before the leaves; polygamo-dioecious; borne in loose panicles on shoots of the preceeding season; calyx 0; corolla 0; stamens 2; ovary 2-celled. FRUIT.--August-September, falling early, or sometimes hanging on the tree until the following spring; samaras 1-1-1/2 inches long, in open, paniculate clusters 8-10 inches long. WINTER-BUDS.--Ovoid, pointed; bud-scales rounded on the back, 3 pairs, almost black. BARK.--Twigs at first dark green, becoming ashy gray or orange, finally dark gray and warted; thin, soft ash-gray and scaly on the trunk. Bark flakes off on rubbing with the hand. WOOD.--Heavy, tough, coarse-grained, weak, rather soft, dark brown, with thin, lighter colored sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Common throughout most portions of Michigan. HABITAT.--Prefers deep, cold swamps and low river-banks, but grows in any good soil. NOTES.--Hardy throughout the state. Not easily transplanted. Foliage falls early in autumn. +SUMMER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF CATALPA+ a. Leaves 5-8 inches long, thick; flowers 1-1/2 inches across, prominently yellow-spotted; seeds with _pointed_, fringed wings at each end; branches rather crooked and straggling; bark thin, separating into thin scales on the trunk. _C. bignonioides_, p. 227. aa. Leaves 8-12 inches long, thin; flowers 2-1/2 inches across, not prominently spotted; seeds with _rounded_, wide-fringed wings at each end; branches not crooked and straggling; bark thick, separating into thick scales on the trunk. _C. speciosa_, p. 225. +WINTER KEY TO THE SPECIES OF CATALPA+ a. Fruiting capsules about 1/4 inch thick; seeds with _pointed_, fringed wings at each end; branches rather crooked and straggling; bark thin, separating into thin scales on the trunk. _C. bignonioides_, p. 227. aa. Fruiting capsules about 1/2 inch thick, seeds with _rounded_, wide-fringed wings at each end; branches not crooked and straggling; bark thick, separating into thick scales on the trunk. _C. speciosa_, p. 225. [Illustration: +Hardy Catalpa+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 1/4. 3. Panicle of flowers, × 3/8. 4. Fruit, × 1/2. 5. Seed, × 1.] +BIGNONIACEAE+ +Hardy Catalpa+ _Catalpa speciosa Warder._ HABIT.--A tree 50-75 feet high, with a short, often crooked trunk and a broad, rounded crown of slender, spreading branches and thick branchlets. LEAVES.--Opposite or whorled, simple, 8-12 inches long, 6-8 inches broad; heart-shaped; entire or sometimes slightly lobed; thick and firm; glabrous, dark green above, downy beneath, with clusters of dark, nectariferous glands in the axils of the primary veins, turning black and falling with the first severe frost; petioles long, stout, terete. FLOWERS.--June-July, after the leaves are full grown; perfect; borne on slender, purplish pedicels in open, few-flowered panicles 5-6 inches long; calyx 2-lobed, purple; corolla white with inconspicuous yellow spots, campanulate, 5-lobed, 2-1/2 inches broad; stamens 2, staminodia 3; ovary 2-celled. FRUIT.--Ripens in early autumn; slender, 2-celled, cylindrical capsule 10-20 inches long and about 1/2 inch thick; hangs on tree all winter, opening in spring before falling; seeds light brown, 1 inch long, with rounded, wide-fringed wings at each end. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds brownish, globose, inconspicuous. BARK.--Twigs greenish, often with purple tinge, becoming orange or red-brown and covered with a slight bloom the first winter, finally darker with age; thick, red-brown, broken into thick scales on the trunk. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, coarse-grained, light brown, with very thin, almost white sapwood; very durable in contact with the soil. NOTES.--A native of Illinois, Indiana, and the states adjoining on the south, but much planted in Michigan as a shade and ornamental tree. Closely resembles _C. bignonioides_, but is a larger and hardier tree. [Illustration: +Catalpa+ 1. Winter twig, × 1. 2. Leaf, × 3/8. 3. Panicle of flowers, × 1/3. 4. Fruit, × 1/2. 5. Seed, × 1.] +BIGNONIACEAE+ +Catalpa+ _Catalpa bignonioides Walt._ [_Catalpa catalpa (L.) Karst._] HABIT.--A tree 40-30 feet high, with a short, thick trunk and a broad, irregular crown of long, crooked branches and coarse, upright branchlets. LEAVES.--Opposite or whorled, simple, 5-8 inches long, 4-5 inches broad; heart-shaped; entire or sometimes slightly lobed; thin and firm; glabrous, light green above, downy beneath, with dark, nectariferous glands in the axils of the primary veins, turning black and falling with the first severe frost; petioles long, stout, terete. FLOWERS.--June-July, after the leaves are full grown; perfect; borne on slender, hairy pedicels in compact, many-flowered panicles 8-10 inches long; calyx 2-lobed, green or purple; corolla white with yellow spots, campanulate, 5-lobed, 1-1/2 inches broad; stamens 2, staminodia 3; ovary 2-celled. FRUIT.--Ripens in early autumn; slender, 2-celled, cylindrical capsule 8-20 inches long and about 1/4 inch thick; hangs on tree all winter, opening in spring before falling; seeds silvery gray, 1 inch long, with pointed, fringed wings at each end. WINTER-BUDS.--Terminal bud absent; lateral buds, brownish, globose, inconspicuous. BARK.--Twigs greenish purple, becoming red-brown and marked by a network of thin, flat ridges; thin, red-brown on the trunk, separating into large, thin, irregular scales. WOOD.--Light, soft, weak, coarse-grained, light brown, with very thin, whitish sapwood; very durable in contact with the soil. NOTES.--A native of the Lower Mississippi River Basin, but naturalized in southern Michigan, where it is a popular shade and ornamental tree. Foliage appears very tardily in spring. [Illustration: +Sheepberry. Nannyberry+ 1. Winter twig, with leaf buds, × 1. 2. Winter twig, with flower bud, × 1. 3. Leaf, × 3/4. 4. Flower, enlarged. 5. Fruiting branchlet, × 1/2.] +CAPRIFOLIACEAE+ +Sheepberry. Nannyberry+ _Viburnum lentago L._ HABIT.--A low tree or shrub 15-25 feet high, with a short trunk 6-10 inches in diameter; numerous tortuous branches form a wide, compact, rounded crown. LEAVES.--Opposite, simple, 2-4 inches long, one-half as broad; ovate to suborbicular; finely and sharply serrate; thick and firm; lustrous, bright green above, pale and marked with tiny black dots beneath; petioles broad, grooved, more or less winged, about 1 inch long. FLOWERS.--May-June, after the leaves; perfect; small; cream-white, borne in stout-branched, scurfy, flat, terminal cymes 3-5 inches across; calyx tubular, 5-toothed; corolla 5-lobed, cream color or white, 1/4 inch across; stamens 5, with yellow anthers; ovary 1-celled, with short, thick, green style and broad stigma. FRUIT.--September; a fleshy drupe, 1/2 inch long, ovoid, flattened, blue-black, borne in few-fruited, red-stemmed clusters; stone oval, flat, rough; flesh sweet, edible. WINTER-BUDS.--Leaf-buds narrow, acute, red, scurfy-pubescent, 1/2 inch long; flower-buds swollen at the base, with spire-like apex, grayish with scurfy pubescence, 3/4 inch long. BARK.--Twigs at first light green, rusty-pubescent, becoming dark red-brown; red-brown on old trunks and broken into small, thick plates. WOOD.--Heavy, hard, close-grained, ill-smelling, dark orange-brown, with thin, whitish sapwood. DISTRIBUTION.--Frequent throughout the state. HABITAT.--Prefers rich, moist soil along the borders of forests; roadsides; river-banks. NOTES.--Too small for street use. Propagated from seed or by cuttings. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: See page xviii.] [Footnote B: See page xviii.] [Footnote C: Although formerly classed under PINACEAE, recent investigations show it to be the type of a distinct family.] [Footnote D: It is not intended that this key shall serve as a means of identification of any species of _Salix_ found in Michigan, but it has added simply to give a ready comparison of the four species which are described.] [Footnote E: It is difficult to distinguish between these species in the absence of summer characters. If leaves can be found on or beneath a tree which is sufficiently segregated from similar trees as to avoid any chance for error, the summer key on the opposite page may be used.] [Footnote F: A discussion has recently arisen as to whether _Betula lenta_ actually exists in the state, some botanists preferring the name _B. alleghanensis Britt._ for the tree we have so long called Black Birch. Pending further investigation the authors have thought best to retain the old name. Ref.--Britton: North American Trees, pp. 257-8.] [Footnote G: [1] means that the acorns mature in the autumn of the first season, hence mature acorns will not be found on the tree, but on the ground beneath the tree. [2] means that the acorns mature in the autumn of the second season, hence immature acorns will be found on the last season's twigs, and mature acorns on the ground beneath the tree.] +GLOSSARY+ _With page references to explanatory figures._ _Abortion._ Imperfect development or non-development of an organ or part. _Acuminate._ Gradually tapering to the apex. Page XII. _Acute._ Terminating with a sharp angle. Page XII. _Alternate._ Said of leaves, branches, buds, etc., scattered singly along the stem; not opposite. _Androgynous._ Composed of both staminate and pistillate flowers. _Anterior._ The front side of a flower, remote from the axis of inflorescence. _Anther._ The part of a stamen which bears the pollen. Page xiii. _Apetalous._ Without petals. _Apex._ The top, as the tip of a bud or the end of a leaf which is opposite the petiole. _Apiculate._ Ending in a short-pointed tip. _Appressed._ Lying close and flat against. _Aromatic._ Fragrant; with an agreeable odor. _Axil._ The upper one of the two angles formed by the juncture of a leaf with a stem. _Axillary._ Situated in an axil. _Bark._ The outer covering of a trunk or branch. _Bearded._ Bearing a long, bristle-like appendage, or furnished with long or stiff hairs. _Berry._ A fruit which is fleshy throughout. _Bi-pinnate._ Twice pinnate. _Blade._ The expanded portion of a leaf, etc. _Bloom._ A powdery or waxy substance easily rubbed off. _Bract._ A more or less modified leaf subtending a flower or belonging to an inflorescence. _Branch._ A secondary division of a trunk. _Branchlet._ A small branch. _Bud._ An undeveloped stem or branch, with or without scales. _Bud-scales._ Modified leaves covering a bud. _Bundle-scars._ Dots on the surface of a leaf-scar, which are scars left by the fibro-vascular bundles which run through the petiole into the blade of the leaf. Page XVI. _Bur._ A spiny fruit. _Calyx._ The outer part of a perianth, usually green in color. Page xiii. _Campanulate._ Bell-shaped. _Capsule._ A dry fruit of more than one carpel which splits at maturity to release the seeds. _Carpel._ A simple pistil, or one member of a compound pistil. _Catkin._ A spike of unisexual flowers, each subtended by a bract, and usually deciduous in one piece. _Chambered._ Said of pith which is interrupted by hollow spaces. _Ciliate._ Fringed with hairs on the margin. _Cinereous._ Ash-gray color. _Claw._ The narrow, stalk-like base of a petal, sepal, etc. _Cleft._ Cut about half-way to the middle. _Cluster._ A group of two or more organs (flowers, fruit, etc.) on a plant at a node or end of a stem. _Compound._ Composed of two or more similar parts united into a whole. _Compound leaf_, one divided into separate leaflets. _Cone._ A fruit with woody, overlapping scales. _Conical._ Cone-shaped, largest at the base and tapering to the apex. _Connective._ The portion of a stamen which connects the two cells of the anther. _Cordate._ Heart-shaped. Page XII. _Coriaceous._ Leather-like in texture. _Corky._ Made of, or like cork. _Corolla._ The inner part of a perianth, usually bright colored. Page XIII. _Corymb._ A flower-cluster in which the axis is shortened and the pedicels of the lower flowers lengthened, forming a flat-topped inflorescence, the marginal flowers blooming first. Page XIV. _Corymbose._ Arranged in corymbs. _Crenate._ Dentate, with the teeth much rounded. Page XIII. _Crenulate._ Finely crenate. _Crown._ The upper part of a tree, including the living branches with their foliage. _Cutting._ A piece of the stem, root or leaf which, if cut off and placed in contact with the soil, will form new roots and buds, reproducing the parent plant. _Cyme._ A broad and flattish inflorescence, the central flowers of which bloom first. Page XIV. _Cymose._ Arranged in cymes. _Deciduous._ Not persistent; falling away, as the leaves of a tree in autumn. _Decurrent._ Said of a leaf which extends down the stem below the point of fastening. _Decussate._ Alternating in pairs at right angles. _Dehiscent._ Opening by valves or slits. _Deltoid._ Delta-shaped. _Dentate._ Toothed, with the teeth usually pointed and directed outward. Page XIII. _Depressed._ Somewhat flattened from above. _Dichotomous._ Branching regularly in pairs. _Digitate._ Said of a compound leaf in which the leaflets are borne at the apex of the petiole; finger-shaped. _Dioecious._ Unisexual, with staminate and pistillate flowers on different individuals. _Distribution._ The geographical extent and limits of a species. _Divergent._ Said of buds, cones, etc., which point away from the twig, or of pine needles, etc., which spread apart. _Dorsal._ Pertaining to the back or outer surface of an organ. _Downy._ Covered with fine hairs. _Drupe._ A fleshy or pulpy fruit in which the inner portion is hard or stony. _Ellipsoid._ An elliptical solid. _Elliptical._ Oval or oblong with regularly rounded ends. Page XII. _Emarginate._ Notched at the apex. Page XII. _Entire._ Without divisions, lobes or teeth. _Excrescences._ Warty outgrowths or protuberances. _Exfoliate._ To cleave off, as of the outer layers of bark. _Falcate._ Scythe-shaped. _Fascicle._ A compact cluster of leaves or flowers. _Fascicled._ Arranged in fascicles. _Fastigiate._ Said of branches which are erect and near together. _Feather-veined._ Having veins extending from the midrib to the margin, feather-wise. _Fertile._ Capable of bearing fruit. _Fertilization._ The mingling of the contents of a male (pollen) and female (ovule) cell. _Filament._ The part of a stamen which bears the anther. Page XIII. _Filamentose_ or _Filamentous_. Composed of threads or filaments. _Flaky._ With loose scales easily rubbed off (bark). _Fleshy._ Succulent; juicy. _Flower._ An axis bearing stamens or pistils or both (calyx and corolla usually accompany these). _Fluted._ With rounded ridges. _Fruit._ The part of a plant which bears the seed. _Germinate._ To sprout, as of a seed. _Gibbous._ Swollen on one side. _Glabrous._ Neither rough, pubescent, nor hairy; smooth. _Gland._ Secreting surface or structure; a protuberance having the appearance of such an organ. _Glandular._ Bearing glands. _Glaucous._ Covered or whitened with a bloom. _Globose._ Spherical or nearly so. _Globular._ Nearly globose. _Gregarious._ Growing in groups or colonies. _Habit._ The general appearance of a plant, best seen from a distance. _Habitat._ The place where a plant naturally grows, as in water, clay soil, marsh, etc. _Hairy._ With long hairs. _Halberd-shaped._ Like an arrow-head, but with the basal lobes pointing outward nearly at right angles. Page XII. _Heartwood._ The dead central portion of the trunk or large branch of a tree. _Hirsute._ Covered with rather coarse or stiff hairs. _Hoary._ Gray-white with a fine, close pubescence. _Homogeneous._ Uniform; composed of similar parts or elements. _Hybrid._ A cross between two nearly related species, formed by the action of the pollen of one upon the pistil of the other, yielding an intermediate form. _Imbricate._ Overlapping, like the shingles on a roof. _Indehiscent._ Not opening by valves or slits; remaining persistently closed. _Indigenous._ Native and original to a region. _Inflorescence._ The flowering part of a plant, and especially its arrangement. _Internode._ The portion of a stem between two nodes. _Involucral._ Pertaining to an involucre. _Involucre._ A circle of bracts surrounding a flower or cluster of flowers. _Keeled._ With a central ridge like the keel of a boat. _Laciniate._ Cut into narrow, pointed lobes. _Lanceolate._ Lance-shaped, broadest above the base and tapering to the apex, but several times longer than wide. Page xii. _Lateral._ Situated on the side of a branch. _Leaf._ The green expansions borne by the branches of a tree, consisting of a blade with or without a petiole. _Leaflet._ One of the small blades of a compound leaf. _Leaf-scar._ The scar left on a twig by the falling of a leaf. Page XVI. _Legume._ A pod-like fruit composed of a solitary carpel and usually splitting open by both sutures (_Leguminosae_). _Lenticels._ Corky growths on young bark which admit air to the interior of a twig or branch. _Linear._ Long and narrow, with parallel edges (as pine needles). Page XII. _Lobe._ Any division of an organ, especially if rounded. _Lobed._ Provided with a lobe or lobes. Page XIII. _Lustrous._ Glossy; shining. _Membranaceous._ Thin and somewhat translucent. _Midrib._ The central vein of a leaf or leaflet. _Monoecious._ Unisexual, with staminate and pistillate flowers on the same individual. _Mucilaginous._ Slimy; resembling or secreting mucilage or gum. _Mucronate._ Tipped with a small, abrupt point. Page XII. _Naked_. Lacking organs or parts which are normally present in related species or genera. _Naturalized_. Said of introduced plants which are reproducing by self-sown seeds. _Nectariferous_. Producing nectar. _Node_. The place upon a stem which normally bears a leaf or whorl of leaves. _Nut_. A hard and indehiscent, 1-celled, 1-seeded fruit. _Nutlet_. A diminutive nut. _Oblanceolate_. Lanceolate, with the broadest part toward the apex. Page XII. _Oblique_. Slanting, or with unequal sides. _Oblong_. Longer than broad, with sides approximately parallel. Page XII. _Obovale_. Ovate, with the broadest part toward the apex. Page XII. _Obovoid_. An ovate solid with the broadest part toward the apex. _Obtuse_. Blunt or rounded at the apex. Page XII. _Opaque_. Dull; neither shining nor translucent. _Opposite_. Said of leaves, branches, buds, etc., on opposite sides of a stem at a node. _Orbicular_. Circular. Page XII. _Oval_. Broadly elliptical. Page XII. _Ovary_. The part of a pistil that contains the ovules. Page XIII. _Ovate_. Egg-shaped, with the broad end basal. Page XII. _Ovoid_. Solid ovate or solid oval. _Ovule_. The part of a flower which after fertilization becomes the seed. _Palmate_. Radiately lobed or divided; hand-shaped. _Panicle_. A loose, irregularly compound inflorescence with pedicellate flowers. Page XIV. _Paniculate_. Arranged in panicles or resembling a panicle. _Papilionaceous_. Butterfly-like, as in flowers of the _Leguminosae_. _Pedicel_. The stalk of a single flower in a compound inflorescence. _Pedicellate_. Borne on a pedicel. _Peduncle_. A primary flower-stalk, supporting either a cluster or a solitary flower. _Pendent._ Hanging downward. _Pendulous._ More or less hanging or declined. _Perfect._ Said of a flower with both stamens and pistil. Page XIII. _Perianth._ The calyx and corolla of a flower considered as a whole. _Persistent._ Long-continuous, as leaves through the winter, calyx on the fruit, etc. _Petal._ One of the divisions of a corolla. Page XIII. _Petiolate._ Having a petiole. _Petiole._ The stem or stalk of a leaf. _Petiolulate._ Having a petiolule. _Petiolule._ The stem or stalk of a leaflet. _Pilose._ Hairy with long, soft hairs. _Pinnate._ Compound, with the leaflets arranged along both sides of a common petiole. _Pistil._ The seed-bearing organ of a flower, normally consisting of ovary, style and stigma. Page XIII. _Pistillate._ Provided with a pistil, but usually without stamens. _Pith._ The softer central part of a twig or stem. Page XVI. _Pollen._ The fecundating grains borne in the anther. _Polygamo-dioecious._ Sometimes perfect, sometimes unisexual, both forms borne on different individuals. _Polygamo-monoecious._ Sometimes perfect, sometimes unisexual, both forms borne on the same individual. _Polygamous._ Sometimes perfect, sometimes unisexual, both forms borne on the same or on different individuals. _Pome._ A fleshy fruit, as the apple. _Posterior._ The back side of a flower, next to the axis of inflorescence. _Prickle._ A small spine growing from the bark. _Puberulent._ Minutely pubescent. _Puberulous._ Minutely pubescent. _Pubescence._ A covering of short, soft hairs. _Pubescent._ Covered with short, soft hairs. _Punctate._ Dotted with translucent or colored dots or pits. _Raceme._ A simple inflorescence of flowers on pedicels of equal length arranged on a common, elongated axis (rachis). Page XIV. _Racemose._ Resembling a raceme. _Rachis._ The central axis of a spike or raceme of flowers or of a compound leaf. _Recurved._ Curved downward or backward. _Reticulate._ Netted. _Rough._ Harsh to the touch; pubescent. _Rugose._ Wrinkled. _Samara._ An indehiscent winged fruit. _Sapwood._ The living outer portion of a trunk or large branch of a tree between the heartwood and the bark. _Scales._ Small modified leaves, usually thin and scarious, seen in buds and cones; the flakes into which the outer bark often divides. _Scaly._ Provided with scales. _Scarious._ Thin, dry, membranaceous; not green. _Scurfy._ Covered with small bran-like scales. _Seed._ The ripened ovule. _Sepal._ One of the divisions of a calyx. Page XIII. _Serrate._ Toothed, the teeth sharp and pointing forward. Page XIII. _Sessile._ Without a stalk. _Shrub._ A bushy, woody growth, usually branched at or near the base, less than 15 feet in height. _Simple._ Of one piece; not compound. _Sinuate._ Strongly wavy. Page XIII. _Sinuous._ In form like the path of a snake. _Sinus._ The cleft or space between two lobes. _Smooth._ Smooth to the touch; not pubescent. _Spatulate._ Wide and rounded at the apex, but gradually narrowed downward. Page XII. _Spike._ A simple inflorescence of sessile flowers arranged on a common, elongated axis (rachis). Page XIV. _Spine._ A sharp woody outgrowth from a stem. _Spray._ The aggregate of smaller branches and branchlets. _Stamen._ The pollen-bearing organ of a flower, normally consisting of filament and anther. Page XIII. _Staminate._ Provided with stamens, but usually without pistils. _Staminodium_. A sterile stamen. _Sterile_. Unproductive, as a flower without pistil, or a stamen without anther. _Stigma_. The part of a pistil which receives the pollen. Page XIII. _Stipules_. Leaf-like appendages on either side of a leaf at the base of the petiole. _Stipule-scar_. The scar left by the fall of a stipule. Page XV. _Striate_. Marked with fine longitudinal stripes or ridges. _Strobile_. A cone. _Style_. The part of a pistil connecting ovary with stigma. Page XIII. _Sub_-. A prefix applied to many botanical terms, indicating somewhat or slightly. _Subtend_. To lie under or opposite to. _Sucker_. A shoot arising from a subterranean part of a plant. _Superposed_. Placed above, as one bud above another at a node. _Suture_. A junction or line of dehiscence. _Terete_. Circular in cross-section. _Terminal_. Situated at the end of a branch. _Ternate_. In threes. _Tetrahedral_. Having, or made up of, four faces (triangles). _Thorn_. A stiff, woody, sharp-pointed projection. _Tolerant_. Capable of enduring more or less heavy shade. _Tomentose_. Densely pubescent with matted wool. _Toothed_. With teeth or short projections. _Torus_. The part of the axis of a flower which bears the floral organs. _Transverse_. Said of a wood section made at right angles with the axis of the stem; across the grain. _Tree_. Usually defined as a plant with a woody stem, unbranched at or near the base, reaching a height of at least 15 feet. _Trunk_. The main stem of a tree. _Turbinate_. Top-shaped. _Umbel_. A simple inflorescence of flowers on pedicels which radiate from the same point. Page XIV. _Umbellate_. Arranged in umbels. _Undulate_. With a wavy margin or surface. Page XIII. _Unisexual_. Of one sex, either staminate or pistillate; not perfect. _Veins._ Threads of fibro-vascular tissue in a leaf, petal, or other flat organ. _Villose_ or _Villous_. Covered with long, soft hairs. _Viscid._ Glutinous; sticky. _Whorl._ An arrangement of leaves or branches in a circle round an axis. _Wood._ The hard part of a stem lying between the pith and the bark. _Woolly._ Covered with long and matted or tangled hairs. INDEX TO THE ARTIFICIAL KEYS Summer Keys: Key to the genera, xxi. Key to the species of Acer, 172. Key to the species of Aesculus, 194. Key to the species of Betula, 84. Key to the species of Carya, 66. Key to the species of Catalpa, 222. Key to the species of Cornus, 202. Key to the species of Fraxinus, 210. Key to the species of Juglans, 60. Key to the species of Picea, 18. Key to the species of Pinus, 4. Key to the species of Populus, 44. Key to the species of Prunus, 152. Key to the species of Pyrus, 142. Key to the species of Quercus, 96. Key to the species of Salix, 34. Key to the species of Ulmus, 122. Winter Keys: Key to the genera, xxvii. Key to the species of Acer, 174. Key to the species of Aesculus, 195. Key to the species of Betula, 85. Key to the species of Carya, 67. Key to the species of Catalpa, 223. Key to the species of Cornus, 203. Key to the species of Fraxinus, 211. Key to the species of Juglans, 61. Key to the species of Picea, 19. Key to the species of Pinus, 5. Key to the species of Populus, 45. Key to the species of Prunus, 153. Key to the species of Pyrus, 143. Key to the species of Quercus, 98. Key to the species of Salix, 34. Key to the species of Ulmus, 123. INDEX TO THE TREES Abies balsamea, 27. Acacia, Three-thorned, 165. Acer dasycarpum, 185. negundo, 193. nigrum, 183. pennsylvanicum, 177. platanoides, 189. pseudo-platanus, 191. rubrum, 187. saccharinum, 181, 185. saccharum, 181, 189. saccharum nigrum, 183. spicatum, 179. Aesculus glabra, 199. hippocastanum, 197. hippocastanum, v. flòre plèno, 197. Ailanthus, 171. glandulosa, 171. Almondleaf Willow, 39. Alternate-leaved Dogwood, 207. Amelanchier canadensis, 149. American Crab, 145. Elm, 127. Arborvitae, 31. Ash, Black, 221. Blue, 219. Green, 217. Mountain, 147. Red, 215. White, 213. Ash-leaved Maple, 193. Aspen, 49. Largetooth, 51. Austrian Pine, 11. Balm of Gilead, 53. Hairy, 55. Balsam, 53, 55. Fir, 27. Basswood, 201. Beech, 93. Blue, 83. Water, 83. White, 93. Betula alba papyrifera, 91. alleghanensis, 87. lenta, 87. lutea, 89. papyrifera, 91. Birch, Black, 87. Canoe, 91. Cherry, 87. Gray, 89. Paper, 91. Sweet, 87. White, 91. Yellow, 89. Bitternut Hickory, 79. Black Ash, 221. Birch, 87. Cherry, 155. Gum, 209. Jack, 119. Locust, 169. Maple, 183. Oak, 115, 117. Pine, 11. Spruce, 23. Sugar Maple, 183. Walnut, 65. Willow, 37. Blue Ash, 219. Beech, 83. Dogwood, 207. Boxelder, 193. Boxwood, 205. Brittle Willow, 41. Buckeye, Ohio, 199. Bur Oak, 103. Butternut, 63. Buttonball-tree, 141. Button-wood, 141. Canada Plum, 161. Canoe Birch, 91. Carpinus caroliniana, 83. Carya alba, 69, 73. amara, 79. cordiformis, 79. glabra, 75, 77. laciniosa, 71. microcarpa, 75. ovata, 69. porcina, 77. sulcata, 71. tomentosa, 73. Castanea dentata, 95. sativa, v. americana, 95. vesca, v. americana, 95. Catalpa, 227. bignonioides, 225, 227. catalpa, 227. Hardy, 225. speciosa, 225. Cedar, Red, 33. White, 31. Celtis occidentalis, 131. Cercis canadensis, 167. Cherry Birch, 87. Cherry, Black, 155. Choke, 157. Pin, 159. Wild Red, 159. Chestnut, 95. Oak, 107. Chinquapin Oak, 107. Choke Cherry, 157. Coffeetree, 163. Kentucky, 163. Cork Elm, 129. Cornus alternifolia, 207. florida, 205. Cottonwood, 57. Crab, American, 145. Sweet, 145. Crack Willow, 41. Crataegus, 151. punctata, 150. Dogwood, 205. Alternate-leaved, 207. Blue, 207. Flowering, 205. Elm, American, 127. Cork, 129. Red, 125. Rock, 129. Slippery, 125. Water, 127. White, 127. Fagus americana, 93. atropunicea, 93. ferruginea, 93. grandifolia, 93. Fir, Balsam, 27. Scotch, 13. Flowering Dogwood, 205. Fraxinus americana, 213. lanceolata, 217. nigra, 221. pennsylvanica, 215, 217. pennsylvanica lanceolata, 217. pubescens, 215, quadrangulata, 219. sambucifolia, 221. virdis, 217. Ginkgo, 3. biloba, 3. Gleditsia triacanthos, 165. Gray Birch, 89. Green Ash, 217. Gum, Black, 209. Gymnocladus canadensis, 163. dioica, 163. Hackberry, 131. Hairy Balm of Gilead, 55. Hard Maple, 181. Hardy Catalpa, 225. Haw, 151. Hawthorn, 151. Hemlock, 29. Hickory, Bitternut, 79. Mocker Nut, 73. Pignut, 77. Shagbark, 69. Shellbark, 69, 71. Small Pignut, 75. Hicoria alba, 73. glabra, 77. glabra, v. odorata, 75. laciniosa, 71. microcarpa, 75. minima, 79. odorata, 75. ovata, 69. Hill's Oak, 115. Honey Locust, 165. Hornbeam, 81. Horse-chestnut, 197. Ironwood, 81. Jack Pine, 9. Judas-tree, 167. Juglans cinerea, 63. nigra, 65. Juniper, Red, 33. Juniperus virginiana, 33. Kentucky Coffeetree, 163. King Nut, 71. Largetooth Aspen, 51. Larix americana, 17. laricina, 17. Liriodendron tulipifera, 137. Locust, 169. Black, 169. Honey, 165. Lombardy Poplar, 59. Maclura aurantiaca, 133. pomifera, 133. Maidenhair Tree, 3. Malus coronaria, 145. Maple, Ash-leaved, 193. Black, 183. Black Sugar, 183. Hard, 181. Mountain, 179. Norway, 189. Red, 187. Rock, 181. Silver, 185. Soft, 185, 187. Striped, 177. Sugar, 181. Sycamore, 191. Mocker Nut Hickory, 73. Moosewood, 177. Morus rubra, 135. Mountain Ash, 147. Maple, 179. Mulberry, Red, 135. Nannyberry, 229. Napoleon's Willow, 43. Negundo aceroides, 193. Nettle-tree, 131. Northern Pin Oak, 115. Norway Maple, 189. Pine, 15. Spruce, 25. Nut, King, 71. Nyssa multiflora, 209. sylvatica, 209. Oak, Black, 115, 117. Bur, 103. Chestnut, 107. Chinquapin, 107. Hill's, 115. Northern Pin, 115. Pin, 111. Red, 109. Scarlet, 113. Shingle, 121. Swamp, 105. Swamp White, 105. White, 101. Yellow, 107, 117. Ohio Buckeye, 199. Osage Orange, 133. Ostrya virginiana, 81. Padus serotina, 155. virginiana, 157. Paper Birch, 91. Pepperidge, 209. Picea abies, 25. alba, 21. canadensis, 21. excelsa, 25. mariana, 23. nigra, 23. Pignut Hickory, 77. Small, 75. Pin Cherry, 159. Oak, 111. Oak, Northern, 115. Pine, Austrian, 11. Black, 11. Jack, 9. Norway, 15. Red, 15. Scotch, 13. Scrub, 9. White, 7. Pinus austriaca, 11. banksiana, 9. divaricata, 9. laricio austriaca, 11. resinosa, 15. strobus, 7. sylvestris, 13. Platanus occidentalis, 141. Plum, Canada, 161. Red, 161. Poplar, Lombardy, 59. Tulip, 137. White, 47. Populus alba, 47. balsamifera, 53, 55. balsamifera candicans, 55. candicans, 55. deltoides, 57. dilatata, 59. fastigiata, 59. grandidentata, 51. monilifera, 57. nigra italica, 59. tremuloides, 49. Prunus americana, v. nigra, 161. nigra, 161. pennsylvanica, 159. serotina, 155. virginiana, 157. Pyrus americana, 147. coronaria, 145. Quercus acuminata, 107. alba, 101. Alexanderi, 107. bicolor, 105. coccinea, 113. ellipsoidalis, 115. imbricaria, 121. macrocarpa, 103. marilandica, 119. muhlenbergii, 107. palustris, 111. platanoides, 105. rubra, 109. velutina, 117. Red Ash, 215. Cedar, 33. Cherry, Wild, 159. Elm, 125. Juniper, 33. Maple, 187. Mulberry, 135. Oak, 109. Pine, 15. Plum, 161. Redbud, 167. Robinia pseudo-acacia, 169. Rock Elm, 129. Maple, 181. Salisburia adiantifolia, 3. Salix, 35. amygdaloides, 39. babylonica, 43. fragilis, 41. nigra, 37. Sassafras, 139. officinale, 139. sassafras, 139. variifolium, 139. Scarlet Oak, 113. Scotch Fir, 13. Pine, 13. Scrub Pine, 9. Serviceberry, 149. Shagbark Hickory, 69. Sheepberry, 229. Shellbark Hickory, 69, 71. Shingle Oak, 121. Silver Maple, 185. Slippery Elm, 125. Small Pignut Hickory, 75. Soft Maple, 185, 187. Sorbus americana, 147. Spruce, Black, 23. Norway, 25. White, 21. Striped Maple, 177. Sugar Maple, 181. Black, 183. Swamp Oak, 105. White Oak, 105. Sweet Birch, 87. Crab, 145. Sycamore, 141. Maple, 191. Tamarack, 17. Thorn, 151. Thorn-apple, 151. Three-thorned Acacia, 165. Thuja occidentalis, 31. Tilia americana, 201. Toxylon pomiferum, 133. Tree, Maidenhair, 3. of Heaven, 171. Tsuga canadensis, 29. Tulip Poplar, 137. Tulip-tree, 137. Ulmus americana, 125, 127. fulva, 125, pubescens, 125. racemosa, 129. Thomasi, 129. Viburnum lentago, 229. Walnut, Black, 65. Water Beech, 83. Elm, 127. Weeping Willow, 43. Whistlewood, 177. White Ash, 213. Beech, 93. Birch, 91. Cedar, 31. Elm, 127. Oak, 101. Oak, Swamp, 105. Pine, 7. Poplar, 47. Spruce, 21. White-wood, 137. Wild Red Cherry, 159. Willow, 35. Almondleaf, 39. Black, 37. Brittle, 41. Crack, 41. Napoleon's, 43. Weeping, 43. Yellow Birch, 89. Oak, 107, 117. 
37871	----	Dandelion Cottage CARROLL WATSON RANKIN _Illustrated by Mary Stevens_ JOHN M. LONGYEAR RESEARCH LIBRARY Marquette, Michigan 1977 _First published in 1904_ THE MARQUETTE COUNTY HISTORICAL SOCIETY 213 North Front Street Marquette, Michigan 49855 FOURTH EDITION First Printing, February 1977 Printed in the USA by THE BOOK CONCERN, INC. Hancock, Michigan _To_ RHODA, FRANCES, AND ELEANOR _whose lively interest made the writing of this little book a joyful task._ THE PERSONS OF THE STORY BETTIE TUCKER:} JEANIE MAPES:} _The Dandelion Cottagers_ MABEL BENNETT:} MARJORY VALE:} THE TUCKER FAMILY: _Mostly boys_ THE MAPES FAMILY: _Two parents, two boys_ DR. AND MRS. BENNETT: _Merely Parents_ AUNTY JANE: _A Parental Substitute_ MRS. CRANE: _The Pleasantest Neighbor_ MR. BLACK: _The Senior Warden_ MR. DOWNING: _The Junior Warden_ MISS BLOSSOM: _The Lodger_ MR. BLOSSOM: _The Organ Tuner_ GRANDMA PIKE: _Another Neighbor_ MR. AND MRS. MILLIGAN:} LAURA MILLIGAN:} THE MILLIGAN BOY AND} _The Unpleasantest Neighbors_ THE MILLIGAN BABY:} THE MILLIGAN DOG:} Contents 1. _Mr. Black's Terms_ 2. _Paying the Rent_ 3. _The Tenants Take Possession_ 4. _Furnishing the Cottage_ 5. _Poverty in the Cottage_ 6. _A Lodger to the Rescue_ 7. _The Girls Disclose a Plan_ 8. _An Unexpected Crop of Dandelions_ 9. _Changes and Plans_ 10. _The Milligans_ 11. _An Embarrassing Visitor_ 12. _A Lively Afternoon_ 13. _The Junior Warden_ 14. _An Unexpected Letter_ 15. _An Obdurate Landlord_ 16. _Mabel Plans a Surprise_ 17. _Several Surprises Take Effect_ 18. _A Hurried Retreat_ 19. _The Response to Mabel's Telegram_ 20. _The Odd Behavior of the Grown-ups_ 21. _The Dinner_ Dandelion Cottage CHAPTER 1 Mr. Black's Terms The little square cottage was unoccupied. It had stood for many years on the parish property, having indeed been built long before the parish bought the land for church purposes. It was easy to see how Dandelion Cottage came by its name at first, for growing all about it were great, fluffy, golden dandelions; but afterwards there was another good reason why the name was appropriate, as you will discover shortly. The cottage stood almost directly behind the big stone church in Lakeville, a thriving Northern Michigan town, and did not show very plainly from the street because it was so small by contrast with everything else near it. This was fortunate, because, after the Tuckers had moved into the big new rectory, the smaller house looked decidedly forlorn and deserted. "We'll leave it just where it stands," the church wardens had said, many years previously. "It's precisely the right size for Doctor and Mrs. Gunn, for they would rather have a small house than a large one. When they leave us and we are selecting another clergyman, we'll try to get one with a small family." This plan worked beautifully for a number of years. It succeeded so well, in fact, that the vestry finally forgot to be cautious, and when at last it secured the services of Dr. Tucker, the church had grown so used to clergymen with small families that the vestrymen engaged the new minister without remembering to ask if his family would fit Dandelion Cottage. But when Dr. Tucker and Mrs. Tucker and eight little Tuckers, some on foot and some in baby carriages, arrived, the vestrymen regretted this oversight. They could see at a glance that the tiny cottage could never hold them all. "We'll just have to build a rectory on the other lot," said Mr. Black, the senior warden. "That's all there is about it. The cottage is all out of repair, anyway. It wasn't well built in the first place, and the last three clergymen have complained bitterly of the inconvenience of having to hold up umbrellas in the different rooms every time it rained. Their wives objected to the wall paper and to being obliged to keep the potatoes in the bedroom closet. It's really time we had a new rectory." "It certainly is," returned the junior warden, "and we'll all have to take turns entertaining all the little Tuckers that there isn't room for in the cottage while the new house is getting built." Seven of the eight little Tuckers were boys. If it hadn't been for Bettie they would _all_ have been boys, but Bettie saved the day. She was a slender twelve-year-old little Bettie, with big brown eyes, a mop of short brown curls, and such odd clothes. Busy Mrs. Tucker was so in the habit of making boys' garments that she could not help giving a boyish cut even to Bettie's dresses. There were always sailor collars to the waists, and the skirts were invariably kilted. Besides this, the little girl wore boys' shoes. "You see," explained Bettie, who was a cheerful little body, "Tommy has to take them next, and of course it wouldn't pay to buy shoes for just one girl." The little Tuckers were not the only children in the neighborhood. Bettie found a bosom friend in Dr. Bennett's Mabel, who lived next door to the rectory, another in Jeanie Mapes, who lived across the street, and still another in Marjory Vale, whose home was next door to Dandelion Cottage. Jean, as her little friends best liked to call her, was a sweet-faced, gentle-voiced girl of fourteen. Mothers of other small girls were always glad to see their own more scatterbrained daughters tucked under Jean's loving wing, for thoroughly-nice Jean, without being in the least priggish, was considered a safe and desirable companion. It doesn't _always_ follow that children like the persons it is considered best for them to like, but in Jean's case both parents and daughters agreed that Jean was not only safe but delightful--the charming daughter of a charming mother. Marjory, a year younger and nearly a head shorter than Jean, often seemed older. Outwardly, she was a sedate small person, slight, blue-eyed, graceful, and very fair. Her manners at times were very pleasing, her self-possession almost remarkable; this was the result of careful training by a conscientious, but at that time sadly unappreciated, maiden aunt who was Marjory's sole guardian. There were moments, however, when Marjory, who was less sedate than she appeared, forgot to be polite. At such times, her ways were apt to be less pleasing than those of either Bettie or Jean, because her wit was nimbler, her tongue sharper, and her heart a trifle less tender. Her mother had died when Marjory was only a few weeks old, her father had lived only two years longer, and the rather solitary little girl had missed much of the warm family affection that had fallen to the lot of her three more fortunate friends. Those who knew her well found much in her to like, but among her schoolmates there were girls who said that Marjory was "stuck-up," affected, and "too smart." Mabel, the fourth in this little quartet of friends, was eleven, large for her age and young for her years, always an unfortunate combination of circumstances. She was intensely human and therefore liable to err, and, it may be said, she very seldom missed an opportunity. In school she read with a tremendous amount of expression but mispronounced half the words; when questions were asked, she waved her hand triumphantly aloft and gave anything but the right answer; she had a surprising stock of energy, but most of it was misdirected. Warm-hearted, generous, heedless, hot-tempered, and always blundering, she was something of a trial at home and abroad; yet no one could help loving her, for everybody realized that she would grow up some day into a really fine woman, and that all that was needed in the meantime was considerable patience. Rearing Mabel was not unlike the task of bringing up a St. Bernard puppy. Mrs. Bennett was decidedly glad to note the growing friendship among the four girls, for she hoped that Mabel would in time grow dignified and sweet like Jean, thoughtful and tender like Bettie, graceful and prettily mannered like Marjory. But this happy result had yet to be achieved. The little one-story cottage, too much out of repair to be rented, stood empty and neglected. To most persons it was an unattractive spot if not actually an eyesore. The steps sagged in a dispirited way, some of the windows were broken, and the fence, in sympathy perhaps with the house, had shed its pickets and leaned inward with a discouraged, hopeless air. But Bettie looked at the little cottage longingly--she could gaze right down upon it from the back bedroom window--a great many times a day. It didn't seem a bit too big for a playhouse. Indeed, it seemed a great pity that such a delightful little building should go unoccupied when Bettie and her homeless dolls were simply suffering for just such a shelter. "Wouldn't it be nice," said Bettie, one day in the early spring, "if we four girls could have Dandelion Cottage for our very own?" "Wouldn't it be sweet," mimicked Marjory, "if we could have the moon and about twenty stars to play jacks with?" "The cottage isn't _quite_ so far away," said Jean. "It _would_ be just lovely to have it, for we never have a place to play in comfortably." "We're generally disturbing grown-ups, I notice," said Marjory, comically imitating her Aunty Jane's severest manner. "A little less noise, if you please. Is it really necessary to laugh so much and so often?" "Even Mother gets tired of us sometimes," confided Jean. "There are days when no one seems to want all of us at once." "I know it," said Bettie, pathetically, "but it's worse for me than it is for the rest of you. You have your rooms and nobody to meddle with your things. I no sooner get my dolls nicely settled in one corner than I have to move them into another, because the babies poke their eyes out. It's dreadful, too, to have to live with so many boys. I fixed up the cunningest playhouse under the clothes-reel last week, but the very minute it was finished Rob came home with a horrid porcupine and I had to move out in a hurry." "Perhaps," suggested Marjory, "we could rent the cottage." "Who'd pay the rent?" demanded Mabel. "My allowance is five cents a week and I have to pay a fine of one cent every time I'm late to meals." "How much do you have left?" asked Jeanie, laughing. "Not a cent. I was seven cents in debt at the end of last week." "I get two cents a hundred for digging dandelions," said Marjory, "but it takes just forever to dig them, and ugh! I just hate it." "I never have any money at all," sighed Bettie. "You see there are so many of us." "Let's go peek in at the windows," suggested Mabel, springing up from the grass. "That much won't cost us anything at any rate." Away scampered the four girls, taking a short cut through Bettie's back yard. The cottage had been vacant for more than a year and had not improved in appearance. Rampant vines clambered over the windows and nowhere else in town were there such luxurious weeds as grew in the cottage yard. Nowhere else were there such mammoth dandelions or such prickly burrs. The girls waded fearlessly through them, parted the vines, and, pressing their noses against the glass, peered into the cottage parlor. "What a nice, square little room!" said Marjory. "I don't think the paper is very pretty," said Mabel. "We could cover most of the spots with pictures," suggested practical Marjory. "It looks to me sort of spidery," said Mabel, who was always somewhat pessimistic. "Probably there's rats, too." "I know how to stop up rat holes," said Bettie, who had not lived with seven brothers without acquiring a number of useful accomplishments. "I'm not afraid of spiders--that is, not so _very_ much." "What are you doing here?" demanded a gruff voice so suddenly that everybody jumped. The startled girls wheeled about. There stood Bettie's most devoted friend, the senior warden. "Oh!" cried Bettie, "it's only Mr. Black." "Were you looking for something?" asked Mr. Black. "Yes," said Bettie. "We're looking for a house. We'd like to rent this one, only we haven't a scrap of money." "And what in the name of common sense would you do with it?" "We want it for our dolls," said Bettie, turning a pair of big pleading brown eyes upon Mr. Black. "You see, we haven't any place to play. Marjory's Aunty Jane won't let her cut papers in the house, so she can't have any paper dolls, and I can't play any place because I have so many brothers. They tomahawk all my dolls when they play Indian, shoot them with beans when they play soldiers, and drown them all when they play shipwreck. Don't you think we might be allowed to use the cottage if we'd promise to be very careful and not do any damage?" "We'd clean it up," offered Marjory, as an inducement. "We'd mend the rat holes," offered Jean, looking hopefully at Bettie. "Would you dig the weeds?" demanded Mr. Black. There was a deep silence. The girls looked at the sea of dandelions and then at one another. "Yes," said Marjory, finally breaking the silence. "We'd even dig the weeds." "Yes," echoed the others. "We'd even dig the weeds--and there's just millions of 'em." "Good!" said Mr. Black. "Now, we'll all sit down on the steps and I'll tell you what we'll do. It happens that the Village Improvement Society has just notified the vestry that the weeds on this lot must be removed before they go to seed--the neighbors have complained about them. It would cost the parish several dollars to hire a man to do the work, and we're short of funds just now. Now, if you four girls will pull up every weed in this place before the end of next week you shall have the use of the cottage for all the rest of the summer in return for your services. How does that strike you?" "Oh!" cried Bettie, throwing her arms about Mr. Black's neck. "Do let me hug you. Oh, I'm glad--glad!" "There, there!" cried stout Mr. Black, shaking Bettie off and dropping her where the dandelions grew thickest. "I didn't say I was to be strangled as part of the bargain. You'd better save your muscle for the dandelions. Remember, you've got to pay your rent in advance. I shan't hand over the key until the last weed is dug." "We'll begin this minute!" cried enthusiastic Mabel. "I'm going straight home for a knife." CHAPTER 2 Paying the Rent "This is a whopping big yard," said Mabel, looking disconsolately at two dandelions and one burdock in the bottom of a bushel basket. "There doesn't seem to be any place to begin." "I'm going to weed out a place big enough to sit in," announced Bettie. "Then I'll make it bigger and bigger all around me in every direction until it joins the clearing next to mine." "I'm a soldier," said Marjory, brandishing a trowel, "vanquishing my enemies. You know in books the hero always battles single-handed with about a million foes and always kills them all and everybody lives happy ever after--zip! There goes one!" "I'm a pioneer," said Jean, slashing away at a huge, tough burdock. "I'm chopping down the forest primeval to make a potato patch. The dandelions are skulking Indians, and I'm capturing them to put in my bushel-basket prison." "I'm just digging weeds," said prosaic Mabel, "and I don't like it." "Neither does anybody else," said Marjory, "but I guess having the cottage will be worth it. Just pretend it's something else and then you won't mind it so much. Play you're digging for diamonds." "I can't," returned Mabel, hopelessly. "I haven't any imagination. This is just plain dirt and I can't make myself believe it's anything else." By supper time the cottage yard presented a decidedly disreputable appearance. Before the weeds had been disturbed they stood upright, presenting an even surface of green with a light crest of dandelion gold. But now it was different. Although the number of weeds was not greatly decreased, the yard looked as if, indeed, a battle had been fought there. Mr. Black, passing by on his way to town, began to wonder if he had been quite wise in turning it over to the girls. At four o'clock the following morning, sleepy Bettie tumbled out of bed and into her clothes. Then she slipped quietly downstairs, out of doors, through the convenient hole in the back fence, and into the cottage yard. She had been digging for more than an hour when Jean, rubbing a pair of sleepy eyes, put in her appearance. "Oh!" cried Jean, disappointedly. "I meant to have a huge bare field to show you when you came, and here you are ahead of me. What a lot you've done!" "Yes," assented Bettie, happily. "There's room for me and my basket, too, in my patch. I'll have to go home after a while to help dress the children." Young though she was--she was only twelve--Bettie was a most helpful young person. It is hard to imagine what Mrs. Tucker would have done without her cheerful little daughter. Bettie always spoke of the boys as "the children," and she helped her mother darn their stockings, sew on their buttons, and sort out their collars. The care of the family baby, too, fell to her lot. The boys were good boys, but they were boys. They were willing to do errands or pile wood or carry out ashes, but none of them ever thought of doing one of these things without first being told--sometimes they had to be told a great many times. It was different with Bettie. If Tom ate crackers on the front porch, it was Bettie who ran for the broom to brush up the crumbs. If the second-baby-but-one needed his face washed--and it seemed to Bettie that there never was a time when he _didn't_ need it washed--it was Bettie who attended to it. If the cat looked hungry, it was Bettie who gave her a saucer of milk. Dick's rabbits and Rob's porcupine would have starved if Bettie had not fed them, and Donald's dog knew that if no one else remembered his bone kind Bettie would bear it in mind. The boys' legs were round and sturdy, but Bettie's were very much like pipe stems. "I don't have time to get fat," Bettie would say. "But you don't need to worry about me. I think I'm the healthiest person in the house. At least I'm the only one that hasn't had to have breakfast in bed this week." Neither Marjory nor Mabel appeared during the morning to dig their share of the weeds, but when school was out that afternoon they were all on hand with their baskets. "I had to stay," said Mabel, who was the last to arrive. "I missed two words in spelling." "What were they?" asked Marjory. "'Parachute' and 'dandelion.' I hate dandelions, anyway. I don't know what parachutes are, but if they're any sort of weeds I hate them, too." The girls laughed. Mabel always looked on the gloomiest side of things and always grumbled. She seemed to thrive on it, however, for she was built very much like a barrel and her cheeks were like a pair of round red apples. She was always honest, if a little too frank in expressing her opinions, and the girls liked her in spite of her blunt ways. She was the youngest of the quartet, being only eleven. "There doesn't seem to be much grass left after the weeds are out," said Bettie, surveying the bare, sandy patch she had made. "This has _always_ been a weedy old place," replied Jean. "I think the whole neighborhood will feel obliged to us if we ever get the lot cleared. Perhaps our landlord will plant grass seed. It would be fine to have a lawn." "Perhaps," said Marjory, "he'll let us have some flower beds. Wouldn't it be lovely to have nasturtiums running right up the sides of the house?" "They'd be lovely among the vines," agreed Bettie. "I've some poppy seeds that we might plant in a long narrow bed by the fence." "There are hundreds of little pansy plants coming up all over our yard," said Jean. "We might make a little round bed of them right here where I'm sitting. What are you going to plant in _your_ bed, Mabel?" "Butter-beans," said that practical young person, promptly. "Well," said Bettie, with a long sigh, "we'll have to work faster than this or summer will be over before we have a chance to plant _anything_. This is the biggest _little_ yard I ever did see." For a time there was silence. Marjory, the soldier, fell upon her foes with renewed vigor, and soon had an entire regiment in durance vile. Jean, the pioneer, fell upon the forest with so much energy that its speedy extermination was threatened. Mabel seized upon the biggest and toughest burdock she could find and pulled with both hands and all her might, until, with a sharp crack, the root suddenly parted and Mabel, very much to her own surprise, turned a back somersault and landed in Bettie's basket. "Hi there!" cried a voice from the road. "How are you youngsters getting along?" The girls jumped to their feet--all but Mabel, who was still wedged tightly in Bettie's basket. There was Mr. Black, with his elbows on the fence, and with him was the president of the Village Improvement Society; both were smiling broadly. "Sick of your bargain?" asked Mr. Black. The four girls shook their heads emphatically. "Hard work?" Four heads bobbed up and down. "Well," said Mr. Black, encouragingly, "you've made considerable headway today." "Where are you putting the weeds?" asked the president of the Village Improvement Society. "On the back porch in a piano box," said Bettie. "We had a big pile of them last night, but they shrank like everything before morning. If they do that _every_ time, it won't be necessary for Mabel to jump on them to press them down." "Let me know when you have a wagon load," said Mr. Black. "I'll have them hauled away for you." For the rest of the week the girls worked early and late. They began almost at daylight, and the mosquitoes found them still digging at dusk. By Thursday night, only scattered patches of weeds remained. The little diggers could hardly tear themselves away when they could no longer find the weeds because of the gathering darkness. Now that the task was so nearly completed it seemed such a waste of time to eat and sleep. Bettie was up earlier than ever the next morning, and with one of the boys' spades had loosened the soil around some of the very worst patches before any of the other girls appeared. By five o'clock that night the last weed was dug. Conscientious Bettie went around the yard a dozen times, but however hard she might search, not a single remaining weed could she discover. "Good work," said Jean, balancing her empty basket on her head. "It seems too good to be true," said Bettie, "but think of it, girls--the rent is paid! It's 'most time for Mr. Black to go by. Let's watch for him from the doorstep--our own precious doorstep." "It needs scrubbing," said Mabel. "Besides, it isn't ours, yet. Perhaps Mr. Black has changed his mind. Some grown-up folks have awfully changeable minds." "Oh!" gasped Marjory. "Wouldn't it be perfectly dreadful if he had!" It seemed to the little girls, torn between doubt and expectation, that Mr. Black was strangely indifferent to the calls of hunger that night. Was he never going home to dinner? Was he _never_ coming? "Perhaps," suggested Jean, "he has gone out of town." "Or forgotten us," said Marjory. "Or died," said Mabel, dolefully. "No--no," cried Bettie. "There he is; he's coming around the corner now--I can see him. Let's run to meet him." The girls scampered down the street. Bettie seized one hand, Mabel the other, Marjory and Jean danced along ahead of him, and everybody talked at once. Thus escorted, Mr. Black approached the cottage lot. "Well, I declare," said Mr. Black. "You haven't left so much as a blade of grass. Do you think you could sow some grass seed if I have the ground made ready for it?" The girls thought they could. Bettie timidly suggested nasturtiums. "Flower beds too? Why, of course," said Mr. Black. "Vegetables as well if you like. You can have a regular farm and grow fairy beanstalks and Cinderella pumpkins if you want to. And now, since the rent seems to be paid, I suppose there is nothing left for me to do but to hand over the key. Here it is, Mistress Bettie, and I'm sure I couldn't have a nicer lot of tenants." CHAPTER 3 The Tenants Take Possession "Our own house--think of it!" cried Bettie, turning the key. "Push, somebody; the door sticks. There! It's open." "Ugh!" said Mabel, drawing back hastily. "It's awfully dark and stuffy in there. I guess I won't go in just yet--it smells so dead-ratty." "It's been shut up so long," explained Jean. "Wait. I'll pull some of the vines back from this window. There! Can you see better?" "Lots," said Bettie. "This is the parlor, girls--but, oh, what raggedy paper. We'll need lots of pictures to cover all the holes and spots." "We'd better clean it all first," advised sensible Jean. "The windows are covered with dust and the floor is just black." "This," said Marjory, opening a door, "must be the dining-room. Oh! What a cunning little corner cupboard--just the place for our dishes." "You mean it would be if we had any," said Mabel. "Mine are all smashed." "Pooh!" said Jean. "We don't mean doll things--we want real, grown-up ones. Why, what a cunning little bedroom!" "There's one off the parlor, too," said Marjory, "and it's even cunninger than this." "My! what a horrid place!" exclaimed Mabel, poking an inquisitive nose into another unexplored room, and as hastily withdrawing that offended feature. "Mercy, I'm all over spider webs." "That's the kitchen," explained Bettie. "Most of the plaster has fallen down and it's rained in a good deal. But here's a good stovepipe hole, and such a cunning cupboard built into the wall. What have _you_ found, Jean?" "Just a pantry," said Jean, holding up a pair of black hands, "and lots of dust. There isn't a clean spot in the house." "So much the better," said Bettie, whose clouds always had a silver lining. "We'll have just that much more fun cleaning up. I'll tell you what let's do--and we've all day tomorrow to do it in. We'll just regularly clean house--I've _always_ wanted to clean house." "Me too," cried Mabel, enthusiastically. "We'll bring just oceans of water--" "There's water here," interrupted Jean, turning a faucet. "Water and a pretty good sink. The water runs out all right." "That's good," said Bettie. "We must each bring a broom, and soap--" "And rags," suggested Jean. "And papers for the shelves," added Marjory. "And wear our oldest clothes," said Bettie. "Oo-ow, wow!" squealed Mabel. "What's the matter?" asked the girls, rushing into the pantry. "Spiders and mice," said Mabel. "I just poked my head into the cupboard and a mouse jumped out. I'm all spider-webby again, too." "Well, there won't be any spiders by tomorrow night," said Bettie, consolingly, "or any mice either, if somebody will bring a cat. Now let's go home to supper--I'm hungry as a bear." "Everybody remember to wear her oldest clothes," admonished Jean, "and to bring a broom." "I'll tie the key to a string and wear it around my neck night and day," said Bettie, locking the door carefully when the girls were outside. "Aren't we going to have a perfectly glorious summer?" When Mr. Black, on the way to his office the next morning, met his four little friends, he did not recognize them. Jean, who was fourteen, and tall for her age, wore one of her mother's calico wrappers tied in at the waist by the strings of the cook's biggest apron. Marjory, in the much shrunken gown of a previous summer, had her golden curls tucked away under the housemaid's sweeping cap. Bettie appeared in her very oldest skirt surmounted by an exceedingly ragged jacket and cap discarded by one of her brothers; while Mabel, with her usual enthusiasm, looked like a veritable rag-bag. When Bettie had unlocked the door--she had slept all night with the key in her hand to make certain that it would not escape--the girls filed in. "I know how to handle a broom as well as anybody," said Mabel, giving a mighty sweep and raising such a cloud of dust that the four housecleaners were obliged to flee out of doors to keep from strangling. "Phew!" said Jean, when she had stopped coughing. "I guess we'll have to take it out with a shovel. The dust must be an inch thick." "Wait," cried Marjory, darting off, "I'll get Aunty's sprinkling can; then the stuff won't fly so." After that the sweeping certainly went better. Then came the dusting. "It really looks very well," said Bettie, surveying the result with her head on one side and an air of housewifely wisdom that would have been more impressive if her nose hadn't been perfectly black with soot. "It certainly does look better, but I'm afraid you girls have most of the dust on your faces. I don't see how you managed to do it. Just look at Mabel." "Just look at yourself!" retorted Mabel, indignantly. "You've got the dirtiest face I _ever_ saw." "Never mind," said Jean, gently. "I guess we're all about alike. I've wiped all the dust off the walls of this parlor. Now I'm going to wash the windows and the woodwork, and after that I'm going to scrub the floor." "Do you know how to scrub?" asked Marjory. "No, but I guess I can learn. There! Doesn't that pane look as if a really-truly housemaid had washed it?" "Oh, Mabel! Do look out!" cried Marjory. But the warning came too late. Mabel stepped on the slippery bar of soap and sat down hard in a pan of water, splashing it in every direction. For a moment Mabel looked decidedly cross, but when she got up and looked at the tin basin, she began to laugh. "That's a funny way to empty a basin, isn't it?" she said. "There isn't a drop of water left in it." "Well, don't try it again," said Jean. "That's Mrs. Tucker's basin and you've smashed it flat. You should learn to sit down less suddenly." "And," said Marjory, "to be more careful in your choice of seats--we'll have to take up a collection and buy Mrs. Tucker a new basin, or she'll be afraid to lend us anything more." The girls ran home at noon for a hasty luncheon. Rested and refreshed, they all returned promptly to their housecleaning. Nobody wanted to brush out the kitchen cupboard. It was not only dusty, but full of spider webs, and worst of all, the spiders themselves seemed very much at home. The girls left the back door open, hoping that the spiders would run out of their own accord. Apparently, however, the spiders felt no need of fresh air. Bettie, without a word to anyone, ran home, returning a moment later with her brother Bob's old tame crow blinking solemnly from her shoulder. She placed the great, black bird on the cupboard shelf and in a very few moments every spider had vanished down his greedy throat. "He just loves them," said Bettie. "How funny!" said Mabel. "Who ever heard of getting a crow to help clean house? I wish he could scrub floors as well as he clears out cupboards." The scrubbing, indeed, looked anything but an inviting task. Jean succeeded fairly well with the parlor floor, though she declared when that was finished that her wrists were so tired that she couldn't hold the scrubbing-brush another moment. Marjory and Bettie together scrubbed the floor of the tiny dining-room. Mabel made a brilliant success of one of the little bedrooms, but only, the other girls said, by accidentally tipping over a pail of clean water upon it, thereby rinsing off a thick layer of soap. Then Jean, having rested for a little while, finished the remaining bedroom and Marjory scoured the pantry shelves. The kitchen floor was rough and very dirty. Nobody wanted the task of scrubbing it. The tired girls leaned against the wall and looked at the floor and then at one another. "Let's leave it until Monday," said Mabel, who looked very much as if the others had scrubbed the floor with her. "I've had all the housecleaning I want for _one_ day." "Oh, no," pleaded Bettie. "Everything else is done. Just think how lovely it would be to go home tonight with all the disagreeable part finished! We could begin to move in Monday if we only had the house all clean." "Couldn't we cover the dirtiest places with pieces of old carpet?" demanded Mabel. "Oh, what dreadful housekeeping that would be!" said Marjory. "Yes," said Jean, "we must have every bit of it nice. Perhaps if we sit on the doorstep and rest for a few moments we'll feel more like scrubbing." The tired girls sat in a row on the edge of the low porch. They were all rather glad that the next day would be Sunday, for between the dandelions and the dust they had had a very busy week. "Why!" said Bettie, suddenly brightening. "We're going to have a visitor, I do believe." "Hi there!" said Mr. Black, turning in at the gate. "I smell soap. Housecleaning all done?" "All," said Bettie, wearily, "except the kitchen floor, and, oh! we're _so_ tired. I'm afraid we'll have to leave it until Monday, but we just hate to." "Too tired to eat peanuts?" asked Mr. Black, handing Bettie a huge paper bag. "Stay right here on the doorstep, all of you, and eat every one of these nuts. I'll look around and see what you've been doing--I'm sure there _can't_ be much dirt left inside when there's so much on your faces." It seemed a pity that Mr. Black, who liked little girls so well, should have no children of his own. A great many years before Bettie's people had moved to Lakeville, he had had one sister; and at another almost equally remote period he had possessed one little daughter, a slender, narrow-chested little maid, with great, pathetic brown eyes, so like Bettie's that Mr. Black was startled when Dr. Tucker's little daughter had first smiled at him from the Tucker doorway, for the senior warden's little girl had lived to be only six years old. This, of course, was the secret of Mr. Black's affection for Bettie. Mr. Black, who was a moderately stout, gray-haired man of fifty-five, with kind, dark eyes and a strong, rugged, smooth-shaven countenance, had a great deal of money, a beautiful home perched on the brow of a green hill overlooking the lake, and a silk hat. This last made a great impression on the children, for silk hats were seldom worn in Lakeville. Mr. Black looked very nice indeed in his, when he wore it to church Sunday morning, but Bettie felt more at home with him when he sat bareheaded on the rectory porch, with his short, crisp, thick gray hair tossed by the south wind. Besides these possessions, Mr. Black owned a garden on the sheltered hillside where wonderful roses grew as they would grow nowhere else in Lakeville. This was fortunate because Mr. Black loved roses, and spent much time poking about among them with trowel and pruning shears. Then, there were shelves upon shelves of books in the big, dingy library, which was the one room that the owner of the large house really lived in. A public-spirited man, Mr. Black had a wide circle of acquaintances and a few warm friends; but with all his possessions, and in spite of a jovial, cheerful manner in company, his dark, rather stern face, as Bettie had very quickly discovered, was sad when he sat alone in his pew in church. He had really nothing in the world to love but his books and his roses. It was evident, to anyone who had time to think about it, that kind Mr. Black, whose wife had died so many years before that only the oldest townspeople could remember that he had had a wife, was, in spite of his comfortable circumstances, a very lonely man, and that, as he grew older, he felt his loneliness more keenly. There were others besides Bettie who realized this, but it was not an easy matter to offer sympathy to Mr. Black--there was a dignity about him that repelled anything that looked like pity. Bettie was the one person who succeeded, without giving offense, in doing this difficult thing, but Bettie did it unconsciously, without in the least knowing that she _had_ accomplished it, and this, of course, was another reason for the strong friendship between Mr. Black and her. The girls found the peanuts decidedly refreshing; their unusual exercise had given them astonishing appetites. "I wonder," said Bettie, some ten minutes later, when the paper bag was almost empty, "what Mr. Black is doing in there." "I think, from the swishing, swushing sounds I hear," said Jean, "that Mr. Black must be scrubbing the kitchen." "What!" gasped the girls. "Come and see," said Jean, stealing in on tiptoe. There, sure enough, was stout Mr. Black dipping a broom every now and then into a pail of soapy water and vigorously sweeping the floor with it. "I _think_," whispered Mabel, ruefully, "that that's Mother's best broom." "Never mind," consoled Jean. "You can take mine home if you think she'll care. It's really mine because I bought it when we had that broom drill in the sixth grade. It's been hanging on my wall ever since." "Hi there!" exclaimed Mr. Black, who, looking up suddenly, had discovered the smiling girls in the doorway. "You didn't know I could scrub, did you?" Mr. Black, quite regardless of his spotless cuffs and his polished shoes, drew a bucket of fresh water and dashed it over the floor, sweeping the flood out of doors and down the back steps. "There," said Mr. Black, standing the broom in the corner, "if there's a cleaner house in town than this, I don't know where you'll find it. In return for scrubbing this kitchen, of course, I shall expect you to invite me to dinner when you get to housekeeping." "We will! We do!" shouted the girls. "And we'll cook every single thing ourselves." "I don't know that I'll insist on _that_," returned Mr. Black, teasingly, "but I shan't let you forget about the dinner." CHAPTER 4 Furnishing the Cottage After tea that Saturday night four tired but spotlessly clean little girls sat on Jean's doorstep, making plans for the coming week. "What are you going to do for a stove?" asked Mrs. Mapes. "I have a toy one," replied Mabel, "but it has only one leg and it always smokes. Besides, I can't find it." "I have a little box stove that the boys used to have in their camp," said Mrs. Mapes. "It has three good legs and it doesn't smoke at all. If you want it, and if you'll promise to be very careful about your fire, I'll have one of the boys set it up for you." "That would be lovely," said Bettie, gratefully. "Mamma has given me four saucers and a syrup jug, and I have a few pieces left of quite a large-sized doll's tea set." "We have an old rug," said Marjory, "that I'm almost sure I can have for the parlor floor, and I have two small rocking chairs of my own." "There's a lot of old things in our garret," said Mabel; "three-legged tables, and chairs with the seats worn out. I know Mother'll let us take them." "Well," said Bettie, "take everything you have to the cottage Monday afternoon after school. Bring all the pictures you can to cover the walls, and--" "Hark!" said Mrs. Mapes. "I think somebody is calling Bettie." "Oh, my!" said Bettie, springing to her feet. "This is bath night and I promised to bathe the twins. I must go this minute." "I think Bettie is sweet," said Jean. "Mr. Black would never have given us the cottage if he hadn't been so fond of Bettie; but she doesn't put on any airs at all. She makes us feel as if it belonged to all of us." "Bettie _is_ a sweet little girl," said Mrs. Mapes, "but she's far too energetic for such a little body. You mustn't let her do _all_ the work." "Oh, we don't!" exclaimed Mabel, grandly. "Why, what are you laughing at, Marjory?" "Oh, nothing," said Marjory. "I just happened to remember how you scrubbed that bedroom floor." From four to six on Monday afternoon, the little housekeepers, heavily burdened each time with their goods and chattels, made many small journeys between their homes and Dandelion Cottage. The parlor was soon piled high with furniture that was all more or less battered. "Dear me," said Jean, pausing at the door with an armful of carpet. "How am I ever to get in? Hadn't we better straighten out what we have before we bring anything more?" "Yes," said Bettie. "I wouldn't be surprised if we had almost enough for two houses. I'm sure I've seen six clocks." "That's only one for each room," said Mabel. "Besides, none of the four that _I_ brought will go." "Neither will my two," said Marjory, giggling. "We might call this 'The House of the Tickless Clocks,'" suggested Jean. "Or of the grindless coffee-mill," giggled Marjory. "Or of the talkless telephone," added Mabel. "I brought over an old telephone box so we could pretend we had a telephone." There were still several things lacking when the children had found places for all their crippled belongings. They had no couch for the sofa pillows Mabel had brought, but Bettie converted two wooden boxes and a long board into an admirable cozy corner. She even upholstered this sadly misnamed piece of furniture with the burlaps and excelsior that had been packed about her father's new desk, but it still needed a cover. The windows lacked curtains, the girls had only one fork, and their cupboard was so distressingly empty that it rivaled Mother Hubbard's. They had planned to eat and even sleep at the cottage during vacation, which was still some weeks distant; but, as they had no beds and no provisions, and as their parents said quite emphatically that they could _not_ stay away from home at night, part of this plan had to be given up. Most of the grown-ups, however, were greatly pleased with the cottage plan. Marjory's Aunty Jane, who was nervous and disliked having children running in and out of her spotlessly neat house, was glad to have Marjory happy with her little friends, provided they were all perfectly safe--and out of earshot. Overworked Mrs. Tucker found it a great relief to have careful Bettie take two or three of the smallest children entirely off her hands for several hours each day. When these infants, divided as equally as possible among the four girls, were not needed indoors to serve as playthings, they rolled about contentedly inside the cottage fence. Mabel's mother did not hesitate to say that she, for one, was thankful enough that Mr. Black had given the girls a place to play in. With Mabel engaged elsewhere, it was possible, Mrs. Bennett said, to keep her own house quite respectably neat. Mrs. Mapes, indeed, missed quiet, orderly Jean; but she would not mention it for fear of spoiling her tender-hearted little daughter's pleasure, and it did not occur to modest Jean that she was of sufficient consequence to be missed by her mother or anyone else. The neighbors, finding that the long-deserted cottage was again occupied, began to be curious about the occupants. One day Mrs. Bartholomew Crane, who lived almost directly opposite the cottage, found herself so devoured by kindly curiosity that she could stand it no longer. Intending to be neighborly, for Mrs. Crane was always neighborly in the best sense of the word, she put on her one good dress and started across the street to call on the newcomers. It was really a great undertaking for Mrs. Crane to pay visits, for she was a stout, slow-moving person, and, owing to the antiquity and consequent tenderness of her best garments, it was an even greater undertaking for the good woman to make a visiting costume. Her best black silk, for instance, had to be neatly mended with court-plaster when all other remedies had failed, and her old, thread-lace collars had been darned until their original floral patterns had given place to a mosaic of spider webs. Mrs. Crane's motives, however, were far better than her clothes. Years before, when she was newly married, she had lived for months a stranger in a strange town, where it was no unusual occurrence to live for years in ignorance of one's next-door neighbor's very name. During those unhappy months poor Mrs. Crane, sociable by nature yet sadly afflicted with shyness, had suffered keenly from loneliness and homesickness. She had vowed then that no other stranger should suffer as she had suffered, if it were in her power to prevent it; so, in spite of increasing difficulties, kind Mrs. Crane conscientiously called on each newcomer. In many cases, hers was the first welcome to be extended to persons settling in Lakeville, and although these visits were prompted by single-minded generosity, it was natural that she should, at the same time, make many friends. These, however, were seldom lasting ones, for many persons, whose business kept them in Lakeville for perhaps only a few months, afterwards moved away and drifted quietly out of Mrs. Crane's life. That afternoon the four girls realized for the first time that Dandelion Cottage was provided with a doorbell. In response to its lively jingling, Mabel dropped the potato she was peeling with neatness but hardly with dispatch, and hurried to the door. "Is your moth--Is the lady of the house at home?" asked Mrs. Crane. "Yes'm, all of us are--there's four," stammered Mabel, who wasn't quite sure of her ability to entertain a grown-up caller. "Please walk in. Oh! don't sit down in that one, please! There's only two legs on that chair, and it always goes down flat." "Dear me," said Mrs. Crane, moving toward the cozy corner, "I shouldn't have suspected it." "Oh, you can't sit _there_, either," exclaimed Mabel. "You see, that's the Tucker baby taking his nap." "My land!" said stout Mrs. Crane. "I thought it was one of those new-fashioned roll pillows." "_This_ chair," said Mabel, dragging one in from the dining room, "is the safest one we have in the house, but you must be careful to sit right down square in the middle of it because it slides out from under you if you sit too hard on the front edge. If you'll excuse me just a minute I'll go call the others--they're making a vegetable garden in the back yard." "Well, I declare!" said Mrs. Crane, when she had recognized the four young housekeepers and had heard all about the housekeeping. "It seems as if I ought to be able to find something in the way of furniture for you. I have a single iron bedstead I'm willing to lend you, and maybe I can find you some other things." "Thank you very much," said Bettie, politely. "I hope," said Mrs. Crane, pleasantly, "that you'll be very neighborly and come over to see me whenever you feel like it, for I'm always alone." "Thank you," said Jean, speaking for the household. "We'd just love to." "Haven't you _any_ children?" asked Bettie, sympathetically. "Not one," replied Mrs. Crane. "I've never had any but I've always loved children." "But I'm _sure_ you have a lot of grandchildren," said Mabel, consolingly. "You look so nice and grandmothery." "No," said Mrs. Crane, not appearing so sorrowful as Mabel had supposed an utterly grandchildless person _would_ look, "I've never possessed any grandchildren either." "But," queried Mabel, who was sometimes almost too inquisitive, "haven't you any relatives, husbands, or _anybody_, in all the world?" Many months afterward the girls were suddenly reminded of Mrs. Crane's odd, contradictory reply: "No--Yes--that is, no. None to speak of, I mean. Do you girls sleep here, too?" "No" said Jean. "We want to, awfully, but our mothers won't let us. You see, we sleep so soundly that they're all afraid we might get the house afire, burn up, and never know a thing about it." "They're quite right," said Mrs. Crane. "I suppose they like to have you at home once in a while." "Oh, they do have us," replied Bettie. "We eat and sleep at home and they have us all day Sundays. When they want any of us other times, all they have to do is to open a back window and call--Dear me, Mrs. Crane, I'll have to ask you to excuse me this very minute--There's somebody calling me now." Other visitors, including the girls' parents, called at the cottage and seemed to enjoy it very much indeed. The visitors were always greatly interested and everybody wanted to help. One brought a little table that really stood up very well if kept against the wall, another found curtains for all the windows--a little ragged, to be sure, but still curtains. Grandma Pike, who had a wonderful garden, was so delighted with everything that she gave the girls a crimson petunia growing in a red tomato can, and a great many neat little homemade packets of flower seeds. Rob said they might have even his porcupine if they could get it out from under the rectory porch. By the end of the week the cottage presented quite a lived-in appearance. Bright pictures covered the dingy paper, and, thanks to numerous donations, the rooms looked very well furnished. No one would have suspected that the chairs were untrustworthy, the tables crippled, and the clocks devoid of works. The cottage seemed cozy and pleasant, and the girls kept it in apple-pie order. Out of doors, the grass was beginning to show and little green specks dotted the flower beds. Other green specks in crooked rows staggered across the vegetable garden. The four mothers, satisfied that their little daughters were safe in Dandelion Cottage, left them in undisturbed possession. "I declare," said Mrs. Mapes one day, "the only time I see Jean, nowadays, is when she's asleep. All the rest of the time she's in school or at the cottage." "Yes," said Mrs. Bennett, "when I miss my scissors or any of my dishes or anything else, I always have to go to the cottage and get out a search warrant. Mabel has carried off a wagonload of things, but I don't know _when_ our own house has been so peaceful." CHAPTER 5 Poverty in the Cottage "There's no use talking," said Jean, one day, as the girls sat at their dining-room table eating very smoky toast and drinking the weakest of cocoa, "we'll have to get some provisions of our own before long if we're going to invite Mr. Black to dinner as we promised. The cupboard's perfectly empty and Bridget says I can't take another scrap of bread or one more potato out of the house this week." "Aunty Jane says there'll be trouble," said Marjory, "if I don't keep out of her ice box, so I guess I can't bring any more milk. When she says there'll be trouble, there usually is, if I'm not pretty careful. But dear me, it _is_ such fun to cook our own meals on that dear little box-stove, even if most of the things do taste pretty awful." "I wish," said Mabel, mournfully, "that somebody would give us a hen, so we could make omelets." "Who ever made omelets out of a hen?" asked Jean, laughing. "I meant out of the eggs, of course," said Mabel, with dignity. "Hens lay eggs, don't they? If we count on five or six eggs a day--" "The goose that laid the golden egg laid only one a day," said Marjory. "It seems to me that six is a good many." "I wasn't talking about geese," said Mabel, "but about just plain everyday hens." "Six-every-day hens, you mean, don't you?" asked Marjory, teasingly. "You'd better wish for a cow, too, while you're about it." "Yes," said Bettie, "we certainly need one, for I'm not to ask for butter more than twice a week. Mother says she'll be in the poorhouse before summer's over if she has to provide butter for _two_ families." "I just tell you what it is, girls," said Jean, nibbling her cindery crust, "we'll just have to earn some money if we're to give Mr. Black any kind of a dinner." Mabel, who always accepted new ideas with enthusiasm, slipped quietly into the kitchen, took a solitary lemon from the cupboard, cut it in half, and squeezed the juice into a broken-nosed pitcher. This done, she added a little sugar and a great deal of water to the lemon juice, slipped quietly out of the back door, ran around the house and in at the front door, taking a small table from the front room. This she carried out of doors to the corner of the lot facing the street, where she established her lemonade stand. She was almost immediately successful, for the day was warm, and Mrs. Bartholomew Crane, who was entertaining two visitors on her front porch, was glad of an opportunity to offer her guests something in the way of refreshment. The cottage boasted only one glass that did not leak, but Mabel cheerfully made three trips across the street with it--it did not occur to any of them until too late it would have been easier to carry the pitcher across in the first place. The lemonade was decidedly weak, but the visitors were too polite to say so. On her return, a thirsty small boy offered Mabel a nickel for all that was left in the pitcher, and Mabel, after a moment's hesitation, accepted the offer. "You're getting a bargain," said Mabel. "There's as much as a glass and three quarters there, besides all the lemon." "Did you get a whole pitcherful out of one lemon?" asked the boy. "You'd be able to make circus lemonade all right." Before the other girls had had time to discover what had become of her, the proprietor of the lemonade stand marched into the cottage and proudly displayed four shining nickels and the empty pitcher. "Why, where in the world did you get all that?" cried Marjory. "Surely you never earned it by being on time for meals--you've been late three times a day ever since we got the cottage." "Sold lemonade," said Mabel. "Our troubles are over, girls. I'm going to buy _two_ lemons tomorrow and sell twice as much." "Good!" cried Bettie, "I'll help. The boys have promised to bring me a lot of arbutus tonight--they went to the woods this morning. I'll tie it in bunches and perhaps we can sell that, too." "Wouldn't it be splendid if we could have Mr. Black here to dinner next Saturday?" said Jean. "I'll never be satisfied until we've kept that promise, but I don't suppose we could possibly get enough things together by that time." "I have a sample can of baking powder," offered Marjory, hopefully. "I'll bring it over next time I come." "What's the good?" asked matter-of-fact Mabel. "We can't feed Mr. Black on just plain baking powder, and we haven't any biscuits to raise with it." "Dear me," said Jean, "I wish we hadn't been so extravagant at first. If we hadn't had so many tea parties last week, we might get enough flour and things at home. Mother says it's too expensive having all her groceries carried off." "Never mind," consoled Mabel, confidently. "We'll be buying our own groceries by this time tomorrow with the money we make selling lemonade. A boy said my lemonade was quite as good as you can buy at the circus." Unfortunately, however, it rained the next day and the next, so lemonade was out of the question. By the time it cleared, Bettie's neat little bunches of arbutus were no longer fresh, and careless Mabel had forgotten where she had put the money. She mentioned no fewer than twenty-two places where the four precious nickels might be, but none of them happened to be the right one. "Mercy me," said Bettie, "it's dreadful to be so poor! I'm afraid we'll have to invite Mr. Black to one of our bread-and-sugar tea-parties, after all." "No," said Jean, firmly. "We've just got to give him a regular seven-course dinner--he has 'em every day at home. We'll have to put it off until we can do it in style." "By and by," said Mabel, "we'll have beans and radishes and things in our own garden, and we can go to the woods for berries." "Perhaps," said Bettie, hopefully, "one of the boys might catch a fish--Rob _almost_ did, once." "I suppose I could ask Aunty Jane for a potato once in a while," said Marjory, "but I'll have to give her time to forget about last month's grocery bill--she says we never before used so many eggs in one month and I guess Maggie _did_ give me a good many. Potatoes will keep, you know. We can save 'em until we have enough for a meal." "While we're about it," said Bettie, "I think we'd better have Mrs. Crane to dinner, too. She's such a nice old lady and she's been awfully good to us." "She's not very well off," agreed Mabel, "and probably a real, first-class dinner would taste good to her." "But," pleaded Bettie, "don't let's ask her until we're sure of the date. As it is, I can't sleep nights for thinking of how Mr. Black must feel. He'll think we don't want him." "You'd better explain to him," suggested Jean, "that it isn't convenient to have him just yet, but that we're going to just as soon as ever we can. We mustn't tell him why, because it would be just like him to send the provisions here himself, and then it wouldn't really be _our_ party." In spite of all the girls' plans, however, by the end of the week the cottage larder was still distressingly empty. Marjory had, indeed, industriously collected potatoes, only to have them carried off by an equally industrious rat; and Mabel's four nickels still remained missing. Things in the vegetable garden seemed singularly backward, possibly because the four eager gardeners kept digging them up to see if they were growing. Their parents and Marjory's Aunty Jane were firmer than ever in their refusal to part with any more staple groceries. Perhaps if the girls had explained why they wanted the things, their relatives would have been more generous; but girllike, the four poverty-stricken young housekeepers made a deep mystery of their dinner plan. It was their most cherished secret, and when they met each morning they always said, mysteriously, "Good morning--remember M. B. D.," which meant, of course, "Mr. Black's Dinner." Mr. Black, indeed, never went by without referring to the girls' promise. "When," he would ask, "is that dinner party coming off? It's a long time since I've been invited to a first-class dinner, cooked by four accomplished young ladies, and I'm getting hungrier every minute. When I get up in the morning I always say: 'Now I won't eat much breakfast because I've got to save room for that dinner'--and then, after all, I don't get invited." The situation was growing really embarrassing. The girls began to feel that keeping house, not to mention giving dinner parties, with no income whatever, was anything but a joke. CHAPTER 6 A Lodger to the Rescue Grass was beginning to grow on the tiny lawn, all sorts of thrifty young seedlings were popping up in the flower beds, and Jean's pansies were actually beginning to blossom. The girls had trained the rampant Virginia creeper away from the windows and had coaxed it to climb the porch pillars. From the outside, no one would have suspected that Dandelion Cottage was not occupied by a regular grown-up family. Book agents and peddlers offered their wares at the front door, and appeared very much crestfallen when Bettie, or one of the others, explained that the neatly kept little cottage was just a playhouse. Handbills and sample packages of yeast cakes were left on the doorstep, and once a brand-new postman actually dropped a letter into the letter-box; Mabel carried it afterward to Mrs. Bartholomew Crane, to whom it rightfully belonged. One afternoon, when Jean was rearranging the dining-room pictures--they had to be rearranged very frequently--and when Mabel and Marjory were busy putting fresh papers on the pantry shelves, there was a ring at the doorbell. Bettie, who had been dusting the parlor, pushed the chairs into place, threw her duster into the dining-room and ran to the door. A lady--Bettie described her afterwards as a "middle-aged young lady with the sweetest dimple"--stood on the doorstep. "Is your mother at home?" asked the lady, smiling pleasantly at Bettie, who liked the stranger at once. "She--she doesn't live here," said Bettie, taken by surprise. "Perhaps you can tell me what I want to know. I'm a stranger in town and I want to rent a room in this neighborhood. I am to have my meals at Mrs. Baker's, but she hasn't any place for me to sleep. I don't want anything very expensive, but of course I'd be willing to pay a fair price. Do you know of anybody with rooms to rent? I'm to be in town for three weeks." Bettie shook her head, reflectively. "No, I don't believe I do, unless--" Bettie paused to look inquiringly at Jean, who, framed by the dining-room doorway, was nodding her head vigorously. "Perhaps Jean does," finished Bettie. "Are you _very_ particular," asked Jean, coming forward, "about what kind of room it is?" "Why, not so very," returned the guest. "I'm afraid I couldn't afford a very grand one." "Are you very timid?" asked Bettie, who had suddenly guessed what Jean had in mind. "I mean are you afraid of burglars and mice and things like that?" "Why, most persons are, I imagine," said the young woman, whose eyes were twinkling pleasantly. "Are there a great many mice and burglars in this neighborhood?" "Mice," said Jean, "but not burglars. It's a _very_ honest neighborhood. I think I have an idea, but you see there are four of us and I'll have to consult the others about it, too. Sit here, please, in the cozy corner--it's the safest piece of furniture we have. Now if you'll excuse us just a minute we'll go to the kitchen and talk it over." "Certainly," murmured the lady, who looked a trifle embarrassed at encountering the gaze of the forty-two staring dolls that sat all around the parlor with their backs against the baseboard. "I hope I haven't interrupted a party." "Not at all," assured Bettie, with her best company manner. "Girls," said Jean, when she and Bettie were in the kitchen with the door carefully closed behind them, "would you be willing to rent the front bedroom to a clean, nice-looking lady if she'd be willing to take it? She wants to pay for a room, she says, and she _looks_ very polite and pleasant, doesn't she, Bettie?" "Yes," corroborated Bettie, "I like her. She has kind of twinkling brown eyes and such nice dimples." "You see," explained Jean, "the money would pay for Mr. Black's dinner." "Why, so it would," cried Marjory. "Let's do it." "Yes," echoed Mabel, "for goodness' sake, let's do it. It's only three weeks, anyway, and what's three weeks!" "How would it be," asked Marjory, cautiously, "to take her on approval? Aunty Jane always has hats and things sent on approval, so she can send them back if they don't fit." "Splendid!" cried Mabel. "If she doesn't fit Dandelion Cottage, she can't stay." "Oh," gurgled Marjory, "_what_ a dinner we'll give Mr. Black and Mrs. Crane! We'll have ice cream and--" "Huh!" said Mabel, "most likely she won't take the room at all. Anyhow, probably she's got tired of waiting and has gone." "We'll go and see," said Jean. "Come on, everybody." The lady, however, still sat on the hard, lumpy cozy corner, with her toes just touching the ground. "Well," said she, smiling at the flock of girls, "how about the idea?" The other three looked expectantly at Jean; Mabel nudged her elbow and Bettie nodded at her. "_You_ talk," said Marjory; "you're the oldest." "It's like this," explained Jean. "This house isn't good enough to rent to grown-ups because it's all out of repair, so they've lent it to us for the summer for a playhouse. The back of it leaks dreadfully when it rains, and the plaster is all down in the kitchen, but the front bedroom is really very nice--if you don't mind having four kinds of carpet on the floor. This is a very safe neighborhood, no tramps or anything like that, and if you're not an awfully timid person, perhaps you wouldn't mind staying alone at night." "If you did," added Bettie, "probably one of us could sleep in the other room unless it happened to rain--it rains right down on the bed." "Could I go upstairs to look at the room?" asked the young woman. "There isn't any upstairs," said Bettie, pulling back a curtain; "the room's right here." "Why! What a dear little room--all white and blue!" "I hope you don't mind having children around," said Marjory, somewhat anxiously. "You see, we'd have to play in the rest of the house." "Of course," added Jean, hastily, "if you had company you could use the parlor--" "And the front steps," said Bettie. "I'm very fond of children," said the young lady, "and I don't expect to have any company but you because I don't know anybody here. I shall be away every day until about five o'clock because I am here with my father who is tuning church organs, and I have to help him. I strike the notes while he works behind the organ. He has a room at Mrs. Baker's, but she didn't have any place to put me. I think I should like this little room very much indeed. Now, how much are you going to charge me for it?" Jean looked at Bettie, and Bettie looked at the other two. "I don't know," said Jean, at last. "Neither do I," said Bettie. "Would--would a dollar a week be too much?" asked Marjory. "It wouldn't be enough," said the young woman, promptly. "My father pays five for the room _he_ has, but it's really a larger room than he wanted. I should be very glad to give you two dollars and a half a week--I'm sure I couldn't find a furnished room anywhere for less than that. Can I move in tonight? I've nothing but a small trunk." "Ye-es," said Bettie, looking inquiringly at Jean. "I _think_ we could get it ready by seven o'clock. It's all perfectly clean, but you see we'll have to change things around a little and fix up the washstand." "I'm sure," said the visitor, turning to depart, "that it all looks quite lovely just as it is. You may expect me at seven." "Well," exclaimed Marjory, when the door had closed behind their pleasant visitor, "isn't this too grand for words! It's just like finding a bush with pennies growing on it, or a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Two and a half a week! That's--let me see. Why! that's seven dollars and a half! We can buy Mr. Black's dinner and have enough money left to live on for a long time afterwards." "Mercy!" cried Mabel. "We never said a word to her about taking her on approval. We didn't even ask her name." "Pshaw!" said Jean. "She's all right. She couldn't be disagreeable if she wanted to with that dimple and those sparkles in her eyes; but, girls, we've a tremendous lot to do." "Yes," said Mabel. "If she'd known that the pillows under those ruffled shams were just flour sacks stuffed with excelsior, she wouldn't have thought everything so lovely. Girls, what in the world are we to do for sheets? We haven't even one." "And blankets?" said Marjory. "And quilts?" said Bettie. "That old white spread is every bit of bedclothes we own. I was _so_ afraid she'd turn the cover down and see that everything else was just pieces of burlap." "It's a good thing the mattress is all right," said Marjory. "But there isn't any bottom to the water pitcher, and the basin leaks like anything." "We'll just have to go home," said Jean, "and tell our mothers all about it. We'll have to borrow what we need. We must get a lamp too, and some oil, because there isn't any other way of lighting the house." The four girls ran first of all to Bettie's house with their surprising news. "But, Bettie," said Mrs. Tucker, when her little daughter, helped by the other three, had explained the situation, "are you _sure_ she's nice? I'm afraid you've been a little rash." "Just as nice as can be," assured Bettie. "Yes," said Dr. Tucker, "I guess it's all right. I know the organ tuner--I used to see him twice a year when we lived in Ohio. His name is Blossom and he's a very fine old fellow. I met his daughter this afternoon when they were examining the church organ, and she seemed a pleasant, well-educated young woman--I believe he said she teaches a kindergarten during the winter. The girls haven't made any mistake this time." "Then we must make her comfortable," said Mrs. Tucker. "You may take sheets and pillow-cases from the linen closet, Bettie, and you must see that she has everything she needs." Excited Bettie danced off to the linen closet and the others ran home to tell the good news. "I've filled a lamp for you, Bettie," said Mrs. Tucker, meeting Bettie, with her arms full of sheets at the bottom of the stairs. "Here's a box of matches, too." When Bettie was returning with her spoils to Dandelion Cottage she almost bumped into Mabel, whom she met at the gate with a pillow under each arm, a folded patchwork quilt balanced unsteadily on her head, and her chubby hands clasped about a big brass lamp. "The pillows are off my own bed," said Mabel. "Mother wasn't home, but she wouldn't care, anyway." "But can you sleep without them?" "Oh, I'll take home one of the excelsior ones," said Mabel. "I can sleep on anything." Jean came in a moment later with a pile of blankets and quilts. She, too, had a lamp, packed carefully in a big basket that hung from her arm. Marjory followed almost at her heels with more bedding, towels, a fourth lamp, and two candlesticks. "Well," laughed Bettie, when all the lamps and candles were placed in a row on the dining-room table, "I guess Miss Blossom will have almost light enough. Here are four big lamps and two candles--" "I've six more candles in my blouse," said Mabel, laughing and fishing them out one at a time. "I thought they'd do for the blue candlesticks Mrs. Crane gave us for the bedroom." "Isn't it fortunate," said Jean, who was thumping the mattress vigorously, "that we put the best bed in this room? Beds are such hard things to move." "Ye-es," said Bettie, rather doubtfully, "but I think we'd better tell Miss Blossom not to be surprised if the slats fall out once in a while during the night. You know they always do if you happen to turn over too suddenly." "We must warn her about the chairs, too," said Marjory. "They're none of them really very safe." "I guess," said Jean, "I'd better bring over the rocking chair from my own room, but I'm afraid she'll just have to grin and bear the slats, because they _will_ fall out in spite of anything I can do." By seven o'clock the room was invitingly comfortable. The washstand, which was really only a wooden box thinly disguised by a muslin curtain gathered across the front and sides, was supplied with a sound basin, a whole pitcher, numerous towels, and four kinds of soap--the girls had all thought of soap. They were unable to decide which kind the lodger would like best, so they laid Bettie's clear amber cake of glycerine soap, Jean's scentless white castile, Marjory's square of green cucumber soap, and Mabel's highly perfumed oval pink cake, in a rainbow row on the washstand. The bed, bountifully supplied with coverings--had Dandelion Cottage been suddenly transported to Alaska the lodger would still have had blankets to spare, so generously had her enthusiastic landladies provided--looked very comfortable indeed. At half-past seven when the lodger arrived with apologies for being late because the drayman who was to move her trunk had been slow, the cottage, for the first time since the girls had occupied it, was brilliantly lighted. "We thought," explained Bettie, "that you might feel less frightened in a strange place if you had plenty of light, though we didn't really mean to have so many lamps--we each supposed we were bringing the only one. Anyway, we don't know which one burns best." "If they should _all_ go out," said Mabel, earnestly, "there are candles and matches on the little shelf above the bed." When the lodger had been warned about the loose slats and the untrustworthiness of the chairs, the girls said good-night. "You needn't go on _my_ account," said Miss Blossom. "It's pleasant to have you here--still, I'm not afraid to stay alone. You must always do just as you like about staying, you know; I shouldn't like to think that I was driving you out of this dear little house, for it was nice of you to let me come. I think I was very fortunate in finding a room so near Mrs. Baker's." "Thank you," said Jean, "but we always have to be home before dark unless we have permission to stay any place." "I _have_ to go," confided Mabel, "because I was so excited that I forgot to eat my supper." "So did I," said Marjory, frankly, "and I'm just as hungry as a bear." "Everybody come home with me," said Jean. "We always have dinner later than you do and the things can't be _very_ cold." CHAPTER 7 The Girls Disclose a Plan "Did you sleep well, Miss Blossom?" asked Bettie, shyly waylaying the lodger who was on her way to breakfast. "Ye-es," said Miss Blossom, smiling brightly, "though in spite of your warning and all my care, the bottom dropped out of my bed and landed the mattress on the floor. But no harm was done. As soon as I discovered that I was not falling down an elevator shaft, I went to sleep again. I think if I had a few nails and some little blocks of wood I could fix those slats so they'd stay in better; you see they're not quite long enough for the bed." "I'll find some for you," said Bettie. "You'll find them on the parlor table when you get back." Before the week was over, the girls had discovered that their new friend was in every way a most delightful person. She proved surprisingly skillful with hammer and nails, and besides mending the bed she soon had several of the chairs quite firm on their legs. "Why," cried Bettie one day as she delightedly inspected an old black walnut rocker that had always collapsed at the slightest touch, "this old chair is almost strong enough to _walk_! I'm so glad you've made so many of them safe, because, when Mrs. Bartholomew Crane comes to see us, she's always afraid to sit down. She's such a nice neighbor that we'd like to make her comfortable." "We do have the loveliest friends," said Jean, with a contented sigh. "It's hard to tell which is the nicest one." "But the dearest _two_," exclaimed Marjory, discriminating nicely, "are Mr. Black and Mrs. Crane--except you, of course, Miss Blossom." "Somehow," added Bettie, "we always think of those two in one breath, like Dombey and Son, or Jack and Jill." "But they couldn't be farther apart _really_," declared Jean. "They're both nice, both are kind of old, both are dark and rather stout, but except for that they're altogether different. Mr. Black has everything in the world that anybody could want, and Mrs. Crane hasn't much of anything. Mr. Black is invited to banquets and things and rides in carriages and--" "Has a silk hat," Mabel broke in. "And Mrs. Crane," continued Jean, paying no attention to the interruption, "can't even afford to ride in the street car--I've heard her say so." "I wish," groaned generous Mabel, with deep contrition, "that I'd never taken a cent for that lemonade I sold her last spring. If I'd dreamed how good and how poor she was, I wouldn't have. She might have had _four_ rides with that money." "_I_ wish," said Jean, "we could do something perfectly grand and beautiful for Mrs. Crane. She's always doing the kindest little things for other people." "Well," demanded Marjory, "aren't we going to have her here to dinner, too, when we have Mr. Black? Please don't tell anybody, Miss Blossom--it's to be a surprise." "Still, just a dinner doesn't seem to be enough," said Jean, who, with her chin in her hand, seemed to be thinking deeply. "Of course it helps, but I'd rather save her life or do something like that." "Little things count for a great deal in this world, sometimes," said Miss Blossom, leaning down to brush her cheek softly against Jean's. "It's generally wiser to leave the big things until one is big enough to handle them." "Mrs. Crane _is_ pretty big," offered matter-of-fact Mabel. "Oh, dear," laughed Miss Blossom, "that wasn't at all what I meant." "Mr. Black," said Bettie, dreamily, "has enough _things_, but I don't believe he really cares about anything in the world but his roses. His face is different when he talks about them, kind of soft all about the corners and not so--not so--" "Daniel Webstery," supplied Jean, understandingly. "It must be pretty lonely for him without any family," agreed Miss Blossom. "I don't know what would become of Father if he didn't have me to keep him cheered up--we're wonderful chums, Father and I." "Oh", mourned tender-hearted Bettie, "I _wish_ I could make Mrs. Crane rich enough so she wouldn't need to mend all the time, and that I could provide Mr. Black with some really truly relatives to love him the way you love your father." "Oh, Bettie! Bettie!" cried Mabel, suddenly beginning, in her excitement, to bounce up and down on the one chair that possessed springs. "I know exactly how we could help them both. We could beg seven or eight children from the orphan asylum--they're _glad_ to give 'em away--and let Mrs. Crane sell 'em to Mr. Black for--for ten dollars apiece." Such a storm of merriment followed this simple solution of the problem that Mabel for the moment looked quite crushed. Her chair, incidentally, was crushed too, for Mabel's final bounce proved too much for its frail constitution; its four legs spread suddenly and lowered the surprised Mabel gently to the floor. Everybody laughed again, Mabel as heartily as anyone, and, for a time, the sorrows of Mrs. Crane and Mr. Black were forgotten. The dinner party, however, still remained uppermost in all their plans. Mabel was in favor of giving it at once, but the other girls were more cautious, so the little mistresses of Dandelion Cottage finally decided to postpone the party until after Miss Blossom had paid her rent in full. "You see," explained cautious Marjory, one day when the girls were alone, "she might get called away suddenly before the three weeks are up, and if we spent more money than we _have_ it wouldn't be very comfortable. Besides, I've never seen seven dollars and a half all at once, and I'd like to." But the dinner plan was no longer the profound secret that it had been at first, for when the young housekeepers had told their mothers about their lodger, they had been obliged to tell them also what they intended to do with the money. In the excitement of the moment, they had all neglected to mention Mrs. Crane, but later, when they made good this omission, their news was received in a most perplexing fashion. The girls were greatly puzzled, but they did not happen to compare notes until after something that happened at the dinner party had reminded them of their parents' incomprehensible behavior. "Mamma," said Bettie, one evening at supper time, soon after Miss Blossom's arrival, "I forgot to tell you that we're going to ask Mrs. Crane, too, when we have Mr. Black to dinner. It's to be a surprise for both of them." "What!" gasped Mrs. Tucker, dropping her muffin, and looking not at Bettie, but at Dr. Tucker. "Surely not Mrs. Crane and Mr. Black, too! You don't mean both at the same time!" "Why, yes, Mamma," said Bettie. "It wouldn't cost any more." Then the little girl looked with astonishment first at her father and then at her mother, for Dr. Tucker, with a warning finger against his lips, was shaking his head just as hard as he could at Mrs. Tucker, who looked the very picture of amazement. "Why," asked Bettie, "what's the matter? Don't you think it's a good plan? Isn't it the right thing to do?" "Yes," said Dr. Tucker, still looking at Bettie's mother, who was nodding her approval, "I shouldn't be surprised if it might prove a _very_ good thing to do. Your idea of making it a surprise to both of them is a good one, too. I should keep it the darkest kind of secret until the very last moment, if I were you." "Yes," agreed Mrs. Tucker, "I should certainly keep it a secret." Jean, too, happened to mention the matter at home and with very much the same result. Mr. Mapes looked at Mrs. Mapes with something in his eye that very closely resembled an amused twinkle, and Jean was almost certain that there was an answering twinkle in her mother's eye. "What's the joke?" asked Jean. "I couldn't think of spoiling it by telling," said Mrs. Mapes. "If there's anything I can do to help you with your dinner party I shall be delighted to do it." "Oh, will you?" cried Jean. "When I told you about it last week I thought, somehow, that you weren't very much interested." "I'm very much interested indeed," returned Mrs. Mapes. "I hope you'll be able to keep the surprise part of it a secret to the very last moment. That's always the best part of a dinner party, you know." "Yes," said Mr. Mapes, "if you know who the other guests are to be, it always takes away part of the pleasure." When Marjory told the news, her Aunty Jane, who seldom smiled and who usually appeared to care very little about the doings in Dandelion Cottage, greatly surprised her niece by suddenly displaying as many as seven upper teeth; she showed, too, such flattering interest in the coming event that Marjory plucked up courage to ask for potatoes and other provisions that might prove useful. "When you've decided what day you're going to have your party," said Aunty Jane, with astonishing good nature, "I'll give or lend you anything you want, provided you don't tell either of your guests who the other one is to be." When Mabel told about the plan, she too was very much perplexed at the way her news was received. Her parents, after one speaking glance at each other, leaned back in their chairs and laughed until the tears rolled down their cheeks. But they, too, heartily approved of the dinner party and advised strict secrecy regarding the guests. School was out, and, as Bettie said, every day was Saturday, but the days were slipping away altogether too rapidly. The lawn, by this time, was covered with what Mabel called "real grass," great bunches of Jean's sweetest purple pansies had to be picked every morning so they wouldn't go to seed, and the long bed by the fence threatened to burst at any moment into blossom. Even the much-disturbed vegetable garden was doing so nicely that it was possible to tell the lettuce from the radish plants. Two of Miss Blossom's three weeks had gone. She herself was to leave town the following Thursday, and the dinner party was to take place the day after; but even the thought of the great event failed to keep the little cottagers quite cheerful, for they hated to think of losing their lovely lodger. Whenever this charming young person was not busy at one or another of the various churches with her father, she was playing with the children. "Just exactly," said Bettie, "as if she were just twelve years old, too." Her clever fingers made dresses for each of the four biggest dolls, and such cunning baby bonnets for each of the four littlest ones. Best of all, she taught the girls how to do a great many things. She showed them how to turn the narrowest of hems, how to gather a ruffle neatly, and how to take the tiniest of stitches. Bettie, who had to help with the weekly darning, and Marjory, who had to mend her own stockings, actually found it pleasant work after Miss Blossom had shown them several different ways of weaving the threads. "I just wish," cried Mabel, one day, in a burst of gratitude, "that you'd fall ill, or something so we could do something for _you_. You're just lovely to _us_." "Thank you, Mabel," said Miss Blossom, with eyes that twinkled delightedly, "I'm sure you'd take beautiful care of me--I'm almost tempted to try it. Shall I have measles, or just plain smallpox?" CHAPTER 8 An Unexpected Crop of Dandelions In spite of the prospect of losing her, the last week of Miss Blossom's stay was a delightful one to the girls because so many pleasant things happened. The best of all concerned the cottage dining-room. This room had proved the hardest spot in the house to make attractive, for it seemed to resist all efforts to make a well-furnished room of it. Most of the faded paper was loose and much of it had dropped off in patches during the time that the cottage was vacant, showing the ugly, dark, painted wall underneath. It was only too evident that the pictures that the girls had fastened up carefully with pins had been put up for purposes of concealment, the ceiling was stained and dingy, and the rug was far too small to cover the floor where some industrious former occupant had daubed paint of various gaudy hues while trying, perhaps, to find the right shade for the woodwork. Moreover, what little furniture there was in the dining-room showed very plainly that it had not been intended originally for dining-room use; the buffet, in particular, proclaimed loudly in big black letters that it was nothing but a soap box, and Bettie's best efforts could not make anything else of it. Now that the day for the long-postponed dinner party was actually set, the girls' attention was more than ever directed toward the forlorn appearance of the little dining-room. "Dear me," said Bettie, one day when the five friends, seated around the table, were cutting out pictures for a wonderful scrap-book for the little lame boy whom Miss Blossom had discovered living near one of the churches, "I do wish this dining-room didn't look so sort of bedroomy." "Yes," said Jean, "I've tried putting the buffet in every corner and all around the walls, and it _won't_ look like anything but a wooden box." "I tried covering it with a gathered curtain," said Mabel, "but that made it look so like a washstand that I took it off again." "Why," exclaimed Miss Blossom, "you've given me a beautiful idea! I believe we could make a splendid sideboard out of that piano box that's so in our way on the back porch. We'd just have to saw the ends down a little, nail on some boards, paint it some plain, dark color, and spread a towel over the top, and we'd have a beautiful Flemish oak sideboard. I'll buy the can of paint." "I'll do the painting," said Jean. "I helped Mother paint our kitchen floor, so I know a little about it." "That would be lovely. I've been thinking, too, that it would be a good idea to fix a little shelf under this window to hold your petunia and these two geraniums that are suffering so for sunshine. I think I could make it from the boards in that soap box." "Oh, thank you!" cried Bettie. "I don't believe there's _anything_ you don't know how to do." The piano box, transformed by Miss Blossom and the four girls into a very good imitation of a Flemish oak sideboard, did indeed make such an imposing piece of furniture that the rest of the room looked shabbier than ever by contrast. "I'm afraid," said Miss Blossom, surveying the effect with an air of comical dismay, "that the rest of our dining-room really looks worse than it did before; it's like trying to wear a new hat with an old gown. But I'm proud of our handiwork." "Yes," said Jean, "it's a great deal more like a sideboard than it is like a piano box." "It's the sideboardiest sideboard I ever saw," said Mabel, "but it's certainly too fine for this room." "Never mind," said cheerful Bettie. "We'll let Mr. Black sit so he can see the sideboard, and we'll have Mrs. Crane face the geraniums on that cunning shelf. If their eyes begin to wander around the room we'll just call their attention to the things we want them to see. When Mamma entertains the sewing society she always invites the first one that comes to sit in the chair over the hole in the sitting-room rug so the others won't notice it. If we catch Mr. Black looking at the ceiling we'll say: 'Oh, Mr. Black, did you notice the flowers on the sideboard?'" Everybody laughed at Bettie's comical idea. This desperate measure, however, was not needed, for one afternoon, the day after the sideboard was finished, something happened, something lovelier than the girls had ever even dreamed _could_ happen. It was only three o'clock, yet there was Miss Blossom coming home two whole hours earlier than usual; her white-haired father was with her and under his arm in a long parcel were seven rolls of wall paper. "My contribution to the cottage," said Mr. Blossom, laying the bundle at Bettie's feet and smiling pleasantly at the row of girls on the doorstep. "It's paper for the dining-room," explained Miss Blossom. "We happened to pass a store, on our way to work this noon, where they were advertising a sale of odd rolls of very nice paper at only five cents a roll. There were two rolls that were just right for the ceiling, and five rolls for the side wall. It seemed just exactly the right thing for Dandelion Cottage, so we couldn't help buying it." "It would have been wicked," said Mr. Blossom, cutting the string about the bundle, "not to buy such suitable paper at such a ridiculous price." "Oh! oh!" cried the delighted girls, as Mr. Blossom held up a roll for inspection. "It might have been made for this house!" "Dandelion blossoms in yellow, with such lovely soft green leaves," said Bettie, "and such a lovely, light, creamy background. Oh! what's that?" "That's the border," replied Miss Blossom. "See how graceful the pattern is, and how saucily those dandelions hold their heads. Show them the ceiling paper, Father." "Oh!" cried Mabel, "just picked-off dandelions scattered all over an ocean of milk--how pretty!" "We'll have the Village Improvement Society after us," laughed Marjory. "They don't allow a dandelion to show its head." "I love dandelions," said Miss Blossom; "real ones, I mean; they're such gay, cheerful things and such a beautiful color." "I love them, too," said Jean, "because, you know, they paid our rent for us." "But," said Mabel, "I'm thankful we haven't got to dig all these dandelions." "Now," said Miss Blossom, "we must go right to work. If everybody will help, Father and I will put it on for you. You needn't be afraid to trust us, because last spring we papered our two biggest rooms, and they really looked _almost_ professional except for one strip that Father got upside-down; but your dining-room will be in no danger on that score, for Father never makes the same mistake twice. Jean, you and Mabel can move all the furniture except the table and sideboard into the kitchen--we'll have to stand on the table. Bettie, take down all the pictures. Father, you can be trimming the ceiling paper here on the sideboard while Marjory starts a fire in the kitchen stove so I can have hot water for my paste. We'll have our wall covered with dandelions in just no time!" "Now," said Mr. Blossom, when the furniture was out and the pictures were all down, "we must dig the soil up well or our dandelions won't grow. Everybody must tear as much as she can of this old paper off the wall; it's so ragged it comes off very easily." "The roof used to leak," said Bettie, "but my brother Rob unrolled some tin cans and nailed them over the place where the truly shingles are gone, and it never leaked a mite the last four times it rained." "The plaster seems fairly good," said Mr. Blossom. "I could mend these holes with a little plaster of Paris if some obliging young lady would run with this dime to the drugstore for ten cents' worth." "I'll go," said Mabel. "I don't think I like peeling walls." "Mabel," said Miss Blossom, "isn't really fond of work, though I notice that she usually does her share." Everybody helped to mend the cracks, and everybody watched with breathless interest to see the first long strip, upheld by Mr. Blossom and guided by Miss Blossom and the cottage broom, go into place. "Wouldn't it be awful," whispered Mabel, "if it shouldn't stick?" But it did stick, smooth and flat, and the paper was even prettier on the wall than it had been in the roll. "A side strip next, Father, so we can see how it's going to look," pleaded Miss Blossom. "Remember, we're just children." At five o'clock, when half of the ceiling and one side of the wall were finished, the front door was opened abruptly. "Hi there!" said Mr. Black, putting his head in at the dining-room door. "Why don't you listen when I ring your bell? Is that dinner of mine ready? I'm losing a pound a day." "No," said Bettie, jumping down from her perch on the sideboard, "but it will be next Friday. We're getting it ready just as fast as ever we can. We're even papering the dining-room for the occasion." "Well," said Mr. Black, "I just stopped in to say that unless you could give me that dinner this very minute, I shall have to go hungry for the next five weeks." "Oh!" cried Bettie, in dismay, "why?" "Because I'm going to Washington tonight by the six o'clock train and I shall be gone a whole month--perhaps longer." "Oh, dear," cried Bettie, "we just _couldn't_ have you tonight. We're papering the dining-room, and besides we haven't a single thing to eat but some stale cake that Mrs. Pike gave us." "I strongly suspect," said Mr. Black, smiling over Bettie's head at Mr. Blossom, "that you don't really _want_ me to dinner." "Oh, we do, we do," assured Bettie, earnestly, "but we just _can't_ have company tonight. If you'll just let us know exactly when you're coming home, you'll find a beautiful dinner ready for you." "All right," said Mr. Black, "I'll telegraph. I'll say: 'My dear Miss Bettykins, of Dandelion Cottage: It will give me great pleasure to dine with you tomorrow--or would you rather have me say the day after tomorrow?--evening. Yours most devotedly and-so-forth.'" "Yes, yes," cried Bettie, "that will be all right, but you must give us three days to get ready in." After all, however, it was Mabel that sent the telegram, and it was a very different one. CHAPTER 9 Changes and Plans When the little dining-room was finished it was quite the prettiest room in the house, for the friendly Blossoms had painted the battered woodwork a delicate green to match the leaves in the paper; and by mixing what was left of the green paint with the remaining color left from the sideboard, clever Miss Blossom obtained a shade that was exactly right for as much of the floor as the rug did not cover. Of course all the neighbors and all the girls' relatives had to come in afterwards to see what Bettie called "the very dandelioniest room in Dandelion Cottage." It seemed to the girls that the time fairly galloped from Monday to Thursday. They were heartily sorry when the moment came for them to lose their pleasant lodger. They went to the train to see the last of her and to assure her for the thousandth time that they should never forget her. Mabel sobbed audibly at the moment of parting, and large tears were rolling down silent Bettie's cheeks. Even the seven dollars and fifty cents that the girls had handled with such delight that morning paled into insignificance beside the fact that the train was actually whisking their beloved Miss Blossom away from them. When she had paid for her lodging she advised her four landladies to deposit the money in the bank until time for the dinner party, and the girls did so, but even the importance of owning a bank account failed to console them for their loss. The train out of sight, the sober little procession wended its way to Dandelion Cottage but the cozy little house seemed strangely silent and deserted when Bettie unlocked the door. Mabel, who had wept stormily all the way home, sat down heavily on the doorstep and wept afresh. Pinned to a pillow on the parlor couch, Jean discovered a little folded square of paper addressed to Bettie, who was drumming a sad little tune on the window pane. "Why, Bettie," cried Jean, "this looks like a note for you from Miss Blossom! Do read it and tell us what she says." "It says," read Bettie: "'My dearest of Betties: Thank you for being so nice to me. There's a telephone message for you.'" "I wonder what it means," said Marjory. Bettie ran to the talkless telephone, slipped her hand inside the little door at the top, and found a small square parcel wrapped in tissue paper, tied with a pink ribbon, and addressed to Miss Bettie Tucker, Dandelion Cottage. Bettie hastily undid the wrappings and squealed with delight when she saw the lovely little handkerchief, bordered delicately with lace, that Miss Blossom herself had made for her. There was a daintily embroidered "B" in the corner to make it Bettie's very own. Marjory happened upon Jean's note peeping out from under a book on the parlor table. It said: "Dear Jean: Don't you think it's time for you to look at the kitchen clock?" Of course everybody rushed to the kitchen to see Jean take from inside the case of the tickless clock a lovely handkerchief just like Bettie's except that it was marked with "J." Marjory's note, which she presently found growing on the crimson petunia, sent her flying to the grindless coffee-mill, where she too found a similar gift. "Well," said Mabel, who was now fairly cheerful, "I wonder if she forgot all about _me_." For several anxious moments the girls searched eagerly in Mabel's behalf but no note was visible. "I can't think where it could be," said housewifely Jean, stooping to pick up a bit of string from the dining-room rug, and winding it into a little ball. "I've looked in every room and--Why! what a long string! I wonder where it's all coming from." "Under the rug," said Marjory, making a dive for the bit of paper that dangled from the end of the string. "Here's your note, Mabel." "I think," Miss Blossom had written, "that there must be a mouse in the pantry mousetrap by this time." "Yes!" shouted Mabel, a moment later. "A lovely lace-edged mouse with an 'M' on it--no, it's 'M B'--a really truly monogram, the very first monogram I ever had." "Why, so it is," said Marjory. "I suppose she did that so we could tell them apart, because if she'd put M on both of them we wouldn't have known which was which." "Why," cried Jean, "it's nearly an hour since the train left. Wasn't it sweet of her to think of keeping us interested so we shouldn't be quite so lonesome?" "Yes," said Bettie, "it was even nicer than our lovely presents, but it was just like her." "Oh, dear," said Mabel, again on the verge of tears, "I wish she might have stayed forever. What's the use of getting lovely new friends if you have to go and lose them the very next minute? She was just the nicest grown-up little girl there ever was, and I'll never see--see her any--" "Look out, Mabel," warned Marjory, "if you cry on that handkerchief you'll spoil that monogram. Miss Blossom didn't intend these for crying-handkerchiefs--one good-sized tear would soak them." Miss Blossom was not the only friend the girls were fated to lose that week. Grandma Pike, as everybody called the pleasant little old lady, was their next-door neighbor on the west side, and the cottagers were very fond of her. No one dreamed that Mrs. Pike would ever think of going to another town to live; but about ten days before Miss Blossom departed, the cheery old lady had quite taken everybody's breath away by announcing that she was going west, just as soon as she could get her things packed, to live with her married daughter. When the girls heard that Grandma Pike was going away they were very much surprised and not at all pleased at the idea of losing one of their most delightful neighbors. At Miss Blossom's suggestion, they had spent several evenings working on a parting gift for their elderly friend. The gift, a wonderful linen traveling case with places in it to carry everything a traveler would be likely to need, was finished at last--with so many persons working on it, it was hard to keep all the pieces together--and the girls carried it to Grandma Pike, who seemed very much pleased. "Well, well," said the delighted old lady, unrolling the parcel, "if you haven't gone and made me a grand slipper-bag! I'll think of you, now, every time I put on my slippers." "No, no," protested Jean. "It's a traveling case with places in it for 'most everything _but_ slippers." "We all sewed on it," explained Mabel. "Those little bits of stitches that you can't see at all are Bettie's. Jean did all this feather-stitching, and Marjory hemmed all the binding. Miss Blossom basted it together so it wouldn't be crooked." "What did _you_ do, Mabel?" asked Grandma Pike, smiling over her spectacles. "I took out the basting threads and embroidered these letters on the pockets." "What does this 'P' stand for?" "Pins," said Mabel. "You see it was sort of an accident. I started to embroider the word soap on this little pocket, but when I got the S O A done, there wasn't any room left for the P, so I just put it on the _next_ pocket. I knew that if I explained that it was the end of 'Soap' and the beginning of 'Pins' you'd remember not to get your pins and soap mixed up." During the lonely days immediately following Miss Blossom's departure, Mrs. Bartholomew Crane proved a great solace. The girls had somewhat neglected her during the preceding busy weeks; but with Miss Blossom gone, the cottagers became conscious of an aching void that new wall paper and lace handkerchiefs and a bank account could not quite fill; so presently they resumed their former habit of trotting across the street many times a day to visit good-natured Mrs. Crane. Mrs. Crane's house was very small and looked rather gloomy from the outside because the paint had long ago peeled off and the weatherbeaten boards had grown black with age; but inside it was cheerfulness personified. First, there was Mrs. Crane herself, fairly radiating comfort. Then there was a bright rag carpet on the floor, a glowing red cloth on the little table, a lively yellow canary named Dicksy in one window, and a gorgeous red-and-crimson but very bad-tempered parrot in the other. There were only three rooms downstairs and two bed-chambers upstairs. Mrs. Crane's own room opened off the little parlor, and visitors could see the high feather bed always as smooth and rounded on top as one of Mrs. Crane's big loaves of light bread. The privileged girls were never tired of examining the good woman's patchwork quilts, made many years ago of minute, quaint, old-fashioned scraps of calico. Even the garden seemed to differ from other gardens, for every inch of it except the patch of green grass under the solitary cherry tree was given over to flowers, many of them as quaint and old-fashioned as the bits of calico in the quilts, and to vegetables that ripened a week earlier for Mrs. Crane than similar varieties did for anyone else. Yet the garden was so little, and the variety so great, that Mrs. Crane never had enough of any one thing to sell. She owned her little home, but very little else. The two upstairs rooms were rented to lodgers, and she knitted stockings and mittens to sell because she could knit without using her eyes, which, like so many soft, bright, black eyes, were far from strong; but the little income so gained was barely enough to keep stout, warm-hearted, overgenerous Mrs. Crane supplied with food and fuel. The neighbors often wondered what would become of the good, lonely woman if she lost her lodgers, if her eyes failed completely, or if she should fall ill. Everybody agreed that Mrs. Crane should have been a wealthy woman instead of a poor one, because she would undoubtedly have done so much good with her money. Mabel had heard her father say that there was a good-sized mortgage on the place, and Dr. Bennett had instantly added: "Now, don't you say anything about that, Mabel." But ever after that, Mabel had kept her eyes open during her visits to Mrs. Crane, hoping to get a glimpse of the dreadful large-sized thing that was not to be mentioned. On one occasion she thought she saw light. Mrs. Crane had expressed a fear that a wandering polecat had made a home under her woodshed. "Is mortgage another name for polecat?" Mabel had asked a little later. "No," imaginative Jean had replied. "A mortgage is more like a great, lean, hungry, gray wolf waiting just around the corner to eat you up. Don't ever use the word before Mrs. Crane; she has one." "Where does she keep it?" demanded Mabel, agog with interest. "I promised not to talk about it," said Jean, "and I won't." Miss Blossom had been gone only two days when something happened to Mrs. Crane. It was none of the things that the neighbors had expected to happen, but for a little while it looked almost as serious. Bettie, running across the street right after breakfast one morning, with a bunch of fresh chickweed for the yellow canary and a cracker for cross Polly, found Mrs. Crane, usually the most cheerful person imaginable, sitting in her kitchen with a swollen, crimson foot in a pail of lukewarm water, and groaning dismally. "Oh, Mrs. Crane!" cried surprised Bettie. "What in the world is the matter? Are--are you coming down with anything?" "I've already come," moaned Mrs. Crane, grimly. "I was out in my back yard in my thin old slippers early this morning putting hellebore on my currant bushes, and I stepped down hard on the teeth of the rake that I'd dropped on the grass. There's two great holes in my foot. How I'm ever going to do things I don't know, for 'twas all I could do to crawl into the house on my hands and knees." "Isn't there something I can do for you?" asked Bettie, sympathetically. "Could you get a stick of wood from the shed and make me a cup of tea? Maybe I'd feel braver if I wasn't so empty." "Of course I could," said Bettie, cheerily. "I tell you what it is," confided Mrs. Crane. "It's real nice and independent living all alone as long as you're strong and well, but just the minute anything happens, there you are like a Robinson Crusoe, cast away on a desert isle. I began to think nobody would _ever_ come." "Can't I do something more for you?" asked Bettie, poking scraps of paper under the kettle to bring it to a boil. "Don't you want Dr. Bennett to look at your foot? Hadn't I better get him?" "Yes, do," said Mrs. Crane, "and then come back. I can't bear to think of staying here alone." For the next four days there was a deep depression in the middle of Mrs. Crane's puffy feather bed, for the injured foot was badly swollen and Mrs. Crane was far too heavy to go hopping about on the other one. At first, her usually hopeful countenance wore a strained, anxious expression, quite pathetic to see. "Now don't you worry one bit," said comforting little Bettie. "We'll take turns staying with you; we'll feed Polly and Dicksy, and I believe every friend you have is going to offer to make broth. Mother's making some this minute." "But there's the lodgers," groaned Mrs. Crane, "both as particular as a pair of old maids in a glass case. Mr. Barlow wants his bedclothes tucked in all around so tight that a body'd think he was afraid of rolling out of bed nights, and Mr. Bailey won't have his tucked in at all--says he likes 'em 'floating round loose and airy.' Do you suppose you girls can make those two beds and not get those two lodgers mixed up? I declare, I'm so absent-minded myself that I've had to climb those narrow stairs many a day to make sure I'd done it right." "Don't be afraid," said Jean, who had joined Bettie. "Marjory's Aunty Jane has taught her to make beds beautifully, and I have a good memory. Between us we'll manage splendidly." "But there's my garden," mourned the usually busy woman, who found it hard to lie still with folded hands in a world that seemed to be constantly needing her. "Dear me! I don't see how I'm going to spare myself for a whole week just when everything is growing so fast." "We'll tend to the garden, too," promised Bettie. "Yes, indeed we will," echoed Mabel. "We'll water everything and weed--" "No, you won't," said Mrs. Crane, quickly. "You can do all the watering you like, but if I catch any of you weeding, there'll be trouble." The young cottagers were even better than their promises, for they took excellent care of Mrs. Crane, the lodgers, the parrot, the canary, and the garden, until the injured foot was well again; but while doing all this they learned something that distressed them very much, indeed. Of course they had always known in a general way that their friend was far from being wealthy, but they had not guessed how touchingly poor she really was. But now they saw that her cupboard was very scantily filled, that her clothing was very much patched and mended, her shoes distressingly worn out, and that even her dish-towels were neatly darned. "But we won't talk about it to people," said fine-minded Jean. "Perhaps she wouldn't like to have everybody know." Even Jean, however, did not guess what a comfort proud Mrs. Crane had found it to have her warm-hearted little friends stand between her poverty and the sometimes-too-prying eyes of a grown-up world. Unobservant though they had seemed, the girls did not forget about the Mother-Hubbardlike state of Mrs. Crane's cupboard. After that one of their finest castles in Spain always had Mrs. Crane, who would have made such a delightful mother and who had never had any children, enthroned as its gracious mistress. When they had time to think about it at all, it always grieved them to think of their generous-natured, no-longer-young friend dreading a poverty-stricken, loveless, and perhaps homeless old age; for this, they had discovered, was precisely what Mrs. Crane was doing. "If she were a little, thin, active old lady, with bobbing white curls like Grandma Pike," said Jean, "lots of people would have a corner for her; but poor Mrs. Crane takes up so much room and is so heavy and slow that she's going to be hard to take care of when she gets old. Oh, _why_ couldn't she have had just one strong, kind son to take care of her?" "When I'm married," offered Mabel, generously, "I'll take her to live with me. I won't _have_ any husband if he doesn't promise to take Mrs. Crane, too." "You shan't have her," declared Jean. "I want her myself." "She's already promised to me," said Bettie, triumphantly. "We're going to keep house together some place, and I'm going to be an old-maid kindergarten teacher." "I don't think that's fair, Bettie Tucker," said Marjory, earnestly. "I don't see how my children are to have any grandmother if she doesn't live with _me_. Imagine the poor little things with Aunty Jane for a grandmother!" CHAPTER 10 The Milligans To the moment of Grandma Pike's departure, all their neighbors had been so pleasant that the girls were deceived into thinking that neighbors were never anything _but_ pleasant. Although they felt not the slightest misgiving as to their future neighbors, they had hated to lose dear old Grandma Pike, who had always been as good to them as if she had really been their grandmother, and whose parting gifts--sundry odds and ends of dishes, old magazines, and broken parcels of provisions--gave them occupation for many delightful days. In spite of the lasting pleasure of this unexpected donation, however, they could not help feeling that, with Mr. Black away, Miss Blossom gone, Mrs. Pike living in another town, and only disabled Mrs. Crane left, they were losing friends with alarming rapidity. Grief for the departed, however, did not prevent their taking an active interest in the persons who were to occupy the house next door, which Mrs. Pike's departure had left vacant. "I wonder," said Marjory, pulling the curtain back to get a better view of the empty house, "what the new people will be like. It's exciting, isn't it, to have something happening in this quiet neighborhood? What did Grandma Pike say the name was?" "Milligan," replied Bettie. "Kind of nice name, isn't it?" asked Jean. "Yes," agreed Mabel, brightening suddenly. "I made up a long, long rhyme about it last night before I went to sleep. Want to hear it?" "Of course." "This one really rhymes," explained Mabel, importantly. Her verses sometimes lacked that desirable quality, so when they did rhyme Mabel always liked to mention it. "Here it is: "As soon as a man named Milligan Got well he always fell ill again--ill again--ill-- "Dear me, I can't remember how it went. There was a lot more, but I've forgotten the rest." "It's a great pity," said Marjory, drily, "that you didn't forget _all_ of it, because if there's really a Mr. Milligan, and I ever see him, I'll think of that rhyme and I won't be able to keep my face straight." "We must be very polite to the Milligans," said considerate Bettie, "and call on them as soon as they come. Mother always calls on new people; she says it makes folks feel more comfortable to be welcomed into the neighborhood." "Mrs. Crane does it, too. We're the nearest, perhaps we ought to be the first." "I think," suggested Jean thoughtfully, "we'd better wait until they're nicely settled; they might not like visitors too soon. You know _we_ didn't." "They're going to move in today," said Mabel. "Goodness! I wish they'd hurry and come; I'm so excited that I keep dusting the same shelf over and over again. I'm just wild to see them!" It was sweeping-day at the cottage when the Milligans' furniture began to arrive, but it looked very much as if the sweeping would last for at least _two_ days because the girls were unable to get very far away from the windows that faced west. These were the bedroom windows, and, as there were only two of them, there were usually two heads at each window. "There comes the first load," announced Marjory, at last. "There's a high-chair on the very top, so there must be a baby." "I'm so glad," said Bettie. "I just love a baby." Two men unpacked the Milligans' furniture in the Milligans' front yard, and each load seemed more interesting than the one before it. It was such fun to guess what the big, clumsy parcels contained, particularly when the contents proved to be quite different from what the girls expected. "Somehow, I don't think they're going to be very nice people," said Mabel. "I b'lieve we're going to be disappointed in 'em." "Why, Mabel," objected Jean, "we don't know a thing about them yet." "Yes, I do too. Their things--look--they don't look _ladylike_." "Oh, Mabel," laughed Marjory, "you're so funny." "Perhaps," offered Jean, "the Milligans are poor and the children have spoiled things." "No," insisted Mabel. "They've got some of the newest and shiningest furniture I ever saw, but I b'lieve it's imitation." "Oh, Mabel," laughed Jean, "I hope you won't watch the loads when _I_ move. For a girl that's slept for three weeks on an imitation pillow, you're pretty critical." Presently the Milligans themselves arrived. Mabel happened to be counting the buds on the poppy plants when they came. "Girls!" she cried, rushing into the cottage with the news. "They've come. I saw them all. There's a Mr. Milligan, a Mrs. Milligan, a girl, a boy, a baby, and a dog. The girl's the oldest. She's just about my size--I mean height--and she has straight, light hair. The baby walks, and none of them are so very good-looking." It did not take the newcomers long to discover that their next-door neighbors were four little girls. Mrs. Milligan found it out that very afternoon when she went to the back door to borrow tea. Bettie explained, very politely, that Dandelion Cottage was only a playhouse, and that their tea-caddy contained nothing but glass beads. When Mrs. Milligan returned to her own house, she told her own family about it. "You might as well run over and play with them, Laura," she said. "Take the baby with you, too. He's a dreadful nuisance under my feet. That'll be a real nice place for you both to play all summer." The girls received their visitors pleasantly; almost, indeed, with enthusiasm; but after a very few moments, they began to eye the baby with apprehension. He refused to make friends with them but wandered about rather lawlessly and handled their treasures roughly. Laura paid no attention to him but talked to the girls. She seemed a bright girl and not at all bashful, and she used a great many slang phrases that sounded new and, it must be confessed, rather attractive to the girls. "Oh, land, yes," she said, "we came here from Chicago where we had all kinds of money, and clothes to burn--we lived in a beautiful flat. Pa just came here to oblige Mr. Williams--he's going to clerk in Williams's store. Come over and see me--we'll be real friendly and have lots of good times together--I can put you up to lots of dodges. Say, this is a dandy place to play in--I'm coming over often." Jean looked in silence at Bettie, Bettie at Mabel, and Mabel at Marjory. Surely such an outburst of cordiality deserved a fitting response, but no one seemed to be able to make it. "Do," said Jean, finally, but rather feebly, "we'd be pleased to have you." Except for a few lively but good-natured squabbles between Marjory, who was something of a tease, and Mabel, who was Marjory's favorite victim, the little mistresses of Dandelion Cottage had always played together in perfect harmony; but with the coming of the Milligans everything was changed. To start with, between the Milligan baby and the Milligan dog, the girls knew no peace. Mrs. Milligan was right when she said that the baby was a nuisance, for it would have been hard to find a more troublesome three-year-old. He pulled down everything he could reach, broke the girls' best dishes, wiped their precious petunia and the geraniums completely out of existence, and roared with a deep bass voice if anyone attempted to interfere with him. The dog carried mud into the neat little cottage, scratched up the garden, and growled if the girls tried to drive him out. "Well," said Mabel, disconsolately, in one of the rare moments when the girls were alone, "I _could_ stand the baby and the dog. But I _can't_ stand Laura!" "Laura certainly likes to boss," said Bettie, who looked pale and worried. "I don't just see what we're going to do about it. I try to be nice to her, but I _can't_ like her. Mother says we must be polite to her, but I don't believe Mother knows just what a queer girl she is--you see she's always as quiet as can be when there are grown people around." "Yes," agreed Mabel, "her company manners are so much properer than mine that Mother says she wishes I were more like her." "Well," said Marjory, uncompromisingly, "I'm mighty glad you're not. Your manners aren't particularly good, but you haven't two sets. I think Laura's the most disagreeable girl I ever knew. Just as she fools you into almost liking her, she turns around and scratches you." "Perhaps," said Jean, "if her people were nicer--By the way, Mother says that after this we must keep the windows shut while Mr. Milligan is splitting wood in his back yard so we can't hear the awful things he says, and that if we hear Mr. and Mrs. Milligan quarreling again we mustn't listen." "Listen!" exclaimed Mabel. "We don't _need_ to listen. Their voices keep getting louder and louder until it seems as if they were right in this house." "Of course," said Marjory, "it can't be pleasant for Laura at home, but, dear me, it isn't pleasant for _us_ with her over here." Badly-brought-up Laura was certainly not a pleasant playmate. She wanted to lead in everything and was amiable only when she was having her own way. She was not satisfied with the way the cottage was arranged but rearranged it to suit herself. She told the girls that their garments were countrified, and laughed scornfully at Bettie's boyish frocks and heavy shoes. She ridiculed rotund Mabel for being fat, and said that Marjory's nose turned up and that Jean's rather large mouth was a good opening for a young dentist. Before the first week was fairly over, the four girls--who had lived so happily before her arrival--were grieved, indignant, or downright angry three-fourths of the time. Laura had one habit that annoyed the girls excessively, although at first they had found it rather amusing. Later, however, owing perhaps to a certain rasping quality in Laura's voice, it grew very tiresome. She transposed the initials of their names. For instance, Bettie Tucker became Tettie Bucker, Jeanie Mapes became Meanie Japes, while Mabel became Babel Mennett. It was particularly distressing to have Laura speak familiarly in her sharp, half-scornful tones, of their dear, departed Miss Blossom, whose name was Gertrude, as Bertie Glossom. Mr. Peter Black, of course, became Beter Plack, and Mrs. Bartholomew Crane was Mrs. Cartholomew Brane, to lawless young Laura. "I don't think it's exactly respectful to do that to grown-up people's names," protested Bettie, one day. "Pooh!" said Laura. "Mrs. Cartholomew Brane looks just like an old washtub, she's so fat--who'd be respectful to a washtub? There goes Toctor Ducker, Tettie Bucker. Huh! I'd hate to be a parson's daughter--they're always as poor as church mice. What did you say your mother's first name is?" "I didn't say and I'm not going to," returned Bettie. "Well, anyhow, her bonnet went out of style four years ago. I should think the parish'd take up a subscription and get her a new one." "I wish, Laura," said exasperated Jean, another day, "that you wouldn't meddle with our things. This bedroom is mine and Bettie's, and the other one is Mabel's and Marjory's. We wouldn't _think_ of looking into each other's private treasure boxes. I've seen you open mine half a dozen times this week. The things are all keepsakes and I'd rather not have them handled." "Huh! I guess I'll handle 'em if I want to. My mother can't keep me out of her bureau drawers, and I don't think you're so very much smarter." A day or two later, the girls of Dandelion Cottage were invited to a party in another portion of the town. The invitations were left at their own cottage door and the delighted girls began at once to make plans for the party. "Let's carry our new handkerchiefs," suggested Jean, going to her treasure box. "I believe I'll take mine home with me--I dreamed last night that the cottage was on fire and that mine got burned. Besides, I'll have to get dressed at home for the party and it would be handier to have it there." "Guess I will, too," said Bettie. "Great idea," said Marjory, taking her own box from its shelf. "I never should have thought of anything so bright. Let's all write to Miss Blossom and tell her that we carried our--Why! mine isn't in my box!" "Neither is mine," cried Mabel, who had turned quite pale at the discovery. "It was there this morning. Girls, did any of you touch our handkerchiefs?" "Of course we didn't," said Jean. "See, here's mine with 'J' on it, and there are no others in my box." "Of course not," echoed Laura. "Mine's here, all right," said Bettie, who had been struggling with her box, which opened hard. "Are you sure you left them in your boxes?" "Certain sure," replied Mabel. "I saw it this morning." "So did I see mine," asserted Marjory. "After I'd shown it to Aunty Jane I brought it back to put in my treasure box." "Laura," asked Jean, "was Marjory's handkerchief in her box when you looked in it this morning? I heard the cover make that funny little clicking noise that it always makes, and just a minute afterward you came out of her room." "I--I don't know," stammered Laura. "I didn't see it--I never touched her old box. If you say I did, I'll go right home and tell my mother you called me a thief. I'm going now, anyway." The girls were in the dining-room just outside of the back bedroom door. As Laura was brushing past Jean, the opening of the new girl's blouse caught in such a fashion on the corner of the sideboard that the garment, which fastened in front, came unbuttoned from top to bottom. From its bulging front dropped Bettie's bead chain, various articles of doll's clothing, and the two missing handkerchiefs. "They're mine!" cried Laura, making a dive for the things. "They're not any such thing!" cried indignant Jean. "I made that doll's dress myself, and I know the lace on those handkerchiefs." "They're my mother's," protested Laura. "I took 'em out of her drawer." "They're not," contradicted Mabel, prying Laura's fingers apart and forcing her to drop one of the crumpled handkerchiefs. "Look at that monogram--'M B' for Mabel Bennett." "It's no such thing," lied Laura, stoutly. "It stands for Bertha Milligan and that's my mother's name." "Give me that other handkerchief this instant," demanded Jean, giving Laura a slight shake. "If you don't, we'll take it away from you." "Take the old rag," said Laura. "My mother gives away better handkerchiefs than these to beggars. I just took 'em anyway to scare Varjory Male and Babel Mennett, the silly babies." After this enlightening experience, the girls never for a moment left their unwelcome visitor alone in any of the rooms of Dandelion Cottage. They stood her for almost a week longer, principally because there seemed to be no way of getting rid of her. Mabel, indeed, had several lively quarrels with her during that time, because quick-tempered Mabel, always strictly truthful herself, could not tolerate deceit in anyone else, and she had, of course, lost all faith in Laura. The end came suddenly one Friday afternoon. Miss Blossom had sent to the girls, by mail, a photograph of her own charming self, and nothing that the cottage contained was more precious. After one of the usual tiffs with Mabel, high-handed Laura spitefully scratched a disfiguring mustache right across the beautiful face, ruining the priceless treasure beyond repair. Even Laura looked slightly dismayed at the result of her spiteful work. The others for a moment were too horror-stricken for words. Then Mabel, with blazing eyes, sprang to her feet and flung the cottage door wide open. "You go home, Laura Milligan!" she cried. "Don't you ever dare to come inside this house again!" "Yes, go," cried mild Bettie, for once thoroughly roused. "We've tried to be nice to you and there hasn't been a single day that you haven't been rude and horrid. Go home this minute. We're done with you." "I won't go until I'm good and ready," retorted Laura, tearing the disfigured photograph in two and scornfully tossing the pieces into a corner. "Such a fuss about a skinny old maid's picture." "You shan't stay one instant longer!" cried indignant Jean, stepping determinedly behind Laura, placing her hands on the girl's shoulders, and making a sudden run for the door. "There! You're out. Don't you ever attempt to come in again." Bettie, grasping the situation and the Milligan baby at the same time, promptly set the boy outside. She had handled him with the utmost gentleness, but he always roared if anyone touched him, and he roared now. "Yah!" yelled Laura, "I'll tell my mother you pinched him--slapped him, too." "Sapped him, too," wailed the baby. "Well," said Jean, turning the key in the lock, "we'll have to keep the door locked after this. Mercy! I never behaved so dreadfully to anybody before and I hope I'll never have to again." CHAPTER 11 An Embarrassing Visitor Up to the time of the unpleasantness with Laura, the girls had unlocked the cottage in the morning and had left it unlocked until they were ready to go home at night, for the girls spent all their waking hours at Dandelion Cottage. Bettie, indeed, had the care of the youngest two Tucker babies, but they were good little creatures and when the girls played with their dolls they were glad to include the two placid babies, just as if they too were dolls. The littlest baby, in particular, made a remarkably comfortable plaything, for it was all one to him whether he slept in Jean's biggest doll's cradle, or in the middle of the dining-room table, as long as he was permitted to sleep sixteen hours out of the twenty-four. When he wasn't asleep, he sucked his thumb contentedly, crowed happily on one of the cottage beds, or rolled cheerfully about on the cottage floor. The older baby, too, obligingly stayed wherever the girls happened to put him. After this experience with the Tucker infants, the Milligan baby had proved a great disappointment to the girls, for they had hoped to use him, too, as an animated doll; but he had refused steadfastly to make friends even with Bettie, whose way with babies was something beautiful to see. The girls were all required to do their own mending, but they found it no hardship to do their darning on their own doorstep on sunny days, or around the dining-room table if the north wind happened to be blowing, for they always had so many interesting things to talk about. During the daytime, the cottage was never left entirely alone. It was occupied even at mealtimes because the four families dined and supped at different hours; for instance, Marjory's Aunty Jane always liked her tea at half-past five, but Jean's people did not dine until seven. Owing to the impossibility of capturing all the boys at one time, supper at the Tucker house was a movable feast, so Bettie usually ate whenever she found it most convenient. As for Mabel, it is doubtful if she knew the exact hours for meals at the Bennett house because she was invariably late. After the handkerchief episode, the girls planned that one or another of them should always be in the cottage from the time that it was opened in the morning until it was again locked for the night. The morning after the later quarrel, however, the girls met by previous arrangement on Mabel's doorstep, went in a body to the cottage, and, after they were all inside, carefully locked the door. "We'll be on the safe side, anyway," said Jean. "Though I shouldn't think that Laura would ever want to come near the place again." "Oh, she'll come fast enough," said Mabel. "She's cheeky enough for anything. Do you s'pose she told her mother about it? She said she was going to." "Pshaw!" said Marjory. "She was always threatening to tell her mother, but nothing ever came of it. If she'd told her mother half the things she _said_ she was going to, she wouldn't have had time to eat or sleep." It was hopeless, the girls had decided, to attempt to mend the ruined photograph, so, at Bettie's suggestion, they had sorrowfully cut it into four pieces of equal size, which they divided between them. They had just laid the precious fragments tenderly away in their treasure boxes when the doorbell rang with such a loud, prolonged, jangling peal that everybody jumped. "Laura!" exclaimed the four girls. "No," said Jean, cautiously drawing back the curtain of the front window and peeping out. "It's Mrs. Milligan!" "Goodness!" whispered Marjory, "there's no knowing what Laura told her--she never _did_ tell anything straight." "Let's keep still," said Mabel. "Perhaps she'll think there's nobody home." "No hope of that," said Jean. "She saw us come in. But, pshaw! she can't hurt us anyway." "No," said Marjory. "What's the use of being afraid? _We_ didn't do anything to be ashamed of. Aunty Jane says we should have turned Laura out the day she took the handkerchiefs." "I'm not exactly afraid," said Bettie, "but I don't like Mrs. Milligan. Still, we'll have to let her in, I suppose." A second vigorous peal at the bell warned them that their visitor was getting impatient. "You're the biggest and the most dignified," said Marjory, giving Jean a shove. "_You_ go." "Don't ask her in if you can help it," warned Bettie, in a pleading whisper. "The doorbell sounds as if she didn't like us very well." But the visitor did not wait to be asked to come in. The moment Jean turned the key the door was flung open and Mrs. Milligan brushed past the astonished quartet and sailed into the parlor, where she seated herself bolt upright on the cozy corner. "I'd like to know," demanded Mrs. Milligan, in a hard, cold tone that fell unpleasantly on the cottagers' ears, "if you consider it ladylike for four great overgrown girls to pitch into one poor innocent little child and a helpless baby? Your conduct yesterday was simply _outrageous_. You might have injured those children for life, or even broken the baby's back." "Broken the baby's back!" gasped Bettie, in honest amazement. "Why, I simply lifted him with my two hands and set him just outside the door. I never was rough with _any_ baby in all my life!" "I happen to know, on excellent authority," said Mrs. Milligan, "that you slapped both of those helpless children and threw them down the front steps. Laura was so excited about it that she couldn't sleep, and the poor baby cried half the night--we fear that he's injured internally." "Nobody _here_ injured him," said Mabel. "He always cries all the time, anyhow." "We _did_ put them out and for a very good reason," said Jean, speaking as respectfully as she could, "but we certainly didn't hurt either of them. I'm sorry if the baby isn't well, but I know it isn't our fault." "Laura walked down the steps," said Bettie, "and the baby turned over and slid down on his stomach the way he always does." "I should think that a _minister's_ daughter," said Mrs. Milligan, with a withering glance at poor shrinking Bettie, "would scorn to tell such lies." Bettie, who had never before been accused of untruthfulness, looked the picture of conscious guilt; a tide of crimson flooded her cheeks and she fingered the buttons on her blouse nervously. She was too dumbfounded to speak a word in her own defense. Mabel, however, was only too ready. "Bettie never told a lie in her life," cried the indignant little girl. "It was your own Laura that told stories if anybody did--and I guess somebody did, all right. Laura _never_ tells the truth; she doesn't know how to." "I have implicit confidence in Laura," returned Mrs. Milligan, frowning at Mabel. "I believe every word she says." "Well," retorted dauntless Mabel, "that's more than the rest of us do. We kept count one day and she told seventy-two fibs that we _know_ of." "Oh, Mabel, do hush," pleaded scandalized Bettie. "Hush nothing," said Mabel, not to be deterred. "I'm only telling the truth. Laura took our handkerchiefs and then fibbed about it, and we've missed a dozen things since that she probably carried off and--" "Mabel, Mabel!" warned Jean, pressing her hand over Mabel's too reckless lips. "Don't you know that we decided not to say a word about those other things? They didn't amount to anything, and we'd rather have peace than to make a fuss about them." "I can see very plainly," said Mrs. Milligan, with cold disapproval, "that you're not at all the proper sort of children for my little Laura to play with. I forbid you to speak to her again; I don't care to have her associate with you. I can believe all she says about you, for I've never been treated so rudely in my life." "Apologize, Mabel," whispered Jean, whose arm was still about the younger girl's neck. "If I was rude," said candid Mabel, "I beg your pardon. I didn't _mean_ to be impolite, but every word I said about Laura was true." "I shall not accept your apology," said Mrs. Milligan, rising to depart, "until you've sent a written apology to Laura and have retracted everything you've said about her, besides." "It'll never be accepted then," said quick-tempered Mabel, "for we haven't done anything to apologize for." "No, Mrs. Milligan," said Jean, in her even, pleasant voice. "No apology to Laura can ever come from us. We stood her just as long as we could, and then we turned her out just as kindly as anyone could have done it. I told Mother all about it last night and she agreed that there wasn't anything else we _could_ have done." "So did Mamma," said Bettie. "So did Aunty Jane." "Well," said Mrs. Milligan, pausing on the porch, "I'd thank you young gossips to keep your tongues and your hands off my children in the future." Jean closed the door and the four girls looked at one another in silence. None of their own relatives were at all like Mrs. Milligan and they didn't know just what to make of their unpleasant experience. At last, Marjory gave a long sigh. "Well," said she, "I came awfully near telling her when she forbade our playing with Laura that my Aunty Jane has forbidden _me_ to even speak to her poor abused Laura." "As for me," said Mabel, with lofty scorn, "I don't _need_ to be forbidden." "Come, girls," said Jean, "I'm sorry it had to happen, but I'm glad the matter's ended. Let's not talk about it any more. Let's have one of our own good old happy days--the kind we had before Laura came." "I'll tell you what we'll do," said Bettie. "We'll each write out a bill of fare for Mr. Black's dinner party, and we'll see how many different things we can think of. In that way, we'll be sure not to forget anything." "But the Milligans," breathed Marjory, promptly seeing through Bettie's tactful scheme. The Milligan matter, however, was not by any means ended. It was true that the girls paid no further attention to Laura, but this did not deter that rather vindictive young person from annoying the little cottagers in every way that she possibly could, although she was afraid to work openly. As Laura knew, the girls took great pride in their little garden. Bettie's good-natured big brother Rob had offered to take care of their tiny lawn, and he kept it smooth and even. The round pansy bed daily yielded handfuls of great purple, white, or golden blossoms; the thrifty nasturtiums were beginning to bloom with creditable freedom; and many of the different, prettily foliaged little plants in the long bed near the Milligans' fence were opening their first curious, many-colored flowers. Some of the vegetables were positively getting radishes and carrots on their roots, as Bettie put it. The pride of the vegetable garden, however, was a huge, rampant vine that threatened to take possession of the entire yard. There was just the one plant; no one knew where the seed came from or how it had managed to get itself planted, but there it was, close beside the back fence. For want of a better name, the girls called it "The Accident," and they expected wonderful things from it when the great yellow trumpet-shaped flowers should give place to fruit, although they didn't know in the least what kind of crop to look for. But this made it all the more delightful. "Perhaps it'll be pumpkins," said Jean. "I guess I'd better hunt up a recipe for pumpkin pie, so's to be ready when the time comes." "Or those funny, pale green squashes that are scalloped all around the edge like a dish," said Marjory. "Or cucumbers," said Bettie. "I took Mrs. Crane a leaf, one day, and she said it _might_ be cucumbers." "Or watermelons," said Mabel. "Um-m! wouldn't it be grand if it should happen to be watermelons?" "What I'm wondering is," said Jean, "whether there's any danger of the vine's going around the house and taking possession of the front yard, too. I could almost believe that this was a seedling of Jack's beanstalk except that it runs on the ground instead of up." "If it tries to go around the corner," laughed Bettie, "we'll train it up the back of the house. Wouldn't it be fun to have pumpkins, or squashes, or cucumbers, or melons, or maybe all of them at once, growing on our roof?" The day after Mrs. Milligan's visit, Laura, who was not invited to the party, and who found time heavy on her hands, watched the girls, after stopping for Marjory, set out in their pretty summer dresses to spend the afternoon at a young friend's house. Laura gazed after them enviously. There was no reason why she should have been invited, for she had never met the little girl who was giving the party, but she didn't think of that. Instead, she foolishly laid the unintentional slight at the little cottagers' door. Mrs. Milligan was sewing on the doorstep and had given Laura a dish-towel to hem. Saying something about hunting for a thimble, Laura went to the kitchen, took the bread-knife from the table drawer, stole quietly out of the back door, and slipped between the bars of the back fence. Reaching the splendid vine that the girls loved so dearly, she parted the huge, rough leaves until she found the spot where the vine started from the ground. First looking about cautiously to make certain that no one was in sight, spiteful Laura drew the knife back and forth across the thick stem until, with a sudden, sharp crack, the sturdy vine parted from its root. Two minutes later, Laura, looking the picture of propriety, sat on the Milligans' doorstep hemming her dish-towel. Of course, when the girls made their next daily excursion about their garden they were almost broken-hearted at finding their beloved vine flat on the ground, all withered and dead. "Oh," mourned Marjory, "now we'll never know _what_ 'The Accident' was going to bear, pumpkins or squashes or--" "Yes," said Mabel, who was blinking hard to keep the tears back, "that's the hardest part of it, it was cut off in its p-prime--Oh, dear, I guess I'm g-going to cry." "What _could_ have done it?" asked Bettie, who was not far from following Mabel's example. "Has anyone stepped on it?" "Perhaps a potato bug ate it off," suggested Jean. "A two-legged potato bug, I guess," said Marjory, who had been examining the ground carefully. "See, here are small sharp heel prints close to the root." "Whose handkerchief is this?" asked Mabel, picking up a small tightly crumpled ball and unrolling it gingerly. "There's a name on it but my eyes are so teary I can't make it out." "It looks like Milligan," said Bettie, turning it over, "but we can't tell how long it's been here." "Horrid as she is," said charitable Jean, "it doesn't seem as if even Laura would do such a mean thing. I can't believe it of her." "_I_ can," said Mabel. "If _she_ had a squash vine, or a pumpkin vine, I'd go straight over and spoil it this minute." "No, no," said Jean, "we mustn't be horrid just because other folks are. We won't pay any attention to her--we'll just be patient." The girls found four small, green, egglike objects growing on the withered vine; they cut them off and these, too, were laid tenderly away in their treasure boxes. "When we get old," said Mabel, tearfully, "we'll take 'em out and tell our grandchildren all about 'The Accident.'" But even this prospect did not quite console the girls for the loss of their treasure. For the next few days, Laura remained contented with doing on the sly whatever she could to annoy the girls. One evening, when the girls had gone home for the night and while her mother was away from home, Laura threw a brick at one of the cottage windows, breaking a pane of glass. Reaching in through the hole, she scattered handfuls of sand on the clean floor that the girls had scrubbed that morning. Another night she emptied a basketful of potato parings on their neat front porch and daubed molasses on their doorknob--mean little tricks prompted by a mean little nature. It wasn't much fun, however, to annoy persons who refused to show any sign of being annoyed, and Laura presently changed her tactics. Taking a large bone from the pantry one day, when the girls were sitting on their doorstep, she first showed it to Towser, the Milligan dog, and then threw it over the fence into the very middle of the pansy bed. Of course, the big clumsy dog bounded over the low fence after the bone, crushing many of the delicate pansy plants. After that at regular intervals, Laura threw sticks and other bones into the other beds with very much the same result. The next time Rob cut the grass he noticed the untidy appearance of the beds and asked the reason. The girls explained. "I'll shoot that dog if you say so," offered Rob, with honest indignation. "No, no," said Bettie, "it isn't the _dog's_ fault." "No," said Jean, "we're not sure that the dog isn't the least objectionable member of the Milligan family." "How would it do if I licked the boy?" asked Rob. "It wouldn't do at all," replied Bettie. "He works somewhere in the daytime and never even looks in this direction when he's home. He's afraid of girls." "Then I guess you'll have to grin and bear it," said Rob, moving off with the lawn-mower, "since neither of my remedies seems to fit the case." CHAPTER 12 A Lively Afternoon It happened one day that Mrs. Milligan was obliged to spend a long afternoon at the dentist's, leaving Laura in charge of the house. Unfortunately it happened, too, that this was the day when the sewing society met, and Mrs. Tucker had asked Bettie to stay home for the afternoon because the next-to-the-youngest baby was ill with a croupy cold and could not go out of doors to the cottage. Devoted Jean offered to stay with her beloved Bettie, who gladly accepted the offer. Before going to Bettie's, however, Jean ran over to Dandelion Cottage to tell the other girls about it. "Mabel," asked Jean, a little doubtfully, "are you quite sure you'll be able to turn a deaf ear if Laura should happen to bother you? I'm half afraid to leave you two girls here alone." "You needn't be," said Mabel. "I wouldn't associate with Laura if I were paid for it. She isn't my kind." "No," said Marjory, "you needn't worry a mite. We're going to sit on the doorstep and read a perfectly lovely book that Aunty Jane found at the library--it's one that she liked when _she_ was a little girl. We're going to take turns reading it aloud." "Well, that certainly ought to keep you out of mischief. You'll be safe enough if you stick to your book. If anything _should_ happen, just remember that I'm at Bettie's." "Yes, Grandma," said Marjory, with a comical grimace. Jean laughed, ran around the house, and squeezed through the hole in the back fence. Half an hour later, lonely Laura, discovering the girls on their doorstep, amused herself by sicking the dog at them. Towser, however, merely growled lazily for a few moments and then went to sleep in the sunshine--he, at least, cherished no particular grudge against the girls and probably by that time he recognized them as neighbors. Then Laura perched herself on one of the square posts of the dividing fence and began to sing--in her high, rasping, exasperating voice--a song that was almost too personal to be pleasant. It had taken Laura almost two hours to compose it, some days before, and fully another hour to commit it to memory, but she sang it now in an offhand, haphazard way that led the girls to suppose that she was making it up as she went along. It ran thus: There's a lanky girl named Jean, Who's altogether too lean. Her mouth is too big, And she wears a wig, And her eyes are bright sea-green. Of course it was quite impossible to read even a thrillingly interesting book with rude Laura making such a disturbance. If the girls had been wise, they would have gone into the house and closed the door, leaving Laura without an audience; but they were _not_ wise and they _were_ curious. They couldn't help waiting to hear what Laura was going to sing about the rest of them, and they did not need to wait long; Laura promptly obliged them with the second verse: There's another named Marjory Vale, Who's about the size of a snail. Her teeth are light blue-- She hasn't but two-- And her hair is much too pale. Laura had, in several instances, sacrificed truth for the sake of rhyme, but enough remained to injure the vanity of the subjects of her song very sharply. Marjory breathed quickly for a moment and flushed pink but gave no audible sign that she had heard. Laura, somewhat disappointed, proceeded: There's a silly young lass called Bet, Thinks she's ev'rybody's sweet pet. She slapped my brother, Fibbed to my mother-- I know what _she's_ going to get. Mabel snorted indignantly over this injustice to her beloved Bettie and started to rise, but Marjory promptly seized her skirt and dragged her down. Laura, however, saw the movement and was correspondingly elated. It showed in her voice: But the worst of the lot is Mabel, She eats all the pie she's able. She's round as a ball, Has no waist at all, And her manners are bad at the table. Marjory giggled. She had no thought of being disloyal, but this verse was certainly a close fit. "You just let me go," muttered Mabel, crimson with resentment and struggling to break away from Marjory's restraining hand. "I'll push her off that post." "Hush!" said diplomatic Marjory, "perhaps there's more to the song." But there wasn't. Laura began at the beginning and sang all the verses again, giving particular emphasis to the ones concerning Mabel and Marjory. This, of course, grew decidedly monotonous; the girls got tired of the constant repetition of the silly song long before Laura did. There was something about the song, too, that caught and held their attention. Irresistibly attracted, held by an exasperating fascination, neither girl could help waiting for her own special verse. But while this was going on, Mabel, with a finger in the ear nearest Laura, was industriously scribbling something on a scrap of paper. As everybody knows, the poetic muse doesn't always work when it is most needed, and Mabel was sadly handicapped at that moment. She was not satisfied with her hasty scrawl but, in the circumstances, it was the best she could do. Suddenly, before Marjory realized what was about to happen, Mabel was shouting back, to an air quite as objectionable as the one Laura was singing: There's a very rude girl named Laura, Whose ways fill all with horror. She's all the things she says _we_ are; All know this to their sorrow. "Yah! yah!" retorted quick-witted Laura. "There isn't a rhyme in your old song. If I couldn't rhyme better 'n that, I'd learn how. Come over and I'll teach you!" For an instant, Mabel looked decidedly crushed--_no_ poet likes his rhymes disparaged. Laura, noting Mabel's crestfallen attitude, went into gales of mocking laughter and when Mabel looked at Marjory for sympathy Marjory's face was wreathed in smiles. It was too much; Mabel hated to be laughed at. "I _can_ rhyme," cried Mabel, springing to her feet and giving vent to all her grievances at once. "My table manners _are_ good. I'm _not_ fat. I've got just as much waist as _you_ have." "You've got more," shrieked delighted Laura. Faithless Marjory, struck by this indubitable truth, laughed outright. "You--you can't make Indian-bead chains," sputtered Mabel, trying hard to find something crushing to say. "You can't make pancakes. You can't drive nails." "Yah," retorted Laura, who was right in her element, "you can't throw straight." "Neither can you." "I can! If I could find anything to throw I'd prove it." Just at this unfortunate moment, a grocery-man arrived at the Milligan house with a basketful of beautiful scarlet tomatoes. In another second, Laura, anxious to prove her ability, had jumped from the fence, seized the basket and, with unerring aim, was delightedly pelting her astonished enemy with the gorgeous fruit. Mabel caught one full in the chest, and as she turned to flee, another landed square in the middle of her light-blue gingham back; Marjory's shoulder stopped a third before the girls retreated to the house, leaving Laura, a picturesque figure on the high post, shouting derisively: "Proved it, didn't I? Ki! I proved it." Marjory, pleading that discretion was the better part of valor, begged Mabel to stay indoors; but Mabel, who had received, and undoubtedly deserved, the worst of the encounter, was for instant revenge. Rushing to the kitchen she seized the pan of hard little green apples that Grandma Pike had bequeathed the girls and flew with them to the porch. Mabel's first shot took Laura by surprise and landed squarely between her shoulders. Mabel was surprised, too, because throwing straight was not one of her accomplishments. She hadn't hoped to do more than frighten her exasperating little neighbor. Elated by this success, Mabel threw her second apple, which, alas, flew wide of its mark and caught poor unprepared Mr. Milligan, who was coming in at his own gate, just under the jaw, striking in such a fashion that it made the astonished man suddenly bite his tongue. Nobody likes to bite his tongue. Naturally Mr. Milligan was indignant; indeed, he had every reason to be, for Mabel's conduct was disgraceful and the little apple was very hard. Entirely overlooking the fact that Laura, who had failed to notice her father's untimely arrival, was still vigorously pelting Mabel, who stood as if petrified on the cottage steps and was making no effort to dodge the flying scarlet fruit, Mr. Milligan shouted: "Look here, you young imps, I'll see that you're turned out of that cottage for this outrage. We've stood just about enough abuse from you. I don't intend to put up with any more of it." Then, suddenly discovering what Laura, who had turned around in dismay at the sound of her father's voice, was doing, angry Mr. Milligan dragged his suddenly crestfallen daughter from the fence, boxed her ears soundly, and carried what was left of the tomatoes into the house; for that particular basket of fruit had been sent from very far south and express charges had swelled the price of the unseasonable dainty to a very considerable sum. Marjory, in the cottage kitchen, was alternately scolding and laughing at woebegone Mabel when Jean and Bettie, released from their charge, ran back to Dandelion Cottage. Mabel, crying with indignation, sat on the kitchen stove rubbing her eyes with a pair of grimy fists--Mabel's hands always gathered dust. "Oh, Mabel! how _could_ you!" groaned Jean, when Marjory had told the afternoon's story. "I'll never dare to leave you here again without some sensible person to look after you. Don't you _see_ you've been almost--yes, quite--as bad as Laura?" "I don't care," sobbed unrepentant Mabel. "If you'd heard those verses--and--and Marjory _laughed_ at me." "Couldn't help it," giggled Marjory, who was perched on the corner of the kitchen table. "But surely," reproached gentle-mannered Jean, "it wasn't necessary to throw things." "I guess," said Mabel, suddenly sitting up very straight and disclosing a puffy, tear-stained countenance that moved Marjory to fresh giggles, "if you'd felt those icy cold tomatoes go plump in your eye and every place on your very newest dress, _you'd_ have been pretty mad, too. Look at me! I was too surprised to move after I'd hit Mr. Milligan--I never saw him coming at all--and I guess every tomato Laura threw hit me some place." "Yes," confirmed Marjory, "I'll say that much for Laura. She can certainly throw straighter than any girl I ever knew--she throws just like a boy." Jean, still worried and disapproving, could not help laughing, for Laura's plump target showed only too good evidence of Laura's skill. Mabel's new light-blue gingham showed a round scarlet spot where each juicy missile had landed; and besides this, there were wide muddy circles where her tears had left highwater marks about each eye. "But, dear me," said Jean, growing sober again, "think how low-down and horrid it will sound when we tell about it at home. Suppose it should get into the papers! Apples and tomatoes! If boys had done it it would have sounded bad enough, but for _girls_ to do such a thing! Oh, dear, I _do_ wish I'd been here to stop it!" "To stop the tomatoes, you mean," said Mabel. "You couldn't have stopped anything else, for I just _had_ to do something or burst. I've felt all the week just like something sizzling in a bottle and waiting to have the cork pulled! I'll _never_ be able to do my suffering in silence the way you and Bettie do. Oh, girls, I feel just loads better." "Well, you may _feel_ better," said irrepressible Marjory, "but you certainly look a lot worse. With those muddy rings on your face you look just like a little owl that isn't very wise." "Oh, dear," mourned Bettie, "if Miss Blossom had only stayed we wouldn't have had all this trouble with those people." "No," said Marjory, shrewdly, "Miss Blossom would probably have made Laura over into a very good imitation of an honest citizen. I don't think, though, that even Miss Blossom could make Laura anything more than an imitation, because--well, because she's Laura. It's different with Mabel--" Mabel looked up expectantly, and Marjory, who was in a teasing mood, continued. "Yes," said she, encouragingly, "Miss Blossom _might_ have succeeded in making a nice, polite girl out of Mabel if she'd only had time--" "How much time?" demanded Mabel, with sudden suspicion. "Oh, about a thousand years," replied Marjory, skipping prudently behind tall Jean. "Never mind, Mabel," said Bettie, who always sided with the oppressed, slipping a thin arm about Mabel's plump shoulders. "We like you pretty well, anyway, and you've certainly had an awful time." "Do you think," asked Mabel, with sudden concern, "that Mr. Milligan _could_ get us turned out of the cottage? You know he threatened to." "No," said Bettie. "The cottage is church property and no one could do anything about it with Mr. Black away because he's the senior warden. Father said only this morning that there was all sorts of church business waiting for him." "Well," said Mabel, with a sigh of relief, "Mr. Black wouldn't turn us out, so we're perfectly safe. Guess I'll go out on the porch and sing my Milligan song again." "I guess you won't," said Jean. "There's a very good tub in the Bennett house and I'd advise you to go home and take a bath in it--you look as if you needed _two_ baths and a shampoo. Besides, it's almost supper time." Laura's version of the story, unfortunately, differed materially from the truth. There was no gainsaying the tomatoes--Mr. Milligan had seen those with his own eyes; but Laura claimed that she had been compelled to use those expensive vegetables as a means of self-defense. According to Laura, whose imagination was as well trained as her arm, she had been the innocent victim of all sorts of persecution at the hands of the four girls. They had called her a thief and had insulted not only her but all the other Milligans. Mabel, she declared, had opened hostilities that afternoon by throwing stones, and poor, abused Laura had only used the tomatoes as a last resort. The apple that struck Mr. Milligan was, she maintained, the very last of about four dozen. Had the Milligans not been prejudiced, they might easily have learned how far from the truth this assertion was, for the porch of Dandelion Cottage was still bespattered with tomatoes, whereas in the Milligan yard there were no traces of the recent encounter. This, to be sure, was no particular credit to Mabel for there _might_ have been had Mr. Milligan delayed his coming by a very few minutes, since Mabel's pan still contained seven hard little apples and Mabel still longed to use them. The Milligans, however, _were_ prejudiced. Although Laura was often rude and disagreeable at home, she was the only little girl the Milligans had; in any quarrel with outsiders they naturally sided with their own flesh and blood, and, in spite of the tomatoes, they did so now. In her mother Laura found a staunch champion. "I won't have those stuck-up little imps there another week," said Mrs. Milligan. "If you don't see that they're turned out, James, I will." "They stick out their tongues at me every time they see me," fibbed Laura, whose own tongue was the only one that had been used for sticking-out purposes. "They said Ma was no lady, and--" "I'm going to complain of them this very night," said Mrs. Milligan, with quick resentment. "I'll show 'em whether I'm a lady or not." "Who'll you complain to?" asked Laura, hopefully. "The church warden, of course. These cottages both belong to the church." "Mr. Black is the girls' best friend," said Laura. "He wouldn't believe anything against them--besides, he's away." "Mr. Downing isn't," said Mr. Milligan. "I paid him the rent last week. We'll threaten to leave if he doesn't turn them out. He's a sharp businessman and he wouldn't lose the rent of this house for the sake of letting a lot of children use that cottage. I'll see him tomorrow." "No," said Mrs. Milligan, "just leave the matter to me. _I'll_ talk to Mr. Downing." "Suit yourself," said Mr. Milligan, glad perhaps to shirk a disagreeable task. After supper that evening, Mrs. Milligan put on her best hat and went to Mr. Downing's house, which was only about three blocks from her own. The evening was warm and she found Mr. and Mrs. Downing seated on their front porch. Mrs. Milligan accepted their invitation to take a chair and began at once to explain the reason for her visit. The angry woman's tale lost nothing in the telling; indeed, it was not hard to discover how Laura came by her habit of exaggerating. When Mrs. Milligan went home half an hour later, Mr. Downing was convinced that the church property was in dangerous hands. He couldn't see what Mr. Black had been thinking of to allow careless, impudent children who played with matches, drove nails in the cottage plaster, and insulted innocent neighbors, to occupy Dandelion Cottage. "Somehow," said Mrs. Downing, when the visitor had departed, "I don't like that woman. She isn't quite a lady." "Nonsense, my dear," said Mr. Downing. "If only _half_ the things she hints at are true, there would be reason enough for closing the cottage. The place itself doesn't amount to much, I've been told, but a fire started there would damage thousands of dollars' worth of property. Besides, there's the rent from the house those people are in--we don't want to lose that, you know." "Still, there are always tenants--" "Not at this time of the year. I'll look into the matter as soon as I can find time." "Remember," said Mrs. Downing, thinking of Mrs. Milligan's rasping tones, "that there are two sides to every story." "My dear," said Mr. Downing, complacently, "I shall listen with the strictest impartiality to both sides." CHAPTER 13 The Junior Warden By nine o'clock the next morning, the girls were all at the cottage as usual. Mrs. Mapes had given them materials for a simple cake and Jean and Bettie were in the kitchen making it. Marjory, singing as she worked, was running her Aunty Jane's carpet-sweeper noisily over the parlor rug, while Mabel, whistling an accompaniment to Marjory's song, was dusting the sideboard; at all times the cottage furniture received so much unnecessary dusting that it would not have been at all surprising if it had worn thin in spots. When the doorbell rang suddenly and sharply, Marjory's tune stopped short, high in air, and Mabel ran to the window. "It's a man," announced Mabel. "Mr. Milligan?" asked Marjory, anxiously. "He's moved so I can't tell." "Try the other window," urged Marjory, impatiently. "It doesn't look like Mr. Milligan's legs--I can't see the rest of him. They look neat and--and expensive." "Probably it's just an agent; they're kind of thick lately. You go to the door and tell him we're just pretend people, while I'm putting the sweeper out of sight." "Good morning," said Mr. Downing. "Are you--Why! this is a very cozy little place. I had no idea that it was so comfortable. May I come in?" "Ye-es," returned Mabel, eyeing him doubtfully, "but I think you're probably making a mistake. You see, we're not really-truly people." "Indeed!" said Mr. Downing, with an amused glance at plump Mabel. "Is it possible you're a ghost?" "I mean," explained Mabel, "we're just children and this is only a playhouse, not a real one. If you have anything to sell, or are looking for a boarding place, or want to take our census--" "No," said Mr. Downing, "I don't want either your dollars or your senses. My name is Downing and I'm not selling anything. I called on business. Who is the head of this--this ghostly corporation?" "It has four," said Mabel. "I'll get the rest." Bettie and Jean, with grown-up gingham aprons tied about their necks, followed Mabel to the parlor. Mr. Downing had seated himself in one of the chairs and the girls sat facing him in a bright-eyed row on the couch. Their countenances were so eager and expectant that Mr. Downing found it hard to begin. "I've come in," he said, "to talk over a little matter of business with you. I understand that you've been having trouble with your neighbors--exchanging compliments--" "No," said honest Mabel, turning crimson, "it was apples and tomatoes. The Milligans are the most troublesome neighbors we've ever had." "So-o?" said the visitor, raising his eyebrows in genuine surprise. "Why, I understood that it was quite the other way round. I'd like to hear your version of the difficulty." Jean and Bettie, with occasional assistance from Marjory and much prompting from Mabel, told him all about it. During the recital Mr. Downing's attention seemed to wander, for his eyes took in every detail of the neat sitting-room, strayed to the prettily papered dining-room, and even rested lingeringly upon the one visible corner of the dainty blue bedroom. Bettie had neglected to close the door between the kitchen and the dining-room, which proved unfortunate, because the tiny scrap of butter that Jean had left melting in a very small pan on the kitchen stove, got too hot and with threatening, hissing noises began to give forth clouds of thick, disagreeable smoke. Jean, the first of the girls to notice it, flew to the kitchen, snatched a lid from the stove, and, with a newspaper for a holder, swept the burning butter, pan and all, into the fire. Then the paper in Jean's hand caught fire, and for the instant before she stuffed it into the stove and clapped the lid into place, fierce red flames leaped high. To the visitor, prepared by Mrs. Milligan for just such doings, it looked for a moment as if all the rear end of the cottage were in flames; but Jean returned to her place on the couch with an air of what looked to Mr. Downing very much like almost criminal unconcern. How was Mr. Downing, who did no cooking, to know that paper placed on a cake-baking fire _always_ flares up in an alarming fashion without doing any real harm? He didn't know, and the incident decided the matter he was turning over in his mind. The girls had found it a little hard to tell their story, for it was plain that their visitor was using his eyes rather than his ears; moreover, they were not at all certain that he had any right to demand the facts in the case. When the story was finished, Mr. Downing looked at the row of interested faces and cleared his throat; but, for some reason, the words he had meant to speak refused to come. He hadn't supposed that the evicting of unsatisfactory tenants would prove such an unpleasant task. The tenants, all at once, seemed part of the house, and the man realized suddenly that the losing of the cottage was likely to prove a severe blow to the four little housekeepers. Perhaps it was disconcerting to see the expression of puzzled anxiety that had crept into Bettie's great brown eyes, into Jean's hazel ones, into Marjory's gray and Mabel's blue ones. At any rate, Mr. Downing decided to be well out of the way when the blow should fall; he realized that it would prove a trying ordeal to face all those young eyes filled with indignation and probably with tears. "Ah-hum," said Mr. Downing, rising to take his leave. "I'm much obliged to you young ladies. Hum--the number of this house is what, if you please?" "Number 224," said Bettie, whose mind worked quickly. "Hum," said Mr. Downing, writing it on the envelope he had taken from his pocket, and moving rather abruptly toward the door, as if desirous to escape as speedily as possible with the knowledge he had gleaned. "Thank you very much. I bid you all good morning." "Now what in the world did that man want?" demanded Mabel, before the front door had fairly closed. "Do you s'pose he's some kind of a lawyer, or--" and Mabel turned pale at the thought--"a policeman disguised as a--a human being? Do you suppose the Milligans are going to get us arrested for just two apples--and--and a little poetry?" "More probably," suggested Jean, "he's a burglar. Didn't you notice the way he looked around at everything? I could see that he sort of lost interest after while--as if he had concluded that we hadn't anything worth stealing." "Nonsense!" said Bettie. "I don't know what he does for a living, but he can't be a burglar. He hasn't lived here very long, but he goes to our church and comes to our house to vestry meetings. Sometimes on warm Sundays when there's nobody else to do it, he passes the plate." "Well," said Mabel, "I hope he isn't a policeman weekdays." "It's more likely," said Marjory, "that he does reporting for the papers. The time Aunty Jane was in that railroad accident, a reporter came to our house to interview her, and he asked questions just as that Mr. Downing--was that his name?--did. He took the number of the house, too." "Oh, mercy!" gasped Mabel, turning suddenly from white to a deep crimson. "If those green apples get into the paper, I'll be too ashamed to live! Oh, _girls_! Couldn't we stop him--couldn't we--couldn't we pay him something _not_ to?" "It's probably in by now," said Marjory, teasingly. "They do it by telegraph, you know." "He _couldn't_ have been a reporter," protested Mabel. "Reporters are always young and very active so they can catch lots of scoons--no, scoots." "Scoops," corrected Jean. "Well, scoops. He was kind of slow and a little bit bald-headed on top--I noticed it when he stooped for his hat." "Well, anyway," comforted Jean, "let's not worry about it. Let's rebuild our fire--of course it's out by now--and finish our cake." In spite of the cake's turning out much better than anyone could have expected, with so many agitated cooks taking turns stirring it, there was something wrong with the day. The girls were filled with uneasy forebodings and could settle down to nothing. Marjory felt no desire to sing, and even the cake seemed to have lost something of its flavor. Moreover, when they had stood for a moment on their doorstep to see the new steam road-roller go puffing by, Laura had tossed her head triumphantly and shouted tauntingly: "_I_ know something _I_ shan't tell!" After that, the girls could not help wondering if Laura really did know something--some dreadful thing that concerned them vitally and was likely to burst upon them at any moment. For the first time in the history of their housekeeping, they could find nothing that they really wanted to do. During the afternoon they had several little disagreements with each other. Mild Jean spoke sharply to Marjory, and even sweet-tempered Bettie was drawn into a lively dispute with Mabel. Moreover, all three of the older girls were inclined to blame Mabel for her fracas with the Milligans; and the culprit, ashamed one moment and defiant the next, was in a most unhappy frame of mind. Altogether, the day was a failure and the four friends parted coldly at least an hour before the usual time. CHAPTER 14 An Unexpected Letter The next morning, Jean, with three large bananas as a peace offering, was the first to arrive at Dandelion Cottage. Jean, a wise young person for her years, had decided that a little hard work would clear the atmosphere, so, finding no one else in the house, she made a fire in the stove, put on the kettle, put up the leaf of the kitchen table, and began to take all the dishes from the pantry shelves. Dishwashing in the cottage was always far more enjoyable than this despised occupation usually is elsewhere, owing to the astonishing assortment of crockery the girls had accumulated. No two of the dishes--with the exception of a pair of plates bearing life-sized portraits of "The frog that would a-wooing go, whether his mother would let him or no"--bore the same pattern. There was a bewildering diversity, too, in the sizes and shapes of the cups and saucers, and an alarming variety in the matter of color. But, as the girls had declared gleefully a dozen times or more, it would be possible to set the table for seven courses when the time should come for Mr. Black's and Mrs. Crane's dinner party, because so many of the things almost matched if they didn't quite. Jean was thinking of this as she lifted the dishes from the shelf to the table, and lovingly arranged them in pairs, the pink sugar bowl beside the blue cream-pitcher, the yellow coffee cup beside the dull red Japanese tea cup, and the "Love-the-Giver" mug beside the "For my Little Friend" oatmeal bowl. She had just taken down the big, dusty, cracked pitcher that matched nothing else--which perhaps was the reason that it had remained high on the shelf since the day Mabel had used it for her lemonade--when the doorbell rang. Hastily wiping her dusty hands, Jean ran to the door. No one was there, but the postman was climbing the steps of the next house, so Jean slipped her fingers expectantly into the little, rusty iron letter-box. Perhaps there was something from Miss Blossom, who sometimes showed that she had not forgotten her little landladies. Sure enough, there was a large white letter, not from Miss Blossom to be sure, but from somebody. To the young cottagers, letters were always joyous happenings; they had no debts, consequently they were unacquainted with bills. With this auspicious beginning, for of course the coming of a totally unexpected letter was an auspicious beginning, it was surely going to be a cheerful, perhaps even a delightful, day. Jean hummed happily as she laid the unopened letter on the dining-room table, for of course a letter somewhat oddly addressed to "The Four Young Ladies at 224 Fremont Street, City," could be opened only when all four were present. When Marjory and Bettie came in, they fell upon the letter and examined every portion of the envelope, but neither girl could imagine who had sent it. It was impossible to wait for Mabel, who was always late, so Bettie obligingly ran to get her. Even so there was still a considerable wait while Mabel laced her shoes; but presently Bettie returned, with Mabel, still nibbling very-much-buttered toast, at her heels. "You open it, Jean," panted Bettie. "You can read writing better than we can." "Hurry," urged Mabel, who could keep other persons waiting much more easily than she herself could wait. "Here's a fork to open it with," said Marjory. "I can't find the scissors. Hurry up; maybe it's a party and we'll have to R. S. V. P. right away." "Oh, goody! If it is," squealed Mabel, "I can wear my new tan Oxfords." "It's from Yours respectably--no, Yours regretfully, John W. Downing," announced Jean. "The man that was here yesterday, you know." "Read it, read it," pleaded the others, crowding so close that Jean had to lift the letter above their heads in order to see it at all. "Do hurry up, we're crazy to hear it." "My Dear Young Ladies," read Jean in a voice that started bravely but grew fainter with every line. "It is with sincere regret that I write to inform you that it no longer suits the convenience of the vestrymen to have you occupy the church cottage on Fremont Street. It is to be rented as soon as a few necessary repairs can be made, and in the meantime you will oblige us greatly by moving out at once. Please deliver the key at your earliest convenience to me at either my house or this office. "Yours regretfully, "JOHN W. DOWNING." For as much as two minutes no one said a word. Jean had laid the open letter on the table. Marjory and Bettie with their arms tightly locked, as if both felt the need of support, reread the closely written page in silence. When they reached the end, they pushed it toward Mabel. "What does it mean in plain English?" asked Mabel, hoping that both her eyes and her ears had deceived her. "That somebody else is to have the cottage," said Jean, "and that in the meantime we're to move." "In the meantime!" blurted Mabel, with swift wrath. "I should say it _was_ the meantime--the very meanest time anybody ever heard of. I'd just like to know what right 'Yours-respectably-John-W.-Downing' has to turn us out of our own house. I guess we paid our rent--I guess there's blisters on me yet--I guess I dug dandelions--I guess I--" But here Mabel's indignation turned to grief, and with one of her very best howls and a torrent of tears she buried her face in Jean's apron. "Bettie," asked Jean with her arms about Mabel, "do you think it would do any good to ask your father about it? He's the minister, you know, and he might explain to Mr. Downing that we were promised the cottage for all summer." "Papa went away this morning and won't be home for ten days. He has exchanged with somebody for the next two Sundays." "My pa-pa-papa's away, too," sobbed Mabel, "or he'd tell that vile Mr. Downing that it was all the Mill-ill-igans' fault. _They're_ the folks that ought to be turned out, and I just wuh-wuh-wish they--they had been." "Why wouldn't it be a good idea," suggested Marjory, "for us all to go down to Mr. Downing's office and tell him all about it? You see, he hasn't lived here very long and perhaps he doesn't understand that we have paid our rent for all summer." "Yes," assented Jean, "that would probably be the best thing to do. He won't mind having us go to the office because he told us to take the key there. But where _is_ his office?" "I know," said Bettie. "Here's the address on the letter, and the dentist I go to is right near there, so I can find it easily." "Then let's start right away," cried eager Mabel, uncovering a disheveled head and a tear-stained countenance. "Don't let's lose a minute." "Mercy, no," said Jean, taking Mabel by the shoulders and pushing her before her to the blue-room mirror. "Do you think you can go _any_ place looking like that? Do you think you _look_ like a desirable tenant? We've all got to be just as clean and neat as we can be. We've got to impress him with our--our ladylikeness." "I'll braid Mabel's hair," offered Bettie, "if Marjory will run around the block and get all our hats. I'm wearing Dick's straw one with the blue ribbon just now, Marjory. You'll find it some place in our front hall if Tommy hasn't got it on." "Bring mine, too," said Jean; "it's in my room." "I don't know _where_ mine is," said Mabel, "but if you can't find it you'd better wear your Sunday one and lend me your everyday one." "I don't see myself lending you any more hats," said Marjory, who had, like the other girls, brightened at the prospect of going to Mr. Downing's. "I haven't forgotten how you left the last one outdoors all night in the rain, and how it looked afterwards, when Aunty Jane made me wear it to punish me for _my_ carelessness. You'll go in your own hat or none." "Well," said Mabel, meekly, "I guess you'll probably find it in my room under the bed, if it isn't in the parlor behind the sofa." "Now, remember," said Jean, who was retying the bow on Bettie's hair, "we're all to be polite, whatever happens, for we mustn't let Mr. Downing think we're anything like the Milligans. If he won't let us have the cottage when he knows about the rent's being paid--though I'm almost sure he _will_ let us keep it--why, we'll just have to give it up and not let him see that we care." "I'll be good," promised Bettie. "You needn't be afraid of _me_," said Mabel. "I wouldn't humble myself to _speak_ to such a despisable man." CHAPTER 15 An Obdurate Landlord Twenty minutes later when Mr. Downing roared "_Come in_" in the terrifying voice he usually reserved for agents and other unexpected or unwelcome visitors, he was plainly very much surprised to see four pale girls with shocked, reproachful eyes file in and come to an embarrassed standstill just inside the office door, which closed of its own accord and left them imprisoned with the enemy. They waited quietly. "Oh, good morning," said he, in a much milder tone, as he swung about in his revolving chair. "What can I do for you? Have you brought the key so soon?" "We came," said Jean, propelled suddenly forward by a vigorous push from the rear, "to see you about Dandelion Cottage. We think you've made a mistake." "Indeed!" said Mr. Downing, who did not at any time like to be considered mistaken. "Suppose you explain." So sweet-voiced Jean explained all about digging the dandelions to pay the rent, about Mr. Black's giving them the key at the end of the week, and about all the lovely times they had had and were still hoping to have in their precious cottage before giving it up for the winter. Mr. Downing, personally, did not like Mr. Black. He had a poor opinion of the older man's business ability, and perhaps a somewhat exalted opinion of his own. He considered Mr. Black old-fashioned and far too easy-going. He felt that parish affairs were more likely to flourish in the hands of a younger, shrewder, and more modern person, and he had an idea that he was that person. At any rate, now that Mr. Black was out of town, Mr. Downing was glad of an opportunity to display his own superior shrewdness. He would show the vestry a thing or two, and incidentally increase the parish income, which as everybody knew stood greatly in need of increasing. He had no patience with slipshod methods. He was truly sorry when business matters compelled him to appear hard-hearted; but to him it seemed little short of absurd for a man of Mr. Black's years to waste on four small girls a cottage that might be bringing in a comfortable sum every month in the year. "Now that's a very pretty little story," said Mr. Downing, when Jean had finished. "But, you see, you've already had the cottage more than long enough to pay you for pulling those few weeds." "_Few!_" exclaimed Mabel, in indignant protest and forgetting her promise of silence. "_Few!_ Why, there were _billions_ of 'em. If we'd been paid two cents a hundred for them, we'd all be _rich_. Mr. Black promised us we could have that cottage for all summer and our rent hasn't half perspired yet." "She means _ex_pired," explained Marjory, "but she's right for once. Mr. Black did say we could stay there all summer, and it isn't quite August yet, you know." "Hum," said Mr. Downing. "Nobody said anything to _me_ about any such arrangement, and I'm keeping the books. I don't know what Mr. Black could have been thinking of if he made any such foolish promise as that. Of course it's not binding. Why, that cottage ought to be renting for ten or twelve dollars a month!" "But the plaster's very bad," pleaded Bettie, eagerly, "and the roof leaks in every room in the house but one, and something's the matter underneath so it's too cold for folks to live in during the winter. It was vacant for a long time before _we_ had it." "It looked very comfortable to _me_," said Mr. Downing, who had lived in the town for only a few months and neither knew nor suspected the real condition of the house. "I'm afraid your arrangement with Mr. Black doesn't hold good. Mr. Morgan and I think it best to have the house vacated at once. You see, we're in danger of losing the rent from the next house, because the Milligans have threatened to move out if you don't." "If--if seven dollars and a half would do you any good," said Mabel, "and if you're mean enough to take all the money we've got in this world--" "I'm not," said Mr. Downing. "I'm only reasonable, and I want you to be reasonable too. You must look at this thing from a business standpoint. You see, the rent from those two houses should bring in twenty-five dollars a month, which isn't more than a sufficient return for the money invested. The taxes--" "A note for you, Mr. Downing," said a boy, who had quietly opened the office door. "Why," said Mr. Downing, when he had read the note, "this is really quite a remarkable coincidence. This communication is from Mr. Milligan, who has found a desirable tenant for the cottage he is now in, and wishes, himself, to occupy the cottage you are going to vacate. Very clever idea on Mr. Milligan's part. This will save him five dollars a month and is a most convenient arrangement all around. He wishes to move in at once." "Mr. Milligan!" gasped three of the astonished girls. "Those Milligans in _our_ house!" cried Mabel. "Well, _isn't_ that the worst!" "You see," said Mr. Downing, "it is really necessary for you to move at once. I think you had better begin without further loss of time. Good morning, good morning, all of you, and please believe me, I'm sorry about this, but it can't be helped." "I hope," said Mabel, summoning all her dignity for a parting shot, "that you'll never live long enough to regret this--this outrage. There are seven rolls of paper on the walls of that cottage that belong to us, and we expect to be paid for every one of them." "How much?" asked Mr. Downing, suppressing a smile, for Mabel was never more amusing than when she was very angry. "Five cents a roll--thirty-five cents altogether." Mr. Downing gravely reached into his trousers pocket, fished up a handful of loose change, scrupulously counted out three dimes and a nickel, and handed them to Mabel, who, with averted eyes and chin held unnecessarily high, accepted the price of the Blossom wall paper haughtily, and, following the others, stalked from the office. The unhappy girls could not trust themselves to talk as they hastened homeward. They held hands tightly, walking four abreast along the quiet street, and barely managed to keep the tears back and the rapidly swelling lumps in their little throats successfully swallowed until Jean's trembling fingers had unlocked the cottage door. Then, with one accord, they rushed pell-mell for the blue-room bed, hurled themselves upon its excelsior pillows, and burst into tears. Jean and Bettie cried silently but bitterly; Marjory wept audibly, with long, shuddering sobs; but Mabel simply bawled. Mabel always did her crying on the excellent principle that, if a thing were worth doing at all, it was worth doing well. She was doing it so well on this occasion that Jean, who seldom cried and whose puffed, scarlet eyelids contrasted oddly and rather pathetically with her colorless cheeks, presently sat up to remonstrate. "Mabel!" she said, slipping an arm about the chief mourner, "do you want the Milligans to hear you? We're on their side of the house, you know." Jean couldn't have used a better argument. Mabel stopped short in the middle of one of her very best howls, sat up, and shook her head vigorously. "Well, I just guess I don't," said she. "I'd die first!" "I thought so," said Jean, with just a faint glimmer of a smile. "We mustn't let those people guess how awfully we care. Go bathe your eyes, Mabel--there must be a little warm water in the tea kettle." Then the comforter turned to Bettie, and made the appeal that was most likely to reach that always-ready-to-help young person. "Come, Bettie dear, you've cried long enough. We must get to work, for we've a tremendous lot to do. Don't you suppose that, if we had all the things packed in baskets or bundles, we could get a few of your brothers to help us move out after dark? I just _can't_ let those Milligans gloat over us while we go back and forth with things." Bettie's only response was a sob. "Where in the world can we put the things?" asked Marjory, sitting up suddenly and displaying a blotched and swollen countenance very unlike her usual fair, rose-tinted face. "Of course we can each take our dolls and books home, but our furniture--" "I'm going to ask Mother if we can't store it upstairs in our barn. I'm sure she'll let us." "Oh, I _wish_ Mr. Black were here. It doesn't seem possible we've really got to move. There _must_ be some way out of it. Oh, Bettie, _couldn't_ we write to Mr. Black?" "It would take too-oo-oo long," sobbed Bettie, sitting up and mopping her eyes with the muslin window curtain, which she could easily reach from the foot of the bed. "He's way off in Washington. Oh, dear--oh, dear--oh, dear!" "Why couldn't we telegraph?" demanded Marjory, with whom hope died hard. "Telegrams go pretty fast, don't they?" "They cost terribly," said Bettie. "They're almost as expensive as express packages. Still, we might find out what it costs." "I dow the telegraph-mad," wheezed Mabel from the wash-basin. "I'll go hobe ad telephode hib ad ask what it costs--I've heard by father give hib bessages lots of tibes. Oh, by, by dose is all stuffed up." "Try a handkerchief," suggested Jean. "Go ask, if you want to; it won't do any harm, nor probably any good." Mabel ran home, taking care to keep her back turned toward the Milligan house. During her brief absence, the girls bathed their eyes and made sundry other futile attempts to do away with all outward signs of grief. "He says," cried Mabel, bursting in excitedly, "that sixty cents is the regular price in the daytime, but it's forty cents for a night message. It seems kind of mean to wake folks up in the middle of the night just to save twenty cents, doesn't it?" "Yes," said Bettie. "I couldn't be impolite enough to do that to anybody I like as well as I like Mr. Black. If we haven't money enough to send a daytime message, we mustn't send any." "Well, we haven't," said Jean. "We've only thirty-five cents." "And we wouldn't have had that," said Mabel, "if I hadn't remembered that wall paper just in the nick of time." Strangely enough, not one of the girls thought of the money in the bank. Perhaps it did not occur to them that it would be possible to remove any portion of their precious seven dollars and a half without withdrawing it all; they knew little of business matters. Nor did they think of appealing to their parents for aid at this crisis. Indeed, they were all too dazed by the suddenness and tremendousness of the blow to think very clearly about anything. The sum needed seemed a large one to the girls, who habitually bought a cent's worth of candy at a time from the generous proprietor of the little corner shop. Mabel, the only one with an allowance, was, to her father's way of thinking, a hopeless little spendthrift, already deeply plunged in debt by her unpaid fines for lateness to meals. The Tucker income did not go round even for the grown-ups, so of course there were few pennies for the Tucker children. Marjory's Aunty Jane had ideas of her own on the subject of spending-money for little girls--Marjory did not suspect that the good but rather austere woman made a weekly pilgrimage to the bank for the purpose of religiously depositing a small sum in her niece's name; and, if she had known it, Marjory would probably have been improvident enough to prefer spot cash in smaller amounts. Only that morning tender-hearted Jean had heard patient Mrs. Mapes lamenting because butter had gone up two cents a pound and because all the bills had seemed larger than those of the preceding month--Jean always took the family bills very much to heart. The girls sorrowfully concluded that there was nothing left for them to do but to obey Mr. Downing. They had looked forward with dread to giving up the cottage when winter should come, but the idea of losing it in midsummer was a thousand times worse. "We'll just have to give it up," said grieved little Bettie. "There's nothing else we _can_ do, with Mr. Black away. When I go home tonight I'll write to him and apologize for not being able to keep our promise about the dinner party. That's the hardest thing of all to give up." "But you don't know his address," objected Jean. "Yes, I do, because Father wrote to him about some church business this morning, before going away, and gave Dick the letter to mail. Of course Dick forgot all about it and left it on the hall mantelpiece. It's probably there yet, for I'm the only person that ever remembers to mail Father's letters--he forgets them himself most of the time." "Now let's get to work," said Jean. "Since we have to move let's pretend we really want to. I've always thought it must be quite exciting to really truly move. You see, we _must_ get it over before the Milligans guess that we've begun, and there isn't any too much time left. I'll begin to take down the things in the parlor and tie them up in the bedclothes. We'll leave all the curtains until the last so that no one will know what we're doing." "I'll help you," said Bettie. "Mabel and I might be packing the dishes," said Marjory. "It will be easier to do it while we have the table left to work on. Come along, Mabel." Mabel followed obediently. When the forlorn pair reached the kitchen, Marjory announced her intention of exploring the little shed for empty baskets, leaving Mabel to stack the cups and plates in compact piles. Mabel, without knowing just why she did it, picked up her old friend, the cracked lemonade-pitcher and gave it a little shake. Something rattled. Mabel, always an inquisitive young person, thrust her fingers into the dusty depths to bring up a piece of money--two pieces--three pieces--four pieces. "Oh," she gasped, "it's my lemonade money! Oh, what a lucky omen! Girls!" The next instant Mabel clapped a plump, dusty hand over her own lips to keep them from announcing the discovery, and then, stealthily concealing the twenty cents in the pocket that still contained the wall-paper money, she stole quickly through the cottage and ran to her own home. CHAPTER 16 Mabel Plans a Surprise The girls were indignant later when they discovered Mabel's apparent desertion. It was precisely like Mabel, they said, to shirk when there was anything unpleasant to be done. For once, however, they were wronging Mabel--poor, self-sacrificing Mabel, who with fifty-five cents at her disposal was planning a beautiful surprise for her unappreciative cottage-mates. The girls might have known that nothing short of an ambitious project for saving the cottage from the Milligans would have kept the child away when so much was going on. For Mabel was at that very moment doing what was for her the hardest kind of work; all alone in her own room at home she was laboriously composing a telegram. She had never sent a telegram, nor had she even read one. She could not consult her mother because Mrs. Bennett had inconsiderately gone down town to do her marketing. Dr. Bennett, however, was a very busy man and sometimes received a number of important messages in one day. Mabel felt that the occasion justified her studying several late specimens which she resurrected from the waste-paper basket under her father's desk. These, however, proved rather unsatisfactory models since none of them seemed to exactly fit the existing emergency. Most of them, indeed, were in cipher. "I suppose," said Mabel, nibbling her penholder thoughtfully, "they make 'em short so they'll fit these little sheets of yellow paper, but there's lots more space they _might_ use if they didn't leave such wide margins. I'll write small so I can say all I want to, but, dear me, I can't think of a thing to say." It took a long time, but the message was finished at last. With a deep sigh of satisfaction, Mabel folded it neatly and put it into an envelope which she carefully sealed. Then, putting on her hat, and taking the telegram with her, she ran to Bettie's home and opened the door--none of the four girls were required to ring each other's doorbells. There, sure enough, was the letter waiting to be mailed to Mr. Black. Mabel, who had thought to bring a pencil, copied the address in her big, vertical handwriting, and without further ado ran with it to her friend, the telegraph operator, whose office was just around the corner. All the distances in the little town were short, and Mabel had frequently been sent to the place with messages written by her father, so she did not feel the need of asking permission. The clerk opened the envelope--Mabel considered this decidedly rude of him--and proceeded to read the message. It took him a long time. Then he looked from Mabel's flushed cheeks and eager eyes to the little collection of nickels and dimes she had placed on the counter. Mabel wondered why the young man chewed the ends of his sandy mustache so vigorously. Perhaps he was amused at something; she looked about the little office to see what it could be that pleased him so greatly, but there seemed to be nothing to excite mirth. She decided that he was either a very cheerful young man naturally, or else he was feeling joyful because the clock said that it was nearly time for luncheon. "It'll be all right, Miss Mabel," said he at last. "It's a pretty good fifty-five cents' worth; but I guess Mr. Black won't object to that. I hope you'll always come to me when you have messages to send." "I won't if you go and read them all," said Mabel, at which her friend looked even more cheerful than he had before. Ten minutes later Mabel, mumbling something about having had an errand to attend to, presented herself at the cottage. Beyond a few meekly received reproaches from Marjory, no one said anything about the unexplained absence. Indeed, they were all too busy and too preoccupied to care, the greater grief of losing the cottage having swallowed up all lesser concerns. At a less trying time the girls would have discovered within ten minutes that Mabel was suffering from a suppressed secret; but everything was changed now. Although Mabel fairly bristled with importance and gave out sundry very broad hints, no one paid the slightest attention. Gradually, in the stress of packing, the matter of the telegram faded from Mabel's short memory, for preparing to move proved a most exciting operation, and also a harrowing one. Every few moments somebody would say: "Our last day," and then the other three would fall to weeping on anything that happened to come handy. Of course the packing had stirred up considerable dust; this, mingled with tears, added much to the forlornness of the cottagers' appearance when they went home at noon with their news. The parents and Aunty Jane said it was a shame, but all agreed that there was nothing to be done. All were sorry to have the girls deprived of the cottage, for the mothers had certainly found it a relief to have their little daughters' leisure hours so safely and happily occupied. Mabel's mother was especially sorry. Never was moving more melancholy nor house more forlorn when the moving, done after dark with great caution, and mostly through the dining-room window on the side of the house farthest from the Milligans, was finally accomplished. The Tucker boys had been only too delighted to help. By bedtime the cottage was empty of everything but the curtains on the Milligan side of the house. An hour later the tired girls were asleep; but under each pillow there was a handkerchief rolled in a tight, grimy little ball and soaked with tears. In the morning, the girls returned for a last look, and for the remaining curtains. Dandelion Cottage, stripped of its furniture and without its pictures, showed its age and all its infirmities. Great patches of plaster and wall paper were missing, for the gay posters had covered a multitude of defects. The indignant Tucker boys had disobeyed Bettie and had removed not only the tin they had put on the leaking roof, but the steps they had built at the back door, the drain they had found it necessary to place under the kitchen sink, and the bricks with which they had propped the tottering chimneys. Before the day was over, the tenants whom the Milligans had found for their own house were clamoring to move in, so the Milligans took possession of the cottage late that afternoon, getting the key from Mr. Downing, into whose keeping the girls had silently delivered it that morning. To do Mr. Downing justice, nothing had ever hurt him quite as much as did the dignified silence of the three pale girls who waited for a moment in the doorway, while equally pallid Jean went quietly forward to lay the key on his desk. He realized suddenly that not one of them could have spoken a word without bursting into tears; and for the rest of that day he hated himself most heartily. CHAPTER 17 Several Surprises Take Effect Mr. Black opened the door of his hotel apartment in Washington one sultry noon in response to a vigorous, prolonged rapping from without. The bellboy handed him a telegram. When Mr. Black had read the long message he smiled and frowned, but cheerfully paid the three dollars and forty-one cents additional charges that the messenger demanded. It was Mabel's message; the clerk had transmitted it faithfully, even to the two misspelled words that had proved too much for the excited little writer. If the receiving clerk had not considerately tucked in a few periods for the sake of clearness, there would have been no punctuation marks, because, as everybody knows, very few telegrams _are_ punctuated; but Mabel, of course, had not taken that into consideration. It was quite the longest message and certainly the most amusing one that Mr. Black had ever received. It read: "DEAR MR. BLACK, "We are well but terribly unhappy for the worst has happened. Cant you come to the reskew as they say in books for we are really in great trouble because the Milligans a very unpolite and untruthful family next door want dandelion cottage for themselves the pigs and Mr. Downing says we must move out at once and return the key our own darling key that you gave us. We are moving out now and crying so hard we can hardly write. I mean myself. Is Mr. Downing the boss of the whole church. Cant you tell him we truly paid the rent for all summer by digging dandelions. He does not believe us. We are too sad to write any more with love from your little friends "JEAN MARJORY BETTIE AND I. "P. S. How about your dinner party if we lose the cottage?" Mr. Black read and reread the typewritten yellow sheet a great many times; sometimes he frowned, sometimes he chuckled; the postscript seemed to please him particularly, for whenever he reached that point his deep-set eyes twinkled merrily. Presently he propped the dispatch against the wall at the back of his table and sat down in front of it to write a reply. He wrote several messages, some long, some short; then he tore them all up--they seemed inadequate compared with Mabel's. "That man Downing," said he, dropping the scraps into the waste-basket, "means well, but he muddles every pie he puts his finger in. Probably if I wire him he'll botch things worse than ever. Dear me, it _is_ too bad for those nice children to lose any part of their precious stay in that cottage, now, for of course they'll have to give it up when cold weather comes. If I can wind my business up today there isn't any good reason why I can't go straight through without stopping in Chicago. It's time I was home, anyway; it's pretty warm here for a man that likes a cold climate." Meanwhile, things were happening in Mr. Black's own town. It was a dark, threatening day when the Milligans, delighted at the success of their efforts to dislodge its rightful tenants, hurriedly moved into Dandelion Cottage; but, dark though it was, Mrs. Milligan soon began to find her new possession full of unsuspected blemishes. Now that the pictures were down and the rugs were up, she discovered the badly broken plaster, the tattered condition of the wall paper, the leaking drain, and the clumsily mended rat-holes. She found, too, that she had made a grievous mistake in her calculations. She had supposed that the tiny pantry was a third bedroom; with its neat muslin curtains, it certainly looked like one when viewed from the outside; and crafty Laura, intensely desirous of seeing the enemy ousted from the cottage at any price, had not considered it necessary to enlighten her mother. "My goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Milligan, a thin woman with a shrewish countenance now much streaked with dust. "I thought you said there was a fine cellar under this house? It's barely three feet deep, and there's no stairs and no floor. It's full of old rubbish." "I never was down there," admitted Laura, dropping a dishpanful of cooking utensils with a crash and hastily making for safe quarters behind a mountain of Milligan furniture, "but I've often seen the trap door." "It hasn't been opened for years. And where's the nice big closet you said opened off the bedroom? There isn't a decent closet in this house. I don't see what possessed you--" "It serves you right," said Mr. Milligan, unsympathetically. "You wouldn't wait for anything, but had to rush right in. I told you you'd better take your time about it, but no--" "You know very well, James Milligan," snapped the irate lady, "that the Knapps wouldn't have taken our house if they couldn't have had it at once." "Well, I _don't_ know," growled Mr. Milligan, scowling crossly at the constantly growing heaps of incongruously mixed household goods, "where in Sam Hill you're going to put all that stuff. There isn't room for a cat to turn around, and the place ain't fit to live in, anyway." Bad as things looked, even Mr. Milligan did not guess that first busy day how hopelessly out of repair the cottage really was; but he was soon to find out. The summer had been an unusually dry one; so dry that the girls had been obliged to carry many pails of water to their garden every evening. The moving-day had been cloudy--out of sympathy, perhaps, for the little cottagers. That night it rained, the first long, steady downpour in weeks. This proved no gentle shower, but a fierce, robust, pelting flood. Seemingly a discriminating rain, too, choosing carefully between the just and the unjust, for most of it fell upon the Milligans. With the sole exception of the dining-room, every room in the house leaked like a sieve. The tired, disgusted Milligans, drenched in their beds, leaped hastily from their shower baths to look about, by candlelight, for shelter. Mr. Milligan spread a mattress, driest side up, on the dining-room floor, and the unfortunate family spent the rest of the night huddled in an uncomfortable heap in the one dry spot the house afforded. Very early the next morning they sent post-haste for Mr. Downing. Mr. Downing, who hated to be disturbed before eight, arrived at ten o'clock; and, with an expert carpenter, made a thorough examination of the house, which the rain had certainly not improved. "It will take three hundred--possibly four hundred dollars," said the carpenter, who had been making a great many figures in a worn little note-book, "to make this place habitable. It needs a new roof, new chimneys, new floors, a new foundation, new plumbing, new plaster--in short, just about _everything_ except the four outside walls. Then there are no lights and no heating plant, which of course would be extra. It's probably one of the oldest houses in town. What's it renting for?" "Ten dollars a month." "It isn't worth it. Half that money would be a high price. Even if it were placed in good repair it would be six years at least before you could expect to get the money expended on repairs back in rent. The only thing to do is to tear it down and build a larger and more modern house that will bring a better rent, for there's no money in a ten-dollar house on a lot of this size--the taxes eat all the profits." "Well," said Mr. Downing, "this house certainly looked far more comfortable when I saw it the other day than it does now. Those children must have had the defects very well concealed. They deceived me completely." "They deceived us all," said Mrs. Milligan, resentfully. "Half of our furniture is ruined. Look at that sofa!" Mr. Downing looked. The drenched old-gold plush sofa certainly looked very much like a half-drowned Jersey calf. "Of course," continued Mrs. Milligan, sharply, "we expect to have our losses made good. Then we've had all our trouble for nothing, too. Of course we can't stay here--the place isn't fit for pigs. I suppose the best thing _we_ can do is to move right back into our own house." "Ye-es," said Mr. Milligan, overlooking the fact that Mrs. Milligan had inadvertently called her family pigs, "it certainly looks like the best thing to do. I'll go and tell the Knapps that they'll have to move out at once--we can't spend another night under this roof." The Knapps, however, proved disobliging and flatly declined to move a second time. The Milligans had begged them to take the house off their hands, and they had signed a contract. Moreover, it was just the kind of house the Knapps had long been looking for, and now that they were moved, more than half settled, and altogether satisfied with their part of the bargain, they politely but firmly announced their intention of staying where they were until the lease should expire. There was nothing the former tenants could do about it. They were homeless and quite as helpless as the four little girls had been in similar circumstances; and they made a far greater fuss about it. By this they gained, however, nothing but the disapproval of everybody concerned; so, finally, the Milligans, disgusted with Dandelion Cottage, with Mr. Downing, and for once even a little bit with themselves, dejectedly hunted up a new home in a far less pleasant neighborhood, and moved hurriedly out of Dandelion Cottage--and, except for the memories they left behind them, out of the story. CHAPTER 18 A Hurried Retreat The girls, of course, had been barred out while all these exciting latest events were taking place in their dear cottage; but Marjory, who lived next door to it, had seen something of the Milligans' hasty exit and had guessed at part of the truth. Mrs. Knapp, who seemed a pleasant, likable little woman, in spite of her unwillingness to accommodate her new landlord, unknowingly confirmed their suspicions when she told her friend Mrs. Crane about it; for Mrs. Crane, in her turn, told the news to the four little housekeepers the next morning as they sat homeless and forlorn on her doorstep. It was always Mrs. Crane to whom the Dandelion Cottagers turned whenever they were in need of consolation and, as in this case, consolation was usually forthcoming. The girls, in their excitement at hearing the news about their late possession, did not notice that sympathetic Mrs. Crane looked tired and worried as she sat, in the big red rocking chair on her porch, peeling potatoes. "Oh!" squealed Mabel, from the broad arm of Mrs. Crane's chair, "I'm glad! I'm glad! I'm glad!" "I can't help being a little bit glad, too," said fair-minded Jean. "I suppose it wasn't very pleasant for the Milligans, but I guess they deserved all they got." "They deserved a great deal more," said Marjory, resentfully. "Think of these last awful days!" "If they'd had _much_ more," said Mrs. Crane, "they'd have been drowned. Why, children! the place was just flooded." "I'm ashamed to tell of it," said Bettie, "but I'm awfully afraid that our boys took off part of the pieces of tin that they nailed on the roof last spring. I heard them doing _something_ up there the night we moved; but Bob only grinned when I asked him about it." "Good for the boys!" cried Marjory, gleefully. "I wouldn't be unladylike enough to set traps for the Milligans myself, but I can't help feeling glad that somebody else did." "It was Bob's own tin," giggled delighted Mabel, almost tumbling into Mrs. Crane's potato pan in her joy. "I guess he had a right to take it home if he wanted to." "Anyway," said Jean, from her perch on the porch railing, "I'm glad they're gone." "But it doesn't do _us_ any good," sighed Bettie. "And the summer's just flying." "Yes, it does," insisted Jean. "We _can_ stand having the cottage empty--we can pretend, you know, that it's an enchanted castle that can be opened only by a certain magic key that--" "Somebody's baby has swallowed," shrieked Mabel, the matter-of-fact. "Mercy no, goosie," said Marjory. "She means a magic word that nobody can remember." "That's it," said Jean. "Of course we couldn't do even that with the cottage full of Milligans." "No," assented Marjory, "the most active imagination would refuse to activate--" "To _what_?" gasped Mabel. "To work," explained Marjory. "I should say so," agreed Mabel, again threatening the potatoes. "It was just as much as I could do to come over here this morning to breathe the same air with that cottage with those folks in it staring me in the face, but now--" "After all," sighed Bettie, sorrowfully, from the other arm of Mrs. Crane's big chair, "having the Milligans out of the cottage doesn't make _much_ difference, as long as we're out, too. Oh, I _did_ love that little house so. I just hated to think of cold weather coming to drive us out; but I never dreamed of anything so dreadful as having to leave it right in this lovely warm weather." "If Mr. Black had stayed in town," said Mabel, feelingly, "we'd be dusting that darling cottage this very minute." Mrs. Crane sniffed in the odd way she always did whenever Mr. Black's name was mentioned. This scornful sniff, accompanying Mrs. Crane's evident disapproval of their dearest friend, was the only thing that the girls disliked about Mrs. Crane. "I _know_ you'd like Mr. Black if you only knew him," said Bettie, earnestly. "In some ways you're a good deal like him. You're both the same color, your eyebrows turn up the same way at the outside corners, and you both like us. Mr. Black has a beautiful soul." "Indeed," said Mrs. Crane. "And haven't I a beautiful soul too?" "Why, of course," said Bettie, leaning down to rub her cheek against Mrs. Crane's. "I meant _both_ of you. We like you both just the same." "Only it's different," explained Jean. "Mr. Black doesn't need us, and sometimes you do. We _like_ to do things for you." "I'm glad of that," said Mrs. Crane, "for I need you this very minute. But don't you be too sure about his not needing you as well. He must lead a pretty lonely life, because it's years since his wife died. I never heard of anybody else liking her, but I guess _he_ did. He's one of the faithful kind, maybe, for he's lived all alone in that great big house ever since. I guess it does him good to have you little girls for friends." "What was his wife like?" asked Mabel, eagerly. "Did you use to know her?" "No, indeed," said Mrs. Crane, again giving the objectionable sniff. "That is, not so very well--a little light-headed, useless thing, no more fit to keep house--but there! there. It doesn't make any difference _now_, and I've learned that it isn't the best housekeepers that get married easiest. If it was, I wouldn't be so worried _now_." "Is anything the matter?" asked Jean, quick to note the distress in Mrs. Crane's voice. "Yes," returned the good woman, "there are two things the matter." "Your poor foot?" queried Bettie, instantly all sympathy. "No, the foot's all right. It's Mr. Barlow and my eyes. Mr. Barlow is going to be married to a young lady he's been writing to for a long time, and I'm going to lose him because he wants to keep house. It won't be easy to find another lodger for that little, shabby, old-fashioned room. I'm trying to make a new rag carpet for it, but I'm all at a standstill because I can't see to thread my needle. I declare, I don't know what is going to become of me." "When I grow up," said Bettie, "you shall live with me." "But what am I to do while I'm waiting for you to grow up?" asked Mrs. Crane, smiling at Bettie's protecting manner. "Let us be your eyes," suggested Jean. "Couldn't we thread about a million needles for you? Don't you think a million would last all day?" "I should think it might," said Mrs. Crane, somewhat comforted. "I haven't quite a million, but if Marjory will get my cushion and a spool of cotton I'll be very glad to have you thread all I have." The girls worked in silence for fully five minutes. Then Mabel jabbed the solitary needle she had threaded into the sawdust cushion and said: "Don't you suppose Mr. Downing might let us have the cottage _now_, if we went to him? Nobody else seems to care about it. What do you think, Mrs. Crane?" "Why, my dear, I suppose it wouldn't do any harm to ask. You'd better see what your own people think about it." "Let's go ask them now," cried impetuous Mabel, springing to her feet. Forgetting all about the needles and without waiting to say good-by to Mrs. Crane, the eager girl made a diagonal rush for the corner nearest her own home. The others remained long enough to thread all the needles. Then they, too, went home with the news about the cottage and about Mrs. Crane. They were realizing, for the first time, that their good friend might become helpless long before they were ready to use her as a grandmother for their children, but they couldn't see just what was to be done about it. The idea of going to Mr. Downing, however, soon drove every other thought away, for the parents and Aunty Jane, too, advised them to ask. They even encouraged them. But when Jean and Bettie, hopefully dressed in their Sunday-best, and Marjory and Mabel, with their abundant locks elaborately curled besides, presented themselves and their request at Mr. Downing's house that evening, they were not at all encouraged by their reception. Mr. Downing, a man of moods, had just come off second-best in an encounter with Mrs. Milligan, whom he had accidentally met on his way home to dinner, and, at the moment the girls appeared, the cottage was just about the last subject that the badgered man cared to discuss. Before Jean had fairly stated her errand, the enraged Mr. Downing roared "_No!_" so emphatically that his four alarmed visitors backed hurriedly off the Downing porch and fled as one girl. Mabel, to be sure, measured her length in the canna bed near the gate, but she scrambled up, snorting with fright and indignation, and none of them paused again in their flight until Jean's door, which seemed safest, had closed behind them. CHAPTER 19 The Response to Mabel's Telegram The night of their flitting from Dandelion Cottage, the girls had hastily eaten all the radishes in the cottage garden to prevent their falling into the hands of the grasping Milligans. Now, the morning after their visit to Mr. Downing, they were wishing that they hadn't; not because the radishes had disagreed with them, but for quite a different reason. They could not enter the cottage, of course, but it had occurred to them that it might be possible to derive a certain melancholy satisfaction from tending and replenishing the little garden. That pleasure, at least, had not been forbidden them; but before beginning active operations, they took the precaution of enlarging the hole in the back fence, so that instantaneous flight would be possible in case Mr. Downing should stroll cottageward. Their motive was good. When Mr. Black returned, if he ever should, Bettie meant that he should find the little yard in perfect order. "We'll keep to our part of the bargain, anyway," said Bettie, as the four girls were making their first cautious tour of inspection about the cottage yard. "There's lots of work to be done." "Yes," agreed Jean. "We said we'd keep this yard nice all summer, and it wouldn't be right not to do it." "I wonder if we ought to ask Mr. Downing?" asked conscientious Bettie, stooping to pull off some gone-to-seed pansies. "Perhaps you'd like the job!" suggested Marjory, with mild sarcasm. "My sakes!" said Mabel. "I wouldn't go near that man again if I was going to swallow an automobile the next moment if I didn't. I could hear him roar '_No_' every few minutes all night. I fell out of bed twice, dreaming that I was trying to get off of that old porch of his before he could grab me." "Well, I guess we'd better not ask," said Jean, "because I'm pretty sure he'd have the same answer ready." "He certainly ought not to mind having us take care of our own flowers," said Marjory. "That's true," said Bettie, poking the moist earth with a friendly finger. "They're growing splendidly since the rain. See how nice and full of growiness the ground is." "I can get more pansy plants," offered Marjory, "to fill up these holes the Milligan dog made." "Mrs. Crane promised to give us some aster plants," said Mabel. "Let's put 'em along by the fence." "Let's do," said Jean. "You go see if you can have them now." "I _know_ Mr. Black will be pleased," declared Bettie, "if he finds this place looking nice. I'm so thankful we didn't remember to ask Mr. Downing about it." "We didn't have a chance," said Jean, ruefully; "but just the same, I'm willing to keep on forgetting until Mr. Black comes." It began to look, however, as if Mr. Black were never coming. Bettie had written as she had promised but had had no reply, though the letter had not been mailed for ten minutes before she began to watch for the postman. Even Mabel, having had no response to her telegram and supposing it to have gone astray, had given up hope. Mabel, ever averse to confessing the failure of any of her enterprises, had decided to postpone saying anything about the telegram until one or another of the girls should remember to ask what had become of the thirty-five cents. So far, none of them had thought of it. Still, it seemed probable, in spite of Mr. Black's continued absence, that he would get home some time, for he had left so much behind him. In the business portion of the town there was a huge building whose sign read: "PETER BLACK AND COMPANY." Then, in the prettiest part of the residence district, where the lawns were big and the shrubs were planted scientifically by a landscape gardener and where the hillside bristled with roses, there was a large, handsome stone house that, as everybody knew, belonged to Mr. Black. Although there were industrious clerks at work in the one, and a middle-aged housekeeper, with a furnace-tending, grass-cutting husband equally busy in the other, it was reasonable to suppose that Mr. Black, even if he had no family, would have to return some time, if only to enjoy his beloved rose-bushes. Thanks to Mabel's telegram (Bettie's letter, forwarded from Washington, did not reach him for many days) he did come. He had had to stop in Chicago, after all, and there had been unexpected delays; but just a week from the day the Milligans had left the cottage, Mr. Black returned. Without even stopping to look in at his own office, the traveler went straight to the rectory to ask for Bettie. Bettie, Mrs. Tucker told him, he would probably find in the cottage yard. Mr. Black took a short cut through the hole in the back fence, arriving on the cottage lawn just in time to meet a procession of girls entering the front gate. Each girl was carrying a huge, heavy clod of earth, out of the top of which grew a sturdy green plant; for the cottageless cottagers had discovered the only successful way of performing the difficult feat of restocking their garden with half-grown vegetables. Their neighbors had proved generous when Bettie had explained that if one could only dig deep enough one could transplant _anything_, from a cabbage to pole-beans. Some of the grown-up gardeners, to be sure, had been skeptical, but they were all willing that the girls should make the attempt. "Oh, Mr. Black!" shrieked the four girls, dropping their burdens to make a simultaneous rush for the senior warden. "Oh! oh! oh! Is it really you? We're so glad--so awfully glad you've come!" "Well, I declare! So am I," said Mr. Black, with his arms full of girls. "It seems like getting home again to have a family of nice girls waiting with a welcome, even if it's a pretty sandy one. What are you doing with all the real estate? I thought you'd all been turned out, but you seem to be all here. I declare, if you haven't all been growing!" "We were--we are--we have," cried the girls, dancing up and down delightedly. "Mr. Downing made us give up the cottage, but he didn't say anything about the garden--and--and--we thought we'd better forget to ask about it." "Tell me the whole story," said Mr. Black. "Let's sit here on the doorstep. I'm sure I could listen more comfortably if there were not so many excited girls dancing on my best toes." So Mr. Black, with a girl at each side and two at his feet, heard the story from beginning to end, and he seemed to find it much more amusing than the girls had at any time considered it. He simply roared with laughter when Bettie apologized about Bob and the tin. "Well," said he, when the recital was ended, and he had shown the girls Mabel's telegram, and the thoroughly delighted Mabel had been praised and enthusiastically hugged by the other three, "I _have_ heard of cottages with more than one key. Suppose you see, Bettie, if anything on this ring will fit that keyhole." Three of the flat, slender keys did not, but the fourth turned easily in the lock. Bettie opened the door. "Possession," said Mr. Black, with a twinkle in his eye, "is nine points of the law. You'd better go to work at once and move in and get to cooking; you see, there's a vacancy under my vest that nothing but that promised dinner party can fill. The sooner you get settled, the sooner I get that good square meal. Besides, if you don't work, you won't have an appetite for a great big box of candy that I have in my trunk." "Oh," sighed Bettie, rubbing her cheek against Mr. Black's sleeve, "it seems too good to be true." "What, the candy?" teased Mr. Black. "No, the cottage," explained Bettie, earnestly. "Oh, I do hope winter will be about six months late this year to make up for this." "Perhaps it'll forget to come at all," breathed Mabel, hopefully. "I'd almost be willing to skip Christmas if there was any way of stretching this summer out to February. Somebody please pinch me--I'm afraid I'm dreaming--Oh! ouch! I didn't say _everybody_." By this time, of course, all the young housekeepers' relatives were deeply interested in the cottage. After living for a never-to-be-forgotten week with the four unhappiest little girls in town, all were eager to reinstate them in the restored treasure. The girls, having rushed home with the joyful news, were almost overwhelmed with unexpected offers of parental assistance. The grown-ups were not only willing but anxious to help. Then, too, the Mapes boys and the young Tuckers almost came to blows over who should have the honor of mending the roof with the bundles of shingles that Dr. Bennett insisted on furnishing. Marjory's Aunty Jane said that if somebody who could drive nails without smashing his thumb would mend the holes in the parlor floor she would give the girls a pretty ingrain carpet, one side of which looked almost new. Dr. Bennett himself laid a clean new floor in the little kitchen over the rough old one, and Mrs. Mapes mended the broken plaster in all the rooms by pasting unbleached muslin over the holes. Mr. Tucker replaced all broken panes of glass, while his busy wife found time to tack mosquito-netting over the kitchen and pantry windows. So interested, indeed, were all the grown-ups and all the brothers that the girls chuckled delightedly. It wouldn't have surprised them so very much if all their people had fallen suddenly to playing with dolls and to having tea-parties in the cottage; but the place was still far too disorderly for either of these juvenile occupations to prove attractive to anybody. In the midst of the confusion, Mr. Downing stopped at the cottage door one noon and asked for the girls, who eyed him doubtfully and resentfully as they met him, after Marjory had hesitatingly ushered him into the untidy little parlor. Mr. Downing smiled at them in a friendly but decidedly embarrassed manner. He had not forgotten his own lack of cordiality when the girls had called on him, and he wanted to atone for it. Mr. Black had tactfully but effectively pointed out to Mr. Downing--already deeply disgusted with the Milligans--the error of his ways, and Mr. Downing, as generous as he was hasty and irascible, was honest enough to admit that he had been mistaken not only in his estimate of Mr. Black, but also in his treatment of the little cottagers. Now, eager to make amends, he looked somewhat anxiously from one to another of his silent hostesses, who in return looked questioningly at Mr. Downing. Surely, with Mr. Black in town, Mr. Downing _couldn't_ be thinking of turning them out a second time; still, he had disappointed them before, probably he would again, and the girls meant to take no chances. So they kept still, with searching eyes glued upon Mr. Downing's countenance. All at once, they realized that they were looking into friendly eyes, and three of them jumped to the conclusion that the junior warden was not the heartless monster they had considered him. "I came," said Mr. Downing, noticing the change of expression in Bettie's face, "to offer you, with my apologies, this key and this little document. The paper, as you will see, is signed by all the vestrymen--my own name is written _very_ large--and it gives you the right to the use of this cottage until such time as the church feels rich enough to tear it down and build a new one. There is no immediate cause for alarm on this score, for there were only sixty-two cents in the plate last Sunday. I have come to the conclusion, young ladies, that I was overhasty in my judgment. I didn't understand the matter, and I'm afraid I acted without due consideration--I often do. But I hope you'll forgive me, for I sincerely beg _all_ your pardons." "It's all right," said Bettie, "as long as it was just a mistake. It's easy to forgive mistakes." "Yes," said Marjory, sagely, "we all make 'em." "It's all right, anyway," added Jean. Mr. Downing looked expectantly at Mabel, who for once had preserved a dead silence. "Well?" he asked, interrogatively. "I don't suppose I can ever really _quite_ forgive you," confessed Mabel, with evident reluctance. "It'll be awfully hard work, but I guess I can try." "Perhaps my peace-offering will help your efforts a little," said Mr. Downing, smiling. "It seems to be coming in now at your gate." The girls turned hastily to look, but all they could see was a very untidy man with a large book under his arm. "These," said Mr. Downing, taking the book from the man, who had walked in at the open door, "are samples of inexpensive wall papers. You're to choose as much as you need of the kinds you like best, and this man will put it wherever it will do the most good, and I'll pay the bill. Now, Miss Blue Eyes, do I stand a better chance of forgiveness?" "Yes, yes!" cried Mabel. "I'm almost glad you needed to apologize. You did it beautifully, too. Mercy, when _I_ apologize--and I have to do a _fearful_ lot of apologizing--I don't begin to do it so nicely!" "Perhaps," offered Mr. Downing, "when you've had as much practice as I have, it will come easier. I see, however, that you are far more suitable tenants than the Milligans would have been, for my humble apologies to them met with a very different reception. I assure you that, if there's ever any rivalry between you again, my vote goes with you--you're so easily satisfied. Now don't hesitate to choose whatever you want from this book. This paperhanger is yours, too, until you're done with him." "Oh, thank you, thank you, _thank_ you," cried the girls, with happy voices, as Mr. Downing turned to go; "you _couldn't_ have thought of a nicer peace-offering." Of course it took a long, long time for so many young housekeepers to choose papers for the parlor and the two bedrooms, but after much discussion and many differences of opinion, it was finally selected. The girls decided on green for the parlor, blue for one bedroom, and pink for the other, and they were easily persuaded to choose small patterns. Then the smiling paperhanger worked with astonishing rapidity and said that he didn't object in the least to having four pairs of bright eyes watch from the doorway every strip go into place. It seemed to be no trouble at all to paper the little low-ceilinged cottage, and, oh! how beautiful it was when it was all done. The cool, cucumber-green parlor was just the right shade to melt into the soft blue and white of the front bedroom. As for the dainty pink room, as Bettie said rapturously, it fairly made one smell roses to look at it, it was so sweet. It was finished by the following night, for no paperhanger could have had the heart to linger over his work with so many anxious eyes following every movement. Mrs. Tucker washed and ironed and mended the white muslin curtains; and, with such a bower to move into, the second moving-in and settling, the girls decided, was really better than the first. When their belongings were finally reinstalled in the cottage even Mabel no longer felt resentful toward the Milligans. CHAPTER 20 The Odd Behavior of the Grown-ups Even with all its ingenious though inexpensive improvements, the renovated cottage would probably have failed to satisfy a genuine rent-paying family, but to the contented girls it seemed absolutely perfect. At last, it looked to everybody as if the long-deferred dinner party were actually to take place. There, in readiness, were the girls, the money, the cottage, and Mr. Black, and nothing had happened to Mrs. Bartholomew Crane--who might easily, as Mabel suggested harrowingly, have moved away or died at any moment during the summer. One day, very soon after the cottage was settled, a not-at-all-surprised Mr. Black and a very-much-astonished Mrs. Crane each received a formal invitation to dine under its reshingled roof. Composed by all four, the note was written by Jean, whose writing and spelling all conceded to be better than the combined efforts of the other three. Bettie delivered the notes with her own hand, two days before the event, and on the morning of the party she went a second time to each house to make certain that neither of the expected guests had forgotten the date. "Forget!" exclaimed Mr. Black, standing framed in his own doorway. "My dear little girl, how _could_ I forget, when I've been saving room for that dinner ever since early last spring? Nothing, I assure you, could keep me away or even delay me. I have eaten a _very_ light breakfast, I shall go entirely without luncheon--" "I wouldn't do that," warned Bettie. "You see it's our first dinner party and something _might_ go wrong. The soup might scorch--" "It wouldn't have the heart to," said Mr. Black. "_No_ soup could be so unkind." Of course the cottage was the busiest place imaginable during the days immediately preceding the dinner party. The girls had made elaborate plans and their pockets fairly bulged with lists of things that they were to be sure to remember and not on any account to forget. Then the time came for them to begin to do all the things that they had planned to do, and the cottage hummed like a hive of bees. First the precious seven dollars and a half, swelled by some mysterious process to seven dollars and fifty-seven cents, had to be withdrawn from the bank, the most imposing building in town with its almost oppressive air of formal dignity. The rather diffident girls went in a body to get the money and looked with astonishment at the extra pennies. "That's the interest," explained the cashier, noting with quiet amusement the puzzled faces. "Oh," said Jean, "we've had that in school, but this is the first time we've ever seen any." "We didn't suppose," supplemented Bettie, "that interest was real money. _I_ thought it was something like those x-plus-y things that the boys have in algebra." "Or like mermaids and goddesses," said Mabel. "She means myths," interpreted Marjory. "I see," said the cashier. "Perhaps you like real, tangible interest better than the kind you have in school." "Oh, we do, we do!" cried the four girls. "After this," confided Bettie, "it will be easier to study about." Then, with the money carefully divided into three portions, placed in three separate purses, which in turn were deposited one each in Jean's, Marjory's, and Bettie's pockets, Mabel having flatly declined to burden herself with any such weighty responsibility, the four went to purchase their groceries. The smiling clerks at the various shops confused them a little at first by offering them new brands of breakfast foods with strange, oddly spelled names, but the girls explained patiently at each place that they were giving a dinner party, not a breakfast, and that they wanted nothing but the things on their list. It took time and a great deal of discussion to make so many important purchases, but finally the groceries were all ordered. Next the little housekeepers went to the butcher's to ask for a chicken. "Vat kind of schicken you vant?" asked the stout, impatient German butcher. Jean looked at Bettie, Bettie looked at Marjory, and Marjory, although she knew it was hopeless, looked at Mabel. "Vell?" said the busy butcher, interrogatively. "One to cook--without feathers," gasped Jean. "A spring schicken?" "Is that--is that better than a summer one?" faltered Bettie, cautiously. "You see it's summer now." "Perhaps," suggested Mabel, seized with a bright thought, "an August one--" "Here, Schon," shouted the busy butcher to his assistant, "you pring oudt three-four schicken. You can pick von oudt vile I vaits on dese odder gostomer." "I think," said Jean, indicating one of the fowls John had produced for her inspection, "that that's about the right size. It's so small and smooth that it ought to be tender." "I wouldn't take that one, Miss," cautioned honest John, under his breath, "it looks to me like a little old bantam rooster. Leave it to me and I'll find you a good one." To his credit, John was as good as his word. The little housekeepers felt very important indeed, when, later in the day, a procession of genuine grocery wagons, drawn by flesh-and-blood horses, drew up before the cottage door to deliver all kinds of really-truly parcels. They had not quite escaped the breakfast foods after all, because each consignment of groceries was enriched by several sample packages; enough altogether, the girls declared joyously, to provide a great many noon luncheons. Of course all the parcels had to be unwrapped, admired, and sorted before being carefully arranged in the pantry cupboard, which had never before found itself so bountifully supplied. Then, for a busy half-day, cook books and real cooks were anxiously consulted; for, as Mabel said, it was really surprising to see how many different ways there were to cook even the simplest things. Jean and Bettie were to do the actual cooking. The other two, in elaborately starched caps and aprons of spotless white (provided Mabel, though this seemed doubtful, could keep hers white), were to take turns serving the courses. The first course was to be tomato soup; it came in a can with directions outside and cost fifteen cents, which Mabel considered cheap because of the printed cooking lesson. "If they'd send printed directions with their raw chickens and vegetables," said she, "maybe folks might be able to tell which recipe belonged to which thing." "Well," laughed Marjory, "_some_ cooks don't have to read a whole page before they discover that directions for making plum pudding don't help them to make corned-beef hash. You always forget to look at the top of the page." "Never mind," said Jean, "she found a good recipe for salad dressing." "That's true," said Marjory, "but before you use it you'd better make sure that it isn't a polish for hardwood floors. There, don't throw the book at me, Mabel--I won't say another word." The three mothers and Aunty Jane, grown suddenly astonishingly obliging, not only consented to lend whatever the girls asked for, but actually thrust their belongings upon them to an extent that was almost overwhelming. The same impulse seemed to have seized them all. It puzzled the girls, yet it pleased them too, for it was such a decided novelty to have six parents (even the fathers appeared interested) and one aunt positively vying with one another to aid the young cottagers with their latest plan. The girls could remember a time, not so very far distant, when it was almost hopeless to ask for even such common things as potatoes, not to mention eggs and butter. Now, however, everything was changed. Aunty Jane would provide soup spoons, napkins, and a tablecloth--yes, her very best short one. Marjory could hardly believe her ears, but hastily accepted the cloth lest the offer should be withdrawn. The girls, having set their hearts on using the "Frog that would a-wooing go" plates for the escalloped salmon (to their minds there seemed to be some vague connection between frogs and fishes), were compelled to decline offers of all the fish plates belonging to the four families. The potato salad, garnished with lettuce from the cottage garden, was to be eaten with Mrs. Bennett's best salad forks The roasted chicken was not to be entrusted to the not-always-reliable cottage oven but was to be cooked at the Tuckers' house and carved with Mr. Mapes's best game set. Mrs. Bennett's cook would make a pie--yes, even a difficult lemon pie with a meringue on top, promised Mrs. Bennett. Then there were to be butter beans out of the cottage garden, and sliced cucumbers from the green-grocer's because Mrs. Crane had confessed to a fondness for cucumbers. There was one beet in the garden almost large enough to be eaten; that, too, was to be sacrificed. The dessert had been something of a problem. It had proved so hard to decide this matter that they decided to compromise by adding both pudding and ice cream to the Bennett pie. A brick of ice cream and some little cakes could easily be purchased ready-made from the town caterer, with the change they had left. Thoughts of their money's giving out no longer troubled them, for had not Mabel's surprising father told them that if they ran short they need not hesitate to ask him for any amount within reason? "I declare," said bewildered Mabel, "I can't see what has come over Papa and Mamma. Do I look pale, or anything--as if I might be going to die before very long?" "No," said Marjory, "you certainly don't; but I've wondered if Aunty Jane could be worried about _me_. I never knew her to be so generous--why, it's getting to be a kind of nuisance! Do you s'pose they're going to insist on doing _everything_?" "Well," said Bettie, "they've certainly helped us a lot. I don't know _why_ they've done it, but I'm glad they have. You see, we _must_ have everything perfectly beautiful because Mr. Black is rich and is accustomed to good dinners, and Mrs. Crane is poor and never has any very nice ones. If our people keep all their promises, it can't help being a splendid dinner." The three mothers and Aunty Jane and all the fathers did keep their promises. They, too, wanted the dinner to be a success, for they knew, as all the older residents of the little town knew--and as the children themselves might have known if the story had not been so old and their parents had been in the habit of gossiping (which fortunately they were not)--that there was a reason why Mr. Black and Mrs. Crane were the last two persons to be invited to a tête-à-tête dinner party. Yet, strangely enough, there was an equally good reason why no one wanted to interfere and why everyone wanted to help. CHAPTER 21 The Dinner The girls, a little uneasy lest their alarmingly interested parents should insist on cooking and serving the entire dinner, were both relieved and perplexed to find that the grown-ups, while perfectly willing to help with the dinner provided they could work in their own kitchens, flatly declined the most urgent invitations to enter the cottage on the afternoon or evening of the party. It was incomprehensible. Until noon of the very day of the feast the parents and Aunty Jane had paid the girls an almost embarrassing number of visits. Now, when the girls really wanted them and actually gave each of them a very special invitation, each one unexpectedly held aloof. For, as the hour approached, the girls momentarily became more and more convinced that something would surely go wrong in the cottage kitchen with no experienced person to keep things moving. They decided, at four o'clock, to ask Mrs. Mapes to oversee things. "No, indeed," said Mrs. Mapes. "You may have anything there is in my house, but you can't have _me_. You don't need _anybody_; you won't have a mite of trouble." Finding Mrs. Mapes unpersuadable, they went to Mrs. Tucker, who, next to Jean's mother, was usually the most obliging of parents. "No," said Mrs. Tucker, "I couldn't think of it. No, no, no, not for one moment. It's much better for you to do it all by yourselves." Still hopeful, the girls ran to Mrs. Bennett. "Mercy, no!" exclaimed that good woman, with discouraging emphasis. "I'm not a bit of use in a strange kitchen, and there are reasons--Oh! I mean it's your party and it won't be any fun if somebody else runs it." "Shall we ask your Aunty Jane?" asked Bettie. "We don't seem to be having any luck." "Yes," replied Marjory. "She loves to manage things." But Marjory's Aunty Jane proved no more willing than the rest. "No, _ma'am_!" she said, emphatically. "I wouldn't do it for ten dollars. Why, it would just spoil everything to have a grown person around. Don't even _think_ of such a thing." So the girls, feeling just a little indignant at their disobliging relatives, decided to get along as well as they could without them. At last, everything was either cooked or cooking. The table was beautifully set and decorated and flowers bloomed everywhere in Dandelion Cottage. Jean and Bettie, in the freshest of gingham aprons, were taking turns watching the things simmering on the stove. Mabel, looking fatter than ever in her short, white, stiffly starched apron, was on the doorstep craning her neck to see if the guests showed any signs of coming, and Marjory was busily putting a few entirely unnecessary finishing touches to the table. The guests were invited for half-past six, but had been hospitably urged by Bettie to appear sooner if they wished. At exactly fifteen minutes after six, Mrs. Crane, in her old-fashioned, threadbare, best black silk and a very-much-mended real-lace collar, and with her iron-gray hair far more elaborately arranged than she usually wore it, crossed the street, lifting her skirts high and stepping gingerly to avoid the dust. She supposed that she was to be the only guest, for the girls had not mentioned any other. Mabel, prodigiously formal and most unusually solemn, met her at the door, ushered her into the blue room, and invited her to remove her wraps. The light shawl that Mrs. Crane had worn over her head was the only wrap she had, but it was not so easily removed as it might have been. It caught on one of her hair pins, which necessitated rearranging several locks of hair that had slipped from place. This took some time and, while she was thus occupied, Mr. Black turned the corner, went swiftly toward the cottage, mounted the steps, and rang the doorbell. Mabel received him with even greater solemnity than she had Mrs. Crane. "I think I'd better take your hat," said she. "We haven't any hat rack, but it'll be perfectly safe on the pink-room bed because we haven't any Tucker babies taking naps on it today." Mr. Black handed his hat to her with an elaborate politeness that equaled her own. "Marjory!" she whispered as she went through the dining-room. "He's wearing his dress suit!" "Sh! he'll hear you," warned Marjory. "Well, anyway, I'm frightened half to death. Oh, _would_ you mind passing all the wettest things? I hadn't thought about his clothes." "Yes, I guess I'd better; he might want to wear 'em again." "They're both here," announced Mabel, opening the kitchen door. "You help Bettie stir the soup and the mashed potatoes," said Jean, whisking off her apron and tying it about Mabel's neck. "I'll go in and shake hands with them and then come back and dish up." Jean found both guests looking decidedly ill at ease. Mr. Black stood by the parlor table absent-mindedly undressing a family of paper dolls. Mrs. Crane, pale and nervously clutching the curtain, seemed unable to move from the bedroom doorway. "Oh!" said Jean, "I do believe Mabel forgot all about introducing you. We told her to be sure to remember, but she hasn't been able to take her mind off of her apron since she put it on. Mrs. Crane, this is our--our preserver, Mr. Black." The guests bowed stiffly. Jean began to wish that she could think of some way to break the ice. Both were jolly enough on ordinary occasions, but apparently both had suddenly been stricken dumb. Perhaps dinner parties always affected grown persons that way, or perhaps the starch from Mabel's apron had proved contagious; Jean smiled at the thought. Then she made another effort to promote sociability. "Mrs. Crane," explained Jean, turning to Mr. Black, who was nervously tearing the legs off of the father of the paper-doll family, "is our very nicest neighbor. We like her just ever so much--everybody does. We've often told _you_, Mrs. Crane, how fond we are of Mr. Black. It was because you are our two very dearest friends that we invited you both--" "Je-e-e-e-an!" called a distressed voice from the kitchen. "Mercy!" exclaimed Jean, making a hurried exit, "I hope that soup isn't scorched!" "No," said Bettie, slightly aggrieved, "but _I_ wanted a chance, too, to say how-do-you-do to those people before I get all mixed up with the cooking. I thought you were _never_ coming back." "Well, it's your turn now," said Jean. "Give me that spoon." Bettie, finding their guests seated in opposite corners of the room and apparently deeply interested in the cottage literature--Mr. Black buried in _Dottie Dimple_ and Mrs. Crane absorbed in _Mother Goose_--naturally concluded that they were waiting to be introduced, and accordingly made the presentation. "Mrs. Crane," said she, "I want you to meet Mr. Black, and I hope," added warm-hearted Bettie, "that you'll like each other very much because we're so fond of you both. You're each a surprise party for the other--we thought you'd both like it better if you had somebody besides children to talk to." "Very kind, I'm sure," mumbled Mr. Black, whose company manners, it seemed to Bettie, were far from being as pleasant as his everyday ones. Bettie gave a deep sigh and made one more effort to set the conversational ball rolling. "I'm afraid I'll have to go back to the kitchen now, and leave you to entertain each other. Please both of you be _very_ entertaining--you're both so jolly when you just run in." Bettie's eyes were wistful as she went toward the kitchen. Was it possible, she wondered, that her beloved Mr. Black could despise Mrs. Crane because she was _poor_? It didn't seem possible, yet there was certainly something wrong. Perhaps he was merely hungry. That was it, of course; she would put the dinner on at once--even good-natured Dr. Tucker, she remembered, was sometimes a little bearlike when meals were delayed. Five minutes later, Marjory escorted the guests to the dining-room, and, finding both of these usually talkative persons alarmingly silent, she inferred of course that Mabel had forgotten--as indeed Mabel had--her instructions in regard to introducing them. Marjory's manners on formal occasions were very pretty; they were pretty now, and so was she, as she hastened to make up for Mabel's oversight. "Oh, Mr. Black," she cried, earnestly, "I'm afraid no one remembered to introduce you. It's our first dinner party, you know, and we're not very wise. This is our dearest neighbor, Mrs. Crane, Mr. Black." The guests bowed stiffly for the third time. Practice should have lent grace to the salutation, but seemingly it had not. "Aren't some of you young people going to sit down with me?" demanded Mr. Black, noticing suddenly that the table was set for only two. "Yes," said Mrs. Crane with evident dismay, "surely you're coming to the table, too." "We can't," explained Marjory. "It takes all of us to do the serving. Besides, we haven't but two dining-room chairs. Sit here, please, Mrs. Crane; and this is your place, Mr. Black." Mr. Black looked red and uncomfortable as he unfolded his napkin. Mrs. Crane looked, as Marjory said afterward, for all the world as if she were going to cry. Perhaps the prospect of a good dinner after a long siege of poor ones was too much for her, for ordinarily Mrs. Crane was a very cheerful woman. Although both guests declared that the soup was very good indeed, neither seemed to really enjoy it. "They just kind of worried a little of it down," said the distressed Marjory, when she handed Mr. Black's plate, still three-quarters full, to Jean in the kitchen. "Do you suppose there's anything the matter with it?" "There can't be," said Bettie. "I've tasted it and it's good." "They're just saving room for the other things," comforted Mabel. "I guess _I_ wouldn't fill myself up with soup if I could smell roasted chicken keeping warm in the oven." Although Mabel had asked to be spared passing the spillable things, it seemed reasonably safe to trust her with the dish of escalloped salmon. She succeeded in passing it without disaster to either the dish or the guests' garments, and her apron was still immaculate. "Why," exclaimed Mabel, suddenly noticing that the guests sat stiff and silent, "the girls said I was to be sure to introduce you the moment you came, and I never thought a thing about it. Do forgive me--I'm the stupidest girl. Mrs. Black--I mean Mr. Crane--no, _Mrs._ Crane--" "We've been introduced," said Mr. Black, rather shortly. "Might I have a glass of water?" A pained, surprised look crept into Mabel's eyes. A moment later she went to the kitchen. The instant the guests were left alone, Mrs. Crane did an odd thing. She leaned forward and spoke in a low, earnest tone to Mr. Black. "Peter," she said, "can't we pretend to be sociable for a little while? It isn't comfortable, of course, but it isn't right to spoil those children's pleasure by acting like a pair of wooden dolls. Let's talk to each other whenever they're in the room just as if we had just met for the first time." "You're right, Sarah," said Mr. Black. "Let's talk about the weather. It's a safe topic and there's always plenty of it." When Marjory opened the door to carry in the salad there was a pleasant hum of voices in the dining-room. It seemed to all the girls that the guests were really enjoying themselves, for Mr. Black was telling Mrs. Crane how much warmer it was in Washington, and Mrs. Crane was informing Mr. Black that, except for the one shower that fell so opportunely on the Milligans, it had been a remarkably dry summer. The four anxious hostesses, feeling suddenly cheered, fell joyously to eating the soup and the salmon that remained on the stove. Until that moment, they had been too uneasy to realize that they were hungry; but as Marjory carried in the crackers, half-famished Mabel breathed a fervent hope that the guests wouldn't help themselves too lavishly to the salad. To the astonishment of Mabel, who carried the chicken successfully to its place before Mr. Black, who was to carve it, Mr. Black did not ask the other guest what part she liked best, but, with a whimsical smile, quietly cut off both wings and put them on Mrs. Crane's plate. Mrs. Crane looked up with an odd, tremulous expression--sort of weepy, Mabel called it afterwards--and said: "Thank you, Peter." It seemed to Mabel at the time that the guests were getting acquainted with a rapidity that was little short of remarkable--"Peter" indeed. Then, when everything else was eaten, and Marjory had brought the nuts and served them, Mrs. Crane, hardly waiting for the door to close behind the little waitress, leaned forward suddenly and said: "Peter, do you remember how you pounded my thumb when I held that hard black walnut for you to crack?" "I remember everything, Sarah. I've always been sorry about that thumb--and I've been sorry about a good many other things since. Do you think--do you think you could forgive me?" "Well, I just guess I could," returned Mrs. Crane, heartily. "After all, it was just as much my fault as it was yours--maybe more." "No, I never thought that, Sarah. _I_ was the one to blame." When the door opened a moment later to admit the finger-bowls and all four of the girls, who had licked the ice-cream platter and had nothing more to do in the kitchen since everything had been served--there, to the housekeepers' unbounded amazement, were Mr. Black and Mrs. Crane, with their arms stretched across the little table, holding each other's middle-aged hands in a tight clasp, and both had tears in their eyes. The girls looked at them in consternation. "Was--was it the dinner?" ventured Mabel, at last. "Was it as bad as--as all that?" "Well," said Mr. Black, rising to go around the table to place an affectionate arm across Mrs. Crane's plump shoulders, "it _was_ the dinner, but not its badness--or even its very goodness." "I guess you'd better tell 'em all about it, Peter," suggested Mrs. Crane, whose eyes were shining happily. "It's only fair they should know about it--bless their little hearts." "Well, you see," said Mr. Black, who, as the girls had quickly discovered, was once more their own delightfully jolly friend, "once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a black-eyed girl named Sarah, and a two-years-younger boy, who looked a good deal like her, named Peter, and they were brother and sister. They were all the brothers and sisters that each had, for their parents died when this boy and girl were very young. Peter and Sarah used to dream a beautiful dream of living together always, and of going down hand-in-hand to a peaceful, plentiful old age. You see, they had no other relative but one very cross grandmother, who scolded them both even oftener than they deserved--which was probably quite often enough. So I suspect that those abused, black-eyed, half-starved children loved each other more than most brothers and sisters do." "Yes," agreed Mrs. Crane, nodding her head and smiling mistily, "they certainly did. The poor young things had no one else to love." "That," said Mr. Black, "was no doubt the reason why, when the headstrong boy grew up and married a girl that his sister didn't like, and the equally headstrong girl grew up and married a man that her brother _couldn't_ like--a regular scoundrel that--" "Peter!" warned Mrs. Crane. "Well," said Mr. Black, hastily, "it's all over now, and perhaps we _had_ better leave that part of it out. It isn't a pretty story, and we'll never mention it again, Sarah. But anyway, girls, this foolish brother and sister quarreled, and the brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law and even the grandmother, who was old enough to know better, quarreled, until finally all four of those hot-tempered young persons were so angry that the brother named Peter said he'd never speak to his sister again, and the sister named Sarah said she'd never speak to her brother again--and they haven't until this very day. Just a pair of young geese, weren't they, Sarah?" "Old geese, too," agreed Mrs. Crane, "for they've both been fearfully lonely ever since and they've both been too proud to say so. One of them, at least, has wished a great many times that there had never been any quarrel." "_Two_ of 'em. But now this one," said Mr. Black, placing his forefinger against his own broad chest, "is going to ask this one--" and he pointed to Mrs. Crane--"to come and live with him in his own great big empty house, so he'll have a sister again to sew on his buttons, listen to his old stories, and make a home for him. What do you say, Sarah?" "I say yes," said Mrs. Crane; "yes, with all my heart." "And here," said Mr. Black, smiling into four pairs of sympathetic eyes, "are four young people who will have to pretend that they truly belong to us once in a while, because we'd both like to have our house full of happy little girls. You never had any children, Sarah?" "No, and you lost your only one, Peter." "Yes, a little brown-eyed thing like Bettie here--she'd be a woman now, probably with children of her own." "It's--it's just like a story," breathed Bettie, happily. "We've been part of a real story and never knew it! I'm so glad you let us have Dandelion Cottage, _so_ glad we invited you to dinner, and that nothing happened to keep either of you away." "Peter and I are glad, too," said Mrs. Crane, who indeed looked wonderfully happy. "Yes," said Mr. Black, "it's the most successful dinner party I've ever attended. Of course I can't hope to equal it, but as soon as Sarah and I get to keeping house properly and have decided which is to pour the coffee, we're going to return the compliment with a dinner that will make your eyes stick out, aren't we, Sarah?" "Oh, we'll do a great deal more than that," responded generous Mrs. Crane. "We'll keep four extra places set at our table all the time." "Of course we will," cried Mr. Black, heartily. "And we'll fill the biggest case in the library with children's books--we'll all go tomorrow to pick out the first shelfful--so that when it gets too cold for you to stay in Dandelion Cottage you'll have something to take its place. You're going to be little sunny Dandelions in the Black-Crane house whenever your own people can spare you. But what's the matter? Have you all lost your tongues? I didn't suppose you could be so astonishingly quiet." "Oh," sighed Bettie, joyfully, "you've taken _such_ a load off our minds. We were simply dreading the winter, with no cottage to have good times in." "Yes," said Jean. "We didn't know how we could manage to _live_ with the cottage closed. We've been wondering what in the world we were going to do." "But with school, and you dear people to visit every day on the way home," said Marjory, "we'll hardly have time to miss it. Oh! won't it be perfectly lovely?" "I'm going to begin at once to practice being on time to meals," said Mabel. "I'm not going to let that extra place do any waiting for _me_." These were the things that the four girls said aloud; but the joyous look that flashed from Jean to Bettie, from Bettie to Marjory, from Marjory to Mabel, and from Mabel back again to Jean, said even more plainly: "_Now_ there'll be somebody to take care of Mrs. Crane. _Now_ there'll be somebody to make a home for lonely Mr. Black." And indeed, subsequent events proved that it was a beautiful arrangement for everybody, besides being quite the most astonishing thing that had happened in the history of Lakeville. 
6436	----	provided by The Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions. CASTLE NOWHERE BY CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON Not many years ago the shore bordering the head of Lake Michigan, the northern curve of that silver sea, was a wilderness unexplored. It is a wilderness still, showing even now on the school-maps nothing save an empty waste of colored paper, generally a pale, cold yellow suitable to the climate, all the way from Point St. Ignace to the iron ports on the Little Bay de Noquet, or Badderknock in lake phraseology, a hundred miles of nothing, according to the map-makers, who, knowing nothing of the region, set it down accordingly, withholding even those long-legged letters, 'Chip-pe-was,' 'Ric-ca-rees,' that stretch accommodatingly across so much townless territory farther west. This northern curve is and always has been off the route to anywhere; and mortals, even Indians, prefer as a general rule, when once started, to go somewhere. The earliest Jesuit explorers and the captains of yesterday's schooners had this in common, that they could not, being human, resist a cross-cut; and thus, whether bark canoes of two centuries ago or the high, narrow propellers of to-day, one and all, coming and going, they veer to the southeast or west, and sail gayly out of sight, leaving this northern curve of ours unvisited and alone. A wilderness still, but not unexplored; for that railroad of the future which is to make of British America a garden of roses, and turn the wild trappers of the Hudson's Bay Company into gently smiling congressmen, has it not sent its missionaries thither, to the astonishment and joy of the beasts that dwelt therein? According to tradition, these men surveyed the territory, and then crossed over (those of them at least whom the beasts had spared) to the lower peninsula, where, the pleasing variety of swamps being added to the labyrinth of pines and sand-hills, they soon lost themselves, and to this day have never found what they lost. As the gleam of a camp-fire is occasionally seen, and now and then a distant shout heard by the hunter passing along the outskirts, it is supposed, that they are in there somewhere surveying still. Not long ago, however, no white man's foot had penetrated within our curve. Across the great river and over the deadly plains, down to the burning clime of Mexico and up to the arctic darkness, journeyed our countrymen, gold to gather and strange countries to see; but this little pocket of land and water passed they by without a glance, inasmuch as no iron mountains rose among its pines, no copper lay hidden in its sand ridges, no harbors dented its shores. Thus it remained an unknown region, and enjoyed life accordingly. But the white man's foot, well booted, was on the way, and one fine afternoon came tramping through. 'I wish I was a tree,' said this white man, one Jarvis Waring by name. 'See that young pine, how lustily it grows, feeling its life to the very tip of each green needle! How it thrills in the sun's rays, how strongly, how completely it carries out the intention of its existence! It never, has a headache, it--Bah! what a miserable, half-way thing is man, who should be a demigod, and is--a creature for the very trees to pity!' And then he built his camp-fire, called in his dogs, and slept the sleep of youth and health, none the less deep because of that Spirit of Discontent that had driven him forth, into the wilderness; probably the Spirit of Discontent knew what it was about. Thus for days, for weeks, our white man wandered through the forest and wandered at random, for, being an exception, he preferred to go nowhere; he had his compass, but never used it, and, a practised hunter, eat what came in his way and planned not for the morrow. 'Now am I living the life of a good, hearty, comfortable bear,' he said to himself with satisfaction. 'No, you are not, Waring,' replied the Spirit of Discontent, 'for you know you have your compass in your pocket and can direct yourself back to the camps on Lake Superior or to the Sault for supplies, which is more than the most accomplished bear can do.' 'O come, what do you know about bears?' answered Waring; 'very likely they too have their depots of supplies,--in caves perhaps--' 'No caves here.' 'In hollow trees, then.' 'You are thinking of the stories about bears and wild honey,' said the pertinacious Spirit. 'Shut up, I am going to sleep,' replied the man, rolling himself in his blanket; and then the Spirit, having accomplished his object, smiled blandly and withdrew. Wandering thus, all reckoning lost both of time and place, our white man came out one evening unexpectedly upon a shore; before him was water stretching away grayly in the fog-veiled moonlight; and so successful had been his determined entangling of himself in the webs of the wilderness, that he really knew not whether it was Superior, Huron or Michigan that confronted him, for all three bordered on the eastern end of the upper peninsula. Not that he wished to know; precisely the contrary. Glorifying himself in his ignorance, he built a fire on the sands, and leaning back against the miniature cliffs that guard the even beaches of the inland seas, he sat looking out over the water, smoking a comfortable pipe of peace, and listening meanwhile to the regular wash of the waves. Some people are born with rhythm in their souls, and some not; to Jarvis Waring everything seemed to keep time, from the songs of the birds to the chance words of a friend; and during all this pilgrimage through the wilderness, when not actively engaged in quarrelling with the Spirit, he was repeating bits of verses and humming fragments of songs that kept time with his footsteps, or rather they were repeating and humming themselves along through his brain, while he sat apart and listened. At this moment the fragment that came and went apropos of nothing was Shakespeare's sonnet, 'When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, I summon up remembrance of things past.' Now the small waves came in but slowly, and the sonnet in keeping time with their regular wash, dragged its syllables so dolorously that at last the man woke to the realisation that something was annoying him. 'When to--the ses--sions of--sweet si--lent thought,' chanted the sonnet and waves together. 'O double it, double it, can't you?' said the man impatiently, 'this way:-- "When to the ses--sions of sweet si--lent thought, te-tum, --te-tum, te-tum." But no; the waves and the lines persisted in their own idea, and the listener finally became conscious of a third element against him, another sound which kept time with the obstinate two and encouraged them in obstinacy,--the dip of light oars somewhere out in the gray mist. 'When to--the ses--sions of--sweet si--lent thought, I sum--mon up--remem--brance of--things past,' chanted the sonnet and the waves and the oars together, and went duly on, sighing the lack of many things they sought away down to that 'dear friend' who in some unexplained way made all their 'sorrows end.' Even then, while peering through the fog and wondering where and what was this spirit boat that one could hear but not see, Waring found time to make his usual objections. 'This summoning up remembrance of things past, sighing the lack, weeping afresh, and so forth, is all very well,' he remarked to himself, 'we all do it. But that friend who sweeps in at the death with his opportune dose of comfort is a poetical myth whom I, for one, have never yet met.' 'That is because you do not deserve such a friend,' answered the Spirit, briskly reappearing on the scene. 'A man who flies in the wilderness to escape--' 'Spirit, are you acquainted with a Biblical personage named David?' interrupted Waring, executing a flank movement. The spirit acknowledged the acquaintance, but cautiously, as not knowing what was coming next. 'Did he or did he not have anything to say about flying to wildernesses and mountain-tops? Did he or did he not express wishes to sail thither in person?' 'David had a voluminous way of making remarks,' replied the Spirit, 'and I do not pretend to stand up for them all. But one thing is certain; whatever he may have wished, in a musical way, regarding wildernesses and mountain-tops, when it came to the fact he did not go. And why? Because he--' 'Had no wings,' said Waring, closing the discussion with a mighty yawn. 'I say, Spirit, take yourself off. Something is coming ashore, and were it old Nick in person I should be glad to see him and shake his clawed hand.' As he spoke out of the fog and into the glare of the fire shot a phantom skiff, beaching itself straight and swift at his feet, and so suddenly that he had to withdraw them like a flash to avoid the crunch of the sharp bows across the sand. 'Always let the other man speak first,' he thought; 'this boomerang of a boat has a shape in it, I see.' The shape rose, and, leaning on its oar, gazed at the camp and its owner in silence. It seemed to be an old man, thin and bent, with bare arms, and a yellow handkerchief bound around its head, drawn down almost to the eyebrows, which, singularly bushy and prominent, shaded the deep-set eyes, and hid their expression. 'But supposing he won't, don't stifle yourself,' continued Waring; then aloud, 'Well, old gentleman, where do you come from?' 'Nowhere.' 'And where are you going?' 'Back there.' 'Couldn't you take me with you? I have been trying all my life to go nowhere, but never could learn the way: do what I would, I always found myself going in the opposite direction, namely, somewhere.' To this the shape replied nothing, but gazed on. 'Do the nobodies reside in Nowhere, I wonder,' pursued the smoker; 'because if they do, I am afraid I shall meet all my friends and relatives. What a pity the somebodies could not reside there! But perhaps they do; cynics would say so.' But at this stage the shape waved its oar impatiently and demanded, 'Who are you?' 'Well I do not exactly know. Once I supposed I was Jarvis Waring, but the wilderness has routed that prejudice. We can be anybody we please; it is only a question of force or will; and my latest character has been William Shakespeare. I have been trying to find out whether I wrote my own plays. Stay to supper and take the other side; it is long since I have had an argument with flesh and blood. And you are that,--aren't you?' But the shape frowned until it seemed all eyebrow. 'Young man,' it said, 'how came you here? By water?' 'No; by land.' 'Alongshore?' 'No; through the woods.' 'Nobody ever comes through the woods.' 'Agreed; but I am somebody.' 'Do you mean that you have come across from Lake Superior on foot?' 'I landed on the shore of Lake Superior a month or two ago, and struck inland the same day; where I am now I neither know nor want to know.' 'Very well,' said the shape,--'very well.' But it scowled more gently. 'You have no boat?' 'No.' 'Do you start on to-morrow?' 'Probably; by that time the waves and "the sessions of sweet silent thought" will have driven me distracted between them.' 'I will stay to supper, I think,' said the shape, unbending still farther, and stepping out of the skiff. 'Deeds before words then,' replied Waring, starting back towards a tree where his game-bag and knapsack were standing. When he returned the skiff had disappeared; but the shape was warming its moccassined feet in a very human sort of way. They cooked and eat with the appetites of the wilderness, and grew sociable after a fashion. The shape's name was Fog, Amos Fog, or old Fog, a fisherman and a hunter among the islands farther to the south; he had come inshore to see what that fire meant, no person having camped there in fifteen long years. 'You have been here all that time, then?' 'Off and on, off and on; I live a wandering life,' replied old Fog; and then, with the large curiosity that solitude begets, he turned the conversation back towards the other and his story. The other, not unwilling to tell his adventures, began readily; and the old man listened, smoking meanwhile a second pipe produced from the compact stores in the knapsack. In the web of encounters and escapes, he placed his little questions now and then; no, Waring had no plan for exploring the region, no intention of settling there, was merely idling away a summer in the wilderness and would then go back to civilization never to return, at least, not that way; might go west across the plains, but that would be farther south. They talked on, one much, the other little; after a time, Waring, whose heart had been warmed by his flask, began to extol his ways and means. 'Live? I live like a prince,' he said. 'See these tin cases; they contain concentrated stores of various kinds. I carry a little tea, you see, and even a few lumps of white sugar as a special treat now and then on a wet night. 'Did you buy that sugar at the Sault?' said the old man, eagerly. 'O no; I brought it up from below. For literature I have this small edition of Shakespeare's sonnets, the cream of the whole world's poetry; and when I am tired of looking at the trees and the sky, I look at this, Titian's lovely daughter with her upheld salver of fruit. Is she not beautiful as a dream?' 'I don't know much about dreams,' replied old Fog, scanning the small picture with curious eyes 'but isn't she a trifle heavy in build? They dress like that nowadays, I suppose,--flowered gowns and gold chains around the waist?' 'Why, man, that picture was painted more than three centuries ago.' 'Was it now? Women don't alter much, do they?' said old Fog, simply. 'Then they don't dress like that nowadays?' 'I don't know how they dress, and don't care,' said the younger man, repacking his treasures. Old Fog concluded to camp with his new friend that night and be off at dawn. 'You see it is late,' he said, 'and your fire's all made and everything comfortable. I've a long row before me to-morrow: I'm on my way to the Beavers.' 'Ah! very intelligent animals, I am told. Friends of yours?' 'Why, they're islands, boy; Big and Little Beaver! What do you know, if you don't know the Beavers?' 'Man,' replied Waring. 'I flatter myself I know the human animal well; he is a miserable beast.' 'Is he?' said old Fog, wonderingly; 'who'd have thought it!' Then, giving up the problem as something beyond his reach,--'Don't trouble yourself if you hear me stirring in the night,' he said; 'I am often mighty restless.' And rolling himself in his blanket, he soon became, at least as regards the camp-fire and sociability, a nonentity. 'Simple-minded old fellow,' thought Waring, lighting a fresh pipe; 'has lived around here all his life apparently. Think of that,--to have lived around here all one's life! I, to be sure, am here now; but then, have I not been--' And here followed a revery of remembrances, that glittering network of gayety and folly which only young hearts can weave, the network around whose border is written in a thousand hues, 'Rejoice, young man, in thy youth, for it cometh not again.' 'Alas, what sighs from our boding hearts The infinite skies have borne away!' sings a poet of our time; and the same thought lies in many hearts unexpressed, and sighed itself away in this heart of our Jarvis Waring that still foggy evening on the beach. The middle of the night, the long watch before dawn; ten chances to one against his awakening! A shape is moving towards the bags hanging on the distant tree. How the sand crunches,--but he sleeps on. It reaches the bags, this shape, and hastily, rifles them; then it steals back and crosses the sand again, its moccasined feet making no sound. But, as it happened, that one chance (which so few of us ever see!) appeared on the scene at this moment and guided these feet directly towards a large, thin, old shell masked with newly blown sand; it broke with a crack; Waring woke and gave chase. The old man was unarmed, he had noticed that; and then such a simple-minded, harmless old fellow! But simple-minded, harmless old fellows do not run like mad if one happens to wake; so the younger pursued. He was strong, he was fleet; but the shape was fleeter, and the space between them grew wider. Suddenly the shape turned and darted into the water, running out until only its head was visible above the surface, a dark spot in the foggy moonlight. Waring pursued, and saw meanwhile another dark spot beyond, an empty skiff which came rapidly inshore-ward, until it met the head, which forthwith took to itself a body, clambered in, lifted the oars, and was gone in an instant. 'Well,' said Waring, still pursuing down the gradual slope of the beach, 'will a phantom bark come at my call, I wonder? At any rate I will go out as far as he did and see.' But no; the perfidious beach at this instant shelved off suddenly and left him afloat in deep water. Fortunately he was a skilled swimmer, and soon regained the shore wet and angry. His dogs were whimpering at a distance, both securely fastened to trees, and the light of the fire had died down: evidently the old Fog was not, after all, so simple as some other people! 'I might as well see what the old rogue has taken,' thought Waring; 'all the tobacco and whiskey, I'll be bound.' But nothing had been touched save the lump-sugar, the little book, and the picture of Titian's daughter! Upon this what do you suppose Waring did? He built a boat. When it was done, and it took some days and was nothing but a dug-out after all (the Spirit said that), he sailed out into the unknown; which being interpreted means that he paddled southward. From the conformation of the shore, he judged that he was in a deep curve, protected in a measure from the force of wind and wave. 'I'll find that ancient mariner,' he said to himself, 'if I have to circumnavigate the entire lake. My book of sonnets, indeed, and my Titian picture! Would nothing else content him? This voyage I undertake from a pure inborn sense of justice--' 'Now, Waring, you know it is nothing of the kind,' said the Spirit who had sailed also. 'You know you are tired of the woods and dread going back that way, and you know you may hit a steamer off the islands; besides, you are curious about this old man who steals Shakespeare and sugar, leaving tobacco and whiskey untouched.' 'Spirit,' replied the man at the paddle, 'you fairly corrupt me with your mendacity. Be off and unlimber yourself in the fog; I see it coming in.' He did see it indeed; in it rolled upon him in columns, a soft silvery cloud enveloping everything, the sunshine, the shore, and the water, so that he paddled at random, and knew not whither he went, or rather saw not, since knowing was long since out of the question. 'This is pleasant,' he said to himself when the morning had turned to afternoon and the afternoon to night, 'and it is certainly new. A stratus of tepid cloud a thousand miles long and a thousand miles deep, and a man in a dug-out paddling through! Sisyphus was nothing to this.' But he made himself comfortable in a philosophic way, and went to the only place left to him,--to sleep. At dawn the sunshine colored the fog golden, but that was all; it was still fog, and lay upon the dark water thicker and softer than ever. Waring eat some dried meat, and considered the possibilities; he had reckoned without the fog, and now his lookout was uncomfortably misty. The provisions would not last more than a week; and though he might catch fish, how could he cook them? He had counted on a shore somewhere; any land, however desolate, would give him a fire; but this fog was muffling, and unless he stumbled ashore by chance he might go on paddling in a circle forever. 'Bien,' he said, summing up, 'my part at any rate is to go on; I, at least can do my duty.' 'Especially as there is nothing else to do,' observed the Spirit. Having once decided, the man kept at his work with finical precision. At a given moment he eat a lunch, and very tasteless it was too, and then to work again; the little craft went steadily on before the stroke of the strong arms, its wake unseen, its course unguided. Suddenly at sunset the fog folded its gray draperies, spread its wings, and floated off to the southwest, where that night it rested at Death's Door and sent two schooners to the bottom; but it left behind it a released dug-out, floating before a log fortress which had appeared by magic, rising out of the water with not an inch of ground to spare, if indeed there was any ground; for might it not be a species of fresh-water boat, anchored there for clearer weather? 'Ten more strokes and I should have run into it,' thought Waring as he floated noiselessly up to this watery residence; holding on by a jutting beam, he reconnoitred the premises. The building was of logs, square, and standing on spiles, its north side, under which he lay, showed a row of little windows all curtained in white, and from one of them peeped the top of a rose-bush; there was but one storey, and the roof was flat. Nothing came to any of these windows, nothing stirred, and the man in the dug-out, being curious as well as hungry, decided to explore, and touching the wall at intervals pushed his craft noiselessly around the eastern corner; but here was a blank wall of logs and nothing more. The south side was the same, with the exception of two loopholes, and the dug-out glided its quietest past these. But the west shone out radiant, a rude little balcony overhanging the water, and in it a girl in a mahogany chair, nibbling something and reading. 'My sugar and my sonnets, as I am alive!' ejaculated Waring to himself. The girl took a fresh bite with her little white teeth, and went on reading in the sunset light. 'Cool,' thought Waring. And cool she looked truly to a man who had paddled two days in a hot sticky fog, as, clad in white, she sat still and placid on her airy perch. Her hair, of the very light fleecy gold seldom seen after babyhood, hung over her shoulders unconfined by comb or ribbon, felling around her like a veil and glittering in the horizontal sunbeams; her face, throat and hands were white as the petals of a white camellia, her features infantile, her cast-down eyes invisible under the full-orbed lids. Waring gazed at her cynically, his boat motionless; it accorded with his theories that the only woman he had seen for months should be calmly eating and reading stolen sweets. The girl turned a page, glanced up, saw him, and sprang forward smiling; as she stood at the balcony, her beautiful hair fell below her knees. 'Jacob,' she cried gladly, 'is that you at last?' 'No,' replied Waring, 'it is not Jacob; rather Esau. Jacob was too tricky for me. The damsel, Rachel, I presume!' 'My name is Silver,' said the girl, 'and I see you are not Jacob at all. Who are you, then?' 'A hungry, tired man who would like to come aboard and rest awhile.' 'Aboard? This is not a boat.' 'What then?' 'A castle,--Castle Nowhere.' 'You reside here?' 'Of course; where else should I reside? Is it not a beautiful place?' said the girl, looking around with a little air of pride. 'I could tell better if I was up there.' 'Come, then.' 'How?' 'Do you not see the ladder?' 'Ah, yes,--Jacob had a ladder, I remember; he comes up this way, I suppose?' 'He does not; but I wish he would.' 'Undoubtedly. But you are not Leah all this time?' 'I am Silver, as I told you before; I know not--what you mean with your Leah.' 'But, mademoiselle, your Bible--' 'What is Bible?' 'You have never read the Bible?' 'It is a book, then. I like books,' replied Silver, waving her hand comprehensively; 'I have read five, and now I have a new one.' 'Do you like it, your new one?' asked Waring, glancing towards his property. 'I do not understand it all; perhaps you can explain to me?' 'I think I can,' answered the young man, smiling in spite of himself; 'that is, if you wish to learn.' 'Is it hard?' 'That depends upon the scholar; now, some minds--' Here a hideous face looked out through one of the little windows, and then vanished. 'Ah,' said Waring, pausing, 'one of the family?' 'That is Lorez, my dear old nurse.' The face now came out on to the balcony and showed itself as part of an old negress, bent and wrinkled with age. 'He came in a boat, Lorez,' said Silver, 'and yet you see he is not Jacob. But he says he is tired and hungry, so we will have supper, now, without waiting for father.' The old woman smiled and nodded, stroking the girl's glittering hair meanwhile with her black hand. 'As soon as the sun has gone it will be very damp,' said Silver, turning to her guest; 'you will come within. But you have not told me-your name.' 'Jarvis,' replied Waring promptly. 'Come, then, Jarvis.' And she led the way through a low door into a long narrow room with a row of little square windows on each side all covered with little square white curtains. The walls and ceiling were planked and the workmanship of the whole rude and clumsy; but a gay carpet covered the floor, a chandelier adorned with lustres, hung from a hook in the ceiling, large gilded vases and a mirror in a tarnished gilt frame adorned a shelf over the hearth, mahogany chairs stood in ranks against the wall under the little windows and a long narrow table ran down the centre of the apartment from end to end. It all seemed strangely familiar; of what did it remind him? His eyes fell upon the table-legs; they were riveted to the floor. Then it came to him at once,--the long narrow cabin of a lake steamer. 'I wonder if it is not anchored after all,' he thought. 'Just a few shavings and one little stick, Lorez,' said Silver; 'enough to give us light and drive away the damp.' Up flared the blaze and spread abroad the dear home feeling. (O hearth-fire, good genius of home, with thee a log-cabin is cheery and bright, without thee the palace a dreary waste!) 'And now, while Lorez is preparing supper, you will come and see my pets,' said Silver, in her soft tone of unconscious command. 'By all means,' replied Waring. 'Anything in the way of mermaidens?' 'Mermaidens dwell in the water, they cannot live in houses as we can; did you not know that? I have seen them on moonlight nights, and so has Lorez; but Aunt Shadow never saw them.' 'Another member of the family,--Aunt Shadow?' 'Yes,' replied Silver; 'but she is not here now. She went away one night when I was asleep. I do not know why it is,' she added sadly, 'but if people go away from here in the night they never come back. Will it be so with you, Jarvis?' 'No; for I will take you with me,' replied the young man lightly. 'Very well; and father will go too, and Lorez,' said Silver. To this addition, Waring, like many another man in similar circumstances, made no reply. But Silver did not notice the omission. She had opened a door, and behold, they stood together in a bower of greenery and blossom, flowers growing everywhere,--on the floor, up the walls, across the ceiling, in pots, in boxes, in baskets, on shelves, in cups, in shells, climbing, crowding each other, swinging, hanging, winding around everything,--a riot of beauty with perfumes for a language. Two white gulls stood in the open window and gravely surveyed the stranger. 'They stay with me almost all the time,' said the water-maiden; 'every morning they fly out to sea for a while, but they always come back.' Then she flitted to and fro, kissed the opening blossoms and talked to them, tying back the more riotous vines and gravely admonishing them. 'They are so happy here,' she said; 'it was dull for them on shore. I would not live on the shore! Would you?' 'Certainly not,' replied Waring, with an air of having spent his entire life upon a raft. 'But you did not find all these blossoms on the shores about here, did you?' 'Father found them,--he finds everything; in his boat almost every night is something for me. I hope he will come soon; he will be so glad to see you.' 'Will he? I wish I was sure of that,' thought Waring. Then aloud, 'Has he any men with him?' he asked carelessly. 'O no; we live here all alone now,--father, Lorez, and I.' 'But you were expecting a Jacob?' 'I have been expecting Jacob for more than two years. Every night I watch for him, but he comes not. Perhaps he and Aunt Shadow will come together,--do you think they will?' said Silver, looking up into his eyes with a wistful expression. 'Certainly,' replied Waring. 'Now am I glad, so glad! For father and Lorez will never say so. I think I shall like you, Jarvis.' And, leaning on a box of mignonette, she considered him gravely with her little hands folded. Waring, man of the world,--Waring, who had been, under fire,--Waring, the impassive,--Waring,--the unflinching,--turned from this scrutiny. Supper was eaten at one end of the long table; the dishes, tablecloth, and napkins were marked with an anchor, the food simple but well cooked. 'Fish, of course, and some common supplies I can understand,' said the visitor; 'but how do you obtain flour like this, or sugar?' 'Father brings them,' said Silver, 'and keeps them locked in his storeroom. Brown sugar we have always, but white not always, and I like it so much! Don't you?' 'No; I care nothing for it,' said Waring, remembering the few lumps and the little white teeth. The old negress waited, and peered at the visitor out of her small bright eyes; every time Silver spoke to her, she broke into a radiance of smiles and nods, but said nothing. 'She lost her voice some years ago,' explained the little mistress when the black had gone out for more coffee; 'and now she seems to have forgotten how to form words, although she understands us.' Lorez returned, and, after refilling Waring's cup, placed something shyly beside his plate, and withdrew into the shadow. 'What is it?' said the young man, examining the carefully folded parcel. 'Why, Lorez, have you given him that!' exclaimed Silver as he drew out a scarlet ribbon, old and frayed, but brilliant still. 'We think it must have belonged to her young master,' she continued in a low tone. 'It is her most precious treasure, and long ago she used to talk about him, and about her old home in the South.' The old woman came forward after a while, smiling and nodding like an animated mummy, and taking the red ribbon threw it around the young man's neck, knotting it under the chin. Then she nodded with treble radiance and made signs; of satisfaction. 'Yes, it is becoming,' said Silver, considering the effect thoughtfully, her small head with its veil of hair bent to one side, like a flower swayed by the wind. The flesh-pots of Egypt returned to Jarvis Waring's mind: he remembered certain articles of apparel left behind in civilization, and murmured against the wilderness. Under the pretence of examining the vases, he took an early opportunity of, looking into the round mirror. 'I am hideous,' he said to himself, uneasily. 'Decidedly so,' echoed the Spirit in a cheerful voice. But he was not; only a strong dark young man of twenty-eight, browned by exposure, clad in a gray flannel shirt and the rough attire of a hunter. The fire on the hearth sparkled gayly. Silver had brought one of her little white gowns, half finished, and sat sewing in its light, while the old negress came and went about her household tasks. 'So you can sew?' said the visitor. 'Of course I can. Aunt Shadow taught me,' answered the water-maiden, threading her needle deftly. 'There is no need to do it, for I have so many dresses; but I like to sew, don't you?' 'I cannot say that I do. Have you so many dresses then?' 'Yes; would you like to see them? Wait.' Down went the little gown trailing along the floor, and away she flew, coming back with her arms full,--silks, muslins, laces, and even jewelry. 'Are they not beautiful?' she asked, ranging her splendor over the chairs. 'They are indeed,' said Waring, examining the garments with curious eyes. 'Where did you get them?' 'Father brought them. O, there he is now, there he is now! I hear the oars. Come, Lorez.' She ran out; the old woman hastened, carrying a brand from the hearth; and after a moment Waring followed them. 'I may as well face the old rogue at once,' he thought. The moon had not risen and the night was dark; under the balcony floated a black object, and Lorez, leaning over, held out her flaming torch. The face of the old rogue came out into the light under its yellow handkerchief, but so brightened and softened by loving gladness that the gazer above hardly knew it. 'Are you there, darling, safe and well?' said the old man, looking up fondly as he fastened his skiff. 'Yes, father; here I am and so glad to see you,' replied the water-maiden, waiting at the top of the ladder. 'We have a visitor, father dear; are you not glad, so glad to see him?' The two men came face to face, and the elder started back. 'What are you doing here?' he said sternly. 'Looking for my property.' 'Take it, and begone!' 'I will, to-morrow.' All this apart, and with the rapidity of lightning. 'His name is Jarvis, father, and we must keep him with us,' said Silver. 'Yes, dear, as long as he wishes to stay; but no doubt he has home and friends waiting for him.' They went within, Silver leading the way. Old Fog's eyes gleamed and his hands were clinched. The younger man watched him warily. 'I have been showing Jarvis all my dresses, father, and he thinks them beautiful.' 'They certainly are remarkable,' observed Waring, coolly. Old Fog's hands dropped, he glanced nervously towards the visitor. 'What have you brought for me to-night, father dear?' 'Nothing, child; that is, nothing of any consequence. But it is growing late; run off to your nest' 'O no, papa, you have had no supper, nor--' 'I am not hungry. Go, child, go; do not grieve me,' said the old man in a low tone. 'Grieve you? Dear papa, never!' said the girl, her voice softening to tenderness in a moment. 'I will run straight to my room.--Come, Lorez.' The door closed. 'Now for us two,' thought Waring. But the cloud had passed from old Fog's face, and he drew up his chair confidentially. 'You see how it is,' he began in an apologetic tone; 'that child is the darling of my life, and I could not resist taking those things for her; she has so few books, and she likes those little lumps of sugar.' 'And the Titian picture?' said Waring, watching him doubtfully. 'A father's foolish pride; I knew she was lovelier, but I wanted to see the two side by side. She is lovelier, isn't she?' 'I do not think so.' 'Don't you?' said old Fog in a disappointed tone. 'Well, I suppose I am foolish about her; we live here all alone, you see: my sister brought her up.' 'The Aunt Shadow who has gone away?' 'Yes; she was my sister, and--and she went away last year,' said the old man. 'Have a pipe?' 'I should think you would find it hard work to live here.' 'I do; but a poor man cannot choose. I hunt, fish, and get out a few furs sometimes; I traffic with the Beaver people now and then. I bought all this furniture in that way; you would not think it, but they have a great many nice things down at Beaver.' 'It looks like steamboat furniture.' 'That is it; it is. A steamer went to pieces down there, and they saved almost all her furniture and stores; they are very good sailors, the Beavers.' 'Wreckers, perhaps?' 'Well I would not like to say that; you know we do have terrible storms on these waters. And then there is the fog; this part of Lake Michigan is foggy half the time, why, I never could guess: but twelve hours out the twenty-four the gray mist lies on the water here and outside, shifting slowly backwards and forwards from Little Traverse to Death's Door, and up into this curve, like a waving curtain. Those silks, now, came from the steamer; trunks, you know. But I have never told Silver; she might ask where were the people to whom they belonged. You do not like the idea? Neither do I. But how could we help the drowning when we were not there, and these things were going for a song down at Beaver. The child loves pretty things; what could a poor man do? Have a glass of punch; I'll get it ready in no time.' He bustled about, and then came back with the full glasses. 'You won't tell her? I may have done wrong in the matter, but it would kill me to have the child lose faith in me,' he said, humbly. 'Are you going to keep the girl shut up here forever?' said Waring, half touched, half disgusted; the old fellow had looked abject as he pleaded. 'That is it; no,' said Fog, eagerly. 'She has been but a child all this time, you see, and my sister taught her well. We did the best we could. But as soon as I have a little more, just a little more, I intend to move to one of the towns down the lake, and have a small house and everything comfortable. I have planned it all out, I shall have--' He rambled on, garrulously detailing all his fancies and projects while the younger man sipped his punch (which was very good), listened until he was tired, fell into a doze, woke and listened awhile longer, and then, wearied out, proposed bed. 'Certainly. But, as I was saying--' 'I can hear the rest to-morrow,' said Waring, rising with scant courtesy. 'I am sorry you go so soon; couldn't you stay a few days?' said the old man, lighting a brand. 'I am going over to-morrow to the shore where I met you. I have some traps there; you might enjoy a little hunting.' 'I have had too much of that already. I must get my dogs, and then I should like to hit a steamer or vessel going below.' 'Nothing easier; we'll go over after the dogs early in the morning, and then I'll take you right down to the islands if the wind is fair. Would you like to look around the castle,--I am going to draw up the ladders. No? This way, then; here is your room.' It was a little side-chamber with one window high up over the water; there was an iron bolt on the door, and the walls of bare logs were solid. Waring stood his gun in one corner, and laid his pistols by the side of the bed,--for there was a bed, only a rude framework like a low-down shelf, but covered with mattress and sheets none the less,--and his weary body longed for those luxuries with a longing that only the wilderness can give,--the wilderness with its beds of boughs, and no undressing. The bolt and the logs shut him in safely; he was young and strong, and there were his pistols. 'Unless they burn down their old castle,' he said to himself, 'they cannot harm me.' And then he fell to thinking of the lovely childlike girl, and his heart grew soft. 'Poor old man,' he said, 'how he must have worked and stolen and starved to keep her safe and warm in this far-away nest of his hidden in the fogs! I won't betray the old fellow, and I'll go to-morrow. Do you hear that, Jarvis Waring? I'll go to-morrow!' And then the Spirit, who had been listening as usual, folded himself up silently and flew away. To go to sleep in a bed, and awake in an open boat drifting out to sea, is startling. Waring was not without experiences, startling and so forth, but this exceeded former sensations; when a bear had him, for instance, he at least understood it, but this was not a bear, but a boat. He examined the craft as well as he could in the darkness. 'Evidently boats in some shape or other are the genii of this region,' he said; 'they come shooting ashore from nowhere, they sail in at a signal without oars, canvas, or crew, and now they have taken to kidnapping. It is foggy too, I'll warrant; they are in league with the fogs.' He looked up, but could see nothing, not even a star. 'What does it all mean anyway? Where am I? Who am I? Am I anybody? Or has the body gone and left me only as an any?' But no one answered. Finding himself partly dressed, with the rest of his clothes at his feet, he concluded that he was not yet a spirit; in one of his pockets was a match, he struck it and came back to reality in a flash. The boat was his own dug-out, and he himself and no other was in it: so far, so good. Everything else, however, was fog and night. He found the paddle and began work. 'We shall see who will conquer,' he thought, doggedly, 'Fate or I!' So he paddled on an hour for more. Then the wind arose and drove the fog helter-skelter across to Green Bay, where the gray ranks curled themselves down and lay hidden until morning. 'I'll go with the wind,' thought Waring, 'it must take me somewhere in time.' So he changed his course and paddled on. The wind grew strong, then stronger. He could see a few stars now as the ragged dark clouds scudded across the heavens, and he hoped for the late moon. The wind grew wild, then wilder. It took all his skill to manage his clumsy boat. He no longer asked himself where he was or who; he knew,--a man in the grasp of death. The wind was a gale now, and the waves were pressed down flat by its force as it flew along. Suddenly the man at the paddle, almost despairing, espied a light, high up, steady, strong. 'A lighthouse on one of the islands,' he said, and steered for it with all his might. Good luck was with him; in half an hour he felt the beach under him, and landed on the shore; but the light he saw no longer. 'I must be close in under it,' he thought. In the train of the gale came thunder and lightning. Waring sat under a bush watching the powers of the air in conflict, he saw the fury of their darts and heard the crash of their artillery, and mused upon the wonders of creation, and the riddle of man's existence. Then a flash came, different from the others in that it brought the human element upon the scene; in its light he saw a vessel driving helplessly before the gale. Down from his spirit-heights he came at once, and all the man within him was stirred for those on board, who, whether or not they had ever perplexed themselves over the riddle of their existence, no doubt now shrank from the violent solution offered to them. But what could he do? He knew nothing of the shore, and yet there must be a harbor somewhere, for was there not the light? Another flash showed the vessel still nearer, drifting broadside on; involuntarily he ran out on the long sandy point where it seemed that soon she must strike. But sooner came a crash, then a grinding sound; there was a reef outside then, and she was on it, the rocks cutting her, and the waves pounding her down on their merciless edges. 'Strange!' he thought. 'The harbor must be on the other side I suppose, and yet it seems as though I came this way.' Looking around, there was the light high up behind him, burning clearly and strongly, while the vessel was breaking to pieces below. 'It is a lure,' he said, indignantly, 'a false light.' In his wrath he spoke aloud; suddenly a shape came out of the darkness, cast him down, and tightened a grasp around his throat. 'I know you,' he muttered, strangling. One hand was free, he drew out his pistol, and fired; the shape fell back. It was old Fog. Wounded? Yes, badly. Waring found his tinder-box, made a blaze of driftwood, and bound up the bleeding arm and leg roughly. 'Wretch,' he said, 'you set that light.' Old Fog nodded. 'Can anything be done for the men on board? Answer or I'll end your miserable life at once; I don't know why, indeed, I have tried to save it.' Old Fog shook his head. 'Nothing,' he murmured; 'I know every inch of the reef and shore.' Another flash revealed for an instant the doomed vessel, and Waring raged at his own impotence as he strode to and fro, tears of anger and pity in his eyes. The old man watched him anxiously. 'There are not more than six of them,' he said; 'it was only a small schooner.' 'Silence!' shouted Waring; 'each man of the six now suffering and drowning is worth a hundred of such as you!' 'That may be,' said Fog. Half an hour afterwards he spoke again. 'They're about gone now, the water is deadly cold up here. The wind will go down soon, and by daylight the things will be coming ashore; you'll see to them, won't you?' 'I'll see to nothing, murderer.' 'And if I die what are you?' 'An avenger.' 'Silver must die too then; there is but little in the house, she will soon starve. It was for her that I came out to-night.' 'I will take her away; not for your sake, but for hers.' 'How can you find her?' 'As soon as it is daylight I will sail over.' 'Over? Over where? That is it, you do not know,' said the old man, eagerly, raising himself on his unwounded arm. 'You might row and sail about here for days, and I'll warrant you'd never find the castle; it's hidden away more carefully than a nest in the reeds, trust me for that. The way lies through a perfect tangle of channels and islands and marshes, and the fog is sure for at least a good half of the time. The sides of the castle towards the channel show no light at all; and even when you're once through the outlying islets, the only approach is masked by a movable bed of sedge which I contrived, and which turns you skilfully back into the marsh by another way. No; you might float around there for days but you'd never find the castle.' 'I found it once.' 'That was because you came from the north shore. I did not guard that side, because no one has ever come that way; you remember how quickly I saw your light and rowed over to find out what it was. But you are miles away from there now.' The moon could not pierce the heavy clouds, and the night continued dark. At last the dawn come slowly up the east and showed an angry sea, and an old man grayly pallid on the sands near the dying fire; of the vessel nothing was to be seen. 'The things will be coming ashore, the things will be coming. ashore,' muttered the old man, his anxious eyes turned towards the water that lay on a level with his face; he could not raise himself now. 'Do you see things coming ashore?' Waring looked searchingly at him. 'Tell me the truth,' he said, 'has the girl no boat?' 'No.' 'Will any one go to rescue her; does any one know of the castle?' 'Not a human being on this earth.' 'And that aunt,--that Jacob?' 'Didn't you guess it? They are both dead. I rowed them out by night and buried them,--my poor old sister and the boy who had been our serving-lad. The child knows nothing of death. I told her they had gone away.' 'Is there no way for her to cross, to the islands or mainland?' 'No; there is a circle of deep water all around the castle, outside.' 'I see nothing for it, then, but to try to save your justly forfeited life,' said Waring, kneeling down with an expression of repugnance. He was something of a surgeon, and knew what he, was about. His task over, he made up the fire, warmed some food, fed the old man, and helped his waning strength with the contents of his flask. 'At least you placed all my property in the dug-out before you set me adrift,' he said; 'may I ask your motive?' 'I did not wish to harm you; only to get rid of you. You had provisions, and your chances were as good as many you had had in the woods.' 'But I might have found my way back to your castle?' 'Once outside, you could never do that,' replied the old man, securely. 'I could go back along-shore.' 'There are miles of piny-wood swamps where the streams come down; no, you could not do it, unless you went away round to Lake Superior again, and struck across the country as you did before. That would take you a month or two, and the summer is almost over. You would not risk a Northern snowstorm, I reckon. But say, do you see things coming ashore?' 'The poor bodies will come, no doubt,' said Waring, sternly. 'Not yet; and they don't often come in here, anyway; they're more likely to drift out to sea.' 'Miserable creature, this is not the first time, then?' 'Only four times,--only four times in fifteen long years, and then only when she was close to starvation,' pleaded the old man. 'The steamer was honestly wrecked,--the Anchor, of the Buffalo line,--honestly, I do assure you; and what I gathered from her--she did not go to pieces for days--lasted me a long time, besides furnishing the castle. It was a godsend to me, that steamer. You must not judge me, boy; I work, I slave, I go hungry and cold, to keep her happy and warm. But times come when everything fails and starvation is at the door. She never knows it, none of them ever knew it, for I keep the keys and amuse them with little mysteries; but, as God is my judge, the wolf has been at the door, and is there this moment unless I have luck. Fish? There are none in shore where they can catch them. Why do I not fish for them? I do; but my darling is not accustomed to coarse fare, her delicate life must be delicately nourished. O, you do not know, you do not know! I am growing old, and my hands and eyes are not what they were. That very night when I came home and found you there, I had just lost overboard my last supplies, stored so long, husbanded so carefully! If I could walk, I would show you my cellar and storehouse back in the woods. 'Many things that they have held were honestly earned, by my fish and my game, and one thing and another. I get out timber and raft it down to the islands sometimes, although the work is too hard for an old man alone; and I trade my furs off regularly at the settlements on the islands and even along the mainland,--a month's work for a little flour or sugar. Ah, how I have labored! I have felt my muscles crack, I have dropped like a log from sheer weariness. Talk of tortures; which of them have I not felt, with the pains and faintness of exposure and hunger racking me from head to foot? Have I stopped for snow and ice? Have I stopped for anguish? Never; I have worked, worked, worked, with the tears of pain rolling down my cheeks, with my body gnawed by hunger. That night, in some way, the boxes slipped and fell overboard as I was shifting them; just slipped out of my grasp as if on purpose, they knowing all the time that they were my last. Home I came, empty-handed, and found you there! I would have taken your supplies, over on the north beach, that night, yes, without pity, had I not felt sure of those last boxes; but I never rob needlessly. You look at me with scorn? You are thinking of those dead men! But what are they to Silver,--the rough common fellows,--and the wolf standing at the castle door! Believe me, though, I try everything before I resort to this, and only twice out of the four times have I caught anything with my tree-hung light; once it was a vessel loaded with provisions, and once it was a schooner with grain from Chicago, which washed overboard and was worthless. O, the bitter day when I stood here in the biting wind and watched it float by out to sea! But say, has anything come ashore? She will be waking soon, and we have miles to go.' But Waring did not answer; he turned away. The old man caught at his feet. 'You are not going,' he cried in a shrill voice, '--you are not going? Leave me to die,--that is well; the sun will come and burn me, thirst will come and madden me, these wounds will torture me, and all is no more than I deserve. But Silver? If I die, she dies. If you forsake me, you forsake her. Listen; do you believe in your Christ, the dear Christ? Then, in his name I swear to you that you cannot reach her alone, that only I can guide you to her. O save me, for her sake! Must she suffer and linger and die? O God, have pity and soften his heart!' The voice died away in sobs, the weak slow sobs of an old man. But Waring, stern in avenging justice, drew himself from the feeble grasp, and walked down towards the boats. He did not intend fairly to desert the miserable old creature. He hardly knew what he intended, but his impulse was to put more space between them, between himself and this wretch who gathered his evil living from dead men's bones. So he stood gazing out to sea. A faint cry roused him, and, turning, he saw that the old man had dragged himself half across the distance between them, marking the way with his blood, for the bandages were loosened by his movements. As Waring turned, he held up his hands, cried aloud, and fell as if dead on the sands. 'I am a brute,' said Waring. Then he went to work and brought back consciousness, rebound the wounds, lifted the body in his strong arms and bore it down the beach. A sail-boat lay in a cove, with a little skiff in tow. Waring arranged a couch in the bottom, and placed the old man in an easy position on an impromptu pillow made of his coat. Fog opened his eyes. 'Anything come ashore?' he asked faintly, trying to turn his head towards the reef. Conquering his repugnance, the young man walked out on the long point. There was nothing there; but farther down the coast barrels were washing up and back in the surf, and one box had stranded in shallow water. 'Am I, too, a wrecker?' he asked himself, as with much toil and trouble he secured the booty and examined it. Yes, the barrels contained provisions. Old Fog, revived by the sight, lay propped at the stern, giving directions. Waring found himself a child obeying the orders of a wiser head. The load on board, the little skiff carrying its share behind, the young man set sail and away they flew over the angry water; old Fog watching the sky, the sail, and the rudder, guiding their course with a word now and then, but silent otherwise. 'Shall we see the castle soon?' asked Waring, after several hours had passed. 'We may be there by night, if the wind doesn't shift.' 'Have we so far to go, then? Why, I came across in the half of a night.' 'Add a day to the half and you have it. I let you down at dawn and towed you out until noon; I then spied that sail beating up, and I knew there would be a storm by night, and--and things were desperate with me. So I cast you off and came over to set the light. It was a chance I did not count on, that your dug-out should float this way; I calculated that she would beach you safely on an island farther to the south.' 'And all this time, when you were letting me down--By the way, how did you do it?' 'Lifted a plank in the floor.' 'When you were letting me down, and towing me out, and calculating chances, what was I, may I ask?' 'O, just a body asleep, that was all; your punch was drugged, and well done too! Of course I could not have you at the castle; that was plain.' They flew on a while longer, and then veered short to the left. 'This boat sails well,' said Waring, 'and that is your skiff behind I see. Did you whistle for it that night?' 'I let it out by a long cord while you went after the game bag, and the shore-end I fastened to a little stake just under the edge of the water on that long slope of beach. I snatched it up as I ran out, and kept hauling in until I met it. You fell off that ledge, didn't you? I calculated on that. You see I had found out all I wanted to know; the only thing I feared was some plan for settling along that shore, or exploring it for something. It is my weak side; if you had climbed up one of those tall trees you might have caught sight of the castle,--that is, if there was no fog.' 'Will the fog come up now?' 'Hardly; the storm has been too heavy. I suppose you know what day it is?' continued the old man, peering up at his companion from under his shaggy eyebrows. 'No; I have lost all reckonings of time and place.' 'Purposely?' 'Yes.' 'You are worse than I am, then; I keep a reckoning, although I do not show it. To-day is Sunday, but Silver does not know it; all days are alike to her. Silver has never heard of the Bible,' he added, slowly. 'Yes, she has, for I told her.' 'You told her!' cried old Fog, wringing his hands. 'Be quiet, or you will disturb those bandages again. I only asked her if she had read the book, and she said no; that was all. But supposing it had not been all, what then? Would it harm her to know of the Bible?' 'It would harm her to lose faith in me.' 'Then why have you not told her yourself?' 'I left her to grow up as the flowers grow,' said old Fog, writhing on his couch. 'Is she not pure and good? Ah, a thousand times more than any church or school could make her!' 'And yet you have taught her to read?' 'I knew not what might happen. I could not expose her defenceless in a hard world. Religion is fancy, but education is like an armor. I cannot tell what may happen.' 'True. You may die, you know; you are an old man.' The old man turned away his face. They sailed on, eating once or twice; afternoon came, and then an archipelago closed in around them; the sail was down, and the oars out. Around and through, across and back, in and out they wound, now rowing, now poling, and now and then the sail hoisted to scud across a space of open water. Old Fog's face had grown gray again, and the lines had deepened across his haggard cheek and set mouth; his strength was failing. At last they came to a turn, broad and smooth like a canal. 'Now I will hoist the sail again,' said Waring. But old Fog shook his head. 'That turn leads directly back into the marsh,' he said, 'Take your oar and push against the sedge in front.' The young man obeyed, and lo! it moved slowly aside and disclosed a narrow passage westward; through this they poled their way along to open water, then set the sail, rounded a point, and came suddenly upon the castle. 'Well, I am glad we are here,' said Waring. Fog had fallen back. 'Promise,' he whispered with gray lips,--'promise that you will not betray me to the child.' And his glazing eyes fixed themselves on Waring's face with the mute appeal of a dying animal in the hands of its captor. 'I promise,' said Waring. But the old man did not die; he wavered, lingered, then slowly rallied,--very slowly. The weeks had grown into a month and two before he could manage his boat again. In the mean time Waring hunted and fished for the household, and even sailed over to the reef with Fog on a bed in the bottom of the boat, coming back loaded with the spoil; not once only, not twice did he go; and at last he knew the way, even through, the fog, and came and went alone, bringing home the very planks and beams of the ill-fated schooner. 'They will make a bright fire in the evenings,' he said. The dogs lived on the north shore, went hunting when their master came over and the rest of the time possessed their souls in patience. And what possessed Waring, do you ask? His name for it was 'necessity.' 'Of course I cannot leave them to starve,' he said to himself. Silver came and went about the castle, at first wilfully, then submissively, then shyly. She had folded away all her finery in wondering silence, for Waring's face had shown disapproval, and now she wore always her simple white gown, 'Can you not put up your hair?' he had asked one day; and from that moment the little head appeared crowned with braids. She worked among her flowers and fed her gulls as usual, but she no longer talked to them or told them stories. In the evenings they all sat around the hearth, and sometimes the little maiden sang; Waring had taught her new songs. She knew the sonnets now, and chanted them around the castle to tunes of her own; Shakespeare would not have known his stately measures, dancing along to her rippling melodies. The black face of Orange shone and simmered with glee; she nodded perpetually, and crooned and laughed to herself over her tasks by the hour together,--a low chuckling laugh of exceeding content. And did Waring ever stop to think? I know not. If he did, he forgot the thoughts when Silver came and sat by him in the evening with the light of the hearth-fire shining over her. He scarcely saw her at other times, except on her balcony, or at her flower window as he came and went in his boat below; but in the evenings she sat beside him in her low chair, and laid sometimes her rose leaf palm in his rough brown hand, or her pretty head against his arm. Old Fog sat by always; but he said little, and his face was shaded by his hand. The early autumn gales swept over the hikes, leaving wreck and disaster behind, but the crew of the castle stayed safely at home and listened to the tempest cosily, while the flowers bloomed on, and the gulls brought all their relations and colonized the balcony and window sills, fed daily by the fair hand of Silver. And Waring went not. Then the frosts came, and turned the forests into splendor; they rowed over and brought out branches, and Silver decked the long room with scarlet and gold. And Waring went not. The dreary November rains began, the leaves fell, and the dark water surged heavily; but a store of wood was piled on the flat roof, and the fire on the hearth blazed high. And still Waring went not. At last the first ice appeared, thin flakes forming around the log foundations of the castle; then old Fog spoke. 'I am quite well now, quite strong again; you must go to-day, or you will find yourself frozen in here. As it is, you may hit a late vessel off the islands that will carry you below. I will sail over with you, and bring back the boat.' 'But you are not strong enough yet,' said Waring, bending over his work, a shelf he was carving for Silver; 'I cannot go and leave you here alone.' 'It is either go now, or stay all winter. You do not, I presume, intend to make Silver your wife,--Silver, the daughter of Fog the wrecker.' Waring's hands stopped; never before had the old man's voice taken that tone, never before had he even alluded to the girl as anything more than a child. On the contrary, he had been silent, he had been humble, he had been openly grateful to the strong young man who had taken his place on sea and shore, and kept the castle full and warm. 'What new thing is this?' thought Waring, and asked the same. 'Is it new?' said Fog. 'I thought it old, very old, I mean no mystery, I speak plainly. You helped me in my great strait, and I thank you; perhaps it will be counted unto you for good in the reckoning up of your life. But I am strong again, and the ice is forming. You can have no intention of making Silver your wife?' Waring looked up, their eyes met. 'No,' he replied slowly, as though the words were being dragged out of him by the magnetism of the old man's gaze, 'I certainly have no such intention.' Nothing more was said; soon Waring rose and went out. But Silver spied him from her flower-room, and came down to the sail-boat where it lay at the foot of the ladder. 'You are not going out this cold day,' she said, standing by his side as he busied himself over the rigging. She was wrapped in a fur mantle, with a fur cap on her head, and her rough little shoes were fur-trimmed. Waring made no reply. 'But I shall not allow it,' continued the maiden, gayly. 'Am I not queen of this castle? You yourself have said it many a time. You cannot go, Jarvis; I want you here.' And with her soft hands she blinded him playfully. 'Silver, Silver,' called old Fog's voice above, 'come within; I want you.' After that the two men were very crafty in their preparations. The boat ready, Waring went the rounds for the last time. He brought down wood for several days and stacked it, he looked again at all the provisions and reckoned them over; then he rowed to the north shore, visited his traps, called out the dogs from the little house he had made for them, and bade them good by. 'I shall leave you for old Fog,' he said; 'be good dogs, and bring in all you can for the castle.' The dogs wagged their tails, and waited politely on the beach until he was out of sight; but they did not seem to believe his story, and went back to their house tranquilly without a howl. The day passed as usual. Once the two men happened to meet in the passage-way. 'Silver seems restless, we must wait till darkness,' said Fog in a low tone. 'Very well,' replied Waring. At midnight they were off, rowing over the black water in the sail-boat, hoping for a fair wind at dawn, as the boat was heavy. They journeyed but slowly through the winding channel, leaving the sedge-gate open; no danger now from intruders; the great giant, Winter, had swallowed all lesser foes. It was cold, very cold, and they stopped awhile at dawn on the edge of the marsh, the last shore, to make a fire and heat some food before setting sail for the islands. 'Good God!' cried Waring. A boat was coming after them, a little skiff they both knew, and in it paddling, in her white dress, sat Silver, her fur mantle at her feet where it had fallen unnoticed. They sprang to meet her knee-deep in the icy water; but Waring was first, and lifted her slight form in his seems. 'I have found you, Jarvis,' she murmured, laying her head down upon his shoulder; then the eyes closed, and the hand she had tried to clasp around his neck fell lifeless. Close to the fire, wrapped in furs, Waring held her in his arms, while the old man bent over her, chafing her hands and little icy feet, and calling her name in an agony. 'Let her but come back to life, and I will say not one word, more,' he cried with tears. 'Who am I that I should torture her? You shall go back with us, and I will trust it all to God,--all to God.' 'But what if I will not go back, what if I will not accept your trust? said Waring, turning his head away from the face pillowed on his breast. 'I do not trust you, I trust God; he will guard her.' 'I believe he will,' said the young man, half to himself. And then they bore her home, not knowing whether her spirit was still with them, or already gone to that better home awaiting it in the next country. That night the thick ice came, and the last vessels fled southward. But in the lonely little castle there was joy; for the girl was saved, barely, with fever, with delirium, with long prostration, but saved! When weeks had passed, and she was in her low chair again, propped with cushions, pallid as a snow-drop, weak and languid, but still there, she told her story, simply and without comprehension of its meaning. 'I could not rest that night,' she said, 'I know not why; so I dressed softly and slipped past Orange asleep on her mattress by my door, and found you both gone,--your father, and you, Jarvis. You never go out at night, and it was very cold; and Jarvis had taken his bag and knapsack, and all the little things I know so well. His gun was gone from the wall, his clothes from his empty room, and that picture of the girl holding up the fruit was not on his table. From that I knew that something had happened; for it is dear to Jarvis, that picture of the girl,' said Silver with a little quiver in her voice. With a quick gesture Waring drew the picture from his pocket and threw it into the fire; it blazed, and was gone in a moment. 'Then I went after you,' said Silver with a little look of gratitude. 'I know the passage through the south channels, and something told me you had gone that way. It was very cold.' That was all, no reasoning, no excuse, no embarrassment; the flight of the little sea-bird straight to its mate. Life flowed on again in the old channel, Fog quiet, Silver happy, and Waring in a sort of dream. Winter was full upon them, and the castle beleaguered with his white armies both below and above, on the water and in the air. The two men went ashore on the ice now, and trapped and hunted daily, the dogs following. Fagots were cut and rough roads made through the forest. One would have supposed they were planning for a lifelong residence, the young man and the old, as they came and went together, now on the snow-crust, now plunging through breast-deep into the light dry mass. One day Waring said, 'Let me see your reckoning. Do you know that to-morrow will be Christmas?' 'Silver knows nothing of Christmas,' said Fog, roughly. 'Then she shall know,' replied Waring. Away he went to the woods and brought back evergreen. In the night he checked the cabin-like room, and with infinite pains constructed a little Christmas-tree and hung it with everything he could collect or contrive. 'It is but a poor thing, after all,' he said, gloomily, as he stood alone surveying his work. It was indeed a shabby little tree, only redeemed from ugliness by a white cross poised on the green summit; this cross glittered and shone in the firelight,--it was cut from solid ice. 'Perhaps I can help, you,' said old Fog's voice behind. 'I did not show you this, for fear it would anger you, but--but there must have been a child on board after all.' He held a little box of toys, carefully packed as if by a mother's hand,--common toys, for she was only the captain's wife, and the schooner a small one; the little waif had floated ashore by itself, and Fog had seen and hidden it. Waring said nothing, and the two men began to tie on the toys in silence. But after a while they warmed to their work and grew eager to make it beautiful; the old red ribbon that Orange had given was considered a precious treasure-trove, and, cut into fragments, it gayly held the little wooden toys in place on the green boughs. Fog, grown emulous, rifled the cupboards and found small cakes baked by the practised hand of the old cook; these he hung exultingly on the higher boughs. And now the little tree was full, and stood bravely in its place at the far end of the long room, while the white cross looked down on the toys of the drowned child and the ribbon of the slave, and seemed to sanctify them for their new use. Great was the surprise of Silver the next morning, and many the questions she asked. Out in the world, they told her, it was so; trees like that were decked for children. 'Am I a child?' said Silver, thoughtfully; 'what do you think, papa?' 'What do you think?' said Waring, turning the question. 'I hardly know; sometimes I think I am, and sometimes not; but it is of no consequence what I am as long as I have you,--you and papa. Tell me more about the little tree, Jarvis. What does it mean? What is that white shining toy on the top? Is there a story about it?' 'Yes, there is a story; but--but it is not I who should tell it to you,' replied the young man, after a moment's hesitation. 'Why not! Whom have I in all the world to tell me, save you?' said fondly the sweet child-voice. They did not take away the little Christmas-tree, but left it on its pedestal at the far end of the long room through the winter; and as the cross melted slowly, a new one took its place, and shone aloft in the firelight. But its story was not told. February came, and with it a February thaw; the ice stirred a little, and the breeze coming over the floes was singularly mild. The arctic winds and the airs from the Gulf Stream had met and mingled, and the gray fog appeared again, waving to and fro. 'Spring has come,' said Silver; 'there is the dear fog.' And she opened the window of the flower room, and let out a little bird. 'It will find no resting-place for the sole of its foot, for the snow is over the face of the whole earth,' said Waring. 'Our ark has kept us cosily through bitter weather, has it not, little one?' (He had adopted a way of calling her so.) 'Ark,' said Silver; 'what is that?' 'Well,' answered Waring, looking down into her blue eyes as they stood together at the little window, 'it was a watery residence like this, and if Japheth,--he was always my favorite of the three--had had you there, my opinion is that he would never have come down at all, but would have resided permanently on Ararat.' Silver looked up into his face with a smile, not understanding what he said, nor asking to understand; it was enough for her that he was there. And as she gazed her violet eyes grew so deep, so soft, that the man for once (give him credit, it was the first time) took her into his arms. 'Silver,' he whispered, bending over her, 'do you love me?' 'Yes,' she answered in her simple, unconscious way, 'you know I do, Jarvis.' No color deepened in her fair face under his ardent gaze; and, after a moment, he released her, almost roughly. The next day he told old Fog that he was going. 'Where.' 'Somewhere, this time. I've had enough of Nowhere.' 'Why do you go?' 'Do you want the plain truth, old man? Here it is, then; I am growing too fond of that girl,--a little more and I shall not be able to leave her.' 'Then stay; she loves you.' 'A child's love.' 'She will develop--' 'Not into my wife if I know myself,' said Waring, curtly. Old Fog sat silent a moment. 'Is she not lovely and good?' he said in a low voice. 'She is; but she is your daughter as well.' 'She is not.' 'She is not! What then?'. 'I--I do not know; I found her, a baby, by the wayside.' 'A foundling! So much the better, that is even a step lower,' said the younger man, laughing roughly. And the other crept away as though he had been struck. Waring set about his preparations. This time Silver did not suspect his purpose. She had passed out of the quick, intuitive watchfulness of childhood. During these days she had taken up the habit of sitting by herself in the flower-room, ostensibly with her book or sewing; but when they glanced in through the open door, her hands were lying idle on her lap and her eyes fixed dreamily on some opening blossom. Hours she sat thus, without stirring. Waring's plan was a wild one; no boat could sail through the ice, no foot could cross the wide rifts made by the thaw, and weeks of the bitterest weather still lay between them and the spring. 'Along-shore,' he said. 'And die of cold and hunger,' answered Fog. 'Old man, why are you not afraid of me?' said Waring, pausing in his work with a lowering glance. 'Am I not stronger than you, and the master, if I so choose, of your castle of logs?' 'But you will not so choose.' 'Do not trust me too far.' 'Do not trust you,--but God.' 'For a wrecker and murderer, you have, I must say, a remarkably serene conscience,' sneered Waring. Again the old man shrank, and crept silently away. But when in the early dawn a dark figure stood on the ice adjusting its knapsack, a second figure stole down the ladder. 'Will you go, then,' it said, 'and leave the child?' 'She is no child,' answered the younger man, sternly; 'and you know it.' 'To me she is.' 'I care not what she is to you; but she shall not be more to me.' 'More to you?' 'No more than any other pretty piece of wax-work,' replied Waring, striding away into the gray mist. Silver came to breakfast radiant, her small head covered from forehead to throat with the winding braids of gold, her eyes bright, her cheeks faintly tinged with the icy water of her bath. 'Where is Jarvis?' she asked. 'Gone hunting,' replied old Fog. 'For all day?' 'Yes; and perhaps for all night. The weather is quite mild, you know.' 'Yes, papa. But I hope it will soon be cold again; he cannot stay out long then,' said the girl, gazing out over the ice with wistful eyes. The danger was over for that day; but the next morning there it was again, and with it the bitter cold. 'He must come home soon now,' said Silver, confidently, melting the frost on one of the little windows so that she could see out and watch for his coming. But he came not. As night fell the cold grew intense; deadly, clear, and still, with the stars shining brilliantly in the steel-blue of the sky. Silver wandered from window to window, wrapped in her fur mantle; a hundred times, a thousand times she had scanned the ice-fields and the snow, the lake and the shore. When the night closed down, she crept close to the old man who sat by the fire in silence, pretending to mend his nets, but furtively watching her every movement. 'Papa,' she whispered, 'where is he, where is he?' And her tears fell on his hands. 'Silver,' he said, bending over her tenderly, 'do I not love you? Am I not enough for you? Think, dear, how long we have lived here and how happy we have been. He was only a stranger. Come, let us forget him, and go back to the old days.' 'What! Has he gone, then? Has Jarvis gone?' Springing to her feet she confronted him with clinched hands and dilated eyes. Of all the words she had heard but one; he had gone! The poor old man tried to draw her down again into the shelter of his arms, but she seemed turned to stone, her slender form was rigid. 'Where is he? Where is Jarvis? What have you done with him,--you, you!' The quick unconscious accusation struck to his heart. 'Child,' he said in a broken voice, 'I tried to keep him. I would have given him my place in your love, in your life, but he would not. He has gone, he cares not for you; he is a hard, evil man.' 'He is not! But even if he were, I love him,' said the girl, defiantly. Then she threw up her arms towards heaven (alas! it was no heaven to her, poor child) as if in appeal. 'Is there no one to help me?' she cried aloud. 'What can we do, dear?' said the old man, standing beside her and smoothing her hair gently. 'He would not stay,--I could not keep him!' 'I could have kept him.' 'You would not ask him to stay, if he wished to go?' 'Yes, I would; he must stay, for my sake.' 'But if he had loved you, dear, he would not have gone.' 'Did he say he did not love me?' demanded Silver, with gleaming eyes. Old Fog hesitated. 'Did he say he did not love me? Did Jarvis say that?' she repeated, seizing his arm with grasp of fire. 'Yes; he said that.' But the lie meant to rouse her pride, killed it; as if struck by a visible hand, she swayed and fell to the floor. The miserable old man watched her all the night. She was delirious, and raved of Waring through the long hours. At daylight he left her with Orange, who, not understanding these white men's riddles, and sorely perplexed by Waring's desertion, yet cherished her darling with dumb untiring devotion, and watched her every breath. Following the solitary trail over the snow-covered ice and thence along-shore towards the east journeyed old Fog all day in the teeth of the wind, dragging a sledge loaded with furs, provisions, and dry wood; the sharp blast cut him like a knife, and the dry snow-pellets stung as they touched his face, and clung to his thin beard coated with ice. It was the worst day of the winter, an evil, desolate, piercing day; no human creature should dare such weather. Yet the old man journeyed patiently on until nightfall, and would have gone farther had not darkness concealed the track; his fear was that new snow might fall deeply enough to hide it, and then there was no more hope of following. But nothing could be done at night, so he made his camp, a lodge under a drift with the snow for walls and roof, and a hot fire that barely melted the edges of its icy hearth. As the blaze flared out into the darkness, he heard a cry, and followed; it was faint, but apparently not distant, and after some search he found the spot; there lay Jarvis Waring, helpless and nearly frozen. 'I thought you farther on,' he said, as he lifted the heavy, inert body. 'I fell and injured my knee yesterday; since then I have been freezing slowly,' replied Waring in a muffled voice. 'I have been crawling backwards and forwards all day to keep myself alive, but had just given it up when I saw your light.' All night the old hands worked over him, and they hated the body they touched; almost fiercely they fed and nourished it, warmed its blood, and brought back life. In the dawning Waring was himself again; weak, helpless, but in his right mind. He said as much, and added, with a touch of his old humor, 'There is a wrong mind you know, old gentleman.' The other made no reply; his task done; he sat by the fire waiting. He had gone after this fellow, driven by fate; he had saved him, driven by fate. Now what had fate next in store? He warmed his wrinkled hands mechanically and waited, while the thought came to him with bitterness that his darling's life lay at the mercy of this man who had nothing better to do, on coming back from the very jaws of death, than make jests. But old Fog was mistaken; the man had something better to do, and did it. Perhaps he noted the expression of the face before him; perhaps he did not, but was thinking, young man fashion, only of himself; at any rate this is what he said: 'I was a fool to go. Help me back, old man; it is too strong for me,--I give it up.' 'Back,--back where?' said the other, apathetically. Waring raised his head from his pillow of furs. 'Why do you ask when you know already! Back to Silver, of course; have you lost your mind?' His harshness came from within; in reality it was meant for himself; the avowal had cost him something as it passed his lips in the form of words; it had not seemed so when in the suffering, and the cold, and the approach of death, he had seen his own soul face to face and realized the truth. So the two went back to the castle, the saved lying on the sledge, the savior drawing it; the wind was behind them now, and blew them along. And when the old man, weary and numb with cold, reached the ladder at last, helped Waring, lame and irritable, up to the little snow-covered balcony, and led the way to Silver's room,--when Silver, hearing the step, raised herself in the arms of the old slave and looked eagerly, not at him, no, but at the man behind,--did he shrink? He did not; but led the reluctant, vanquished, defiant, half-angry, half-shamed lover forward, and gave his darling into the arms that seemed again almost unwilling, so strong was the old opposing determination that lay bound by love's bonds. Silver regained her life as if by magic; not so Waring, who lay suffering and irritable on the lounge in the long room, while the girl tended him with a joy that shone out in every word, every tone, every motion. She saw not his little tyrannies, his exacting demands, his surly tempers; or rather she saw and loved them as women do when men lie ill and helpless in their hands. And old Fog sat apart, or came and went unnoticed; hours of the cold days he wandered through the forests, visiting the traps mechanically, and making tasks for himself to fill up the time; hours of the cold evenings, he paced the snow-covered roof alone. He could not bear to see them, but left the post to Orange, whose black face shone with joy and satisfaction over Waring's return. But after a time fate swung around (as she generally does if impatient humanity would but give her a chance). Waring's health grew, and so did his love. He had been like a strong man armed, keeping his palace; but a stronger than he was come, and, the combat over, he went as far the other way and adored the very sandals of the conqueror. The gates were open, and all the floods were out. And Silver? As he advanced, she withdrew. (It is always so in love, up to a certain point; and beyond that point lies, alas! the broad monotonous country of commonplace.) This impetuous, ardent lover was not the Jarvis she had known, the Jarvis who had been her master, and a despotic one at that. Frightened, shy, bewildered, she fled away from all her dearest joys, and stayed by herself in the flower-room with the bar across the door, only emerging timidly at mealtimes and stealing into the long room like a little wraith; a rosy wraith now, for at last she had learned to blush. Waring was angry at this desertion, but only the more in love; for the violet eyes veiled themselves under his gaze, and the unconscious child-mouth began to try to control and conceal its changing expressions, and only succeeded in betraying them more helplessly than ever. Poor little solitary maiden-heart! Spring was near now; soft airs came over the ice daily, and stirred the water beneath; then the old man spoke. He knew what was coming, he saw it all, and a sword was piercing his heart; but bravely he played his part. 'The ice will move out soon, in a month or less you can sail safely,' he said, breaking the silence one night when they two sat by the fire, Waring moody and restless, for Silver had openly repulsed him, and fled away early in the evening. 'She is trifling with me,' he thought, 'or else she does not know what love is. By heavens, I will teach her though--' As far as this his mind had journeyed when Fog spoke. 'In a month you can sail safely, and I suppose you will go for good this time?' 'Yes.' Fog waited. Waring kicked a fallen log into place, lit his pipe then let it go out, moved his chair forward, then pushed it back impatiently, and finally spoke. 'Of course I shall take Silver; I intend to make Silver.' 'At last?' 'At last. No wonder you are glad--' 'Glad,' said Fog,--'glad!' But the words were whispered, and the young man went on unheeding. 'Of course it is a great thing for you to have the child off your hands and placed in a home so high above your expectations. Love is a strange power. I do not deny that I have fought against it, but--but why should I conceal? I love Silver with all my soul, she seems to have grown into my very being.' It was frankly and strongly uttered; the good side of Jarvis Waring came uppermost for the moment. Old Fog leaned forward and grasped his hand. 'I know you do,' he said. 'I know something of men, and I have watched you closely, Waring. It is for this love that I forgive--I mean that I am glad and thankful for it, very thankful.' 'And you have reason to be,' said the younger man, withdrawing into his pride again. 'As my wife, Silver will have a home, a circle of friends, which--But you could not understand; let it pass. And now, tell me all you know of her.' The tone was a command, and the speaker leaned back in his chair with the air of an owner as he relighted his pipe. But Fog did not shrink. 'Will you have the whole story?' he asked humbly. 'As well now as ever, I suppose, but be as brief as possible,' said the young man in a lordly manner. Had he not just conferred an enormous favor, an alliance which might be called the gift of a prince, on this dull old backwoodsman? 'Forty years ago or thereabouts,' began Fog in a low voice, 'a crime was committed in New York City. I shall not tell you what it was, there is no need; enough that the whole East was stirred, and a heavy reward was offered for the man who did the deed. I am that man.' Waring pushed back his chair, a horror came over him, his hand sought for his pistol; but the voice went on unmoved. 'Shall I excuse the deed to you, boy? No, I will not. It was done and I did it, that is enough, the damning fact that confronts and silences all talk of motive or cause. This much only will I say; to the passion of the act deliberate intention was not added, and there was no gain for the doer; only loss, the black eternal loss of everything in heaven above, on the earth beneath, or in the waters that are under the earth, for hell itself seemed to spew me out. At least so I thought as I fled away, the mark of Cain upon my brow; the horror was so strong upon me that I could not kill myself, I feared to join the dead. I went to and fro on the earth, and walked up and down in it; I fled to the uttermost parts of the sea, and yet came back again, moved by a strange impulse to be near the scene of my crime. After years had passed, and with them the memory of the deed from the minds of others, though not from mine, I crept to the old house where my one sister was living alone, and made myself known to her. She left her home, a forlorn place, but still a home, and followed me with a sort of dumb affection,--poor old woman. She was my senior by fifteen years, and I had been her pride; and so she went with me from the old instinct, which still remained, although the pride was dead, crushed by slow horror. We kept together after that, two poor hunted creatures instead of one; we were always fleeing, always imagining that eyes knew us, that fingers pointed us out. I called her Shadow, and together we took the name of Fog, a common enough name, but to us meaning that we were nothing, creatures of the mist, wandering to and fro by night, but in the morning gone. At last one day the cloud over my mind seemed to lighten a little, and the thought came to me that no punishment can endure forever, without impugning the justice of our great Creator. A crime is committed, perhaps in a moment; the ensuing suffering, the results, linger on earth, it may be for some years; but the end of it surely comes sooner or later, and it is as though it had never been. Then, for that crime, shall a soul suffer forever,--not a thousand years, a thousand ages if you like, but forever? Out upon the monstrous idea! Let a man do evil every moment of his life, and let his life be the full threescore years and ten; shall there not come a period in the endless cycles of eternity when even his punishment shall end? What kind of a God is he whom your theologians have held up to us,--a God who creates us at his pleasure, without asking whether or not we wish to be created, who endows us with certain wild passions and capacities for evil, turns us loose into a world of suffering, and then, for our misdeeds there, our whole lives being less than one instant's time in his sight, punishes us forever! Never-ending tortures throughout the countless ages of eternity for the little crimes of threescore years and ten! Heathendom shows no god so monstrous as this. O great Creator, O Father of our souls, of all the ills done on the face of thy earth, this lie against thy justice and thy goodness, is it not the greatest? The thought came to me, as I said, that no punishment could endure forever, that somewhere is the future I, even I, should meet pardon and rest. That day I found by the wayside a little child, scarcely more than a baby; it had wandered out of the poorhouse, where its mother had died the week before, a stranger passing through the village. No one knew anything about her nor cared to know, for she was almost in rags, fair and delicate once they told me, but wasted with illness and too far gone to talk. Then a second thought came to me,--expiation. I would take this forlorn little creature and bring her up as my own child, tenderly, carefully,--a life for a life. My poor old sister took to it wonderfully, it seemed to brighten her desolation into something that was almost happiness; we wandered awhile longer, and then came westward through the lakes, but it was several years before we were fairly settled here. Shadow took care of the baby and made her little dresses; then, when the time came to teach her to sew and read, she said more help was needed, and went alone to the towns below to find a fit servant, coming back in her silent way with old Orange; another stray lost out of its place in the world, and suffering from want in the cold Northern city. You must not think that Silver is totally ignorant; Shadow had the education of her day, poor thing, for ours was a good old family as old families go in this new country of ours, where three generations of well-to-do people constitute aristocracy. But religion, so called, I have not taught her. Is she any the worse for its want? 'I will teach her,' said Waring, passing over the question (which was a puzzling one), for the new idea, the strange interest he felt in the task before him, the fair pure mind where his hand, and his alone, would be the first to write the story of good and evil. 'That I should become attached to the child was natural,' continued old Fog; 'but God gave it to me to love her with so great a love that my days have flown; for her to sail out over the stormy water, for her to hunt through the icy woods, for her to dare a thousand deaths, to labor, to save, to suffer,--these have been my pleasures through all the years. When I came home, there she was to meet me, her sweet voice calling me father, the only father she could ever know. When my poor old sister died, I took her away in my boat by night and buried her in deep water; and so I did with the boy we had here for a year or two, saved from a wreck. My darling knows nothing of death; I could not tell her.' 'And those wrecks,' said Waring; 'how do you make them balance with your scheme of expiation?' The old man sat silent a moment; then he brought his hand down violently on the table by his side. 'I will not have them brought up in that way, I tell you I will not! Have I not explained that I was desperate?' he said in an excited voice. 'What are one or two miserable crews to the delicate life of my beautiful child? And the men had their chances, too, in spite of my lure. Does not every storm threaten them with deathly force? Wait until you are tempted, before you judge me, boy. But shall I tell you the whole? Listen, then. Those wrecks were the greatest sacrifices, the most bitter tasks of my hard life, the nearest approach I have yet made to the expiation. Do you suppose I wished to drown the men? Do you suppose I did not know the greatness of the crime? Ah, I knew it only too well, and yet I sailed out and did the deed! It was for her,--to keep her from suffering; so I sacrificed myself unflinchingly. I would murder a thousand men in cold blood, and bear the thousand additional punishments without a murmur throughout a thousand ages of eternity, to keep my darling safe and warm. Do you not see that the whole was a self-immolation, the greatest, the most complete I could make? I vowed to keep my darling tenderly. I have kept my vow; see that you keep yours.' The voice ceased, the story was told, and the teller gone. The curtain over the past was never lifted again; but often, in after years, Waring thought of this strange life and its stranger philosophy. He could never judge them. Can we? The next day the talk turned upon Silver. 'I know you love her,' said the old man, 'but how much?' 'Does it need the asking?' answered Waring with a short laugh; 'am I not giving up my name, my life, into her hands?' 'You could not give them into hands more pure.' 'I know it; I am content. And yet, I sacrifice something,' replied the young man, thinking of his home, his family, his friends. Old Fog looked at him. 'Do you hesitate?' he said, breaking the pause. 'Of course I do not; why do you ask?' replied Waring, irritably. 'But some things may be pardoned, I think, in a case like mine.' 'I pardon them.' 'I can teach her, of course, and a year or so among cultivated people will work wonders; I think I shall take her abroad, first. How soon did you say we could go?' 'The ice is moving. There will be vessels through the straits in two or three weeks,' replied Fog. His voice shook. Waring looked up; the old man was weeping. 'Forgive me,' he said brokenly, 'but the little girl is very dear to me.' The younger man was touched. 'She shall be as dear to me as she has been to you,' he said; 'do not fear. My love is proved by the very struggle I have made against it. I venture to say no man ever fought harder against himself than I have in this old castle of yours. I kept that Titian picture as a countercharm. It resembles a woman who, at a word, will give me herself and her fortune,--a woman high in the cultivated circles of cities both here and abroad, beautiful, accomplished, a queen in her little sphere. But all was useless. That long night in the snow, when I crawled backwards and forwards to keep myself from freezing, it came to me with power that the whole of earth and all its gifts compared not with this love. Old man, she will be happy with me.' 'I know it.' 'Did you foresee this end?' asked Waring after a while, watching, as he spoke, the expression of the face before him. He could not rid himself of the belief that the old man had laid his plans deftly. 'I could only hope for it: I saw that she loved you.' 'Well, well,' said the younger man magnanimously, 'it was natural, after all. Your expiation has ended better than you hoped; for the little orphan child you have reared has found a home and friends, and you yourself need work no more. Choose your abode here or anywhere else in the West, and I will see that you are comfortable.' 'I will stay on here.' 'As you please. Silver will not forget you; she will write often. I think I will go first up the Rhine and then into Switzerland,' continued Waring, going back to himself and his plans with the matter-of-course egotism of youth and love. And old Fog listened. What need to picture the love-scene that followed? The next morning a strong hand knocked at the door of the flower-room, and the shy little maiden within had her first lesson in love, or rather in its expression, while all the blossoms listened and the birds looked on approvingly. To do him justice, Waring was an humble suitor when alone with her; she was so fair, so pure, so utterly ignorant of the world and of life, that he felt himself unworthy, and bowed his head. But the mood passed, and Silver liked him better when the old self-assertion and quick tone of command came uppermost again. She knew not good from evil, she could not analyze the feeling in her heart; but she loved this stranger, this master, with the whole of her being. Jarvis Waring knew good from evil (more of the latter knew he than of the former), he comprehended and analyzed fully the feeling that possessed him; but, man of the world as he was, he loved this little water-maiden, this fair pagan, this strange isolated girl, with the whole force of his nature. 'Silver,' he said to her, seriously enough, 'do you know how much I love you? I am afraid to think what life would seem without you.' 'Why think of it, then, since I am here?' replied Silver. 'Do you know, Jarvis, I think if I had not loved you so much, you would not have loved me, and then--it would have been--that is, I mean--it would have been different--' She paused; unused to reasoning or to anything like argument, her own words seemed to bewilder her. Waring laughed, but soon grew serious again. 'Silver,' he said, taking her into his arms, 'are you sure that you can love me as I crave?' (For he seemed at times tormented by the doubt as to whether she was anything more than a beautiful child.) He held her closely and would not let her go, compelling her to meet his ardent eyes. A change came over the girl, a sudden red flashed up into her temples and down into her white throat. She drew herself impetuously away from her lover's arms and fled from the room. 'I am not sure but that she is a water-sprite, after all,' grumbled Waring, as he followed her. But it was a pleasure now to grumble and pretend to doubt, since from that moment he was sure. The next morning Fog seemed unusually cheerful. 'No wonder,' thought Waring. But the character of benefactor pleased him, and he appeared in it constantly. 'We must have the old castle more comfortable; I will try to send up some furniture from below,' he remarked, while pacing to and fro in the evening. 'Isn't it comfortable now?' said Silver. 'I am sure I always thought this room beautiful.' 'What, this clumsy imitation of a second-class Western steamer? Child, it is hideous!' 'Is it?' said Silver, looking around in innocent surprise, while Fog listened in silence. Hours of patient labor and risks not a few over the stormy lake were associated with each one of the articles Waring so cavalierly condemned. Then it was, 'How you do look, old gentleman! I must really send you up some new clothes.--Silver, how have you been able to endure such shabby rags so long?' 'I do not know,--I never noticed; it was always just papa, you know,' replied Silver, her blue eyes resting on the old man's clothes with a new and perplexed attention. But Fog bore himself cheerily. 'He is right, Silver,' he said, 'I am shabby indeed. But when you go out into the world, you will soon forget it.' 'Yes,' said Silver, tranquilly. The days flew by and the ice moved out. This is the phrase that is always used along the lakes. The ice 'moves out' of every harbor from Ogdensburg to Duluth. You can see the great white floes drift away into the horizon, and the question comes, Where do they go? Do they meet out there the counter floes from the Canada side, and then do they all join hands and sink at a given signal to the bottom? Certainly, there is nothing melting in the mood of the raw spring winds and clouded skies. 'What are your plans?' asked old Fog, abruptly, one morning when the gulls had flown out to sea, and the fog came stealing up from the south. 'For what?' 'For the marriage.' 'Aha!' thought Waring, with a smile of covert amusement, 'he is in a hurry to secure the prize, is he? The sharp old fellow!' Aloud he said, 'I thought we would all three sail over to Mackinac; and there we could be married, Silver and I, by the fort chaplain, and take the first Buffalo steamer; you could return here at your leisure.' 'Would it not be a better plan to bring a clergyman here, and then you two could sail without me? I am not as strong as I was; I feel that I cannot bear--I mean that you had better go without me.' 'As you please; I thought it would be a change for you, that was all.' 'It would only prolong--No, I think, if you are willing, we will have the marriage here, and then you can sail immediately.' 'Very well; but I did not suppose you would be in such haste to part with Silver,' said Waring, unable to resist showing his comprehension of what he considered the manoeuvres of the old man. Then, waiving further discussion,--'And where shall we find a clergyman?' he asked. 'There is one over on Beaver.' 'He must be a singular sort of a divine to be living there.' 'He is; a strayed spirit, as it were, but a genuine clergyman of the Presbyterian church, none the less. I never knew exactly what he represented there, but I think he came out originally a sort of missionary.' 'To the Mormons,' said Waring, laughing; for he had heard old Fog tell many a story of the Latter-Day Saints, who had on Beaver Island at that time their most Eastern settlement. 'No; to the Indians.--sent out by some of those New England societies, you know. When he reached the islands, he found the Indians mostly gone, and those who remained were all Roman Catholics. But he settled down, farmed a little, hunted a little, fished a little, and held a service all by himself occasionally in an old log-house, just often enough to draw his salary and to write up in his semiannual reports. He isn't a bad sort of a man in his way.' 'And how does he get on with the Mormons?' 'Excellently. He lets them talk, and sells them fish, and shuts his eyes to everything else.' 'What is his name?' 'Well, over here they call him the Preacher, principally because he does not preach, I suppose. It is a way they have over on Beaver to call people names; they call me Believer.' 'Believer?' 'Yes, because I believe nothing; at least so, they think.' A few days later, out they sailed over the freed water, around the point, through the sedge-gate growing green again, across the channelled marsh, and out towards the Beavers,--Fog and Waring, armed as if for a foray. 'Why,' asked Waring. 'It's safer; the Mormons are a queer lot,' was the reply. When they came in sight of the islands, the younger man scanned them curiously. Some years later an expedition composed of exasperated crews of lake schooners, exasperated fishermen, exasperated mainland settlers, sailed westward through the straits bound for these islands, armed to the teeth and determined upon vengence and slaughter. False lights, stolen nets, and stolen wives were their grievances; and no aid coming from the general government, then as now sorely perplexed over the Mormon problem, they took justice into their own hands and sailed bravely out, with the stars and stripes floating from the mast of their flag-ship,--an old scow impressed for military service. But this was later; and when Fog and Waring came scudding into the harbor, the wild little village existed in all its pristine outlawry, a city of refuge for the flotsam vagabondage of the lower lakes. 'Perhaps he will not come with us,' suggested Waring. 'I have thought of that, but it need not delay us long,' replied Fog, 'we can kidnap him.' 'Kidnap him?' 'Yes? he is but a small chap,' said the old man, tranquilly. They fastened their boat to the log-dock, and started ashore. The houses of the settlement straggled irregularly along the beach and inland towards the fields where fine crops were raised by the Saints, who had made here, as is their custom everywhere, a garden in the wilderness; the only defence was simple but strong,--an earthwork on one of the white sand-hills back of the village, over whose rampart peeped two small cannon, commanding the harbor. Once on shore, however, a foe found only a living rampart of flesh and blood, as reckless a set of villains as New World history can produce. But this rampart only came together in times of danger; ordinary visitors, coming by twos and threes, they welcomed or murdered as they saw fit, or according to the probable contents of their pockets, each man for himself and his family. Some of these patriarchal gentlemen glared from their windows at Fog and Waring as they passed along; but the worn clothes not promising much, simply invited them to dinner; they liked to hear the news, when there was nothing else going on. Old Fog excused himself. They had business, he said, with the Preacher; was he at home? He was; had anything been sent to him from the East,--any clothes, now, for the Indians? Old Fog had heard something of a box at Mackinac, waiting for a schooner to bring it over. He was glad it was on the way, it would be of so much use to the Indians,--they wore so many clothes. The patriarchs grinned, and allowed the two to pass on. Waring had gazed within, meanwhile, and discovered the plural wives, more or less good-looking, generally less; they did not seem unhappy, however, not so much as many a single one he had met in more luxurious homes, and he said to himself, 'Women of the lower class are much better and happier when well curbed.' It did not occur to him that possibly the evil tempers of men of the lower class are made more endurable by a system of co-operation; one reed bends, breaks, and dies, but ten reeds together can endure. The Preacher was at home on the outskirts,--a little man, round and rosy, with black eyes and a cheery voice. He was attired entirely in blanket-cloth, baggy trousers and a long blouse, so that he looked not unlike a Turkish Santa Claus, Oriental as to under, and arctic as to upper rigging. 'Are you a clergyman?' said Waring, inspecting him with curious eyes. 'If you doubt it, look at this,' said the little man; and he brought out a clerical suit of limp black cloth, and a ministerial hat much the worse for wear. These articles he suspended from a nail, so that they looked as if a very poor lean divine had hung himself there. Then he sat down, and took his turn at staring. 'I do not bury the dead,' he remarked after a moment, as if convinced that the two shabby hunters before him could have no other errand. Waring was about to explain, but old Fog stopped him with a glance. 'You are to come with us, sir,' he said courteously; 'you will be well treated, well paid, and returned in a few days.' 'Come with you! Where?' 'Never mind where; will you come?' 'No,' said the little blanket-man, stoutly. In an instant Fog had tripped him up, seized a sheet and blanket from the bed, bound his hands and feet with one, and wrapped him in the other. 'Now, then,' he said shouldering the load, 'open the door.' 'But the Mormons,' objected Waring. 'O, they like a joke, they will only laugh! But if, by any chance, they show fight, fire at once,' replied the old man, leading the way. Waring followed, his mind anything but easy; it seemed to him like running the gantlet. He held his pistols ready, and glanced furtively around as they skirted the town and turned down towards the beach. 'If any noise is made,' Fog had remarked, 'I shall know what to do.' Whereupon the captive swallowed down his wrath and a good deal of woollen fuzz, and kept silence. He was no coward, this little Preacher. He held his own manfully on the Beavers; but no one had ever carried him off in a blanket before, So he silently considered the situation. When near the boat they came upon more patriarchs. 'Put a bold face on it,' murmured old Fog. 'Whom do you suppose we have here?' he began, as they approached. 'Nothing less than your little Preacher; we want to borrow him for a few days.' The patriarchs stared. 'Don't you believe it?--Speak up, Preacher; are you being carried off?' No answer. 'You had better speak,' said Fog, jocosely, at the same time giving his captive a warning touch with his elbow. The Preacher had revolved the situation rapidly, and perceived that in any contest his round body would inevitably suffer from friend and foe alike. He was not even sure but that he would be used as a missile, a sort of ponderous pillow swung at one end. So he replied briskly, 'Yes, I am being carried as you see, dear brethren; I don't care about walking to-day.' The patriarchs laughed, and followed on to the boat, laughing still more when Fog gayly tossed in his load of blanket, and they could hear the little man growl as he came down. 'I say, though, when are you going to bring him back, Believer?' said one. 'In a few days,' replied Fog, setting sail. Away they flew; and, when out of harbor, the captive was released, and Waring told him what was required. 'Why didn't you say so before?' said the little blanket-man; 'nothing I like better than a wedding, and a drop of punch afterwards.' His task over, Fog relapsed into silence; but Waring, curious, asked many a question about the island and its inhabitants. The Preacher responded freely in all things, save when the talk glided too near himself. The Mormons were not so bad, he thought; they had their faults, of course, but you must take them on the right side. 'Have they a right side?' asked Waring. 'At least they haven't a rasping, mean, cold, starving, bony, freezing, busy-bodying side,' was the reply, delivered energetically; whereat Waring concluded the little man had had his own page of history back somewhere among the decorous New England hills. Before they came to the marsh they blindfolded their guest; and did not remove the bandage until he was safely within the long room of the castle. Silver met them, radiant in the firelight. 'Heaven grant you its blessing, maiden,' said the Preacher, becoming Biblical at once. He meant it, however, for he sat gazing at her long with moistened eyes, forgetful even of the good cheer on the table; a gleam from his far-back youth came to him, a snow-drop that bloomed and died in bleak New Hampshire long, long before. The wedding was in the early morning. Old Fog had hurried it, hurried everything; he seemed driven by a spirit of unrest, and wandered from place to place, from room to room, his eyes fixed in a vacant way upon the familiar objects. At the last moment he appeared with a prayer-book, its lettering old, its cover tarnished. 'Have you any objection to using the Episcopal service?' he asked in a low tone. 'I--I have heard the Episcopal service.' 'None in the world,' replied the affable little Preacher. But he too grew sober and even earnest as Silver appeared, clad in white, her dress and hair wreathed with the trailing arbutus, the first flower of spring, plucked from under the vanishing snows. So beautiful her face, so heavenly its expression, that Waring as he took her hand, felt his eyes grow dim, and he vowed to himself to cherish her with tenderest love forever. 'We are gathered together here in the sight of God,' began the Preacher solemnly; old Fog, standing behind, shrank into the shadow, and bowed his head upon his hands. But when the demand came, 'Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?' he stepped forward, and gave away his child without a tear, nay, with even a smile on his brave old face. 'To love, cherish, and to obey,' repeated Silver in her clear sweet voice. And then Waring placed upon her finger the little ring he himself had carved out of wood. 'It shall never be changed,' he said, 'but coated over with heavy gold, just as it is.' Old Orange, radiant with happiness, stood near, and served as a foil for the bridal white. It was over; but they were not to start until noon. Fog put the Preacher almost forcibly into the boat and sailed away with him, blindfolded and lamenting. 'The wedding feast,' he cried, 'and the punch! You are a fine host, old gentleman.' 'Everything is here, packed in those baskets. I have even given you two fine dogs. And there is your fee. I shall take you in sight of the Beavers, and then put you into the skiff and leave you to row over alone. The weather is fine, you can reach there to-morrow.' Remonstrance died away before the bag of money; old Fog had given his all for his darling's marriage-fee. 'I shall have no further use for it,' he thought, mechanically. So the little blanket-man paddled away in his skiff with his share of the wedding-feast beside him; the two dogs went with him, and became Mormons. Old Fog returned in the sail-boat through the channels, and fastened the sedge-gate open for the out-going craft. Silver, timid and happy, stood on the balcony as he approached the castle. 'It is time to start,' said the impatient bridegroom. 'How long you have been, Fog!' The old man made no answer, but busied himself arranging the boat; the voyage to Mackinac would last two or three days, and he had provided every possible comfort for their little camps on shore. 'Come,' said Waring, from below. Then the father went up to say good by. Silver flung her arms around his neck and burst into tears. 'Father, father,' she sobbed, 'must I leave you? O father, father!' He soothed her gently; but something in the expression of his calm, pallid face touched the deeper feelings of the wakening woman and she clung to him desperately, realizing, perhaps, at this last moment, how great was his love for her, how great his desolation. Waring had joined them on the balcony. He bore with her awhile and tried to calm her grief, but the girl turned from him and clung to the old man; it was as though she saw at last how she had robbed him. 'I cannot leave him thus,' she sobbed; 'O father, father!' Then Waring struck at the root of the difficulty. (Forgive him; he was hurt to the core.) 'But he is not your father,' he said, 'he has no claim upon you. I am your husband now, Silver, and you must come with me; do you not wish to come with me, darling?' he added, his voice sinking into fondness. 'Not my father!' said the girl. Her arms fell, and she stood as if petrified. 'No, dear; he is right. I am not your father,' said old Fog, gently. A spasm passed over his features, he kissed her hastily, and gave her into her husband's arms. In another moment they were afloat, in two the sail filled and the boat glided away. The old man stood on the castle roof, smiling and waving his hand; below, Orange fluttered her red handkerchief from the balcony, and blessed her darling with African mummeries. The point was soon rounded, the boat gone. That night, when the soft spring moonlight lay over the water, a sail came gliding back to the castle, and a shape flew up the ladder; it was the bride of the morning. 'O father, father, I could not leave you so, I made him bring me back, if only for a few days! O father, father! for you are my father, the only father I can ever know,--and so kind and good!' In the gloom she knelt by his bedside, and her arms were around his neck. Waring came in afterwards, silent and annoyed, yet not unkind. He stirred the dying brands into a flame. 'What is this?' he said, starting, as the light fell across the pillow. 'It is nothing,' replied Fog, and his voice sounded far away; 'I am an old man, children, and all is well.' They watched him through the dawning, through the lovely day, through the sunset. Waring repentant, Silver absorbed in his every breath; she lavished upon him now all the wealth of love her unconscious years had gathered. Orange seemed to agree with her master that all was well. She came and went, but not sadly, and crooned to herself some strange African tune that rose and fell more like a chant of triumph than a dirge. She was doing her part, according to her light, to ease the going of the soul out of this world. Grayer grew the worn face, fainter the voice, colder the shrivelled old hands in the girl's fond clasp. 'Jarvis, Jarvis, what is this?' she murmured, fearfully. Waring came to her side and put his strong arm around her. 'My little wife,' he said, 'this is Death. But do not fear.' And then he told her the story of the Cross; and, as it came to her a revelation, so, in the telling, it became to him, for the first time, a belief. Old Fog told them to bury him out in deep water, as he had buried the others; and then he lay placid, a great happiness shining in his eyes. 'It is well,' he said, 'and God is very good to me. Life would have been hard without you, darling. Something seemed to give way when you said good by; but now that I am called, it is sweet to know that you are happy, and sweeter still to think that you came back to me at the last. Be kind to her, Waring. I know you love her; but guard her tenderly,--she is but frail. I die content, my child, quite content; do not grieve for me.' Then, as the light faded from his eyes, he folded his hands. 'Is it expiated, O God? Is it expiated?' he murmured. There was no answer for him on earth. They buried him as he had directed, and then they sailed away, taking the old black with them. The castle was left alone; the flowers bloomed on through the summer, and the rooms held the old furniture bravely through the long winter. But gradually the walls fell in and the water entered. The fogs still steal across the lake, and wave their gray draperies up into the northern curve; but the sedge-gate is gone, and the castle is indeed Nowhere. JEANNETTE Before the war for the Union, in the times of the old army, there had been peace throughout the country for thirteen years. Regiments existed in their officers, but the ranks were thin,--the more so the better, since the United States possessed few forts and seemed in chronic embarrassment over her military children, owing to the flying foot-ball of public opinion, now 'standing army pro,' now 'standing army con,' with more or less allusion to the much-enduring Caesar and his legions, the ever-present ghost of the political arena. In those days the few forts were full and much state was kept up; the officers were all graduates of West Point, and their wives graduates of the first families. They prided themselves upon their antecedents; and if there was any aristocracy in the country, it was in the circles of army life. Those were pleasant days,--pleasant for the old soldiers who were resting after Mexico,--pleasant for young soldiers destined to die on the plains of Gettysburg or the cloudy heights of Lookout Mountain. There was an esprit de corps in the little band, a dignity of bearing, and a ceremonious state, lost in the great struggle which came afterward. That great struggle now lies ten years back; yet, to-day, when the silver-haired veterans meet, they pass it over as a thing of the present, and go back to the times of the 'old army.' Up in the northern straits, between blue Lake Huron, with its clear air, and gray Lake Michigan, with its silver fogs, lies the bold island of Mackinac. Clustered along the beach, which runs around its half-moon harbor, are the houses of the old French village, nestling at the foot of the cliff rising behind, crowned with the little white fort, the stars and stripes floating above it against the deep blue sky. Beyond, on all sides, the forest stretches away, cliffs finishing it abruptly, save one slope at the far end of the island, three miles distant, where the British landed in 1812. That is the whole of Mackinac. The island has a strange sufficiency of its own; it satisfies; all who have lived there feel it. The island has a wild beauty of its own; it fascinates; all who have lived there love it. Among its aromatic cedars, along the aisles of its pine trees, in the gay company of its maples, there is companionship. On its bald northern cliffs, bathed in sunshine and swept by the pure breeze, there is exhilaration. Many there are, bearing the burden and heat of the day, who look back to the island with the tears that rise but do not fall, the sudden longing despondency that comes occasionally to all, when the tired heart cries out, 'O, to escape, to flee away, far, far away, and be at rest!' In 1856 Fort Mackinac held a major, a captain, three lieutenants, a chaplain, and a surgeon, besides those subordinate officers who wear stripes on their sleeves, and whose rank and duties are mysteries to the uninitiated. The force for this array of commanders was small, less than a company; but what it lacked in quantity it made up in quality, owing to the continual drilling it received. The days were long at Fort Mackinac; happy thought! drill the men. So when the major had finished, the captain began, and each lieutenant was watching his chance. Much state was kept up also. Whenever the major appeared, 'Commanding officer; guard, present arms,' was called down the line of men on duty, and the guard hastened to obey, the major acknowledging the salute with stiff precision. By day and by night sentinels paced the walls. True, the walls were crumbling, and the whole force was constantly engaged in propping them up, but none the less did the sentinels pace with dignity. What was it to the captain if, while he sternly inspected the muskets in the block-house, the lieutenant, with a detail of men, was hard at work strengthening its underpinning? None the less did he inspect. The sally-port, mended but imposing; the flag-staff with its fair-weather and storm flags; the frowning iron grating; the sidling white causeway, constantly falling down and as constantly repaired, which led up to the main entrance; the well-preserved old cannon,--all showed a strict military rule. When the men were not drilling they were propping up the fort and when they were not propping up the fort they were drilling. In the early days, the days of the first American commanders, military roads had been made through the forest,--roads even now smooth and solid, although trees of a second growth meet overhead. But that was when the fort was young and stood firmly on its legs. In 1856 there was no time for road-making, for when military duty was over there was always more or less mending to keep the whole fortification from sliding down hill into the lake. On Sunday there was service in the little chapel, an upper room overlooking the inside parade-ground. Here the kindly Episcopal chaplain read the chapters about Balaam and Balak, and always made the same impressive pause after 'Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his.' (Dear old man! he has gone. Would that our last end might indeed be like his!) Not that the chaplain confined his reading to the Book of Numbers; but as those chapters are appointed for the August Sundays, and as it was in August that the summer visitors came to Mackinac, the little chapel is in many minds associated with the patient Balak, his seven altars, and his seven rams. There was state and discipline in the fort even on Sundays; bugle-playing marshalled the congregation in, bugle-playing marshalled them out. If the sermon was not finished, so much the worse for the sermon, but it made no difference to the bugle; at a given moment it sounded, and out marched all the soldiers, drowning the poor chaplain's hurrying voice with their tramp down the stairs. The officers attended service in full uniform, sitting erect and dignified in the front seats. We used to smile at the grand air they had, from the stately gray-haired major down to the youngest lieutenant fresh from the Point. But brave hearts were beating under those fine uniforms; and when the great struggle came, one and all died on the field in the front of the battle. Over the grave of the commanding officer is inscribed, 'Major-General,' over the captain's is 'Brigadier,' and over each young lieutenant is 'Colonel.' They gained their promotion in death. I spent many months at Fort Mackinac with Archie; Archie was my nephew, a young lieutenant. In the short, bright summer came the visitors from below; all the world outside is 'below' in island vernacular. In the long winter the little white fort looked out over unbroken ice-fields, and watched for the moving black dot of the dog-train bringing the mails from the main land. One January day I had been out walking on the snow-crust, breathing the cold, still air, and, returning within the walls to our quarters, I found my little parlor already occupied. Jeannette was there, petite Jeanneton, the fisherman's daughter. Strange beauty sometimes results from a mixed descent, and this girl had French, English and Indian blood in her veins, the three races mixing and intermixing among her ancestors, according to the custom of the Northwestern border. A bold profile delicately finished, heavy blue-black hair, light blue eyes looking out unexpectedly from under black lashes and brows; a fair white skin, neither the rose-white of the blonde nor the cream-white of the Oriental brunette; a rounded form with small hands and feet, showed the mixed beauties of three nationalities. Yes, there could be no doubt but that Jeannette was singularly lovely, albeit ignorant utterly. Her dress was as much of a melange as her ancestry: a short skirt of military blue, Indian leggings and moccasins, a red jacket and little red cap embroidered with beads. The thick braids of her hair hung down her back, and on the lounge lay a large blanket-mantle lined with fox-skins and ornamented with the plumage of birds. She had come to teach me bead-work; I had already taken several lessons to while away the time, but found myself an awkward scholar. 'Bonjou', madame,' she said, in her patois of broken English and degenerate French. 'Pretty here.' My little parlor had a square of carpet, a hearth-fire of great logs, Turkey-red curtains, a lounge and arm-chair covered with chintz, several prints on the cracked walls, and a number of books,--the whole well used and worn, worth perhaps twenty dollars in any town below, but ten times twenty in icy Mackinac. I began the bead-work, and Jeannette was laughing at my mistakes, when the door opened, and our surgeon came in, pausing to warm his hands before going up to his room in the attic. A taciturn man was our surgeon, Rodney Prescott, not popular in the merry garrison circle, but a favorite of mine; the Puritan, the New-Englander, the Bostonian, were as plainly written upon his face as the French and Indian were written upon Jeannette. 'Sit down, Doctor,' I said. He took a seat and watched us carelessly, now and then smiling at Jeannette's chatter as a giant might smile upon a pygmy. I could see that the child was putting on all her little airs to attract his attention; now the long lashes swept the cheeks, now they were raised suddenly, disclosing the unexpected blue eyes: the little moccasined feet must be warmed on the fender, the braids must be swept back with an impatient movement of the hand and shoulder, and now and then there was a coquettish arch of the red lips, less than a pout, what she herself would have called 'une p'tite moue.' Our surgeon watched this pantomime unmoved. 'Isn't she beautiful?' I said, when, at the expiration of the hour, Jeannette disappeared, wrapped in her mantle. 'No; not to my eyes.' 'Why, what more can you require, Doctor? Look at her rich coloring, her hair--' 'There is no mind in her face, Mrs. Corlyne.' 'But she is still a child.' 'She will always be a child; she will never mature,' answered our surgeon, going up the steep stairs to his room above. Jeannette came regularly, and one morning, tired of the bead-work, I proposed teaching her to read. She consented, although not without an incentive in the form of shillings; but, however gained, my scholar gave to the long winter a new interest. She learned readily; but as there was no foundation, I was obliged to commence with A, B, C. 'Why not teach her to cook?' suggested the major's fair young wife, whose life was spent in hopeless labors with Indian servants, who, sooner or later, ran away in the night with spoons and the family apparel. 'Why not teach her to sew?' said Madame Captain, wearily raising her eyes from the pile of small garments before her. 'Why not have her up for one of our sociables?' hazarded our most dashing lieutenant, twirling his moustache. 'Frederick!' exclaimed his wife, in a tone of horror: she was aristocratic, but sharp in outlines. 'Why not bring her into the church? Those French half-breeds are little better than heathen,' said the chaplain. Thus the high authorities disapproved of my educational efforts. I related their comments to Archie, and added, 'The surgeon is the only one who has said nothing against it.' 'Prescott? O, he's too high and mighty to notice anybody, much less a half-breed girl. I never saw such a stiff, silent fellow; he looks as if he had swallowed all his straightlaced Puritan ancestors. I wish he'd exchange.' 'Gently, Archie--' 'O, yes, without doubt; certainly, and amen! I know you like him, Aunt Sarah,' said my handsome boy-soldier, laughing. The lessons went on. We often saw the surgeon during study hours as the stairway leading to his room opened out of the little parlor. Sometimes he would stop awhile and listen as Jeannette slowly read, 'The good boy likes his red top'; 'The good girl can sew a seam', or watched her awkward attempts to write her name, or add a one and a two. It was slow work, but I persevered, if from no other motive than obstinacy. Had they not all prophesied a failure? When wearied with the dull routine, I gave an oral lesson in poetry. If the rhymes were of the chiming, rhythmic kind, Jeannette learned rapidly, catching the verses as one catches a tune, and repeating them with a spirit and dramatic gesture all her own. Her favorite was Macaulay's 'Ivry.' Beautiful she looked, as, standing in the centre of the room, she rolled out the sonorous lines, her French accent giving a charming foreign coloring to the well-known verses:-- 'Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies,--upon them with the lance! A thousand spears are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.' And yet, after all my explanations, she only half understood it; the 'knights' were always 'nights' in her mind, and the 'thickest carnage' was always the 'thickest carriage.' One March day she came at the appointed hour, soon after our noon dinner. The usual clear winter sky was clouded, and a wind blew the snow from the trees where it had lain quietly month after month. 'Spring is coming,' said the old sergeant that morning, as he hoisted the storm-flag; it's getting wildlike.' Jeannette and I went through the lessons, but towards three o'clock a north-wind came sweeping over the Straits and enveloped the island in a whirling snow-storm, partly eddies of white splinters torn from the ice-bound forest, and partly a new, fall of round snow pellets careering along on the gale, quite unlike the soft, feathery flakes of early winter. 'You cannot go home now, Jeannette,' I said, looking out through the little west window; our cottage stood back on the hill, and from this side window we could see the Straits, going down toward far Waugoschance; the steep fort-hill outside the wall; the long meadow, once an Indian burial-place, below; and beyond on the beach the row of cabins inhabited by the French fishermen, one of them the home of my pupil. The girl seldom went round the point into the village; its one street and a half seemed distasteful to her. She climbed the stone-wall on the ridge behind her cabin, took an Indian trail through the grass in summer, or struck across on the snow-crust in winter, ran up the steep side of the fort-hill like a wild chamois, and came into the garrison enclosure with a careless nod to the admiring sentinel, as she passed under the rear entrance. These French, half-breeds, like the gypsies, were not without a pride of their own. They held themselves aloof from the Irish of Shantytown, the floating sailor population of the summer, and the common soldiers of the garrison. They intermarried among themselves, and held their own revels in their beach-cabins during the winter, with music from their old violins, dancing and, songs, French ballads with a chorus after every two lines, quaint chansons handed down from voyageur ancestors. Small respect had they for the little Roman Catholic church beyond the old Agency garden; its German priest they refused to honor; but, when stately old Father Piret came over to the island from his hermitage in the Chenaux, they ran to meet him, young and old, and paid him reverence with affectionate respect. Father Piret was a Parisian, and a gentleman; nothing less would suit these far-away sheep in the wilderness! Jeannette Leblanc had all the pride of her class; the Irish saloon-keeper with his shining tall hat, the loud-talking mate of the lake schooner, the trim sentinel pacing the fort walls, were nothing to her, and this somewhat incongruous hauteur gave her the air of a little princess. On this stormy afternoon the captain's wife was in my parlor preparing to return to her own quarters with some coffee she had borrowed. Hearing my remark she said, 'O, the snow won't hurt the child, Mrs. Corlyne; she must be storm-proof, living down there on the beach! Duncan can take her home.' Duncan was the orderly, a factotum in the garrison. 'Non,' said Jeannette, tossing her head proudly, as the door closed behind the lady, 'I wish not of Duncan; I go alone.' It happened that Archie, my nephew, had gone over to the cottage of the commanding officer to decorate the parlor for the military sociable; I knew he would not return, and the evening stretched out before me in all its long loneliness. 'Stay, Jeannette,' I said. 'We will have tea together here, and when the wind goes down, old Antoine shall go back with you.' Antoine was a French wood-cutter, whose cabin clung half-way down the fort-hill like a swallow's nest. Jeannette's eyes sparkled; I had never invited her before; in an instant she had turned the day into a high festival. 'Braid hair?' she asked, glancing toward the mirror, 'faut que je m' fasse belle.' And the long hair came out of its close braids enveloping her in its glossy dark waves, while she carefully smoothed out the bits of red ribbon that served as fastenings. At this moment the door opened, and the surgeon, the wind, and a puff of snow came in together. Jeannette looked up, smiling and blushing; the falling hair gave a new softness to her face, and her eyes were as shy as the eyes of a wild fawn. Only the previous day I had noticed that Rodney Prescott listened with marked attention to the captain's cousin, a Virginia lady, as she advanced a theory that Jeannette had negro blood in her veins. 'Those quadroon girls often have a certain kind of plebeian beauty like this pet of yours, Mrs. Corlyne,' she said, with a slight sniff of her high-bred, pointed nose. In vain I exclaimed, in vain I argued; the garrison ladies were all against me, and, in their presence, not a man dared come to my aid; and the surgeon even added, 'I wish I could be sure of it.' 'Sure of the negro blood?' I said indignantly. 'Yes.' 'But Jeannette does not look in the least like a quadroon.' 'Some of the quadroon girls are very handsome, Mrs. Corlyne,' answered the surgeon, coldly. 'O yes!' said the high-bred Virginia lady. 'My brother has a number of them about his place, but we do not teach them to read, I assure you. It spoils them.' As I looked at Jeannette's beautiful face, her delicate eagle profile, her fair skin and light blue eyes, I recalled this conversation with vivid indignation. The surgeon, at least, should be convinced of his mistake. Jeannette had never looked more brilliant; probably the man had never really scanned her features,--he was such a cold, unseeing creature; but to-night he should have a fair opportunity, so I invited him to join our storm-bound tea-party. He hesitated. 'Ah, do, Monsieur Rodenai,' said Jeannette, springing forward. 'I sing for you, I dance; but, no, you not like that. Bien, I tell your fortune then.' The young girl loved company. A party of three, no matter who the third, was to her infinitely better than two. The surgeon stayed. A merry evening we had before the hearth-fire. The wind howled around the block-house and rattled the flag-staff, and the snow pellets sounded on the window-panes, giving that sense of warm comfort within that comes only with the storm. Our servant had been drafted into service for the military sociable, and I was to prepare the evening meal myself. 'Not tea,' said Jeannette, with a wry face; 'tea,--c'est medecine!' She had arranged her hair in fanciful braids, and now followed me to the kitchen, enjoying the novelty like a child. 'Cafe?' she said. 'O, please, madame! I make it.' The little shed kitchen was cold and dreary, each plank of its thin walls rattling in the gale with a dismal creak; the wind blew the smoke down the chimney, and finally it ended on our bringing everything into the cosey parlor, and using the hearth fire, where Jeannette made coffee and baked little cakes over the coals. The meal over, Jeannette sang her songs, sitting on the rug before the fire,--Le Beau Voyageur, Les Neiges de la Cloche, ballads in Canadian patois sung to minor airs brought over from France two hundred years before. The surgeon sat in the shade of the chimney-piece, his face shaded by his hand, and I could not discover whether he saw anything to admire in my protegee, until, standing in the centre of the room, she gave as 'Ivry' in glorious style. Beautiful she looked as she rolled out the lines,-- 'And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,-- For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,-- Press where ye see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.' Rodney sat in the full light now, and I secretly triumphed in his rapt attention. 'Something else, Jeannette,' I said in the pride of my heart. Instead of repeating anything I had taught her, she began in French:-- '"Marie, enfant, quitte l'ouvrage, Voici l'etoille du berger." --"Ma mere, un enfant du village Languit captif chez l'etranger; Pris sur mer, loin de sa patrie, Il c'est rendu,--mais le dernier." File, file, pauvre Marie, Pour secourir le prisonnier; File, file, pauvre Marie, File, file, pour le prisonnier. '"Pour lui je filerais moi-meme Mon enfant,--mais--j'ai tant vieilli!" --"Envoyez a celui que j'aime Tout le gain par moi recueilli. Rose a sa noce en vain me prie;-- Dieu! j'entends le menetrier!" File, file, pauvre Marie, Pour secourir le prisonnier; File, file, pauvre Marie, File, file, pour le prisonnier. '"Plus pres du feu file, ma cherie; La nuit vient de refroidir le temps" --"Adrien, m'a-t-on dit, ma mere, Gemit dans des cachots flottants. On repousse la main fletrie Qu'il etend vers an pain grossier." File, file, pauvre Marie, Pour secourir le prisonnier; File, file, pauvre Marie, File, file pour le prisonnier.' [Footnote: 'Le Prisonnier de Guerre,' Beranger.] Jeannette repeated these lines with a pathos so real that I felt a moisture rising in my eyes. 'Where did you learn that, child?' I asked. 'Father Piret, madame.' 'What is it?' 'Je n'sais.' 'It is Beranger,--'The Prisoner of War,' said Rodney Prescott. 'But you omitted the last verse, mademoiselle; may I ask why?' 'More sad so,' answered Jeannette. 'Marie she die now.' 'You wish her to die?' 'Mais oui: she die for love; c'est beau!' And there flashed a glance from the girl's eyes that thrilled through me, I scarcely knew why. I looked towards Rodney, but he was back in the shadow again. The hours passed. 'I must go,' said Jeannette, drawing aside the curtain. Clouds were still driving across the sky, but the snow had ceased falling, and at intervals the moon shone out over the cold white scene; the March wind continued on its wild career toward the south. 'I will send for Antoine,' I said, rising, as Jeannette took up her fur mantle. 'The old man is sick, to-day,' said Rodney. 'It would not be safe for him to leave the fire, to-night. I will accompany mademoiselle.' Pretty Jeannette shrugged her shoulders. 'Mais, monsieur,' she answered, 'I go over the hill.' 'No, child; not tonight,' I said decidedly. 'The wind is violent, and the cliff doubly slippery after this ice-storm. Go round through the village.' 'Of course we shall go through the village,' said our surgeon, in his calm authoritative way. They started. But in another minute I saw Jeannette fly by the west window, over the wall and across the snowy road, like a spirit, disappearing down the steep bank, now slippery with glare ice. Another minute, and Rodney Prescott followed in her track. With bated breath I watched for the reappearance of the two figures on the white plain, one hundred and fifty feet below; the cliff was difficult at any time, and now in this ice! The moments seemed very long, and, alarmed, I was on the point of arousing the garrison, when I spied the two dark figures on the snowy plain below, now clear in the moonlight, now lost in the shadow. I watched them for some distance; then a cloud came, and I lost them entirely. Rodney did not return, although I sat late before the dying fire. Thinking over the evening, the idea came to me that perhaps, after all, he did admire my protegee, and, being a romantic old woman, I did not repel the fancy; it might go a certain distance without harm, and an idyl is always charming, doubly so to people cast away on a desert island. One falls into the habit of studying persons very closely in the limited circle of garrison life. But, the next morning, the major's wife gave me an account of the sociable. 'It was very pleasant,' she said. 'Toward the last Dr. Prescott came in, quite unexpectedly. I had no idea he could be so agreeable. Augusta can tell you how charming he was!' Augusta, a young lady cousin, of pale blond complexion, neutral opinions, and irreproachable manners, smiled primly. My idyl was crushed! The days passed. The winds, the snows, and the high-up fort remained the same. Jeannette came and went, and the hour lengthened into two or three; not that we read much, but we talked more. Our surgeon did not again pass through the parlor; he had ordered a rickety stairway on the outside wall to be repaired, and we could hear him going up and down its icy steps as we sat by the hearth-fire. One day I said to him, 'My protegee is improving wonderfully. If she could have a complete education, she might take her place with the best in the land.' 'Do not deceive yourself, Mrs. Corlyne,' he answered. 'It is only the shallow French quickness.' 'Why do you always judge the child so harshly, Doctor?' 'Do you take her part, Aunt Sarah?' (For sometimes he used the title which Archie had made so familiar.) 'Of course I do, Rodney. A poor, unfriended girl living in this remote place, against a United States surgeon with the best of Boston behind him.' 'I wish you would tell me that every day, Aunt Sarah,' was the reply I received. It set me musing, but I could make nothing of it. Troubled without knowing why, I suggested to Archie that he should endeavor to interest our surgeon in the fort gayety; there was something for every night in the merry little circle,--games, suppers, tableaux, music, theatricals, readings, and the like. 'Why, he's in the thick of it already, Aunt Sarah,' said my nephew. 'He's devoting himself to Miss Augusta; she sings "The Harp that once--" to him every night.' ('The Harp that once through Tara's Halls', was Miss Augusta's dress-parade song. The Major's quarters not being as large as the halls aforesaid, the melody was somewhat overpowering.) 'O, does she?' I thought, not without a shade of vexation. But the vague anxiety vanished. The real spring came at last,--the rapid, vivid spring of Mackinac. Almost in a day the ice moved out, the snows melted, and the northern wild-flowers appeared in the sheltered glens. Lessons were at an end, for my scholar was away in the green woods. Sometimes she brought me a bunch of flowers, but I seldom saw her; my wild bird had flown back to the forest. When the ground was dry and the pine droppings warmed by the sun, I, too, ventured abroad. One day, wandering as far as the Arched Rock, I found the surgeon there, and together we sat down to rest under the trees, looking off over the blue water flecked with white caps. The Arch is a natural bridge over a chasm one hundred and fifty feet above the lake,--a fissure in the cliff which has fallen away in a hollow, leaving the bridge by itself far out over the water. This bridge springs upward in the shape of an arch; it is fifty feet long, and its width is in some places two feet, in others only a few inches,--a narrow, dizzy pathway hanging between sky and water. 'People have crossed it,' I said. 'Only fools,' answered oar surgeon, who despised foolhardiness. 'Has a man nothing better to do with his life than risk it for the sake of a silly feat like that! I would not so much as raise my eyes to see any one cross.' 'O yes, you would, Monsieur Rodenai,' cried a voice behind us. We both turned and caught a glimpse of Jeannette as she bounded through the bushes and out to the very centre of the Arch, where she stood balancing herself and laughing gayly. Her form was outlined against the sky; the breeze, swayed her skirt; she seemed hovering over the chasm. I watched her, mute with fear; a word might cause her to lose her balance; but I could not turn my eyes away, I was fascinated with the sight. I was not aware that Rodney had left me until he, too, appeared on the Arch, slowly finding a foothold for himself and advancing toward the centre. A fragment of the rock broke off under his foot and fell in the abyss below. 'Go back, Monsieur Rodenai,' cried Jeannette, seeing his danger. 'Will you came back too, Jeannette?' 'Moi? C'est aut'chose,' answered the girl, gayly tossing her pretty head. 'Then I shall come out and carry you back, wilful child,' said the surgeon. A peal of laughter broke from Jeannette as he spoke and then she began to dance on her point of rock, swinging herself from side to side, marking the time with a song. I held my breath; her dance seemed unearthly; it was as though she belonged to the Prince of the Powers of the Air. At length the surgeon reached the centre and caught the mocking creature in his arms: neither spoke, but I could see the flash of their eyes as they stood for an instant motionless. Then they struggled on the narrow foothold and swayed over so far that I buried my face in my trembling hands, unable to look at the dreadful end. When I opened my eyes again all was still; the Arch was tenantless, and no sound came from below. Were they, then, so soon dead? Without a cry? I forced myself to the brink to look down, over the precipice; but while I stood there, fearing to look, I heard a sound behind me in the woods. It was Jeannette singing a gay French song. I called to her to stop. 'How could you!' I said severely, for I was still trembling with agitation. 'Ce n'est rien, madame. I cross l'Arche when I had five year. Mais, Monsieur Rodenai le Grand, he raise his eye to look this time, I think,' said Jeannette, laughing triumphantly. 'Where is he?' 'On the far side, gone on to Scott's Pic [Peak]. Feroce, O feroce, comme un loupgarou! Ah! c'est joli, ca!' And over-flowing with the wildest glee the girl danced along through the woods in front of me, now pausing to look at something in her hand, now laughing, now shouting like a wild creature, until I lost sight of her. I went back to the fort alone. For several days I saw nothing of Rodney. When at last we met, I said, 'That was a wild freak of Jeannette's at the Arch.' 'Planned, to get a few shilling out of us.' 'O Doctor! I do not think she had any such motive,' I replied, looking up deprecatingly into his cold scornful eyes. 'Are you not a little sentimental over that ignorant, half-wild creature, Aunt Sarah?' 'Well,' I said to myself, 'perhaps I am!' The summer came, sails whitened the blue straits again, steamers stopped for an hour or two at the island docks, and the summer travellers rushed ashore to buy 'Indian curiosities,' made by the nuns in Montreal, or to climb breathlessly up the steep fort-hill to see the pride and panoply of war. Proud was the little white fort in those summer days; the sentinels held themselves stiffly erect, the officers gave up lying on the parapet half asleep, the best flag was hoisted daily, and there was much bugle-playing and ceremony connected with the evening gun, fired from the ramparts at sunset; the hotels were full, the boarding-house keepers were in their annual state of wonder over the singular taste of these people from 'below,' who actually preferred a miserable white-fish to the best of beef brought up on ice all the way from Buffalo! There were picnics and walks, and much confusion of historical dates respecting Father Marquette and the irrepressible, omnipresent Pontiac. The officers did much escort duty; their buttons gilded every scene. Our quiet surgeon was foremost in everything. 'I am surprised! I had no idea Dr. Prescott was so gay,' said the major's wife. 'I should not think of calling him gay,' I answered. 'Why, my dear Mrs. Corlyne! He is going all the time. Just ask Augusta.' Augusta thereupon remarked that society, to a certain extent, was beneficial; that she considered Dr. Prescott much improved; really, he was now very 'nice.' I silently protested against the word. But then I was not a Bostonian. One bright afternoon I went through the village, round the point into the French quarter, in search of a laundress. The fishermen's cottages faced the west; they were low and wide, not unlike scows drifted ashore and moored on the beach for houses. The little windows had gay curtains fluttering in the breeze, and the room within looked clean and cheery; the rough walls were adorned with the spoils of the fresh-water seas, shells, green stones, agates, spar, and curiously shaped pebbles; occasionally there was a stuffed water-bird, or a bright-colored print, and always a violin. Black-eyed children played in the water which bordered their narrow beach-gardens; and slender women, with shining black hair, stood in their doorways knitting. I found my laundress, and then went on to Jeannette's home, the last house in the row. From the mother, a Chippewa woman, I learned that Jeannette was with her French father at the fishing-grounds off Drummond's Island. 'How long has she been away?' I asked. 'Weeks four,' replied the mother, whose knowledge of English was confined to the price-list of white-fish and blueberries, the two articles of her traffic with the boarding-house keepers. 'When will she return?' 'Je n'sais.' She knitted on, sitting in the sunshine on her little doorstep, looking out over the western water with tranquil content in her beautiful, gentle eyes. As I walked up the beach I glanced back several times to see if she had the curiosity to watch me; but no, she still looked out over the western water. What was I to her? Less than nothing. A white-fish was more. A week or two later I strolled out to the Giant's Stairway and sat down in the little rock chapel. There was a picnic at the Lovers' Leap, and I had that side of the island to myself. I was leaning back, half asleep, in the deep shadow, when the sound of voices roused me; a birch-bark canoe was passing close in shore, and two were in it,--Jeannette and our surgeon. I could not hear their words, but I noticed Rodney's expression as he leaned forward. Jeannette was paddling slowly; her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes brilliant. Another moment and a point hid them from my view. I went home troubled. 'Did you enjoy the picnic, Miss Augusta?' I said with assumed carelessness, that evening. 'Dr. Prescott was there, as usual, I suppose?' 'He was not present, but the picnic was highly enjoyable,' replied Miss Augusta, in her even voice and impartial manner. 'The Doctor has not been with us for some days,' said the major's wife, archly; 'I suspect he does not like Mr. Piper.' Mr. Piper was a portly widower, of sanguine complexion, a Chicago produce-dealer, who was supposed to admire Miss Augusta, and was now going through a course of 'The Harp that once.' The last days of summer flew swiftly by; the surgeon held himself aloof; we scarcely saw him in the garrison circles, and I no longer met him in my rambles. 'Jealousy!' said the major's wife. September came. The summer visitors fled away homeward; the remaining 'Indian curiosities' were stored away for another season; the hotels were closed, and the forests deserted; the bluebells swung unmolested on their heights and the plump Indian-pipes grew in peace in their dark corners. The little white fort, too, began to assume its winter manners; the storm-flag was hoisted; there were evening fires upon the broad hearth-stones; the chaplain, having finished everything about Balak, his seven altars and seven rams, was ready for chess-problems; books and papers were ordered; stores laid in, and anxious inquiries made as to the 'habits' of the new mail carrier--for the mail carrier was the hero of the winter, and if his 'habits' led him to whiskey, there was danger that our precious letters might be dropped all along the northern curve of Lake Huron. Upon this quiet matter-of-course preparation, suddenly, like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, came orders to leave. The whole garrison, officers and men, were ordered to Florida. In a moment all was desolation. It was like being ordered into the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Dense everglades, swamp-fevers, malaria in the air, poisonous underbrush, and venomous reptiles and insects, and now and then a wily unseen foe picking off the men, one by one, as they painfully cut out roads through the thickets,--these were the features of military life in Florida at that period. Men who would have marched boldly to the cannon's mouth, officers who would have headed a forlorn hope, shrank from the deadly swamps. Families must be broken up, also; no women, no children, could go to Florida. There were tears and the sound of sobbing in the little white fort, as the poor wives, all young mothers, hastily packed their few possessions to go back to their fathers' houses, fortunate if they had fathers to receive them. The husbands went about in silence, too sad for words. Archie kept up the best courage; but he was young, and had no one to leave save me. The evening of the fatal day--for the orders had come in the early dawn--I was alone in my little parlor, already bare and desolate with packing-cases. The wind had been rising since morning, and now blew furiously from the west. Suddenly the door burst open and the surgeon entered. I was shocked at his appearance, as, pale, haggard, with disordered hair and clothing, he sank into a chair, and looked at me in silence. 'Rodney, what is it?' I said. He did not answer, but still looked at me with that strange gaze. Alarmed, I rose, and went toward him, laying my hand on his shoulder with a motherly touch. I loved the quiet, gray-eyed youth next after Archie. 'What is it, my poor boy! Can I help you?' 'O Aunt Sarah, perhaps you can, for you know her.' 'Her?' I repeated, with sinking heart. 'Yes. Jeannette.' I sat down and folded my hands; trouble had come, but it was not what I apprehended,--the old story of military life, love, and desertion; the ever-present ballad of the 'gay young knight who loves and rides away.' This was something different. 'I love her,--I love her madly, in spite of myself,' said Rodney, pouring forth his words with feverish rapidity. 'I know it is an infatuation, I know it is utterly unreasonable, and yet--I love her. I have striven against it, I have fought with myself, I have written out elaborate arguments wherein I have clearly demonstrated the folly of such an affection, and I have compelled myself to read them over slowly, word for word, when alone in my room, and yet--I love her! Ignorant, I know she would shame me; shallow, I know she could not satisfy me; as a wife she would inevitably drag me down to misery, and yet--I love her! I had not been on the island a week before I saw her, and marked her beauty. Months before you invited her to the fort I had become infatuated with her angular loveliness; but, in some respects, a race of the blood-royal could not be prouder than these French fishermen. They will accept your money, they will cheat you, they will tell you lies for an extra shilling; but make one step toward a simple acquaintance, and the door will be shut in your face. They will bow down before you as a customer, but they will not have you for a friend. Thus I found it impossible to reach Jeannette. I do not say that I tried, for all the time I was fighting myself; but I went far enough to see the barriers. It seemed a fatality that you should take a fancy to her, have her here, and ask me to admire her,--admire the face that haunted me by day and by night, driving me mad with its beauty. 'I realized my danger, and called to my aid all the pride of my race. I said to my heart, 'You shall not love this ignorant half-breed to your ruin.' I reasoned with myself, and said, 'It is only because you are isolated on this far-away island. Could you present this girl to your mother? Could she be a companion for your sisters? I was beginning to gain a firmer control over myself, in spite of her presence, when you unfolded your plan of education. Fatality again. Instantly a crowd of hopes surged up. The education you began, could I not finish? She was but young; a few years of careful teaching might work wonders. Could I not train this forest flower so that it could take its place in the garden? But, when I actually saw this full-grown woman unable to add the simplest sum or write her name correctly, I was again ashamed of my infatuation. It is one thing to talk of ignorance, it is another to come face to face with it. Thus I wavered, at one moment ready to give up all for pride, at another to give up all for love. 'Then came the malicious suggestion of negro blood. Could it be proved, I was free; that taint I could not pardon. [And here, even as the surgeon spoke, I noticed this as the peculiarity of the New England Abolitionist. Theoretically he believed in the equality of the enslaved race, and stood ready to maintain the belief with his life, but practically he held himself entirely aloof from them; the Southern creed and practice were the exact reverse.] I made inquiries of Father Piret, who knows the mixed genealogy of the little French colony as far back as the first voyageurs of the fur trade, and found--as I, shall I say hoped or feared?--that the insinuation was utterly false. Thus I was thrown back into the old tumult. 'Then came that evening in this parlor when Jeannette made the coffee and baked little cakes over the coals. Do you remember the pathos with which she chanted File, file, pauvre Marie; File, file, pour le prisonnier? Do you remember how she looked when she repeated 'Ivry'? Did that tender pity, that ringing inspiration come from a dull mind and shallow heart? I was avenged of my enforced disdain, my love gave itself up to delicious hope. She was capable of education, and then--! I made a pretext of old Antoine's cough in order to gain an opportunity of speaking to her alone; but she was like a thing possessed, she broke from me and sprang over the icy cliff, her laugh coming back on the wind as I followed her down the dangerous slope. On she rushed, jumping from rock to rock, waving her hand in wild glee when the moon shone out, singing and shouting with merry scorn at my desperate efforts to reach her. It was a mad chase, but only on the plain below could I come up with her. There, breathless and eager, I unfolded to her my plan of education. I only went as far as this: I was willing to send her to school, to give her opportunities of seeing the world, to provide for her whole future. I left the story of my love to come afterward. She laughed me to scorn. As well talk of education to the bird of the wilderness! She rejected my offers, picked up snow to throw in my face, covered me with her French sarcasms, danced around me in circles, laughed, and mocked, until I was at a loss to know whether she was human. Finally, as a shadow darkened the moon she fled away; and when it passed she was gone, and I was alone on the snowy plain. 'Angry, fierce, filled with scorn for myself, I determined resolutely to crush out my senseless infatuation. I threw myself into such society as we had; I assumed an interest in that inane Miss Augusta; I read and studied far into the night; I walked until sheer fatigue gave me tranquillity; but all I gained was lost in that encounter at the arch: you remember it? When I saw her on that narrow bridge, my love burst its bonds again, and, senseless as ever, rushed to save her,--to save her poised on her native rocks, where every inch was familiar from childhood! To save her,--sure-footed and light as a bird! I caught her. She struggled in my arms, angrily, as an imprisoned animal might struggle, but--so beautiful! The impulse came to me to spring with her into the gulf below, and so end the contest forever. I might have done it,--I cannot tell,--but, suddenly, she wrenched herself out of my arms and fled over the Arch, to the farther side. I followed, trembling, blinded, with the violence of my emotion. At that moment I was ready to give up my life, my soul, into her hands. 'In the woods beyond she paused, glanced over her shoulder toward me, then turned eagerly. 'Voila,' she said, pointing. I looked down and saw several silver pieces that had dropped from my pocket as I sprang over the rocks, and, with an impatient gesture, I thrust them aside with my foot. 'Non,' she cried, tuning toward me and stooping eagerly,--'so much! O, so much! See! four shilling!' Her eyes glistened with longing as she held the money in her hand and fingered each piece lovingly. 'The sudden revulsion of feeling produced by her words and gesture filled me with fury. 'Keep it, and buy yourself a soul if you can!' I cried; and turning away, I left her with her gains. 'Merci, monsieur,' she answered gayly, all unmindful of my scorn; and off she ran, holding her treasure tightly clasped in both hands. I could hear her singing far down the path. 'It is a bitter thing to feel a scorn for yourself! Did I love this girl who stooped to gather a few shillings from under my feet? Was it, then, impossible for me to conquer this ignoble passion? No; it could not and it should not be! I plunged again into all the gayety; I left myself not one free moment; if sleep came not, I forced it to come with opiates; Jeannette had gone to the fishing grounds, the weeks passed, I did not see her. I had made the hardest struggle of all, and was beginning to recover my self-respect when, one day, I met her in the woods with some children; she had returned to gather blueberries. I looked at her. She was more gentle than usual, and smiled. Suddenly, as an embankment which has withstood the storms of many winters gives away at last in a calm summer night, I yielded. Myself knew the contest was over and my other self rushed to her feet. 'Since then I have often seen her; I have made plan after plan to meet her; I have--O degrading thought!--paid her to take me out in her canoe, under the pretence of fishing. I no longer looked forward; I lived only in the present, and thought only of when and where I could see her. Thus it has been until this morning, when the orders came. Now, I am brought face to face with reality; I must go; can I leave her behind? For hours I have been wandering in the woods. Aunt Sarah,--it is of no use,--I cannot live without her; I must marry her.' 'Marry Jeannette!' I exclaimed. 'Even so.' 'An ignorant half-breed?' 'As you say, an ignorant half-breed.' 'You are mad, Rodney.' 'I know it.' I will not repeat all I said; but, at last, silenced, if not convinced, by the power of this great love, I started with him out into the wild night to seek Jeannette. We went through the village and round the village and round the point, where the wind met us, and the waves broke at our feet with a roar. Passing the row of cabins, with their twinkling lights, we reached the home of Jeannette and knocked at the low door. The Indian mother opened it. I entered, without a word, and took a seat near the hearth, where a drift-wood fire was burning. Jeannette came forward with a surprised look. 'You little think what good fortune is coming to you, child,' I thought, as I noted her coarse dress and the poor furniture of the little room. Rodney burst at once into his subject. 'Jeannette,' he said, going toward her, 'I have come to take you away with me. You need not go to school; I have given up that idea,--I accept you as you are. You shall have silk dresses and ribbons, like the ladies of the Mission-House this summer. You shall see all great cities, you shall hear beautiful music. You shall have everything you want,--money, bright shillings, as many as you wish. See! Mrs. Corlyne has come with me to show you that it is true. This morning we had orders to leave Mackinac; in a few days we must go. But--listen, Jeanette; I will marry you. You shall be my wife. Do not look so startled. I mean it; it is really true.' 'Qu'est-ce-que-c'est?' said the girl, bewildered by the rapid, eager words. 'Dr. Prescott wishes to marry you, child,' I explained, somewhat sadly, for never had the disparity between them seemed so great. The presence of the Indian mother, the common room, were like silent protests. 'Marry,' ejaculated Jeannette. 'Yes, love' said the surgeon, ardently. 'It is quite true; Father Piret shall marry us. I will exchange into another regiment, or, if necessary, I will resign. Do you understand what I am saying, Jeannette? See! I give you my hand, in token that it is true.' But, with a quick bound, the girl was across the room. 'What?' she cried. 'You think I marry you? Have you not heard of Baptiste? Know, then, that I love one finger of him more than all you, ten times, hundred times.' 'Baptiste?' repeated Rodney. 'Oui, mon cousin, Baptiste, the fisherman. We marry soon-- tenez--la fete de Saint Andre.' Rodney looked bewildered a moment, then his face cleared; 'Oh! a child engagement? That is one of your customs, I know. But never fear; Father Piret will absolve you from all that. Baptiste shall have a fine new boat; he will let you off for a handful of silver pieces. Do not think of that, Jeannette, but come to me--' 'Je vous abhorre; Je vous deteste,' cried the girl with fury as he approached. 'Baptiste not love me? He love me more than boat and silver dollar,--more than all the world! And I love him; I die for him! Allez-vous-en, traitre!' Rodney had grown white; he stood before her, motionless, with fixed eyes. 'Jeannette,' I said in French, 'perhaps you do not understand. Dr. Prescott asks you to marry him; Father Piret shall marry you, and all your friends shall come. Dr. Prescott will take you away from this hard life; he will make you rich; he will support your father and mother in comfort. My child, it is wonderful good fortune. He is an educated gentleman, and loves you truly.' 'What is that to me?' replied Jeannette, proudly. 'Let him go, I care not.' She paused a moment. Then, with flashing eyes, she cried, 'Let him go with his fine new boat and silver dollars! He does not believe me? See, then, how I despise him!' And rushing forward, she struck him on the cheek. Rodney did not stir, but stood gazing at her while the red mark glowed on his white face. 'You know not what love is,' said Jeannette, with indescribable scorn. 'You! You! Ah, mon Baptiste, ou es-tu? But thou wilt kill him,--kill him for his boats and silver dollars!' 'Child!' I said, startled by her fury. 'I am not a child. Je suis femme, moi!' replied Jeannette, folding her arms with haughty grace. 'Allez!' she said, pointing toward the door. We were dismissed. A queen could not have made a more royal gesture. Throughout the scene the Indian mother had not stopped her knitting. In four days we were afloat, and the little white fort was deserted. It was a dark afternoon, and we sat clustered on the stern of the steamer, watching the flag come slowly down from its staff in token of the departure of the commanding officer. 'Isle of Beauty, fare thee well,' sang the major's fair young wife with the sound of tears in her sweet voice. 'We shall return,' said the officers. But not one of them ever saw the beautiful island again. Rodney Prescott served a month or two in Florida, 'taciturn and stiff as ever,' Archie wrote. Then he resigned suddenly, and went abroad. He has never returned, and I have lost all trace of him, so that I cannot say, from any knowledge of my own, how long the feeling lived,--the feeling that swept me along in its train down to the beach-cottage that wild night. Each man who reads this can decide for himself. Each woman has decided already. Last year I met an islander on the cars going eastward. It was the first time he had ever been 'below'; but he saw nothing to admire, that dignified citizen of Mackinac! 'What has become of Jeannette Leblanc?' I asked. 'Jeannette? O, she married that Baptiste, a lazy, good-for-nothing fellow? They live in the same little cabin around the point, and pick up a living most anyhow for their tribe of young ones.' 'Are they happy?' 'Happy?' repeated my islander, with a slow stare. 'Well I suppose they are, after their fashion; I don't know much about them. In my opinion, they are a shiftless set, those French half-breeds round the point.' THE OLD AGENCY. 'The buildings of the United States Indian Agency on the island of Mackinac were destroyed by fire December 31, at midnight.'--WESTERN NEWSPAPER ITEM. The old house is gone then! But it shall not depart into oblivion unchronicled. One who has sat under its roof-tree, one who remembers well its rambling rooms and wild garden, will take the pen to write down a page of its story. It is only an episode, one of many; but the others are fading away, or already buried in dead memories under the sod. It was a quaint, picturesque old place, stretching back from the white limestone road that bordered the little port, its overgrown garden surrounded by an ancient stockade ten feet in height, with a massive, slow-swinging gate in front, defended by loopholes. This stockade bulged out in some places and leaned in at others; but the veteran posts, each a tree sharpened to a point, did not break their ranks, in spite of decrepitude; and the Indian warriors, could they have returned from their happy hunting-grounds, would have found the brave old fence of the Agency a sturdy barrier still. But the Indian warriors could not return. The United States agent had long ago moved to Lake Superior, and the deserted residence, having only a mythical owner, left without repairs year after year, and under a cloud of confusion as regarded taxes, titles, and boundaries, became a kind of flotsam property, used by various persons, but belonging legally to no one. Some tenant, tired of swinging the great gate back and forth, had made a little sally port alongside, but otherwise the place remained unaltered; a broad garden with a central avenue of cherry-trees, on each side dilapidated arbors, overgrown paths, and heart-shaped beds, where the first agents had tried to cultivate flowers, and behind the limestone cliffs crowned with cedars. The house was large on the ground, with wings and various additions built out as if at random; on each side and behind were rough outside chimneys clamped to the wall; in the roof over the central part dormer-windows showed a low second storey; and here and there at intervals were outside doors, in some cases opening out into space, since the high steps which once led up to them had fallen down, and remained as they fell, heaps of stones on the ground below. Within were suites of rooms, large and small, showing traces of workmanship elaborate for such a remote locality; the ceilings, patched with rough mortar, had been originally decorated with moulding, the doors were ornamented with scroll-work, and the two large apartments on each side of the entrance-hall possessed chimney-pieces and central hooks for chandeliers. Beyond and behind stretched out the wings; coming to what appeared to be the end of the house on west, there unexpectedly began a new series of rooms turning to the north, each with its outside door; looking for a corresponding labyrinth on the eastern side, there was nothing but a blank wall. The blind stairway went up in a kind of dark well, and once up it was a difficult matter to get down without a plunge from top to bottom, since the undefended opening was just where no one would expect to find it. Sometimes an angle was so arbitrarily walled up that you felt sure there must be a secret chamber there and furtively rapped on the wall to catch the hollow echo within. Then again you opened a door, expecting to step into the wilderness of a garden, and found yourself in a set of little rooms running off on a tangent, one after the other, and ending in a windowless closet and an open cistern. But the Agency gloried in its irregularities, and defied criticism. The original idea of its architect--if there was any--had vanished; but his work remained a not unpleasing variety to summer visitors accustomed to city houses, all built with a definite purpose, and one front door. After some years of wandering in foreign lands, I returned to my own country, and took up the burden of old associations whose sadness time had mercifully softened. The summer was over; September had begun, but there came to me a great wish to see Mackinac once more; to look again upon the little white fort where I had lived with Archie, my soldier nephew killed at Shiloh. The steamer took me safely across Lake Erie, up the brimming Detroit River, through the enchanted region of the St. Clair flats, and out into broad Lake Huron; there, off Thunder Bay, a gale met us, and for hours we swayed between life and death. The season for pleasure travelling was over; my fellow-passengers, with one exception, were of that class of Americans who dressed in cheap imitations of fine clothes, are forever travelling, travelling,--taking the steamers not from preference, but because they are less costly than an all-rail route. The thin, listless men, in ill-fitting black clothes and shining tall hats, sat on the deck in tilted chairs hour after hour silent and dreary; the thin listless women, clad in raiment of many colors, remained on the fixed sofas in the cabin hour after hour, silent and weary. At meals they ate indiscriminately everything within range, but continued the same, a weary, dreary, silent band. The one exception was an old man, tall and majestic, with silvery hair and bright, dark eyes, dressed in the garb of a Roman Catholic priest, albeit slightly tinged with frontier innovations. He came on board at Detroit, and as soon as we were under way he exchanged his hat for a cloth cap embroidered with Indian bead-work; and when the cold air, precursor of the gale, struck us on Huron, he wrapped himself in a large capote made of skins, with the fur inward. In times of danger formality drops from us. During those long hours, when the next moment might have brough death, this old man and I were together; and when at last the cold dawn came, and the disabled steamer slowly ploughed through the angry water around the point, and showed us Mackinac in the distance, we discovered that the island was a mutual friend, and that we knew each other, at least by name; for the silver-haired priest was Father Piret, the hermit of the Chenaux. In the old days, when I was living at the little white fort, I had known Father Piret by reputation, and he had heard of me from the French half-breeds around the point. We landed. The summer hotels were closed, and I was directed to the old Agency, where occasionally a boarder was received by the family then in possession. The air was chilly, and a fine rain was falling, the afterpiece of the equinoctial; the wet storm-flag hung heavily down over the fort on the height, and the waves came in sullenly. All was in sad accordance with my feelings as I thought of the past and its dead, while the slow tears of age moistened my eyes. But the next morning Mackinac awoke, robed in autumn splendor; the sunshine poured down, the straits sparkled back, the forest glowed in scarlet, the larches waved their wild, green hands, the fair-weather flag floated over the little fort, and all was as joyous as though no one had ever died; and indeed it is in glorious days like these that we best realise immortality. I wandered abroad through the gay forest to the Arch, the Lovers' Leap, and old Fort Holmes, whose British walls had been battered down, for pastime, so that only a caved-in British cellar remained to mark the spot. Returning to the Agency, I learned that Father Piret had called to see me. 'I am sorry that I missed him,' I said; 'he is a remarkable old man.' The circle at the dinner-table glanced up with one accord. The little minister with the surprised eyes looked at me more surprised than ever; his large wife groaned audibly. The Baptist colporteur peppered his potatoes until they and the plate were black; the Presbyterian doctor, who was the champion of the Protestant party on the island, wished to know if I was acquainted with the latest devices of the Scarlet Woman in relation to the county school-fund. 'But my friends,' I replied, 'Father Piret and I both belong to the past. We discuss not religion, but Mackinac; not the school-fund, but the old associations of the island, which is dear to both of us.' The four looked at me with distrust; they saw nothing dear about the island, unless it was the price of fresh meat; and as to old associations, they held themselves above such nonsense. So, one and all, they, took beef and enjoyed a season of well-regulated conversation, leaving me to silence and my broiled white-fish; as it was Friday, no doubt they thought the latter a rag of popery. Very good rags. But my hostess, a gentle little woman, stole away from these bulwarks of Protestantism in the late afternoon, and sought me in my room, or rather series of rooms, since there were five opening one out of the other, the last three unfurnished, and all the doorless doorways staring at me like so many fixed eyes, until, oppressed by their silent watchfulness, I hung a shawl over the first opening and shut out the whole gazing suite. 'You must not think, Mrs. Corlyne, that we islanders do not appreciate Father Piret,' said the little woman, who belonged to one of the old island families, descendants of a chief factor of the fur trade. 'There has been some feeling lately against the Catholics--' 'Roman Catholics, my dear,' I said with Anglican particularity. 'But we all love and respect the dear old man as a father.' 'When I was living at the fort, fifteen years ago, I heard occasionally of Father Piret,' I said, 'but he seemed to be almost a mythic personage. What is his history?' 'No one knows. He came here fifty years ago, and after officiating on the island a few years, he retired to a little Indian farm in the Chenaux, where he has lived ever since. Occasionally he holds a service for the half-breeds at Point St. Ignace, but the parish of Mackinac proper has its regular priest, and Father Piret apparently does not hold even the appointment of missionary. Why he remains here--a man educated, refined, and even aristocratic--is a mystery. He seems to be well provided with money; his little house in the Chenaux contains foreign books and pictures, and he is very charitable to the poor Indians. But he keeps himself aloof, and seems to desire no intercourse with the world beyond his letters and papers, which come regularly, some of them from France. He seldom leaves the Straits; he never speaks of himself; always he appears as you saw him, carefully dressed and stately. Each summer when he is seen on the street, there is more or less curiosity about him among the summer visitors, for he is quite unlike the rest of us Mackinac people. But no one can discover anything more than I have told you, and those who have persisted so far as to sail over to the Chenaux either lose their way among the channels, or if they find the house, they never find him; the door is locked, and no one answers.' 'Singular,' I said. 'He has nothing of the hermit about him. He has what I should call a courtly manner.' 'That is it,' replied my hostess, taking up the word; 'some say he came from the French court,--a nobleman exiled for political offences; others think he is a priest under the ban; and there is still a third story, to the effect that he is a French count, who, owing to a disappointment in love, took orders and came to this far-away island, so that he might seclude himself forever from the world.' 'But no one really knows?' 'Absolutely nothing. He is beloved by all the real old island families, whether they are of his faith or not; and when he dies the whole Strait, from Bois Blanc light to far Waugoschance, will mourn for him.' At sunset the Father came again to see me; the front door of my room was open, and we seated ourselves on the piazza outside. The roof of bark thatch had fallen away, leaving the bare beams overhead twined with brier-roses; the floor and house side were frescoed with those lichen colored spots which show that the gray planks have lacked paint for many long years; the windows had wooden shutters fastened back with irons shaped like the letter S, and on the central door was a brass knocker, and a plate bearing the words, 'United States Agency.' 'When I first came to the island,' said Father Piret, 'this was the residence par excellence. The old house was brave with green and white paint then; it had candelabra on its high mantles, brass andirons on its many hearthstones, curtains for all its little windows, and carpets for all its uneven floors. Much cooking went on, and smoke curled up from all these outside chimneys. Those were the days of the fur trade and Mackinac was a central mart. Hither twice a year came the bateaux from the Northwest, loaded with furs; and in those old, decaying warehouses on the back street of the village were stored the goods sent out from New York, with which the bateaux were loaded again, and after a few days of revelry, during which the improvident voyagers squandered all their hard-earned gains, the train returned westward into 'the countries,' as they called the wilderness beyond the lakes, for another six months of toil. The officers of the little fort on the height, the chief factors of the fur company, and the United States Indian agent, formed the feudal aristocracy of the island; but the agent had the most imposing mansion, and often have I seen the old house shining with lights across its whole broadside of windows, and gay with the sound of a dozen French violins. The garden, now a wilderness, was the pride of the island. Its prim arbors, its spring and spring-house, its flowerbeds, where, with infinite pains, a few hardy plants were induced to blossom; its cherry-tree avenue, whose early red fruit the short summer could scarcely ripen; its annual attempts at vegetables, which never came to maturity,--formed topics for conversation in court circles. Potatoes then as now were left to the mainland Indians, who came over with their canoes heaped with the fine, large thin-jacketed fellows, bartering them all for a loaf or two of bread and a little whiskey. 'The stockade which surrounds the place was at that day a not unnecessary defence. At the time of the payments the island swarmed with Indians, who came from Lake Superior and the Northwest, to receive the government pittance. Camped on the beach as far as the eye could reach, these wild warriors, dressed in all their savage finery, watched the Agency with greedy eyes, as they waited for their turn. The great gate was barred, and sentinels stood at the loopholes with loaded muskets; one by one the chiefs were admitted, stalked up to the office,--that wing on the right,--received the allotted sum, silently selected something from the displayed goods, and as silently departed, watched by quick eyes, until the great gate closed behind them. The guns of the fort were placed so as to command the Agency during payment time; and when, after several anxious, watchful days and nights, the last brave had received his portion, and the last canoe started away toward the north, leaving only the comparatively peaceful mainland Indians behind, the island drew a long breath of relief.' 'Was there any real danger?' I asked. 'The Indians are ever treacherous.' replied the Father. Then he was silent, and seemed lost in revery. The pure, ever-present breeze of Mackinac played in his long silvery hair, and his bright eyes roved along the wall of the old house; he had a broad forehead, noble features, and commanding presence, and as he sat there, recluse as he was,--aged, alone, without a history, with scarcely a name or a place in the world,--he looked, in the power of his native-born dignity, worthy of a royal coronet. 'I was thinking of old Jacques,' he said, after a long pause. 'He once lived in these rooms of yours, and died on that bench at the end of the piazza, sitting in the sunshine, with his staff in his hand.' 'Who was he?' I asked. 'Tell me the story, Father.' 'There is not much to tell, madame; but in my mind he is so associated with this old house, that I always think of him when I come here, and fancy I see him on that bench. 'When the United States agent removed to the Apostle Islands, at the western end of Lake Superior, this place remained for some time uninhabited. But one winter morning smoke was seen coming out of that great chimney on the side; and in the course of the day several curious persons endeavored to open the main gate, at that time the only entrance. But the gate was barred within, and as the high stockade was slippery with ice, for some days the mystery remained unsolved. The islanders, always slow, grow torpid in the winter like bears; they watched the smoke in the daytime and the little twinkling light by night; they talked of spirits both French and Indian as they went their rounds, but they were too indolent to do more. At length the fort commandant heard of the smoke, and saw the light from his quarters on the height. As government property, he considered the Agency under his charge, and he was preparing to send a detail of men to examine the deserted mansion in its ice-bound garden, when its mysterious occupant appeared in the village; it was an old man, silent, gentle, apparently French. He carried a canvas bag, and bought a few supplies of the coarsest description, as though he was very poor. Unconscious of observation, he made his purchases and returned slowly homeward, barring the great gate behind him. Who was he? No one knew. Whence and when came he? No one could tell. 'The detail of soldiers from the fort battered at the gate, and when the silent old man opened it they followed him through the garden, where his feet had made a lonely trail over the deep snow, round to the side door. They entered, and found some blankets on the floor, a fire of old knots on the hearth, a long narrow box tied with a rope; his poor little supplies stood in one corner,--bread, salted fish, and a few potatoes,--and over the fire hung a rusty tea-kettle, its many holes carefully plugged with bits of rag. It was a desolate scene; the old man in the great rambling empty house in the heart of an arctic winter. He said little, and the soldiers could not understand his language; but they left him unmolested, and going back to the fort, they told what they had seen. Then the major went in person to the Agency, and gathered from the stranger's words that he had come to the island over the ice in the track of the mail-carrier; that he was an emigrant from France on his way to the Red River of the North, but his strength failing, owing to the intense cold, he had stopped at the island, and seeing the uninhabited house, he had crept into it, as he had not enough money to pay for a lodging elsewhere. He seemed a quiet inoffensive old man, and after all the islanders had had a good long slow stare at him he was left in peace, with his little curling smoke by day and his little twinkling light by night, although no one thought of assisting him; there is a strange coldness of heart in these northern latitudes. 'I was then living at the Chenaux; there was a German priest on the island; I sent over two half-breeds every ten days for the mail, and through them I heard of the stranger at the Agency. He was French, they said, and it was rumored in the saloons along the frozen docks that he had seen Paris. This warmed my heart; for, madame, I spent my youth in Paris,--the dear, the beautiful city! So I came over to the island in my dog-sledge; a little thing is an event in our long, long winter. I reached the village in the afternoon twilight, and made my way alone to the Agency; the old man no longer barred his gate, and swinging it open with difficulty, I followed the trail through the snowy silent garden round to the side of this wing,--the wing you occupy. I knocked; he opened; I greeted him and entered. He had tried to furnish his little room with the broken relics of the deserted dwelling; a mended chair, a stool, a propped-up table, a shelf with two or three battered tin dishes, and some straw in one corner comprised the whole equipment, but the floor was clean, the old dishes polished, and the blankets neatly spread over the straw which formed the bed. On the table the supplies were ranged in order; there was a careful pile of knots on one side of the hearth; and the fire was evidently husbanded to last as long as possible. He gave me the mended chair, lighted a candle-end stuck in a bottle, and then seating himself on the stool, he gazed at me in his silent way until I felt like an uncourteous intruder. I spoke to him in French, offered my services; in short, I did my best to break down the barrier of his reserve; there was something pathetic in the little room and its lonely occupant, and, besides, I knew from his accent that we were both from the banks of the Seine. 'Well, I heard his story,--not then, but afterward; it came out gradually during the eleven months of our acquaintance; for he became my friend,--almost the only friend of fifty years. I am an isolated man, madame. It must be so. God's will be done!' The Father paused, and looked off over the darkening water; he did not sigh, neither was his calm brow clouded, but there was in his face what seemed to me a noble resignation, and I have ever since felt sure that the secret of his exile held in it a self-sacrifice; for only self-sacrifice can produce that divine expression. Out in the straits shone the low-down green light of a schooner; beyond glimmered the mast-head star of a steamer, with the line of cabin lights below, and away on the point of Bois Blanc gleamed the steady radiance of the lighthouse showing the way to Lake Huron; the broad overgrown garden cut us off from the village, but above on the height we could see the lighted windows of the fort, although still the evening sky retained that clear hue that seems so much like daylight when one looks aloft, although the earth lies in dark shadow below. The Agency was growing indistinct even to our near eyes; its white chimneys loomed up like ghosts, the shutters sighed in the breeze, and the planks of the piazza creaked causelessly. The old house was full of the spirits of memories, and at twilight they came abroad and bewailed themselves. 'The place is haunted,' I said, as a distant door groaned drearily. 'Yes,' replied Father Piret, coming out of his abstraction, 'and this wing is haunted by my old French friend. As time passed and the spring came, he fitted up in his fashion the whole suite of five rooms. He had his parlor, sleeping room, kitchen and store-room, the whole furnished only with the articles I have already described, save that the bed was of fresh green boughs instead of straw. Jacques occupied all the rooms with ceremonious exactness; he sat in the parlor, and too I must sit there when I came; in the second room he slept and made his careful toilet, with his shabby old clothes; the third was his kitchen and dining-room; and the fourth, that little closet on the right, was his store-room. His one indulgence was coffee; coffee he must and would have, though he slept on straw and went without meat. But he cooked to perfection in his odd way, and I have often eaten a dainty meal in that little kitchen, sitting at the propped-up table, using the battered tin dishes, and the clumsy wooden spoons fashioned with a jackknife. After we had become friends Jacques would accept occasional aid from me, and it gave me a warm pleasure to think that I had added something to his comfort, were it only a little sugar, butter, or a pint of milk. No one disturbed the old man; no orders came from Washington respecting the Agency property, and the major had not the heart to order him away. There were more than houses enough for the scanty population of the island, and only a magnate could furnish these large rambling rooms. So the soldiers were sent down to pick the red cherries for the use of the garrison, but otherwise Jacques had the whole place to himself, with all its wings, outbuildings, arbors, and garden beds. 'But I have not told you all. The fifth apartment in the suite--the square room with four windows and an outside door--was the old man's sanctuary, here were his precious relics, and here he offered up his devotions, half Christian, half pagan, with never-failing ardor. From the long narrow box which the fort soldiers had noticed came an old sabre, a worn and faded uniform of the French grenadiers, a little dried sprig, its two withered leaves tied in their places with thread, and a coarse woodcut of the great Napoleon; for Jacques was a soldier of the Empire. The uniform hung on the wall, carefully arranged on pegs as a man would wear it, and the sabre was brandished from the empty sleeve as though a hand held it; the woodcut framed in green, renewed from day to day, pine in the winter, maple in the summer, occupied the opposite side, and under it was fastened the tiny withered sprig, while on the floor below was a fragment of buffalo-skin which served the soldier for a stool when he knelt in prayer. And did he pray to Napoleon, you ask? I hardly know. He had a few of the Church's prayers by heart, but his mind was full of the Emperor as he repeated them, and his eyes were fixed upon the picture as though it was the face of a saint. Discovering this, I labored hard to bring him to a clearer understanding of the faith; but all in vain. He listened patiently, even reverently, although I was much the younger; at intervals he replied, "Oui, mon pere," and the next day he said his prayers to the dead Emperor as usual. And this was not the worst; in place of an amen, there came a fierce imprecation against the whole English nation. After some months I succeeded in persuading him to abandon this termination; but I always suspected that it was but a verbal abandonment, and that, mentally, the curse was as strong as ever. 'Jacques had been a soldier of the Empire, as it is called,--a grenadier under Napoleon; he had loved his General and Emperor in life, and adored him in death with the affectionate pertinacity of a faithful dog. One hot day during the German campaign, Napoleon, engaged in conference with some of his generals, was disturbed by the uneasy movements of his horse; looking around for some one to brush away the flies, he saw Jacques, who stood at a short distance watching his Emperor with admiring eyes. Always quick to recognize the personal affection he inspired, Napoleon signed to the grenadier to approach, "Here, mon brave," he said, smiling; "get a branch and keep the flies from my horse a few moments." The proud soldier obeyed; he heard the conversation of the Emperor; he kept the flies from his horse. As he talked, Napoleon idly plucked a little sprig from the branch as it came near his hand, and played with it; and when, the conference over, with a nod of thanks to Jacques, he rode away, the grenadier stopped, picked up the sprig fresh from the Emperor's hand and placed it carefully in his breast-pocket. The Emperor had noticed him; the Emperor had called him 'mon brave'; the Emperor had smiled upon him. This was the glory of Jacques's life. How many times have I listened to the story, told always in the same words, with the same gestures in the same places! He remembered every sentence of the conversation he had heard, and repeated them with automatic fidelity, understanding nothing of their meaning; even when I explained their probable connection with the campaign, my words made no impression upon him, and I could see that they conveyed no idea to his mind. He was made for a soldier; brave and calm, he reasoned not, but simply obeyed, and to this blind obedience there was added a heart full of affection which, when concentrated upon the Emperor, amounted to idolatry. Napoleon possessed a singular personal power over his soldiers; they all loved him, but Jacques adored him. 'It was an odd, affectionate animal,' said Father Piret, dropping unconsciously into a French idiom to express his meaning. 'The little sprig had been kept as a talisman, and no saintly relic was ever more honored; the Emperor had touched it! 'Grenadier Jacques made one of the ill-fated Russian army, and, although wounded and suffering, he still endured until the capture of Paris. Then, when Napoleon retired to Elba, he fell sick from grief, nor did he recover until the Emperor returned, when, with thousands of other soldiers, our Jacques hastened to his standard, and the hundred days began. Then came Waterloo. Then came St. Helena. But the grenadier lived on in hope, year after year, until the Emperor died,--died in exile, in the hands of the hated English. Broken-hearted, weary of the sight of his native land, he packed his few possessions, and fled away over the ocean, with a vague idea of joining a French settlement on the Red River; I have always supposed it must be the Red River of the South; there are French there. But the poor soldier was very ignorant; some one directed him to these frozen regions, and he set out; all places were alike to him now that the Emperor had gone from earth. Wandering as far as Mackinac on his blind pilgrimage, Jacques found his strength failing, and crept into this deserted house to die. Recovering, he made for himself a habitation from a kind of instinct, as a beaver might have done. He gathered together the wrecks of furniture, he hung up his treasures, he had his habits for every hour of the day; soldier-like, everything was done by rule. At a particular hour it was his custom to sit on that bench in the sunshine, wrapped in his blankets in the winter, in summer with his one old coat carefully hung on that peg; I can see him before me now. On certain days he would wash his few poor clothes, and hang them out on the bushes to dry; then he would patiently mend them with his great brass thimble and coarse thread. Poor old garments! they were covered with awkward patches. 'At noon he would prepare his one meal; for his breakfast and supper were but a cup of coffee. Slowly and with the greatest care the materials were prepared and the cooking watched. There was a savor of the camp, a savor of the Paris cafe, and a savor of originality; and often, wearied with the dishes prepared by my half-breeds, I have come over to the island to dine with Jacques, for the old soldier was proud of his skill, and liked an appreciative guest And I--But it is not my story to tell.' 'O Father Piret, if you could but--' 'Thanks, madame. To others I say, "What would you? I have been here since youth; you know my life." But to you I say there was a past; brief, full, crowded into a few years; but I cannot tell it; my lips are sealed! Again thanks for your sympathy, madame. And now I will go back to Jacques. 'We were comrades, he and I; he would not come over to the Chenaux; he was unhappy if the routine of his day was disturbed, but I often stayed a day with him at the Agency, for I too liked the silent house. It has its relics, by the way. Have you noticed a carved door in the back part of the main building? That was brought from the old chapel on the mainland, built as early as 1700. The whole of this locality is sacred ground in the history of our Church. It was first visited by our missionaries in 1670, and over at Point St. Ignace the dust which was once the mortal body of Father Marquette lies buried. The exact site of the grave is lost; but we know that in 1677 his Indian converts brought back his body, wrapped in birch-bark, from the eastern shore of Lake Michigan, where he died, to his beloved mission of St. Ignace. There he was buried in a vault under the little log-church. Some years later the spot was abandoned, and the resident priests returned to Montreal. We have another little Indian church there now, and the point is forever consecrated by its unknown grave. At various times I told Jacques the history of this strait,--its islands, and points; but he evinced little interest. He listened with some attention to my account of the battle which took place on Dousman's farm, not far from the British Landing; but when he found that the English were victorious, he muttered a great oath and refused to hear more. To him the English were fiends incarnate. Had they not slowly murdered his Emperor on their barren rock in the sea? 'Only once did I succeed in interesting the old soldier. Then, as now, I received twice each year a package of foreign pamphlets and papers; among them came, that summer, a German ballad, written by that strange being, Henri Heine. I give it to you in a later English translation:-- THE GRENADIERS. To the land of France went two grenadiers, From a Russian prison returning; But they hung down their heads on the German frontiers, The news from their fatherland learning. For there they both heard the sorrowful tale, That France was by fortune forsaken; That her mighty army was scattered like hail, And the Emperor, the Emperor taken, Then there wept together the grenadiers, The sorrowful story learning; And one said, "O woe!" as the news he hears, "How I feel my old wound burning!" The other said, "The song is sung, And I wish that we both were dying! But at home I've a wife and a child,--they're young, On me, and me only, relying." "O what is a wife or a child to me! Deeper wants all my spirit have shaken; Let them beg, let them beg, should they hungry be! My Emperor, my Emperor taken! "But I beg you, brother, if by chance You soon shall see me dying Then take my corpse with you back to France Let it ever in France be lying. "The cross of honor with crimson band Shall rest on my heart as it bound me; Give me my musket in my hand, And buckle my sabre around me. "And there I will lie and listen still In my sentry coffin staying, Till I feel the thundering cannon's thrill And horses tramping and neighing. "Then my Emperor will ride well over my grave 'Mid sabres' bright slashing and fighting And I'll rise all weaponed out of my grave, For the Emperor, the Emperor fighting!" 'This simple ballad want straight to the heart of old Jacques; tears rolled down his cheeks as I read, and he would have it over and over again. 'Ah! that comrade was happy,' said the old grenadier. 'He died when the Emperor was only taken. I too would have gone to my grave smiling, could I have thought that my Emperor would come riding over it with all his army around him again! But he is dead,--my Emperor is dead! Ah! that comrade was a happy man; he died! He did not have to stand by, while the English--may they be forever cursed!--slowly, slowly murdered him,--murdered the great Napoleon! No; that comrade died. Perhaps he is with the Emperor now,--that comrade-grenadier.' 'To be with his Emperor was Jacques's idea of heaven. 'From that moment each time I visited the Agency I must repeat the verses again and again; they became a sort of hymn. Jacques had not the capacity to learn the ballad, although he so often listened to it, but the seventh verse he managed to repeat after a fashion of his own, setting it to a nondescript tune, and crooning it about the house as he came and went on his little rounds. Gradually he altered the words, but I could not make out the new phrases as he muttered them over to himself, as if trying them. 'What is it you are saying, Jacques'? I asked. 'But he would not tell me. After a time I discovered that he had added the altered verse to his prayers; for always when I was at the Agency I went with him to the sanctuary, if for no other purpose than to prevent the uttered imprecation that served as amen for the whole. The verse, whatever it was, came in before this. 'So the summer passed. The vague intention of going on to the Red River of the North had faded away, and Jacques lived along on the island as though he had never lived anywhere else. He grew wonted to the Agency, like some old family cat, until he seemed to belong to the house, and all thought of disturbing him was forgotten. 'There is Jacques out washing his cloths.' 'There is Jacques going to buy his coffee,' 'There is Jacques sitting on the piazza,' said the islanders; the old man served them instead of a clock. 'One dark autumn day I came over from the Chenaux to get the mail. The water was rough, and my boat, tilted far over on one side, skimmed the crests of the waves in the daring fashion peculiar to the Mackinac craft: the mail-steamer had not come in, owing to the storm outside, and I went on to the Agency to see Jacques. He seemed as usual, and we had dinner over the little fire, for the day was chilly; the meal over, my host put everything in order again in his methodical way, and then retired to his sanctuary for prayers. I followed, and stood in the doorway while he knelt. The room was dusky, and the uniform with its outstretched sabre looked like a dead soldier leaning against the wall; the face of Napoleon opposite seemed to gaze down on Jacques as he knelt, as though listening. Jacques muttered his prayers, and I responded Amen! then, after a silence, came the altered verse; then with a quick glance toward me, another silence, which I felt sure contained the unspoken curse. Gravely he led the way back to the kitchen--for, owing to the cold, he allowed me to dispense with the parlor,--and there we spent the afternoon together, talking and watching for the mail-boat. 'Jacques,' I said, 'what is that verse you have added to your prayers! Come, my friend, why should you keep it from me?' 'It is nothing, mon pere,--nothing.' he replied. But again I urged him to tell me; more to pass away the time than from any real interest. 'Come,' I said, 'it may be your last chance. Who knows but that I may be drowned on my way back to the Chenaux?' 'True,' replied the old soldier calmly. 'Well, then, here it is, mon pere: my death-wish. Voila!' 'Something you wish to have done after death?' 'Yes.' 'And who is to do it?' 'My Emperor.' 'But, Jacques, the Emperor is dead.' 'He will have done it all the same, mon pere.' 'In vain I argued; Jacques was calmly obstinate. He had mixed up his Emperor with the stories of the Saints; why should not Napoleon do what they had done? 'What is the verse, any way?' I said at last. 'It is my death-wish, as I said before, mon pere.' And he repeated the following. He said it in French, for I had given him a French translation, as he knew nothing of German; but I will give you the English, as he had altered it:-- 'The Emperor's face with its green leaf-band Shall rest on my heart that loved him so. Give me the sprig in my dead hand, My uniform and sabre around me. Amen.' 'So prays Grenadier Jacques. 'The old soldier had sacrificed the smooth metre; but I understood what he meant. 'The storm increased, and I spent the night at the Agency, lying on the bed of boughs, covered with a blanket. The house shook in the gale, the shutters rattled, and all the floors near and far creaked as though feet were walking over them. I was wakeful and restless, but Jacques slept quietly, and did not stir until daylight broke over the stormy water, showing the ships scudding by under bare poles, and the distant mail-boat laboring up toward the island through the heavy sea. My host made his toilet, washing and shaving himself carefully, and putting on his old clothes as though going on parade. Then came breakfast, with a stew added in honor of my presence; and as by this time the steamer was not far from Round Island, I started down toward the little post-office, anxious to receive some expected letters. The steamer came in slowly, the mail was distributed slowly, and I stopped to read my letters before returning. I had a picture-paper for Jacques, and as I looked out across the straits, I saw that the storm was over, and decided to return to the Chenaux in the afternoon, leaving word with my half-breeds to have the sail-boat in readiness at three o'clock. The sun was throwing out a watery gleam as, after the lapse of an hour or two, I walked up the limestone road and entered the great gate of the Agency. As I came through the garden along the cherry-tree avenue I saw Jacques sitting on that bench in the sun, for this was his hour for sunshine; his staff was in his hand, and he was leaning back against the side of the house with his eyes closed, as if in revery. 'Jacques, here is a picture-paper for you,' I said, laying my hand on his shoulder. He did not answer. He was dead. 'Alone, sitting in the sunshine, apparently without a struggle or a pang, the soul of the old soldier had departed. Whither? We know not. But--smile if you will, madame--I trust he is with his Emperor.' I did not smile; my eyes were too full of tears. 'I buried him, as he wished,' continued Father Piret, 'in his old uniform, with the picture of Napoleon laid on his breast, the sabre by his side, and the withered sprig in his lifeless hand. He lies in our little cemetery on the height, near the shadow of the great cross; the low white board tablet at the head of the mound once bore the words Grenadier Jacques, but the rains and the snows have washed away the painted letters. It is as well.' The priest paused, and we both looked toward the empty bench, as though we saw a figure seated there, staff in hand. After a time my little hostess came out on to the piazza, and we all talked together of the island and its past. 'My boat is waiting,' said Father Piret at length; 'the wind is fair, and I must return to the Chenaux to-night. This near departure is my excuse for coming twice in one day to see you, madame.' 'Stay over, my dear sir,' I urged. 'I too shall leave in another day. We may not meet again.' 'Not on earth; but in another world we may,' answered the priest rising as he spoke. 'Father, your blessing,' said the little hostess in a low tone, after a quick glance toward the many windows through which the bulwarks of Protestantism might be gazing. But all was dark, both without and within, and the Father gave his blessing to both of us, fervently, but with an apostolic simplicity. Then he left us, and I watched his tall form, crowned with silvery hair, as he passed down the cherry-tree avenue. Later in the evening the moon came out, and I saw a Mackinac boat skimming by the house, its white sails swelling full in the fresh breeze. 'That is Father Piret's boat,' said my hostess. 'The wind is fair; he will reach the Chenaux before midnight.' A day later, and I too sailed away. As the steamer bore me southward, I looked back toward the island with a sigh. Half hidden in its wild green garden I saw the old Agency; first I could distinguish its whole rambling length; then I lost the roofless piazza, then the dormer-windows, and finally I could only discern the white chimneys, with their crumbling crooked tops. The sun sank into the Strait off Wangoschance, the evening gun flashed from the little fort on the height, the shadows grew dark and darker, the island turned into green foliage, then a blue outline, and finally there was nothing but the dusky water. PATIENCE DOW. BY MARIAN DOUGLAS. Home from the mill came Patience Dow; She did not smile, she would not talk; And now she was all tears, and now, As fierce as is a captive hawk. Unmindful of her faded gown, She sat with folded hands all day, Her long hair falling tangled down, Her sad eyes gazing far away, Where, past the fields, a silver line, She saw the distant river shine. But, when she thought herself alone, One night, they heard her muttering low, In such a chill, despairing tone, It seemed the east wind's sullen moan: "Ah me! the days, they move so slow I care not if they're fair or foul; They creep along--I know not how; I only know he loved me once-- He does not love me now!" One morning, vacant was her room; And, in the clover wet with dew; A narrow line of broken bloom Showed some one had been passing through; And, following the track it led Across a field of summer grain, Out where the thorny blackberries shed Their blossoms in the narrow lane, Down which the cattle went to drink In summer, from the river's brink. The river! Hope within them sank; The fatal thought that drew her there They knew, before, among the rank, White-blossomed weeds upon the bank, They found the shawl she used to wear, And on it pinned a little note: "Oh, blame me not!" it read, "for when I once am free, my soul will float To him! He cannot leave me then! I know not if't is right or wrong-- I go from life--I care not how; I only know he loved me once-- He does not love me now!" In the farm graveyard, 'neath the black, Funereal pine-trees on the hill, The poor, worn form the stream gave back They laid in slumber, cold and still. Her secret slept with her; none knew Whose fickle smile had left the pain That cursed her life; to one thought true, Her vision-haunted, wandering brain, Secure from all, hid safe from blame, In life and death had kept his name. Yet, often, with a thrill of fear, Her mother, as she lies awake At night, will fancy she can hear A voice, whose tone is like the drear, Low sound the graveyard pine-trees make: "I know not if't is right or wrong-- I go from life--I care not how; I only know he loved me once-- He does not love me now!" 
34769	----	file was produced from scans of public domain works at the University of Michigan\'s Making of America collection.) Transcriber's Note - The position of some illustrations has been changed to facilitate reading flow. - The frontispiece featuring a picture of Elizabeth Whitney Williams (noted in the table of illustrations at the beginning of the text) is missing from the original scanned book. - In general, geographical references, spelling, hyphenation, and capitalization have been retained as in the original publication. - Minor typographical errors--usually periods, commas and hyphens--have been corrected without note. - Significant typographical errors have been corrected. A full list of these corrections is available in the Transcriber's Corrections section at the end of the book. * * * * * A CHILD OF THE SEA _This edition of "A Child of the Sea" is being printed under the auspices of the Beaver Island Historical Society, to give our friends some of the history and legend of the Island. The story begins in the early 1800's, discussing particularly the occupancy by the Mormons, over a century ago, and continuing through the resettlement of the Island by the Irish, whose descendants still live there._ A CHILD OF THE SEA; AND LIFE AMONG THE MORMONS BY ELIZABETH WHITNEY WILLIAMS. =========================== COPYRIGHTED 1905. ELIZABETH WHITNEY WILLIAMS. =========================== Having lived all my life beside the water, with my brothers and many dear friends sailing on the lakes, and with the loss of many of my people by drowning, connected with the many years of my life as a Light Keeper, I affectionately dedicate this little book, with fragments of my life history, to the sailor men in whose welfare I have always felt a deep interest. Elizabeth Whitney Williams. Introductory. At the earnest request of many friends I have written this book with some incidents of my early life before coming to Beaver Island. What I have written about the Mormons are my own personal experiences and what I knew about them by living constantly near them for four years of my life; our leaving the island and settling at Charlevoix for safety then our being driven from there. After the fight then my life in Traverse City and finally returning to Beaver Island again. After the Mormons were expelled my twenty-seven years' residence at that time with the four first years gives thirty-one years of Beaver Island life with as much knowledge of Mormon life as any one outside of their teachings could possibly have. In this little history I have only touched lightly upon the reality, writing what my memory contained that might be interesting, telling the stories as near as possible as they were told to me by the people themselves that had lived and suffered by the Mormon doctrine; some things my parents told me when I was too young to remember, during the first part of my residence on "Beaver Island." Biography. My father, Walter Whitney, was born in Genesee County, New York State. At the breaking out of the Blackhawk and Florida war, enlisted, served his time, was honorably discharged, came to Fort Brady, Sault Ste. Marie, from there to Mackinac Island, there married my mother, who was a widow with three sons, myself being the only child born of that marriage. My mother was born on Mackinac Island of British parents, left an orphan young, was adopted by Captain Michael Dousman and wife, residing in their family almost thirty years. She married Mr. Lewis Gebeau of Montreal, Canada. Four sons were born Mr. Gebeau and one son dying. My mother married Walter Whitney, my father, residing part of the time at Mackinac Island, going to Grand Haven with the ferrys returning again to Mackinac Island until my father took the contract to build the Newton Brothers' vessel "Eliza Caroline," on the little island St. Helena, then our winter in Manistique, then our coming to Beaver Island. I was born at Mackinac Island. My mother lived to the grand age of one hundred years, passing away since my residence at Little Traverse Light House on Harbor Point, Michigan, U. S. A. Illustrations. Elizabeth Whitney Williams. _Frontispiece._ The Light House and Life Saving Station at Beaver Island Harbor, Michigan. James Jesse Strang, the Mormon King. King Strang's Residence. Built in 1850. The Mormon Feast Ground at Font Lake, Beaver Island. The King's Highway, Beaver Island. The old Mormon Printing Office, now the Gibson House, at Saint James, Beaver Island, Michigan. Font Lake, Beaver Island, where King Strang baptized his people. Little Traverse Light House, at Harbor Point, Michigan. A CHILD OF THE SEA, AND LIFE AMONG THE MORMONS. _PART I._ EARLY MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD DAYS. Among my earliest recollections is my love of watching the water. I remember standing with my arms outstretched as if to welcome and catch the white topped waves as they came rolling in upon the white, pebbly shore at my feet. I was not quite three years old, my mother had left me asleep in the low, old-fashioned cradle and leaving the door ajar had stepped over to a neighbor's house just a few rods away; returning almost immediately, she found I was not in the cradle as she had left me a short time before. She began to search for me at once and fearing I had gone to the shore she ran down to the beach where the rolling waves were coming in with a booming sound, and the wind blowing a gale. She found me standing in the water laughing and reaching out my little arms as the great waves broke and dashed at my feet. Had she not come just in time I would have been carried out with the receding waves. I had always lived near the water, but until this time had never seemed to realize or distinguish it from other things. Our house stood just a few steps back from the shore, sheltered in a little grove of evergreen trees. The sun shining on the water in the early morning caused it to sparkle like myriads of diamonds, and the soft glimmer which shone through the green trees even now reminds me of some half-remembered dream. All seemed so peaceful and quiet. I remember at other times when no wind was near and water was calm at night when I lay in my cradle I could hear the soft splash of the water in low murmurs as it came softly upon the gravelly beach so near to us. To me it seemed like some sweet lullaby lulling me to sleep while listening to its low, moaning sound. My mother said it always made her weep, for to her it was the sad whispering voices of departed friends. ISLAND OF ST. HELENA. The little island of St. Helena is situated about fifteen miles from Mackinac Island, in Lake Michigan. Two brothers, named Archie and Carl Newton had located at this little island; they bought the land around the little harbor and put out a good dock, built a large store and house and prepared to establish a business with the fishermen of lower Lake Michigan. They needed a good vessel for their trading purposes and concluded to have one built for themselves. My father being a ship carpenter, signed a contract to build their ship, which was to be named "Eliza Caroline," in honor of both brothers' wives, who were sisters. And long the "Eliza Caroline" sailed on Lake Michigan, carrying thousands of dollars worth of merchandise and fish, doing her work nobly and well. The building of the ship brought our family to the dear little island of St. Helena. COMING OF COUSIN MITCHELL When we went to live on the island there were about twenty-five families there. Much help was needed to build the ship so several families came for that purpose. One bright morning in June, not long after my going to watch the waves, I was sitting on the floor beside my cradle playing with my dolls and my little white kitten, when a man came in the door; a beautiful woman stood beside him. Mother was at work; she looked and gave a cry of delight when she saw them. They clasped hands and kissed each other. The man took me in his arms, kissing me and putting me in the woman's lap, where she was sitting in mother's rocking chair. The woman kissed me and smoothed my hair while mother went out to call father. He soon came in and all talked for some time. At last the gentleman and lady left, with father and mother following, taking me with them. We went to the dock, where a vessel was with many people on board, men, women and children, all were laughing and talking so happily together. Soon the vessel was under way with white sails spread to the breeze. Our people waved handkerchiefs to those on board and hands were waved back to us with handkerchiefs fluttering as far as we could see them. The tears ran down my mother's face for her heart had been set on going with those people when they went to Green Bay, the Mecca of the west at that time. The man and woman were Mr. and Mrs. William Mitchell. Mr. Mitchell was my mother's cousin; they had disposed of their property on Mackinac Island and with other families were about to make new homes in Green Bay. Mr. and Mrs. Baird were among the rest. This had all been talked over before my father had left Mackinac Island and our people had intended to go with the rest, yet not knowing when they would be ready to start, my father had taken the contract to build the ship and could not possibly go at this time but promised to go in the near future, should all things prove favorable. Mr. Mitchell was a man of very fine appearance, courtly in his manners, kind and genial in disposition, loved by all that knew him. His wife was gentle in manner, a sweet-voiced and sweet-faced lady. One of mother's friends had sent a package to us from Mackinac Island. When opened we found it contained a beautiful white, hand-embroidered French Merino shoulder blanket, a red Merino dress, ready made, little red morocco shoes and a gold ring for my finger. All was sent as a present to Baby Elizabeth. Mrs. Mitchell had brought me a large wax doll that opened and shut its eyes and had real hair. I was afraid of the doll when it opened and shut its eyes. Being fond of bright colors, the red dress and shoes were a delight to me. PROMISES TO GO THE NEXT YEAR TO GREEN BAY. My brothers were not at home when the Mitchells came, they being over to St. Ignace on a visit to some friends. When they returned and learned Cousin Mitchell had been at our home they could not be consoled as they had expected to go to Green Bay and go to school. Their father's brother, their Uncle John Gebeau, was living in Green Bay, so this was a great disappointment to them. Father said if all went well and good news came from Cousin Mitchell we would move to Green Bay the next year, so the boys felt content and father would not break his contract made with the Newton Brothers to build their vessel. Of course I was too young to realize all this at the time but was told it when old enough to understand. A LETTER FROM COUSIN MITCHELL, WITH PRESENTS. I remember a big letter came to father and was told later it was from Cousin Mitchell, telling father if he was doing well to remain where he was for the present. And on the return of the little schooner which took the people to Green Bay father received a large barrel of presents for all our family from Cousin Mitchell and his wife. Dress and shoes for mother, pretty little red top boots for all our boys, with little blue jackets and caps for them and many other things which brought joy to their hearts to be remembered by those so far away. Our boys were great favorites with the Mitchells and used to be with them so much at Mackinac Island. My father also had an uncle living in Green Bay, Daniel Whitney, among the first white settlers of the place. His descendants are still living there. Cousin William Mitchell lived there many years. Before passing from this life he was head keeper of Tailpoint Light House, twenty-two years at Green Bay. I remember one very nice neighbor we had at this time. Slocomb was his name. Mother dressed the boys up in their new clothes, sent to them from Green Bay, and I was also dressed in my little red dress and shoes, then we were all taken over to see Mrs. Slocomb and from there my brothers took me over to see the vessel being built. I can remember how large it looked, it seemed so high up over us. The ship was to be finished and launched some time in September, then the Slocomb family were to move away to Milwaukee to make their future home. They had only one son, a boy about seven. When he reached the age of sixteen he was drowned at Milwaukee, which was a sad blow to those fond parents. While more people were coming as more help was needed to finish the ship, all was busy bustle among the neighbors for there was to be a great gathering to watch the launching of the ship. Soon another family came, old friends of my mother's, a Mr. and Mrs. Courchane. The man had come from Montreal, Canada, to Mackinac Island a few years before and there met and married pretty Miss Abbie Williams. Aunt Abbie we children always called her. Mother was so happy to have her friend with her. They had three little girls. Mr. Courchane was a ship carpenter by trade and came to help finish the vessel. They were very kind neighbors to us. Their little girls' names were Lucy, Emmeline and Margarette. They lived just a few steps from our house; we children were all very happy together. My eldest brother Lewis was thirteen, the next, Anthony, or Toney, was ten; the next, Charles, was seven. I remember their little red top boots; I would put them on and walk about the floor, which pleased them so much to see the little sister in her cute baby ways. THE OLD RED CRADLE. They would put me into the old-fashioned, low, red cradle which father made large enough for us all to crowd into. There they would rock and sing the old French ballads mother had taught them, sometimes rocking so hard we would all be spilled out on the floor; and that floor! I remember it now, so white and clean with mother sitting near in her sewing chair, sewing and joining in the singing. Then pretty Aunt Abbie coming in; she always looked to me like a picture, with her great dark eyes and black hair braided so smoothly and pretty red cheeks with white teeth just showing between red lips. She, too, would join in the singing, which is pleasant to remember. SAVED BY MY BROTHER FROM DROWNING. I remember distinctly of falling into the water. At the noon hour father sent my three brothers out in our little boat, just a few rods from shore, to bring a jug of fresh water for the dinner. They took me with them and in some way I fell overboard. Father and mother, with other neighbors, stood on the shore and saw it all. They had no boat to come to us and our boys were so frightened they knew not what to do. Father shouted for one of them to dive after me, which brother Toney did. I could hear little brother Charley crying as I lay at the bottom of the lake. I remember coming to the top, struggling, and going down again. At last I lay quiet on the bottom. I could see the sun shining through the water as the great bubbles of air went from my mouth to the top. Brother Toney being an excellent swimmer and diver, dove down into the deep water, grasping me in his strong arms, bringing me to the surface, where we both were taken into the boat and soon rowed to shore. There my mother took me in her arms and ran to the house, with others following, doing all they could to restore me. After a little time I was able to sit up. Brother Toney was praised by all for his brave act, but the praise was nothing to him in comparison to the joy he felt in knowing that he had saved his little sister's life. Then I remember crying to have on my little red flannel dress. Mother said to me, "If you stop crying I will dry the dress and put it on you." I was sick, I remember, father walking the floor with me in his arms, singing, "When I can read my title clear to mansions in the skies," that being one of his favorite hymns. I was rocked in the cradle several days; when able to play again mother made me a little raspberry pie in a little tin, which made me a happy child. Mother often said she could recall many pleasures as well as sadness in that summer on the little "Isle of St. Helena." St. Helena--dear little drop in the sea. How can I describe it as I saw it in after years? I called there on a trip down the lakes, on the steamer "Galena," with Captain Steele as master. We steamed into a pretty little basin of a harbor almost surrounded by green trees. The sun was just rising out from the water in the far distance, the sky was purple orange and pink. As I looked out of my stateroom window and saw before me the beautiful little Isle of St. Helena, I cannot describe my feelings; a few of the memories of my childhood days came back to me. My little brothers, with myself, playing along the shore, but now all was quiet and still. I had heard father and mother speak about it so many times, it seemed as though I saw it all through their eyes. It now looked to me like a lovely little toy. The water so clear and sparkling in the morning sunlight. The dock was in good repair, everything seemed clean, quiet and still. Mr. Newton's house I recognized at once, it being the largest. The little harbor seemed almost a perfect horseshoe in shape, the shore all around was covered with clean white gravel, the trees were mixed with birch, balsam, cedar, pine and poplar. The island is much greater in length than breadth. At the extreme eastern point a lighthouse is now erected. The red beams from its tower shine far out to guide the mariner on his way. Sweet, dear, little Isle of the sea! The grand old waves shall dash upon thy shore, When we who once have trod thy lovely beach Shall be known to earth no more. LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP ELIZA CAROLINE. Time was drawing near to the finishing of the good ship Eliza Caroline. The hammers could be heard from early dawn till dark. Seams were being calked, there was painting and oiling going on from day to day. Many were gathering from near and far to watch the process of launching the ship. The little village was bustling with people. Every home was full, for friends had come to stay a week. My parents told me afterwards the launching was a grand success. The sails and all ropes and rigging had come from Buffalo, N. Y. The trial trip was to Mackinac Island and return and nearly all the people in the little town took passage. The time had come for partings and sad farewells of old neighbors, for now nearly all must scatter to other parts. My father was sent for from Manistique. A Mr. Frankle had settled there and put in a mill. He was an old friend of my father's, coming from Chegrin Falls, Ohio. Offering good pay, father concluded to accept, and we prepared to move at once. The schooner Nancy, also owned by the Newton Brothers, was to take us to our destination. FAREWELL TO ST. HELENA. Cousin David Corps was anxious to do some fall fishing at a place called Scott's Point, where many families had come from Canada, Lake Huron and other parts. Fish were very near the shore in the fall of the year and a high price was paid for fish, so we were to tarry at this place until time to go to Manistique. Sailors were superstitious about moving cats from place to place, so father concluded to take the family in our own little boat, the "Abbigal". We had cats, dogs, rabbits and sea gulls for pets, and father would not leave any of them behind us. Our goods were all loaded on the "Nancy" and "Abbigal." I remember our neighbors coming to the beach to see us off. Aunt Abbie took me in her arms; the tears fell fast on my face. I thought it was raining and held out my hand, as I had seen father do to catch the drops, but no, it was not raining, it was tears falling from our dear friend's eyes. When father called out "all aboard", I was clasped in another tight pressure of her arms. Then father took me and placed me in the boat, where brother Charley and I were wrapped up in warm blankets. Our boat was pushed off by the men with a "God bless you, Whitney," and the waving of hats and handkerchiefs and with our sails spread to the breeze we sailed away from the shore out upon the blue waters of Lake Michigan. As our little boat glided along we could see the forms growing dimmer until the Island itself looked like a small speck upon the water. Off the south-east of us were other islands looming up out of the sea. Father told us afterward how afraid the two older brothers were, thinking it was whales coming after us, as they had heard about whales in the ocean. Little Charley and I were fast asleep in our warm little nest of bedding. Life for us had no cares or sorrows. Our baby eyes saw nothing but beauty in all things. All I remember of our landing was seeing many strange faces of men, women and children. Mother said afterward I looked everywhere calling "Aunt Abbie", and cried when I could not find her and Baby Margarette. There were two sweet little babies among the people, which satisfied me as I was so very fond of them. While on our way we had landed at Mentopayma, where we ate our lunch and fed our pets. Father climbed to the tops of the high hills and could see vessels and many steamboats passing up and down the straits. While there we found a large cat which we took with us, he being quite content to be taken with our other pets. Father gave us animals as pets to care for and we were taught to be kind to them. The time had now come when the people of this little settlement were to pack and go to their winter homes. They were to leave all their fishing outfits locked in their buildings until they came again another year. The vessel "Nancy", which made her weekly trips along the north shore to Mackinac Island and St. Helena, lay at anchor waiting for her precious human freight. The women and children were taken first, then the men with their dogs were put on board. Our family, with one more, stood upon the shore to wave them adieu; white sails were spread to the breeze and they sailed away to their far-away homes for the winter. DEATH OF MR. MCWILLIAMS. The family that remained were an old couple with a young son of seventeen years. The old couple felt the journey too long for them to take so preferred to remain all winter. Father and mother tried hard to persuade them not to remain, but go home, but they would not go so they prepared to pass the winter at a place called Birch Point, a cold, bleak shore, where the foot of a white man seldom ever came in winter at that time and very seldom the Indian hunters except on their hunting expeditions. Our goods had been sent on to Manistique and we were to follow in a few days in our boat. Just before we left father took us all down the shore to see the old couple that were to remain all winter and try to persuade them to come with us to Manistique. The name of this family was McWilliams. We found the old gentleman very sick. Mother told me afterwards we were with them two weeks. The old man died. Father made the casket. We buried him on that lonely shore in a quiet little nook where he loved so much to sit and watch the waves roll in upon the white sandy beach. Buried him where the blue sea waves might chant a requiem to his grave. Sing on, sad waves, your sound shall toll A solemn requiem to the soul Who sleeps so peaceful on that shore Till time shall wake to sleep no more. My people tried hard to have the mother and son go with us but nothing could induce them to leave the lonely grave of their loved one. Time was passing, father was anxious to reach Manistique at once. They told me it was a great sorrow to leave the mother and son alone, and to make it more lonely the wolves and bears were so numerous we could hear the howl of the wolves and growls of the bears just as soon as it became dark every night. They would sit at our doors and snap and growl at each other. They were so hungry we could hear their teeth snap together. John McWilliams picked brush and wood, keeping a fire around his father's grave until he could build a strong fence of logs around it. AGAIN IN OUR BOAT ON LAKE MICHIGAN. One still, cold morning in November our boat was prepared and we started to Manistique, ten miles distant. Charley and I were again placed in among warm blankets. Our little puppies of the springtime had grown to be great, large dogs and watched over little brother and me like two faithful sentinels. The day was cold and still. Father and the boys rowed while mother steered. We kept close to the shore. Little brother and I were half asleep most of the time. I can hear my father even now singing his old hymns, "Rock of Ages" and the "Evergreen Shore". Many times I imagine I can hear the sweet music of his voice. Mother, too, sang her French glee songs, the boys joining with her. French was our mother's language. Father could not speak it, but understood nearly everything. French and Indian were the languages spoken by almost everybody in those days around the western islands and shores. The men that came from eastern homes soon learned to speak the language of both French and Indian as it was necessary to carry on their trade. ARRIVING AT MANISTIQUE. As we neared the shore Mr. Frankle and his men stood ready to meet us and catching hold of our boat we were landed safely out on the dry land. Our house was all warmed with a nice fire burning in the great stone fireplace. Lights were lighted and supper was soon ready for us all. Beds were put up and soon we felt we were at home. Mr. Frankle had some friends visiting him from York State who had delayed their going home until they had seen my mother in regard to preparing some sturgeon for them. Sturgeon were so plentiful in the river they could be pulled out with a gaff hook. Mother contracted with them for several tons of smoked sturgeon. The Indians from their village, three miles distant, agreeing to catch the sturgeon, the fish were prepared and smoked, but the season closed too early to ship them that fall, so they had to be packed and kept over until the following spring for shipment to New York. The river was so full of suckers that the mill had to shut down many times while the men scooped the fish out with a large scoop-net and loaded wagons with them, which were hauled a distance down the beach and piled upon the sand. At night the bears, wolves and foxes would come to that pile of fish, making night hideous with their barks and growls. None of us dared go out doors after night came. We lived on the opposite side of the river from Mr. Frankle's mill. Father had to cross the river every morning many times. Bears were swimming across the river and we children used to watch them from our windows. The wolves would come to our large smokehouse at night and take the smoked sturgeon, growling and snarling around our windows. Our boys were busy days and got their lessons in the evening. THE OLD GRANDPA AND BOB COMING TO LIVE WITH US. Mother had a cousin who was an old man of eighty. He had worked for the Hudson Bay and Great American Fur Companies of John Jacob Astor, carrying great loads of provisions to the trappers all through the Lake Superior country, then taking the loads of fur back to market from the trappers' camps. He being now too old to work, and without a home, my father feeling sorry gave him a home with us. He was so grateful and happy he could scarcely express his gratitude, speaking very little English and that very broken. French, Spanish and Indian he spoke fluently. He was born in Canada of French and Spanish parents. His mother and my mother's mother were sisters. His name was Bertemau Mazoka. The trappers called him Magazau, meaning "store" in English, as with his two dogs, Bob and Maje, he carried a regular store for the trappers. One dog, Maje, had died. Bob, the other, was eighteen years old, and inseparable from the old grandpa, as we children were taught to call him. He loved to have us call him grandpa. He was very kind and patient with us, never tiring of doing something for our comfort. OLD DOG BOB. But Bob, how can I describe him, the old, patient, faithful dog! He was large and powerful, dark brown with darker stripes in color, part bull in breed, but just as gentle and kind in disposition as possible. He had pulled the heavy loads so long he was almost blind, teeth almost gone and rheumatism so bad it was hard for him to get upon his feet when he laid down. When grandpa came bringing Bob he had said in his broken English, "Mr. Whitney you take me, you take Bob too. Me can't stay if Bob no stay." The old dog seemed to know what his master was saying, for he came close to him and looked straight into father's face. Then father said, "Yes, Bob can stay too." He tried to show his delight with his master by jumping about. It would be hard to tell which of us Bob loved the best. I can see him now sitting in some out-of-the-way corner watching us with his great, almost human eyes. He had not always been kindly treated. He seemed to be so afraid to be in anybody's way, and when he saw us petting the other two dogs he would slink away with head down and look so dejected. The young dogs, too, knew he was a stranger and growled at him and bossed him about. Then poor old Bob would go back of the house and cry and whine so pitifully. At last father could stand it no longer and gave the order Bob must not be annoyed any more and must have a bed and lay behind the stove in the big corner, and that no one was ever to speak a cross word or strike Bob. Grandpa cried with delight. BOB'S NEW MASTER. Sometimes Bob could not get up alone, then father would lift him up and rub his neck where the collar had worn it sore on his long pulls. He would lick father's hand and look into his face so pitiful it made us all feel sorry to see him suffer. Very soon Bob began not to notice his master very much, but would try to go fast to meet father when he came into the house, and when he could not get up father would go to him, talk and rub him. The dog seemed to understand the kindness. When grandpa saw Bob cared more for father than for himself he cried like a little child. After awhile he said, "No wonder Bob love you, you so good to him, you so good to me, me love you too. Me now give you Bob. You keep Bob for yourself till he die." Then the tears fell fast for a time. After that Bob seemed to know he had a new master and seemed content. With care Bob improved and got about so much smarter. Father had to be away all day to his work. At night when he came home Charley, Bob and I were always at the door to meet him. Sometimes in the winter evenings when grandpa would be telling us his stories and singing to us his songs Charley and I would fall fast asleep curled up on the rug with Bob. DEATH OF MRS. MCWILLIAMS. One day mother was very sick in bed with neuralgia. How gloomy and lonely the house seemed to us children, we missed her so. Grandpa was caring for us children and doing the house work as best he could. Then mother was better and able to sit up trying to sew, saying she could not afford to be idle. Not long after this one day, I know it was Sunday, we were dressed in our Sunday suits, father was reading to us, a knock came on the door, the latch was lifted, the door opened and John McWilliams almost fell into the room, saying, "Come both of you, my mother is dead." Then he sank into a chair and cried as if his heart would break. Mother arose from her easy chair saying "Come Walter, we must go." Father tried to have her not go, telling her she was not able to go, she ought to be in bed as her face was still badly swollen. The snow being deep and it was very cold. Neither father, grandpa, nor we crying children could stop her going. She was dressed in a short time and tried to have poor John eat. He could not eat, saying he must go right back to his dead mother. He left us and all was now commotion. Father and mother were now both going away into the cold, deep snow and leave us children with grandpa. STARTING ON THEIR PERILOUS TRIP. I remember hearing father tell him over and over again to be careful, which he promised by crossing himself; being a Catholic he took that way to express himself and let father know he meant to be faithful. Bob was also told to watch over us children, which he understood. At last they were ready to start, all bundled up in heavy, warm clothing. We two smaller children were crying and hanging on to them when mother said, "Now listen children, be good and mind all that grandpa tells you. Don't you know poor John has no one with him, his mother is dead?" We were quiet, but sorrowful. Oh, how little we children could realize or understand the awful, dangerous trip our father and mother were about to undertake! Grandpa realized it and tried so hard to keep them from going. The snow was very deep, weather extremely cold, with bears and wolves to be encountered at every step as soon as darkness came on. THEIR STORY OF THEIR JOURNEY AS THEY TOLD IT TO ME IN AFTER YEARS. "We traveled along the beach inside the ice banks, as snow was not quite so deep there and we felt safer from wolves. It was noon when we left home. We had about fifteen miles to go, I think, to reach Birch Point. The wind was keen and cut like a knife in our faces. I made your mother walk right behind me, knowing she could never stand the sharp wind. About two o'clock it began to snow so hard it was blinding in our faces. We kept on, and after awhile I saw your mother began to lag and could not keep up even when I walked slowly. It was already getting dark, as the days were so short. At last she said. 'Walter, I am afraid I can't keep up any longer.' I said to her, 'Yes, you must keep up, we will sit and rest a little while, then you can walk better.' While we sat there we heard the bark of a wolf not far off, and well we knew what that sound meant. I knew then that our only hope was to reach a small shanty about a mile and a half further on. I said, 'Come mother, we must get to the little shanty, there we'll stay till morning.' This gave her new courage, and we pressed on through the blinding storm, snow being deeper at every step. I took her arm and we got on quite fast for a time. We still had over a half mile to go before we reached the shanty and I saw it was now a great effort for her to walk. She now began to worry about the children. I told her grandpa would be faithful and take good care of them and that we must hurry and try to reach the little shanty. I did not tell her of my fears, there being a possibility that it might be gone, taken away for its lumber by some fishermen along the shore in the fall. The snow became so deep it was hard to travel, and I could see she was getting weaker all the time. All at once the barking of wolves began first here then there, in every direction except on the lake side. We kept very close to the ice banks. I saw your mother could keep up no longer. The wolves were gathering from all sides and I realized our only hope was the little shanty, which I prayed might be left standing and that we might reach it in time. I threw down my little bag of tools, hammer, saw and gun. I took your mother on my back and staggered along through the storm. It was almost dark and I feared we might miss the shanty even if it was still there. The howls and barks of the wolves were very near us now and it was terrible. I knew my own strength could not hold much longer. I said, 'now keep a sharp lookout for the shanty.' I heard the growls and snarls of the wolves and could almost feel their hot breath upon us. I thought of you, my children, and that thought kept me up. At last your mother said, 'Oh, thank God, here is the shanty!' I felt her grow heavier and limp and knew that she had fainted. I made one last effort and reached the door none too soon, the wolves were right at our heels. I pushed the door open and closed it as soon as possible, letting your mother drop down upon the floor until I could get the door safely barred. The snow had drifted in some beside the door. I took some snow in my hand and rubbed her face with it. After awhile she said, 'Walter, are we safe?' I said, 'yes, mother, thank God we are safe for awhile.' I left her and began to look for a place to make a fire. I found a pretty good cook stove with a good pile of wood near which the fishermen had left for anyone who might be in need and we were the first that had need of it. I used my flint and soon had a warm fire. I also found a small tin lamp full of fish oil. I said, 'now mother we are all right. With the provisions I have we will soon have some supper and warm tea.' I took up some of the clean snow in a basin and put it to heat on the stove, where it was soon boiling. I found a bench for your mother to sit on. I took off most of her wraps and soon we were warm and comfortable eating our lunch with hot tea. Oh, the howling and tearing of the wolves was terrible to hear. They would scratch on the door and try to climb upon the roof. There was one small window near the door. I was afraid the wolves would break it in their jumping about, and how I did wish for my gun that I had to throw down with the tools as we came. There were two large bunks filled with balsam boughs, and I took some of our wraps and made a bed for your mother. She was soon fast asleep. I kept a good fire, and about midnight laid down beside her, and in spite of the howling and barking of the wolves I was soon fast asleep. At break of day all was quiet, the wolves had gone to the woods. We had some breakfast and mother felt better. I left her and went to find my gun and other things I had left in the snow. The wolves had trampled the snow all down about the door and we could see the marks of their claws on the door. We were soon started on our way and reached the little deserted settlement, where I took two boards to carry, as John had also done, as we needed the lumber to make a coffin. From here we found better walking, a straighter beach. We reached John's about 11 o'clock. We found him sitting beside his dead mother." [Illustration: THE LIGHT HOUSE AND LIFE SAVING STATION AT BEAVER ISLAND HARBOR, MICHIGAN.] BROTHER ANTHONY LOST IN THE WOODS. With us children at home we too had our troubles. I cried all night with earache and poor old grandpa had his hands full to take care of us all. He was up all night, and he worried about father and mother. He was sure they were frozen to death or eaten up by the wolves. And to make it still harder for him brother Toney went out alone up the river to find the rabbit traps he had set and lost his way home. When he did not come back at dinner time grandpa was almost crazy, but would not let brother Lewis go to look for him, fearing he too would be lost. He left us two little ones with Lewis while he ran down to the river and called to the men at work in the mill. At first he could not make them hear him. He swung his arms and ran up and down, and at last they saw him and two men came over on a raft, our boat, the only one there, being on our side of the river. They thought something terrible must have happened to grandpa. In his imperfect English he could not make them understand. They came to the house and Lewis made them understand Toney was lost in the woods and told them where father and mother had gone. We were all crying, as we two younger ones only wanted papa and mamma. I remember seeing the men run to the boat, cross the river, and soon come back with all the men, Mr. Frankle, with the rest, all starting to the woods. Lewis was gathering up limbs of trees and brush wood to make a big fire at night to guide the men home. Grandpa cried and wrung his hands, praying and crossing himself continually. We two little ones were frightened, not knowing just what had happened. We had our playthings and sat in our corner behind the stove crying to ourselves. The men had taken the two young dogs with them. After awhile Mr. Frankle came back and talked with grandpa, then he took Bob away with him. Then we began to cry so hard, seeing Bob going off. He heard us and ran back to us children, licking our faces and hands. They put a rope on Bob's neck and led him away. Grandpa did all he could to comfort us, made the tops spin and rocked my dolly to sleep in her cradle, and ever so many things to please us, but we would not be comforted. Our Bob was gone, and we wanted him to come back. At last Lewis came in telling us Bob was coming soon with brother Toney. Charley understood and was quiet. I was put into my cradle, where grandpa rocked me to sleep, singing to me one of his French songs I loved so well to hear. I have a confused memory of hearing dogs barking and of being carried to the window and seeing a big fire shining far out over the snow and river and the men coming in all covered with snow, and dear old Bob bounding to greet me and kissing my face; then I remembered no more. But when I was older mother told me all about the hunting and finding of brother Anthony. MOTHER'S STORY. "The men hunted and found the tracks, but he had turned and circled so often in all directions they became confused. The young dogs were more intent on chasing rabbits and other small game, so nothing could be done with the young dogs. The men knew that if the child was not found that night he would be eaten by wolves. At last one of the men said to Mr. Frankle, 'I wonder if Bob could find him,' Mr. Frankle came at once and took Bob. As soon as they could make the dog understand what they wanted him to do he started on the hunt. They let him smell of brother's clothes and shoes. At first Bob began to whine and tremble, and lay down at their feet in the snow. They could not speak to him in French, which was the language Bob knew best, his master always speaking to him in French. At last he looked up in their faces after smelling of the shoes and began to bark. He started with his nose to the ground. At first the young dogs worried him by bounding and jumping over him. They wanted him to play with them. But Bob had something more important for him to do--a human life to save. He circled and seemed confused, then threw his head up in the air, gave several loud, sharp barks and looked at the men as much as to say follow me. He left them far behind, though they went as fast as they could go. It was growing dark, they were uneasy. Soon Bob's deep voice was heard barking furiously. He never stopped till the men reached him. He was standing directly over brother, who was lying in the snow. Bob had scratched the snow away and partly dragged him out. At first the men thought Toney was dead. He was just exhausted from walking so far and so afraid of the dark and the wolves. The men carried him home, reaching there at ten o'clock that night amid the howling of the wolves that followed them at a distance." Brother was sick in bed when father and mother came home. They were gone four days. FATHER AND MOTHER COMING HOME. Father had made the casket and mother made the shroud. They buried the dear old lady beside the husband she loved so well. Two Indian hunters came that way on their return from hunting. They helped to dig the grave and stayed to bring mother home on their sleds. Mother baked and cooked for John, as they could not persuade him to come home with them to remain until spring. Mr. Frankle sent two men to see if father and mother were safe and they met them coming with the Indians. What happy children we all were to see them again. Bob was wild with delight to see father and mother, and when they learned how Bob had saved brother's life there was nothing too good for him. Old grandpa was so glad when they came home, for his trials were great with us four children. He said to father one day in broken English, "Oh. Mr. Whitney, I so scare. I fraid you keel me when boy lost in wood. Bob one good dog, he fine heme quick. Bob worth ten thousand dollar. Me most crazy all time you gone. Baby she cry all night. Earache. Charley she cut he finger. Lewis he burn she's hand. Oh, I fraid we all go die sure!" My mother was worried about John McWilliams being left alone so far from any neighbors. The Indian Chief Ossawinamakee sent two of his Indians with their wives and papooses to live near John until spring came. They built warm wigwams covered with fur pelts of bear skins. John was very sick and they took care of him. When John came to see us in the spring he told us his story how it came they were here so far from their old home. In after years mother told it to me, and I tell it now, as near as possible, as John told it to her. JOHN'S STORY. "My people were well-to-do people with a comfortable home in Canada near the City of Toronto. My brother, being seven years older than I, had a good education, went to the city, became a clerk in a bank, got into bad company, forged a check on the bank and was arrested for forgery. Our farm and the old home went to clear him. He promised father to do better. We heard about these western islands and shores, and thinking this a good place to come with my brother where no one knew of our disgrace, we came, bringing fish nets and a boat. We fished all summer, doing well, but as fall came my brother became restless and discontented. He took the fish nets and boat and sold them all, leaving us nothing, then went we knew not where. This broke my old father's heart and mother soon followed him to the grave. Now I am left alone to battle with the world, but I shall never forget your kindness to me and mine." After working all summer for some fishermen John went home to Toronto to live with an uncle who offered him a home, and John accepted with a grateful heart. FIRST VISIT TO THE BIG WHITE HOUSE. Since coming to Manistique mother and we two small children had never crossed over the river nor been inside the big white house, as we called Mr. Frankle's home. One morning I woke and found myself in a strange bed and a strange room. I called and mother came to me, telling me we were in the big white house where I had watched the lights so many times in the windows. She took me into another room. A lady was sitting in a low chair with a little wee baby rolled up in white flannel in her lap. A little baby had been born that night in the rich man's home. I went up to the lady asking to see the dolly baby. She said, "Oh, no, it is not a dolly, it's a baby," but to me it was a dolly. I had my own rag doll in my arms hugged tight, and every little while I would toss and sing to her in French. The beauty of the room was something new to me; soft carpets and rugs on the floor that gave no sound of the patter of my feet as I walked about. The walls were covered with soft tinted paper and beautiful pictures hanging everywhere, curtains of finest lace and silk at the windows. I gazed about almost holding my breath. Everything seemed so still. Soon a door opened without noise and a little child came into the room. She looked to me like a little angel I had seen the picture of, blue eyes and golden hair. She seemed such a sweet little flower almost too frail to be alive. When she saw me she came to me, holding out her doll for me to take. I drew back, as her doll was wax and opened and shut its eyes. It was almost like the one I had at home put away in its box which had been given me at St. Helena by Cousin Mitchell. I had not got over being afraid of it yet because it moved its eyes. Mother had to come and explain to them about it. The little girl took me by the hand and led me into a large bedroom where her mamma lay among white pillows. The lady reached out her hand to me, smiling, and drew me up to her. At first I could say nothing. Then as her sister came in with the baby in her arms I said, "Me want to go home and see Charley." Mother came to explain I wanted to go home to see my little brother. The lady said, "you shall see them this evening, I shall send and have them come." Then I told her I wanted to see Bob too. She said, "Yes, Bob shall come." I was more content, and while mother held the wee baby in her arms I sat in a little chair and rocked my doll, singing to it, and when I was given my bread and milk for supper I fed my doll some, and when she choked I patted her on the back just like Aunt Abby did to Baby Margarette. REMINDERS OF HOME FAR AWAY. Soon the lamps were lighted and the men came in to supper. The young lady, Mr. Frankle's sister, had gotten the supper with mother's help. I remember the long table and white table cloth. The men were all seated at the table when Mr. Frankle came in the room with the little wee baby in his arms. He took the baby to the men and some of them took it in their arms and kissed it, tears rolling down their faces. Father told me later it made them think of home and their own little ones, for most of them had families in their far away homes. Mother took the baby to its mother. I was put into a high chair and sat near the head of the table, heads were bowed and Mr. Frankle asked a blessing. As soon as it was ended I said "Amen" and made the sign of the cross, just as grandpa always did. When I saw them smile I looked serious and got down, telling mother I wanted to go home. I could not eat, but fed my doll, after which mother took me in her arms and rocked me to sleep, singing one of her sweet old songs. A LONGING FOR HOME. Next morning I could not eat any breakfast, but kept calling for brother Charley, Bob and grandpa. Everything was so still and silent here in the big house. Oh the longing in a child's heart for the old familiar faces and home! Child that I was it seemed to me all that made life sweet had gone out of my life. I grew sick, I could not eat, and for several days lay on my little bed. Little Lilly tried to amuse me with her dolls and music box, but my heart was longing for grandpa, Charley and Bob. One morning father came and took me up and carried me into another room. There was Charley and Bob. It was a happy meeting with us all, but I felt too weak to play. At night father took Bob home and left Charley with us, but Charley, too, was not happy, he could not whittle his sticks or spin his top like he could at home. Mother, too, missed her home. Here everything was silent, and still all were very kind to us. But mother missed our noise and singing. Little Charley, too, began to droop. At night he went to look out of the window, and when he saw the lights in our windows at home across the river he began to cry, saying to mother, "I want to go home to grandpa." Next day we were both sent home, and grandpa and Bob were so happy. Lewis and Toney, too, were anxious for us all to be home again. At night we were taken again to the big house, as mother wanted us with her. We three children played to amuse ourselves, but all seemed so quiet to Charley and me. Charley was more at home now. Miss Harriet let him spin his top and whittle in the kitchen. After about two weeks mother was ready to go home and we were a happy family. HAPPY HOME LIFE. Life went on very happy with us children, our home was comfortable. After all the years that have passed so rapidly, methinks I can see us all as we were then around our pleasant fireside on many of those winter evenings. Little mittens had to be made for our hands. Little jackets and caps for the boys, in which all took an interest, and grandpa, too, did his share. He made little fur suits for the boys, caps and all. Father would read to us from the big family Bible and explain to us as he read. Then he would sing the hymns he loved so well, mother joining in. Then grandpa would sing with mother their French glee songs, while us children would join in. Then grandpa would rock me in the low cradle and the boys grew impatient because it kept the fur suits from being made so fast. Then old grandpa would tell us stories of his travels, and when he told us about them we forgot all about fur suits, for we loved to listen to his old French and Spanish songs and stories. He would tell us of his travels and hardships. BOB'S SYMPATHY. Bob seemed almost to understand, as he would always come close to us and listen, looking at us with his great, kind eyes. Many times grandpa would cry as he related some of his most sorrowful experiences, of how some of his comrades had perished from cold and hunger, or of being drowned in crossing the great rivers. Then he would cover his face with his hands as if to shut out the sight of some loved one's suffering. Old Bob would whine and lick his old master's face and hands as if trying to comfort him, then run to father and whine. Father would go over to grandpa and say, "Now don't cry any more, all that is past. You have not any more such trials to pass through. Now be happy with us." It always cheered him and soon he would be at work again. We children always sympathized with him, often shedding tears when he told his sorrowful tales and laughing with glee at some of his jolly ones. Sometimes mother would say, "I do wish you would not tell the children so many sorrowful stories. It makes them sad to hear them." Then he would say, "Me can't help it. Me sad too sometimes." The fur suits were finished and taken over to the big house for Mrs. Frankle to see them, grandpa being a great favorite with her. INDIAN VILLAGE AND CHIEF OSSAWINAMAKEE. The Indian village was about three miles distant back from the shore or river's mouth. There the Indians had a large settlement of about seven hundred people in all at that time. At one time their village had contained nearly three thousand. Since all tribes had been at peace many of their Braves had gone among other tribes to visit and hunt. This tribe was of the Ottawas, mixed with the Ojibewas or Chippewas. In times of war each had been a powerful nation. Most of these had lived in the Lake Superior region. After peace was declared part of the tribe wandered away to the southward seeking new hunting grounds. The present Chief's father had been a great warrior as well as his father before him. Chief Ossawinamakee (Big Thunder), was a peaceful man, ruling his people with great kindness. He was a noble looking man of fine personal appearance. THE LAKE OF ENCHANTMENT. The beautiful lake where the village was situated the chief's father had claimed to have found in his younger days when out on a hunting tour. The tribe claimed the lake was enchanted. Its fish and wild fowl, ducks and geese and other game were not to be disturbed by the hunters, but left for "the Indian Maiden" who strolled by its shores, and for her lover that was to come back and take her to the happy hunting grounds. The village was situated beside this beautiful lake, called by the tribe "The Lake of Enchantment," or where "The Spirit of Peace Always Lived." And, truly, when seen in its quiet and wild beauty it was not hard to believe. The legend runs that on moonlight nights the form of an Indian maiden could be seen wandering along its quiet shores waiting for her lover to come from the happy hunting grounds to meet her. In times of war among the different tribes, it was told, a beautiful Indian maiden of the Ottawas had a lover of the Huron tribe. The tribes were at war. The lover was taken prisoner and condemned to die, to burn at the stake. When the awful deed was taking place the Indian maiden was seen to take her flight southward. Braves were sent to bring her back. She forever eluded them and at last disappeared from their sight. When this lake was discovered many years afterwards it was believed the shadowy maiden seen was the same that had disappeared so long ago, and wandered beside this beautiful water waiting for her lover to join her. Wild deer came to drink of its waters, animals and fowls had no fear of the red man. It was indeed an enchanted place. THE CHIEF'S DAUGHTER, "STAR OF THE MORNING." The Chief's daughter was a beautiful Indian maiden. She was an only child. Her mother died when she was quite young. Her aunt, her mother's sister, had taken the place of a mother to her. The Chief, her father, was very proud of her and greatly attached to her. She was of medium height, oval face and clear olive skin with red cheeks and lips, her eyes were large and dark with nearly always a sad look in them. Her teeth were like two rows of small white pearls, small hands and feet, she was a royal princess dearly loved by the whole tribe. Her Indian name was Wa-bun-an-nung (the Morning Star.) We always called her Mary. She was gentle in her manner and could sew very nicely, being always busy with her bead work and quills, making many pretty little boxes from the birch bark and ornamenting them with bright colored porcupine quills which the Indian women colored in bright, gay colors. Her father had always taken her with him on his long trips to Canada and the Sault, also to Green Bay on many of his hunting expeditions. She could paddle her canoe as swift as any of the braves in her tribe. THE CHIEF AND HIS DAUGHTER VISITING US. To me Mary seemed like some bright being from another world. Her voice was soft and sweet. She always came to our home with her father, the chief. Then she would take me in her arms, calling me her little white "papoose." She would put me in my cradle, rocking and singing me to sleep with her quiet, soft voice. Many were the strings of beads and deer skin moccasins she gave me. She made me some dolls and put pretty dresses on them. She was always doing something nice for us children and was very fond of us. One day she asked little brother if he would give her little sister, meaning me, for one of her pretty pet fawns. He said, "Yes." When she started with me in her arms toward the door he screamed and cried so hard before she could make him know she was only in fun. He said, "Don't take my little sister. Go over the river to the big house and take that 'papoose' because it cries so much." When the older brothers came they said, "Why didn't you trade little sister for the fawn and two cub bears?" Mary told her father. When he came again he brought the fawn and two cubs to see if the boys would trade me away for them. As soon as the boys saw the fawn and the cubs they began to cry and beg mother not to let me go. They did not want to trade little sister off for any thing. All the time the chief remained they watched me, fearing he might take me. He was greatly amused at the joke. I was delighted to play with the fawn and the cubs were like kittens to play. The fawn was inseparable from Mary, it loved her so. The days were longer now and the snow all gone. Grass was beginning to show in many places. The sun shone warm and bright. Mother said, "Spring is here, now don't you hear the birds sing?" Grandpa took us for little walks, but not far, as the wolves were always near almost every morning. Sometimes two or three deer would come tearing past our door, jumping into the river to save themselves from the packs of wolves chasing them, and the bears would swim across the mouth of the river. Indian hunters were always coming home from the hunt loaded with game. Their deer meat was dried and smoked for future use. The wolves would come close to our house and little brother and I would often try to call them to come and get some bread and butter, we thinking them dogs. Grandpa and Bob were always near us or we would have been eaten alive by the wolves. THE CHIEF'S DEPARTURE. I remember one day soon after breakfast Mary and her father came with a number of other Indians, Mary's aunt with the rest. A large canoe was packed and fitted out with all things necessary for a long voyage. The chief and Mary's aunt were going to Canada on a visit and Mary was to stay with us till her father returned. Her father took four men and Mary's aunt with him. Soon all was ready. They shook hands and away sped the bark canoe over the waves. Mary at first was sad to have her father go, but soon was cheerful again. She helped mother with her sewing and worked two pretty pairs of moccasins and made leggings and pretty garters. Some of the work was for her father. Time passed and it began to be time for the Chief's return. Mary grew restless as many storms came. She would look out over the waters for hours. Mother tried hard to comfort her and tell her all would be well. But Mary must see to believe. Her faith could not reach out very far into unseen things. Grandpa tried to comfort her. He would kneel down and pray for her father's return. One day a young Indian came to our house to see and talk to Mary. Mother told me afterward he was Mary's lover and had promised her father not to visit Mary in his absence. Hearing how worried she was he had broken his promise. Mary seemed very sad, talked very little to him, and only when mother was present. She had also promised her father not to meet him while he was gone. The Chief had not given his full consent to their marriage. Another Chief's son had asked for Mary to be given him in marriage, which was now Mary's father's business away in Canada. She worried not so much for her father's absence as she feared her father and the Canadian chief would come to a satisfactory understanding and that she might be compelled to marry the Canadian lover whose father had much land and stock. She felt worried because her lover had broken his word to her father and she feared his displeasure. Indians are very strict about their laws and customs. RETURN OF THE CHIEF OSSAWINAMAKEE. One day soon after this I saw the Chief coming up the path to the house. He was not alone. Mary was lying in the swinging hammock. She gave a bound like a deer and reached the door just as her father came in. She threw her arms about his neck and fainted away. Mother put water on her face. She soon opened her eyes and smiled at her father. He took her hand and talked long to her. She looked past him and saw the strange young Indian standing beside the door. She gave a cry and put her hands to her face. Her father called him to come to them, speaking to them both. At last Mary gave him her hand and spoke the Indian greeting, "Bou shou" (how do you do.) In turn we all greeted him with the same term. The Chief talked a long time to Mary and mother, telling about his trip. Father came home to supper. The Chief had brought a large pack of beautiful silks, beads, scarfs and cloth for Mary to make some new gowns. He also brought some pretty shells from Lake Simcoe for mother, which she prized very highly as her mother was born there, and many more goods of furs and rugs. The young Indian also brought some furs and rugs, one handsome white one with black spots upon it which he laid down at Mary's feet. She did not seem to be very well pleased with the present, but her father was loud in his praise and thanks. At last Mary thanked him in a low voice. As it was growing dark the Chief and the young Indian left for the village, Mary remaining with us for the night. Brother Charley and I lay down on the white rug with Bob beside us and were soon fast asleep. Oh childhood's happy hours, Would that they could come again! If only we might taste their joys once more Our hearts would sing a glad refrain. INVITED TO THE FEAST. Next morning the Chief came to take his daughter home, thanking mother for taking care of her during his absence. We were all invited to attend the great feast with the other Chemokamon's (white men) from the other side of the river. It had been told to the tribe that morning of the coming marriage of the Chief's daughter to the Canadian Chief's son, who had much land and stock to give his bride. When he talked with mother about it she asked him about the other young man and if he had not promised Mary to him. He answered, "We come of a proud and haughty race. This young man has much land and riches while the other has nothing to give my daughter. No lands, no moneys." Mother said to him, "You will miss Mary from your wigwam." At this he softened, then saying, "I have power to extend the time of Mary's marriage." On the day of the feast the sun shone clear and bright. Our boys were up early and all seemed to be in a hurry. Grandpa had made a little cart for Bob to draw me in, so Bob's harness was all trimmed with gay colored ribbons. Mother put on my little red dress and pretty beaded moccasins which Mary had made for me. Then I was put into the cart and old Bob trotted off so proudly, thinking perhaps of his younger days when he had brought the great loads of furs from the Lake Superior trapping grounds to the Sault and Mackinac Islands to be sold to the traders there. Those were proud days for the voyagers when all the village came out to meet them from their long trips. After crossing the river we were joined by the people on that side, who were a happy lot. This was a holiday for them all. An Indian feast which none had ever before attended. Something to write about to their far away homes. All went along singing. Old grandpa singing his French and Spanish glee songs with the boys joining, which made the woods ring. We soon came to the lake, and the village of many wigwams was close beside the water. THE BEAUTIFUL LAKE AT THE INDIAN VILLAGE. On that morning the lake was like a great mirror or a sea of glass, not a ripple stirred its surface and the beautiful trees were reflected on every side, hanging branches everywhere full of song birds, and swimming about near the shore were broods of ducks with their little ones among them. None seemed to be afraid of us. There were many young fawns wandering about and drinking from the lake. Mossy banks and many flowers. No one was allowed to harm the birds, fawns or ducks. The place seemed rightly named "The Lake of Enchantment." I remember being carried into a wigwam and laid on a bed of skins and furs. I was so sleepy after my ride. When I awoke I found myself alone and being frightened began to cry. Very soon Bob came bounding in. I took him by the collar and when we were out of doors I saw a lot of Indian children with brother Lewis and Toney running and jumping with them. I saw mother and grandpa, with little brother, going into a large wigwam. I ran over to them. In the middle of this lodge was a great fire with many kettles hanging in which the dinner was being cooked for the feast. The lodge had been made on purpose for the (chemokamon) white man's cooking to be done. Grandpa and mother had full charge of this part. Father soon came and took little brother and me where many young Indians and the white men were playing a game of ball. There were many squaws and children all gaily dressed with many colored ribbons. Dogs were running about everywhere, and young pet cub bears which the children seemed to be taking care of. The squaws had been to our house and knew us children. They came to us, giving us little cakes of maple sugar. THE INDIAN MAIDEN IN HER WIGWAM. After a time little brother and I wanted to see Mary, so father took us to her wigwam, which was covered with black bear skins. There we found Mrs. Frankle with her sister and the children. Mary was sitting on a bear skin rug with her hands folded and her eyes almost shut. I wish I could describe her as she looked sitting there in her dark beauty. I could not take my eyes off her. She raised her eyes and looked at me as if to know what I wanted or what did I see. Then she smiled and sprang to her feet, coming towards me. I backed away and gave a great sob just as I have felt since when looking at some beautiful picture. It seemed to thrill me through and through. She seemed almost to know my thoughts. She seemed almost afraid to move. At last she took me in her arms and, sitting down near Mrs. Frankle, the great tears rolled down her face. Mrs. Frankle put her face near Mary's and kissed her. Then the great sobs came. The Indian maiden may sob but never cry aloud like her white skinned sisters. I wondered why Mary should sob and the tears fall on my face when she was so beautiful and had such beautiful clothes. I felt of her dress and arms, passing my hands over her face, which made her smile. She then gave us some pretty shells to play with. Soon Mary's father came to see if she were ready to appear before the crowd. When his eyes rested on her a pleased look came over his face. He seemed to be satisfied, for he gave a shrug, saying "ugh ni-chi-chin" (good), meaning he was satisfied with her appearance. Little Charley and I had found the pretty leggings and moccasins Mary had made for her father and lover and ran to the Chief with them, holding them up for him to see, telling him Mary made them. He took them in his hand and smiled. He seemed pleased, but Mary came as if to take them. He kept them in his hand, talking long and earnestly to her. She stood with her head bowed and sad. He showed Miss Harriet and Mrs. Frankle the pretty work, which they admired, but Mary seemed so sad they wondered. THE SOUNDING OF THE DRUM. We now heard a big drum and the barking of dogs. Then all the men with Mr. Frankle came and the Chief took Mary's hand. Father took me in his arms and we all went out where there were a great many Indians standing in a large circle. The Chief and his daughter went into the circle and all the white people followed. There were great skins of bear and other furs spread about for the chemokamon (white man) to sit upon, but all the Indians must stand while the Chief made his speech and gave the announcement of his daughter's marriage with the Canadian Chief's son, who was now his guest. CHIEF OSSAWINAMAKEE'S SPEECH. The chief walked into the circle with a proud and haughty tread, waving his hand for all to be silent. I knew nothing of what he said, but my father told me when I was old enough to understand. I remember his form. He was tall and stately, with a fine appearance, and was dressed as became the chief of the proud Ottawa tribe. Many silver ornaments were on his breast. He talked a long time, while all listened in stately silence. After a time he was silent and two more forms appeared within the circle. The first to enter was the Canadian Indian. His step was firm, his head high, his look bold; he was dressed in bright red, with beaded leggings and many feathers around his head. The other one came in with a soft and silent step. His form was slight and willowy. He was dressed in a deer skin suit, with beaded leggings, silver ornaments on his breast, and a band about his head filled with eagle feathers. He came close to the Chief, his eyes were looking down, his face seemed sad. He was Mary's true lover, the son of a chief of the Chippewas, whose father had died, leaving him in the care of Mary's father. His father had been a great warrior and owned much land, but had lost it all in long wars with other nations. The name of this young chief was Sha-wan-nib-in-asse (southern bird). Mary and he had been raised together with the understanding they would be joined in marriage sometime, but in one of the chief's trips to Canada with his young daughter, the chief of a tribe there had asked for Mary for his son. Being rich, Chief Ossawinamakee thought it best to give his daughter to the rich chiefs son. Very soon the chief presented the Canadian Indian with a pair of leggings and moccasins, saying they were a present from his daughter. The young Indian expressed his thanks with many bows casting many looks of triumph at Mary's lover. When Mary saw these presents given she almost gave a scream. She stepped forward as if to take them from his hands. ALL ENJOYMENT. As soon as the speeches were ended all sat in circles. The Chief's circle was filled with his own family, his sisters and their families and his Canadian guest. The Chemokamons were by themselves. The Indians with their squaws and children had corn soup served with dried venison and fish. The soup was put in large pans with only one large wooden spoon or ladle. When one took a spoonful it was passed to the next and so on around the circle of about twelve or fifteen persons. The white people also had corn soup or maize, as it was called, corn pounded in a wooden mortar, with dried smoked venison and broiled white fish, baked potatoes and many other things which mother had prepared herself. There was much talking and laughing among the Indians as well as white people. The dogs ran round the outside of the circle and every time the drum was beaten they would yelp and bark while Bob would howl. The fawns and deer came near to us as if enjoying the sport, while the little cub bears scampered away to a cute little wigwam where they slept at night. All was mirth and gaiety. When the eating was over the Chief arose, raised his head high, giving thanks to the Great Spirit, and buried a small piece of silver to entreat good crops and full hunting grounds for that year. There was jumping and canoe paddling among the Indians, which ended the day's sport. There had been a white dog killed, as was the custom at their feasts. We saw the pelt stretched up to dry. Father told me many times that all went home at sunset much pleased with their day of pleasure and sport. The white people were delighted with Indian feasts and declared that no _White Dog_ had been served to them in _their Corn Soup_, knowing my mother had charge of their cooking. ENDING OF THE FEAST AND SAD ENDING OF A YOUNG LIFE. Early next morning all was excitement at the Indian Village, for Mary's lover, Sha-wan-nib-in-asse, was dead. All suspicion pointed to the Canadian Indian poisoning him through jealousy. The Indian women told my mother at the feast that all the week they had feared the two young men would fight, as they hated each other with a deadly hatred. Now the whole village was ready to kill the Canadian Indian, as none had ever liked him for the reason that he was British. The old hatred had not died out from their hearts, even though peace had been declared so long among the tribes. The Canadian Indian hurried from the Village and stopped at our house on his way down the shore, where he soon reached a small trading vessel and made his way home to Canada. Mary was very sorrowful with grief at the death of her lover, and her father was sure the Great Spirit was displeased with him for favoring the Canadian Indian. We were all afraid it might cause a war, as all the Indians at the Village wanted their Chief to go to Canada and get satisfaction from the father in Canada. The white people advised the Chief Ossawinamakee not to go to war, as his whole tribe would be killed, having no warriors to be a match for the Canadian Indians. The tribe had lived in peace so long war was only history to them. The Chief took the advice. BURIAL OF SHA-WAN-NIB-IN-ASSE. They buried the young lover with great honor, buried him with the sound of the muffled drum. Father made the casket and mother was there to help them. They dressed him in the pretty leggings and moccasins Mary had made for him, putting the other pair with bows and arrows, silver breastplates, with a small kettle and wooden ladle and gun, into the casket as was their custom when burying their dead. They buried him beside the peaceful little lake where the branches of the trees were filled with singing birds. Though a child of the forest he had loved Mary with a pure and holy love. ON BOARD THE ELIZA CAROLINE. My father had now finished his contract with Mr. Frankle at the mill. Hearing that there were many people settling on "Beaver Island," several families that we knew from York State, Ohio and Canada, he made up his mind to go there. Our goods were put on board the staunch little ship "Eliza Caroline," the vessel my father had built the year before. The Chief and his daughter Mary came to say good-by. Good-bys were said to our good neighbors across the river in the big house. We had all become very dear friends to each other. There were many kind wishes and God-speeds for us when the Captain said "all aboard." White sails were set and we glided from the river out onto Lake Michigan just as the sun was sinking in the west. Darkness soon shut out the forms of our friends that stood waving to us from the shore. We knew we were once more out on the water on God's great rolling cradle of the sea. We children, with mother and grandpa, said our prayers in the little cabin and were soon fast asleep with the sound of the rippling waves singing to us a sweet lullaby of peace and rest. _PART II._ BEAVER ISLAND. Beaver Island was once the home of the Mormons. This island is the largest in the group of islands in lake Michigan, containing about fifteen thousand acres of land. To many who may read these pages it may seem like a fairy tale to know that a kingdom ever existed within the borders of the United States. A kingdom has existed, and that little kingdom was on Beaver Island, now commonly known as St. James, being named in honor of him who made himself a king. James Jesse Strang was born and educated in New York State, graduated from the Fredonia Academy of the same state. He studied law and was classed among the brilliant lawyers of his day. In his eight years rule on Beaver Island he was twice elected to the State Legislature of Michigan. His speeches were considered among the most brilliant delivered in the halls of Lansing, the State Capitol. He spoke with ease, his manner was winning, he aimed to be a leader. Strang was living at Voree, Wis., at the time of Joseph Smith's death at Nauvoo, Ill. Having joined the Mormon Church he now claimed to have "Divine Revelations" from God that he was chosen to fill Joseph Smith's place to lead the people left without a leader. After a hard struggle which he made for the leadership, Brigham Young was chosen as Smith's successor. BEAVER ISLAND CHOSEN AS A KINGDOM. Strang felt his defeat very keenly and withdrew with a few of his followers who had entire belief in his revelations. He now went to Kirtland, Ohio, where a Mormon temple had been built as a place of worship for the Latter Day Saints, as they are now commonly known. Strang soon became restless. Brigham Young had already gone with a large number of Smith's followers to Salt Lake City, Utah. Strang wanted more territory, more privileges, which he knew he could not have in Kirtland, so he began to look about for a place where he could establish a kingdom over which he could rule with undisputed sway. Being a lawyer and understanding the law so perfectly he knew he could not carry out his plans unless he found some secluded place where the law of the land could not easily reach him, and where could he find a place better suited to carry out his plans than Beaver Island? In 1846, two years prior to Strang's coming to Beaver Island to establish his kingdom he was on his way west to Wisconsin. The steamer he took passage on was driven into Beaver Harbor to seek shelter from a storm. When Strang was telling all this to my father he said, "When my eyes first rested on Beaver Island I thought it the most beautiful place on earth." At the time Strang was there, a Mr. Alva Cable from Fairport, Ohio, had located at the Point and was establishing a business. He had built a dock, a store and a fine large dwelling and was already buying fish from the fishermen and shipping them to outside markets. STRANG'S FIRST COMING TO THE ISLAND WITH HIS PEOPLE. Strang had already settled in his mind to locate at Cheboygan, Mich., having looked over the location. Mackinac Island being just near enough for him to get their supplies. At that time Mackinac Island was the largest fish market in northern Michigan, furnishing supplies to the whole north shore and fishermen among the great number of islands, its several stores furnishing everything necessary to the people around and being in close touch with the outside world, having a postoffice and mails coming there from Detroit. But when Strang saw Beaver Island, its beautiful harbor, fine timber and natural beauty of scenery, the thought came to him like an inspiration, and he said, "This is where I will come to build up my kingdom." And when he saw all the improvements being done he had no doubt but he could soon have all the people about the shore as his followers. But there was much to hinder before he could persuade many of his followers to come and locate on a lonely island, as it seemed to them, in the middle of Lake Michigan. Also Strang's wife was not a believer in the Mormon doctrine, having no faith in the revelations he claimed to have: but Strang had a great command of language and possessed a strong will power. He at last persuaded a few of his followers to come with him to Beaver Island, where they landed from a steamer in the early part of June, 1848, two years after he had first seen the island. About twenty-five people came with him, and before navigation closed over a hundred more had landed, most of them being all unprepared for a long, cold winter on an island where the snows were extremely deep in winter. PAYMENT TIME FOR THE INDIANS. The whole surrounding country at that time was a wilderness. White settlers were few in number. There were many different tribes of Indians wandering about from place to place on their hunting and fishing tours. They were all peaceably inclined, many remained long enough to plant small gardens near the shores, but never clearing the land at any distance back from the shore. The woods were filled with abundance of game to satisfy all their wants and needs. The red men of the forest were best satisfied in their own native wilds. They were nature's children. The trees, flowers, buds, leaves and waves on the shore all whispered their mystery of the great and good Spirit that ruled all things. In those days the Indians were receiving payments from the government. An agent was employed with a clerk to make these annual payments. Sometimes the money would be paid out at Sault Ste. Marie, sometimes Green Bay was the place of gathering, other times Mackinac Island. Then the tribes would gather from far and near, bringing their whole families to receive their money. That was a happy time for the red man and his family to know the "Great Father" at Washington was such a friend. Payment time, as it was called, also made trade for the white man. THE INDIANS AND THEIR ISLANDS. There was a large band of Indians living on Garden Island, three miles distant north from Beaver Island. This island had been deeded to them by the government as their own. Also another island about six miles west of Beaver Island, called High Island. Both these Islands were fertile, covered with heavy timber, and both afforded good fishing opportunities with good harbors at each island. Strang's people never having seen Indians before were naturally very timid, especially when the Indians gathered at Beaver Harbor to sell their fish and being friendly often called at the Chemokamon's house. The Indian being of an inquisitive nature, wanted to see how the white brothers lived in their homes. Strang himself said he felt none too sure of his own life when he saw so many coming to his home, but the Indians and their squaws with their papooses on their backs, that being the fashion of carrying their young children, were always smiling and good natured, which very soon reassured Strang and his people that they were friendly and meant them no harm. At first the Mormons always kept their doors locked and barred. Strang soon preached to them to leave their doors open to their Indian friends, which they did with the faith that their King knew best. [Illustration: JAMES JESSE STRANG, THE MORMON KING.] STRANG CALLING ON US. About the time my people came to Beaver Island the property at the Point in Beaver Harbor was just changing hands, Mr. Alva Cable having sold his dock and buildings to a Mr. Peter McKinley from Painesville, Ohio, who came with his family and took possession at once, putting in a supply of provisions for the fall trade with the fishermen. Strang soon called on our people, and was anxious to have my father build our home near the Mormon settlement at the harbor, promising there would be plenty of work, as more of his people were constantly coming. Strang was so friendly and sent many of his people to call on us. His wife also called on us. She was a bright, sensible, noble woman, and we found her friendship was true. My mother being a nurse, Strang told her he would always be glad of her assistance when any of his people were sick. Our people had never heard about Mormons before and knew nothing about their belief or doctrine. Mother told me many times afterward it seemed very strange to her seeing the Mormon women dressed in short dresses with hair cut short and keeping Saturday for their Sunday. When mother spoke to them about it they told her that King Strang had all these revelations from God and that, he being their leader, they must obey what he said. FIRST SETTLERS. Our house was soon finished. Father had built it near to a Gentile family, an elderly couple from Toronto, Canada. They had bought a small piece of land from the government, making themselves a home the year previous to the coming of the Mormons. They were an Irish family with considerable means. They first came to Mackinac Island to visit a nephew, Mr. P. Kilty. They took a little trip to Beaver Island with others, and were so pleased with it, thinking it would soon be settled and make a desirable place to live. Their name was Loaney, and the place where they located has always borne the name of Loaney's Point. It was on the south side of Beaver Harbor, distant about two miles from the village. On the end of Loaney's Point rests a large boulder which has always been a land mark, sometimes looming up looking like a great black steamer near the shore. Mr. Loaney's nephew, P. Kilty, also located at the Island and was driven away with the rest of the Gentiles, returning again after the Mormons were sent away from the Island, residing many years there and being a successful fisherman and farmer. His son, Mr. Peter Kilty, is now, and has been for several years, a captain on one of the large steamboats on lake Michigan. The old couple, Mr. and Mrs. Loaney, had some sad experience with their Mormon neighbors, losing their home and all they had by their persecutions. After the Mormons were driven off the Island Mr. Loaney returned and was appointed keeper of the Beaver Island lighthouse at the head of the Island, holding the position several years, he being the second keeper having charge of that station, a Mr. Van Allen being the first keeper when the light was first erected. PREPARING FOR WINTER. The winter of 1849 was an extremely cold winter, with heavy ice and deep snows. Our summer boarders had all packed and gone to their homes. Father had brought our provisions home and packed it away for winter use. Many of our Mormon neighbors with their children came often to see us, and we children played with them. Mr. Loaney had some cows and Auntie Loaney was always bringing us milk as well as to her Mormon neighbors. Our boys and father and mother were very busy making a large fishing seine for a man in Ohio who was coming the next spring. GOING OVER TO THE POINT TO DINNER WITH THE MCKINLEYS. Before the ice came in the fall father took us all in our boat across to the Point so mother could do some shopping. Mr. McKinley was a very kind and pleasant man and would have us go to his house for dinner. He wanted us to get acquainted with his family. Father took us over to their nice, large and comfortable home. Mrs. McKinley was very kind and seemed pleased to see us. She was a pretty, bright-faced woman, slender, with dark hair and eyes. She had three little girls, Sarah the eldest, Effie and Mary. We children were soon acquainted, playing with the dolls and having tea with the children's little dishes. Mr. McKinley had a sister living with him whom the children called "Aunt Ann." She was very kind to us, giving us many slices of bread and butter with cups of milk. I remember the children had such beautiful hair, which I admired so much. Mother helped to set the table and get the dinner on the table, as they boarded several of their help. Our boys were out exploring the Point with some Mormon boys. When we were ready to go home Mrs. McKinley filled a great basket with large red apples for us to take home. Father thanked her, saying he ought not to take them, as he had two barrels at the store for winter use. She said, "Do take these apples, they came from home in Ohio and are better than the apples at the store. Now I want you to have them." We children played together until the last moment. The little girls gave me large packages of candy. Kissing them I promised to come again sometime. Mrs. McKinley was very kind, wanting us all to come again. Father told me afterward when I was older how lonely she was, missing her Ohio home so much. She asked father what he thought about our Mormon neighbors. He said he knew very little about them, so far they had been very kind and pleasant. She told him her fears, saying. "I have no faith in Strang at all. I fear he is misleading those people and I am afraid they will cause us all lots of trouble before long, but my husband thinks they are a well-meaning people. We have invested considerable money, which I feel quite sure we shall regret." Father tried to encourage her to feel more hopeful, but she said she could not feel they were true. She liked Mrs. Strang, as everybody did who knew her. Soon after this the cold snows of winter were upon us, ice made very fast. We heard no more the whistle of the boats, and saw no more the white sails of the vessels and fish boats that sailed in and out of the pretty harbor. I was young, yet I remembered and missed all these things. KIND NEIGHBORS. I was never tired going over to see Uncle and Auntie Loaney, as they taught us children to call them. They were a dear old couple and loved us the same as if we were their own. I remember the pretty large cat with the little white kittens. When she gave me bread and milk I would sit on her clean white floor, and it was hard to know which ate most of that bread and milk, myself or the cats. I used to take my dolls over and stay days at a time with Auntie, and when mother came after me she would say, "Oh don't take her away home. Sure you have four and I have none at all, at all. Now you must leave me one." Then little brother Charley would go and stay a while with them until he got lonely for the rest of us. In that way we took turns being with our kind, good neighbors all the time we lived near them. Some of us were always with them. They had a son married and doing business in Toronto. The next year he came to visit them for a month. Then how pleased she was to tell Michael how good we little children were to her. We children all loved them dearly. Winter was advancing. There was much sickness among the Mormon people. Food was scarce with no means to buy, and clothing thin for a northern winter. Mother was called away from home to care for them, and we children were often left at home with grandpa and father. Auntie and Uncle Loaney were always coming to see how we were. I staid with them most of the time, getting lonesome often for Charley and Bob. Poor old Bob was more feeble than ever now, the cold winter bringing on rheumatism. BOB'S NEW FRIEND. I remember one day Uncle Loaney coming in and saying to father, "Sure Mr. Whitney, why don't you kill that old dog? He is good for nothing and can't stand up any more." That was enough, little brother and I began to cry and then poor old grandpa, the tears rolled down his cheeks, and when he could speak he said in his broken English, "Oh don't keel Bob, you keel Bob me die too. Me and Bob good friends good many year. Oh no keel Bob." Then father explained what a long time Bob had lived and been with grandpa and how he had saved brother Toney's life the winter before. Then how sorry Uncle Loaney was, saying. "Yes let poor Bob live as long as he can." After that many were the little pails of milk sent to Bob. SUFFERING OF THE PEOPLE. I remember a man came to our house one morning and two little boys were with him. Father had gone with Toney and Lewis out to chop wood a short distance from the house. The man came in with the children and asked to see father. Grandpa was so afraid to be alone with the Mormon he said, "Me no want you keel me. Me give you everything in the house you no keel me." The man said, "No, I don't want to hurt you. My children are hungry." Charley ran out to tell father to come, then the man explained how hungry his family were, having no bread and no money to buy. Father gave them something to eat, and soon the children were sitting with Charley and me eating bread and butter. Father gave flour and other things for the man to carry home. CARING FOR THE SICK AND DYING. Mother soon came home, telling of the want and suffering among the people. The King had gone from the Island on the last boat, leaving them to fare as best they could. They had come to the Island too late to plant anything that season and none of them knew how to fish or help themselves. They suffered cold, hunger and death that winter without complaint of their King. Their whole cry was "Oh, if our King were only here." There was some one every day to our house and Aunt Loaney's. The Mormons were in a starving condition. Father gave to them until he feared we should be left with nothing. Grandpa was afraid we children would be left hungry, so he buried many things for us. Mother and Auntie were always busy cooking and carrying food to the sick and dying. Mrs. McKinley was just as busy at the Point helping the suffering people all she could. There were several deaths in the winter and spring. After awhile father, grandpa and the boys put some nets through the ice, catching many fish for the hungry people. Our boys set hooks, showing the Mormon boys how to catch the fish to keep themselves from starving. Father and mother were so much among them they began to learn something about their strange belief, which was peculiar, their faith being all placed on their leader, "King James," as they often called Strang, always calling upon him to help them in their trouble. Mother said to them, "Why do you call upon man to help you? Why don't you call upon God and pray to him for help?" They would not listen, saying, "Has not our King the revelations revealed to him?" RETURN OF SPRING AND COMING OF STRANG. Spring had come. Our good old steamboat "Michigan" had come to our harbor once more. Strang also came. He was just as calm and serene as usual, nothing seemed to disturb him. His wife did not return until later in the season. He soon came to our house and seemed very grateful to our people for their kindness to his suffering people during his absence. When mother told him how much they had suffered he laughed, saying, "Oh, they must get used to Island life and expect to have some hardships." Soon the boats came and brought more Mormons. Those that came now were more comfortable and seemed to have more means to help themselves with. Very soon they were at work clearing the land and making ready to put in crops of potatoes, corn and other vegetables. There were several families who came from Texas, bringing their horses with them, with wagons and a few cows. Of course those who had plenty had to share with those who had little and give their every tenth part to the King's treasury, and very often giving more to help out extra expenses. Strang seemed in excellent spirits and went about from house to house, talking and encouraging his people, and father said no one would think they had passed through such trouble so recently. Soon it was planned to give a feast in honor of the King's return, and great were the preparations going on among the Mormons. JAMES CABLE SETTLING AT THE HEAD OF BEAVER ISLAND. With the springtime also came many fishermen to all of the islands, and many settled along the east shore of Beaver Island as far up as the light house at the head of the Island. A Mr. James Cable, nephew of Mr. Alva Cable, had now come to locate at the head of Beaver Island, three miles north of the light-house point. James Cable came from York State. He was a bright, smart, enterprising young man, recently married to a most estimable young lady of the same city where he lived. They came with their little son Claude, a child of about two years old. Here Mr. Cable invested considerable money; put out a good dock, built a large dwelling and store, carrying on the wood business for many years, as well as having a fish market, employing several men getting out cord wood to supply the steamboats, as well as buying fish and furnishing provisions and all fishing supplies to fishermen. Mr. C. R. Wright, also another man from New York State, settled at Cable's dock and carried on a large cooper shop to supply the barrels for the fishermen, which became a great industry. Mr. Cable, with all the rest of the Gentiles, was compelled to leave Beaver Island in 1852, not feeling safe to remain longer. After the death of King Strang he returned, taking possession again of his property, carrying on the business with success for several years. Feeling his need of rest he closed out his business and bought the property at Mackinac Island known as the "Astor House." Several of the men who had been with us the year before now returned again and were boarding with us. There were two brothers that came. Their names were Thomas and Samuel Bennett. Thomas was married when he came and they soon took some land, built a house and put in some crops. They also were in the fishing business. They never were very friendly with the Mormons. STRANG'S REVELATIONS. Soon after Strang's coming after that terrible winter of cold and suffering among his people, he claimed to have had several new revelations which must be told to his people. They all prepared for a great feast showing their joy at their King's safe return among them again. It would seem in his talk to them about his new revelations that he told them God was sending many Gentiles to be a help and a support to God's people, meaning themselves, the Latter Day Saints, and that it was right for his people to take whatever was necessary for them to have. That it was their privilege to take from the Gentiles. This was the first time that the King had openly given any orders of that nature to his people. Whether any Gentile had ever been admitted within the council room was never known, or whether some of his own people told what had been said, which many of us thought might be the case, but the news soon spread, and from that time no Gentile felt secure about his property. My father once asked Strang if he had ever preached to his people and given such orders. He answered he had not, but their actions soon told what their instructions had been. ROBBING THE GENTILES. His people soon began to take from the Gentiles whatever they could get. Up to this time the feeling between the Mormons and Gentiles had been very friendly, the fishermen being glad to have the Island settled with a good peaceful people as they had until now seemed to be. Mr. Peter McKinley at the Point was now suffering considerable losses by the Mormons taking his cattle and butchering them, also other goods which they were taking. A young man, or boy, Wheelock by name, told or gave information about the butchering of the cattle. He being a Mormon boy employed by Mr. McKinley, had to suffer the penalty by receiving fifty stripes with the "blue beaches," that being one kind of their punishments. We had never heard before of the Mormons doing anything of this kind to their people. The boy had told the truth and had to suffer the cruel whipping. WHIPPING OF THOMAS BEDFORD. A man by the name of Thomas Bedford was employed by Mr. Peter McKinley. He also gave some information about the stealing of property by the Mormons, and he also received seventy-five of the cruel stripes with the "blue beaches." For this awful treatment Mr. Bedford swore revenge. The Mormons never proved that Mr. Bedford had given any information about their stealing goods from Mr. McKinley, but just concluded he had and gave him the awful punishment. So Bedford bided his time for revenge. Strang had now a great number around him who sought his favor and were ever ready to do his bidding and many times did things he did not sanction. There were some good, kind, peaceable people that knew nothing about the working of the inner circle that surrounded the king. There was one apostle that aimed to take the King's place and be ruler himself. He was a cruel and crafty man. He took charge of all things among the people in Strang's absence. BUILDING TEMPLE AND PRINTING OFFICE. The Mormons were now building a temple after the pattern of the one at Kirtland, Ohio, and I believe of the same size. They had already built a saw mill so they could manufacture their own lumber. They had built a large building made of logs hewn on both sides. This was fitted up as a printing office and Strang edited a paper called the "Northern Islander." The printing office still remains and was turned into a hotel and is known as the Gibson House of St. James. The Mormons were a very busy people. Those that were improving their farms and building their homes had nothing to do, as a rule, with the making of Strang's laws. He had his council men, his twelve apostles, besides elders under the apostles, members of the households of twelve. They did the voting and had all to do with making the laws, that is the laws that governed the conduct of their people. Strang had the revelations and the council of twelve voted it a law. And they had the power to enforce the law and punish any who disobeyed. So far the King had preached against polygamy and said that it should not be allowed, although there were a number of Mormons that had a number of wives apiece. Strang allowed it to be so, as he said they had practiced the law according to Joseph Smith's doctrine, and having several wives apiece he told them they might keep them, but that no more should be taken. So the men who had more than one wife kept them. Strang had many people now to control, every boat during the summer season brought more converts, as he had several apostles traveling constantly about the country making new converts to their faith. Strang instructed them to make all things to appear at its best, so the people were made to believe the Island was truly the "promised land." STRANG'S REVELATION OF POLYGAMY. Now the King had a new revelation that polygamy must be practiced. When he made it known to his people it gave them a great shock, as their minds had been made up that this was not to be. Strang very soon obeyed the "Divine Command" by taking a spiritual wife, or as the Mormons called it, "being sealed." Mrs. Strang, his wife, packed her clothing and taking her three children with her, left the Island, never coming back to live with him again. Strang was absent when she left, so she met with no opposition. She came back to the Island twice during his absence, gathering the people together in the temple, talking and pointing out to them the error of practicing such a doctrine, and both times she came she burned the robes which the King wore when preaching in the temple. Mrs. Mary Strang was greatly loved by all his people that knew her. Of course the King was not pleased with the interference of Mrs. Strang. "CHARLES DOUGLAS." The King now took one of his young wives, had her dressed in man's apparel and travel about with him seeking after more converts. The name he gave her was "Charles Douglas." He made a great joke of this, and boasted "Charles" was the best worker he ever had. If Strang was magnetic "Charles Douglas" was irresistible. She was a beautiful woman and extremely fine looking when dressed as "Charles Douglas." I saw Strang and "Douglas" once together. One of the Mormon apostles was living neighbor to us. Mother had sent me on an errand to their house. Strang and his companion came there to dinner. Both were dressed in plain black suits, wearing high silk hats, which was the fashion. Both were smiling and talking very pleasantly together. Of course I supposed it was a young man with Strang, but the apostle's wife told mother about it later. A MAN WITH SEVERAL WIVES. There was one family living at the harbor settlement who kept a boarding house. This man had four wives. Gentiles as well as Mormons boarded with him, and many were the jokes the man had about his wives, saying he had no need of hired girls, as he had wives enough to do his work. My father was often there to take his meals, and once I remember mother was with him and took me. One of the wives was a French woman. Mother talked with her in her own language and she said she was tired of that life. She not being a favorite wife had too much work to do. She had four small children. When the other women saw her talking to mother in French they seemed not to like it, thinking perhaps she was talking about them. As soon as they came into the room the French woman began to sing as though she was very happy. At another time, when she was sick and my mother was taking care of her, she said, "Only for the love I have for my children I would take poison." Many women that we met were very cheerful and pleasant, while there were many more with very sad faces and manner. When our people first lived neighbors to the Mormons they were very friendly and talked about their work. As soon as they began to take things from us they became silent and did not appear to care to meet us any more. There were a few who never changed toward us and proved friends to the last, although they had to appear sometimes to be our enemies. BOB'S DEATH. One morning I missed Bob. I always ran to see him when I first got up. Sometimes it was very hard for Bob to walk, and when the warm spring sunshine came our boys and grandpa would put Bob in a nice place to lay. Now I could not find him, and when I saw mother I saw that she had been weeping and was now silent when I asked her about Bob. I ran over to Auntie Loaney's. There was grandpa. He was sobbing as if his heart would break and our boys were trying to comfort him by telling him Bob had not suffered a moment. Then I realized. Bob, my old friend, was dead, and I sobbed, "Oh, boys, what made you kill Bob?" Then they tried to explain. I could not listen, I could not understand why it should be done. Then Auntie and Uncle Loaney said, "Now dear children do not grieve, poor old Bob was too old to live any longer. It is best his sufferings are over." We were all sad over the faithful dog's death. It was several weeks before grandpa and I could feel it was for the best. We buried him where the birds sang first in the spring. [Illustration: KING STRANG'S RESIDENCE, BUILT IN 1850.] Father now thought it best to move to the head of the island, his work being there with Mr. Cable. We were beginning to fear the Mormons, as they had greatly changed toward us. In their travels up and down the island they most always stopped at our house. And sometimes there would be five or six, and very often they would ask for a meal, which we never refused to give them. Very often they remained all night, and then they were always sure to let us see the big knives they carried hanging to the belt they wore. Towards the last of our stay they carried a gun with them as well. When they came to our doors they never rapped, but simply walked in and helped themselves to a chair. We were told by some of their own people who were disgusted with Strang's doctrine that these men were just obeying the King's commands. He was trying to make all the Gentile people know the Mormons were to have their own way on the island. Just as fast as the Gentiles moved away from the Mormon settlement the Mormons followed and built their homes near to them. The Bennett brothers had already left their home at the harbor and gone to the Gentile settlement. THE COUNTY SEAT OF SAINT JAMES. Strang had now got the county organized, being attached to Mackinac county; later it was changed to Manitou county. The county seat and post office was at the harbor, named in honor of the King "Saint James." The island was divided into three districts and townships. The town at the harbor was named in honor of the Indian Chief at Garden Island, town of "Peain." The district at the head of the Island was called Gallilee, the center, Troy, the lower, Enoch. Strang was always very kind to the Indians, trying hard to have the Chief "Peain" give him one of his handsome daughters for a wife, which the Chief refused to do. Strang now established a school for the Indians at his own expense, sent a young Mormon over to Garden Island, where he taught school for three years. At a later date the government appointed teachers and gave many years of schools to the Indians, my husband being one of the teachers appointed. Chief "Peain" ruled his tribe with great kindness and firmness. He was a man of noble appearance. Their tribe was the Ottawas. Myself and husband remained on their island as teachers two years, from '62 to '64. Chief "Peain" was always the friend of the Chemokamon (white man.) MOUNT PISGAH AND INLAND LAKES. On Beaver Island there are six beautiful little lakes. Lakes Genessarett, Fox Lake, Green Lake. These lakes are near the head of the Island, while the other three, Font, Long and Round Lakes, are near the harbor. Font Lake is where the Mormons baptized their people, and also held their yearly feasts. It is a pretty spot with a long narrow point reaching out into the Lake. This lovely lake is about half a mile distant from the harbor. Long Lake is just a short distance beyond. That, too, is a beautiful spot. Its high land on one side is covered with heavy hardwood timber and great quantities of fish are in Long Lake. Just a short distance from Long Lake is "Mount Pisgah," a high sand mountain. One can look down into the harbor from its top. That, too, has beautiful scenery all about it. The group of islands near Beaver Island can be seen from "Mount Pisgah." High Island, Trout Island, Squaw Island, which now has a fine lighthouse erected upon it. Rabbit Island and Garden Island, with Hog Island off nine miles to the east. All these Islands show from this mountain, and on a clear day it is a beautiful sight to look upon. Lake Michigan, with its dark blue waters, with so many pretty islands covered with green trees, and the white pebbly and sandy beaches, where the white sea gulls are constantly soaring about or resting upon the water. The island was very beautiful when the Mormons first went there. At that time no timber had been cut off. One can appreciate its beauty only by going out into its center and among its pretty lakes. When my people first came there to live there were still traces left of the "Beaver dams" where the busy beavers had made their homes about the little lakes. This is why the island was named "Beaver Island," and sometimes the whole group comes under the one name of the "Beaver Islands." WILD ANIMALS AND BIRDS. At one time while I lived on the island there were several deer supposed to have come across the ice from the north shore. There was an abundance of wild duck, pigeons, partridges and wild birds of many different kinds. Foxes were plentiful, both grey and red, and once and a while a black fox. Lynx and wild cats were seen, and one old hunter declared he heard a "panther." These wild animals traveled many times across the ice in winter time from the north shore, and very often the foxes crossed from one island to another in the winter. At this date there are no wild animals, unless there might be some wild cats. I saw a wild cat that was shot there in 1882. One great reason that made the island so desirable a place to live at that time was its splendid fishing grounds. No one need to be without money in those days. Fish always brought a good price, and at the time of our Civil war brought a very high price. There were many large cooper shops run. These furnished barrels to the fishermen to pack and salt their fish in. The cooper trade was followed by a great many men. They came to the island from the cities to work through the summer season, then going home again for the winter. The climate being so pure many recovered their health that had lost it. At the present time the barrel trade is a thing of the past. Fish are packed in ice and shipped to the market fresh. Changes have come to Beaver Island as well as everywhere else. Still it will always be "Beaver Island." MRS. BENNETT STARTING TO CROSS THE LAKE. Thomas Bennett was living near to Cable's dock. There were several families at the little settlement. Some came from Canada, others were summer people going home in the fall. Mrs. Bennett and her three children were going on a visit across the lake. Her people lived at Cross Village. Her father and mother came with their own boat to take her with them. I remember so well the morning she left us. We all felt sorry to see her go. Mr. Bennett was a fond father and kind husband. His wife and children were everything to him. There were three little girls, the eldest five, the next three years, and the baby six months. Preparations were made the evening before for an early start. Father, mother and I went to the beach to see them off. It was hard for Mr. Bennett to let them go. He kissed his children many times, then his wife, and he said, "Isabel, how can I let you go. Come back to the house, you must not go." She felt very sad, saying, "Yes, Thomas, I know you will miss us, and I will not stay so long as I was going to. I will come back in a week." Good-bys were said, little hands waved and the boat went sailing out over the rippling waves. Mrs. Bennett held the baby high in her arms for her papa to see, little white handkerchiefs were fluttered as far as we could see them. Somehow we all felt sad. Mr. Bennett walked on the shore saying, "Oh, my wife, my children. Why did I let them go? I shall never see them more." We tried to comfort him, but we could not. As the darkness came on and the wind blew fiercer our hearts grew heavy. Mr. Bennett walked all night on the shore and my father with him. I lay in my bed listening to the sound of the sullen roar of the sea as the breakers dashed high on the beach. At times it seemed the waves would never stop their rolling until they swept us away. They came so near our door once or twice I went to the window to look out, and nothing but a sheet of white foam could be seen. At times it was like the sound of distant thunder as the waves broke and washed about us. All the next day the sky was dark, the waves had a moaning, sobbing sound that was very sad to hear. We waited two days, then the messengers came over from Cross Village. Two Indians were sent with a letter from the Catholic priest telling all he could of the sad accident. Early the next morning after the storm some Indians at Cross Village went to the beach to see if their canoes were all secure. The first object they saw was the boat of their neighbor drifting along the shore. No one was to be seen in the boat. They waited until the boat came in reach so they could pull it out from the breakers that still ran high. The boat was almost full of water. They took the water out as soon as possible, and in among the quilts lay little three-year-old Rebecca. She still breathed, her body was warm. The Indians in their excitement delayed taking the child to the house, thinking there might be more bodies washed upon the shore. They carried the child to the good priest's house and everything that human power could do was done to save the child, but it was too late, "Baby Rebecca had gone to join the angels." Oh the sadness, it was hard. It seemed sometimes Mr. Bennett could not survive the shock. None of the other bodies were ever recovered. Mrs. Bennett was a very beautiful woman with a sweet, loving disposition. THE KING'S RESIDENCE. About this time King Strang decided to build a residence for himself. He made the plans and called it the "King's Cottage." The King came to our house asking my father to go to the harbor and help build his house. He wanted him to do the framing, and father, not being very busy, and not liking to refuse the King, went. Father was gone about six weeks, coming home often to see how we were at home. He boarded at the house where there were four wives. The King's Cottage was built very strong. A story and a half high with a porch across the front. The wide hall went right through the center, with massive strong doors at front and back, and with an open stairway. On each side of the hall was a large room, two bedrooms, hall and closets upstairs. A white picket fence about the yard with a nice garden spot on the hillside. It was a pleasant, cosey home, and the location was most beautiful, looking out on the harbor and Lake Michigan. The house was in the midst of a lovely grove of forest trees, maple, beach, oak and scattering evergreens. The cottage was built under the small hill or terrace on a level flat and just a short distance from the docks and stores. When we arrived after the Mormons had left the island the house was in good repair. My father and mother occupied it two years, being the first ones to live in it after Strang's death. Strang had started a large addition to the cottage before he died, which was much larger than the cottage itself. The addition was put at the back of the main building, made of logs hewed on both sides, containing eight rooms. But like the cottage itself, it has gone to decay. Strang remarked, "I am getting so many wives I have to enlarge my house." While father was there Strang invited him to dinner one day in his own home, as he said he wanted him to see how a man could get along with several wives. My father went and had a fine dinner, and Strang was very gay, entertained with many jokes and stories. The four wives had very little to say, but were smiling and pleasant and seemed very anxious to please the King. THE KING'S JOKES. Strang joked about soon adding some more wives and soon starting a school for his own children, at which they all laughed. He talked continually, trying to have them all know that he was the king and having authority to rule his subjects as he pleased. When dinner was ended they went to the new cottage, Strang and the favorite wife, the other three women remained at home. Father said none of the other women ever came with Strang to see how the work progressed, only this one that he most always called "Charles." Father said this young woman was very pleasant and greatly pleased with the house. Strang seemed very affectionate to this wife. Every pleasant day they were walking about together. When father came home he said he was glad to be home again. They were all very kind to him, but it seemed terrible to see people live in that way. He told mother the women had sad faces when people saw them at their work. When Strang came again he said to mother, "I am going to make a Mormon of your husband and what will you do when he brings home more wives?" Mother said "I hope that will never happen, and if it should the women that come into my home will not have a happy time." Strang looked at her saying, "We could find a way to make everything agreeable in a very short time." Then he laughed, saying, "If you were a Mormon, Mrs. Whitney, you would think differently about these things. We believe in this doctrine and that is why we are happy." Mother said to him, "Now you can't make me believe you are as happy as you want us to think you are." He said no more and appeared thoughtful. After he was gone mother said to father. "Do take us away from this island. I am afraid of that man. No one knows what he may do yet." THE KING'S LAWS. The King was very particular about the appearance of his peoples' homes. The houses were built of logs hewed on both sides and all were whitewashed outside as well as in. Their yards were all laid out with care and taste, with flowers and shrubs, and nice vegetable gardens at the back, which gave all a homelike appearance. No liquor, tea, coffee or tobacco were to be used. There were men sent out every day to see that all refuse of fish was buried deep in the ground. He exacted a tax from the fishermen all along the shore of ten dollars for each boat, and as there were always a large number of boats, this added quite a little income to the King's treasury. All paid without hard feelings, as money was plenty and no one cared to have trouble with the King. The Bennetts would not pay the tax. Thomas Bennett felt he had been greatly wronged about his home, having to leave his land as his Mormon neighbors had made it so unpleasant for them, besides he felt Strang had no right to collect the tax from the fishermen. At any rate he refused to pay when Strang sent his men to collect it and the feelings between them were not very friendly. OUR MORMON NEIGHBORS. The winter of 1851 my brother Lewis went to Ohio to school; my father was very sick that winter. We had two Mormon neighbors that were very kind to us. One was a good doctor, and he took care of father almost constantly with help from others. The other Mormon friend was an apostle in the church. He and his wife lived near us. He had charge of the people that lived near the Gentile settlement. They were very nice people. Both these neighbors were very much worried about the things Strang was preaching. The people were getting restless and divided. Many wanted to leave the island but had no means to go with, and feared to be punished if found trying to get away. A great many were opposed to polygamy. Strang tried to keep his people in harmony together, but the strife was growing every day. In the early spring Strang came to see my father. He was very sympathetic about his being so sick. Mother told him how kind Mr. Bower and Mr. Sinclair had been to us. He seemed greatly pleased and asked to know if he could do anything to help. STRANG AND HIS FAVORITE WIFE. When he was leaving he said to mother, "Come over to Sinclair's. My wife is there. We have a nice baby. Come and see our baby boy." Mother took me with her to the apostle's home. There we saw the King and his favorite wife, Charles Douglas, and their baby. I, being fond of babies, wanted to hold him. I sat in a little chair and the mother put the child in my arms. The King was afraid I would let the baby fall. He never let go the child's dress. He seemed very fond of the child, and it was plain to be seen that this was his favorite wife. Most of the time he called her "Charles" and sometimes Elvira. She was very sweet and seemed very fond of her baby, yet her face seemed sad when not smiling. Her manner was quiet and her voice low. Before we left Strang took me on his lap, asking if I did not want to go to school. I stammered "Yes," but mother said she is too young yet to go to school. When we came home mother said to father, "Don't you ever consent to send Elizabeth to the Mormon school." Strang had remained on the island that winter. Very soon after our visit to the apostle, we were startled one morning to hear several boats and nets had been taken by the Mormons, with many barrels of fish from the store houses near the light-house point at the head of the island. Some Ohio fishermen had stored their fish and other property expecting to come back in the spring, leaving a man to look after the property. The ice was just breaking up in the lake. The Mormons took everything to the harbor. Our people saw them passing very early in the morning. All were well armed and ready to resist any interference from the Gentiles. We Gentiles were very frightened, fearing they would take our provisions from us, as there were all sorts of rumors. Mr. Cable had a store with a stock of all kinds of merchandise for their spring trade. He feared they would demand the keys and take possession of his goods. There was very little sleep for several nights among us. Our Mormon friends who were true to us advised us all to keep very quiet and not be seen talking with them. They kept us posted as much as possible. The Gentiles made preparations to defend themselves. The Mormons took the boats and nets to the north shore, concealing them in the woods, making it appear the north shore fishermen did the plundering. The owners of the property recovered the boats and part of the nets, but never recovered any of the fish. They were sold by the Mormons. At the harbor all was gaiety. Their theater was kept going to amuse the people with dancing parties every week. The King made it a point to entertain the sailors when vessels were detained by rough weather, and they began to think Beaver Harbor was not a bad place to be weather-bound. They found King Strang a charming entertainer. With opening of navigation the summer people came, and our house was again full of boarders. We had built a comfortable house, which was almost complete. Our regular boats were calling, business had started up and we all felt more secure from the Mormons as so many people were coming. Fishing was good, money plenty and everybody was busy. Strang had gone with his wife and child to attend outside affairs. The head apostle was in charge of everything and there was much dissatisfaction among many of his people. Several felt fear for their life, if they disobeyed the King's command. Among these was the Apostle Sinclair. THE KILLING OF BENNETT. The Bennetts were living not a great distance from us. Sam, as the younger brother was called, had married a young lady from Detroit, a Miss Sullivan. Thomas now boarded at his brother's home, and was still very sad over the loss of his wife and children. I had been visiting a week with Mrs. Bennett and returned home in the morning. In the afternoon a message came to our house saying that Thomas Bennett was dead. The Mormons had shot him. It was hard to believe, yet it was true. The Gentiles were very much excited and sorrowful, too, as Bennett had been a favorite with us all. Could it be possible they had killed our friend and neighbor? My three brothers were dressed in their Sunday suits and walked to the harbor, grandpa going with them, fearing something might happen to the boys. Bennett had always been very fond of my brothers and they loved him. Now, they must see him buried. It was long after dark before they reached the harbor. A Mormon family, who had some boys about their age, kept them all night. The next morning they went to where the body was. It had been put in a blacksmith's shop. Dr. McCulloch opened the body to see which of the seven bullets had proved fatal. One had pierced the heart. The body was put in a plain pine coffin and buried without prayer or ceremony of any kind. The grave was near the water in a little grove of cedar trees where the sound of the waves never ceased their solemn murmurings. When my brothers visited the grave soon after it was piled high with great rocks, meaning that every Gentile would be served the same unless they obeyed the king's commands. TO BE BROUGHT DEAD OR ALIVE. The killing of Bennett was a threat shock to all our people, as no one believed the Mormons would carry things so far. The Bennetts had gone early on the lake, returning before noon. While attending to their work in their workhouse two Mormon men stepped in, demanding the tax money. Bennett answered, "I want to see the king before I pay it." The men went away. The Bennetts stepped out to go to their dwelling, when seven bullets were fired at once into the body of Thomas Bennett. He dropped dead instantly. The brother ran toward his house with his hand up to his head. Bullets came thick and fast around him. He was shot through the hand, shattering all his fingers on one hand. There were many shots entered the windows. Mrs. Bennett to save her life had to go into the cellar. The body of Bennett was put into his own boat with all the fish there was in the fish house, which amounted to considerable money, and taking the wounded brother with them to the harbor. There the doctor dressed his wound. Strang always declared he never gave orders to have Bennett killed or to be brought "dead or alive." Until the killing of Bennett we could not believe the Mormons meant to do us bodily harm. Now all was changed. There was no more open friendship between Mormons and Gentiles as before. They avoided us, passing us without speaking with their heads bent and eyes looking to the ground. They seemed a sad and silent people. Not long after Bennett's death I saw the king coming to our house. The very name of Strang struck a terror to my heart. I felt so afraid of them all now. He was almost to the door, dressed in his black suit and high hat, I always recognized him from the rest. I said to mother, "Oh, where shall I go, I am so afraid of Strang?" Mother's bedstead was a high, old-fashioned one with white curtains about it. I ran and had just time to seat myself under it, and tried hard to pull the curtains around me, but my feet were left sticking out from under the curtain. STRANG HAVING DINNER WITH US. Strang walked in, seating himself in a chair, saying: "Good morning, Mrs. Whitney." Mother greeted him very coolly, as she had not seen him since Bennett's death. How my heart did beat when he asked where my father was. Then I was sure he wanted to take me away to the harbor to school. Mother told him father would soon be in to dinner, which she was then preparing. Strang said: "I guess I will stay to dinner, Mrs. Whitney, and have some of your nice baked whitefish, which I see you have." He saw her putting it into the oven. He talked about many things and after a little while he said, "Where is your little girl?" Then I was sure he would take me away. I wanted to scream, but kept quiet. Mother told him, "The child is afraid of you since you had Bennett killed." He came over to the bed, getting down on his knees, saying, "Come out, child; I will not hurt you. Come and sit on my lap." I drew back. He pulled me out by the hand, taking me in his arms and sitting in the chair he stroked my hair, saying: "I will not hurt you, child. Do not be afraid of me." His voice was low and his face looked sad. I looked at him a long time, then said: "I see blood on your head. I am afraid of you." He put his hand to his head, passing it over his forehead, and looking at his hand, he said: "I see no blood." He was very pale and his face was serious. Mother explained to him that I had heard the people say that the blood of Bennett was resting on Strang's head. I got down from his lap and took my little chair as far as I could from him, and holding my doll. I watched the king, fearing him so much. He told mother he was absent when Bennett was killed. She asked him why he was always absent when his people did the most disagreeable things. He said: "Do not judge me too harshly. I am not responsible for the killing of Bennett." Father and our boys soon came in with our friend, John Goeing. Strang staid to dinner and praised our boys for being so brave in going on the lake. He said: "My people will never learn to be good sailors; they are too timid." Then he asked about the schooling. Father told him John Goeing, our boarder, was teaching us. [Illustration: THE MORMON FEAST GROUND AT FONT LAKE, BEAVER ISLAND.] Father told me in after years he had a very serious talk with Strang that day, and the king admitted it was not right that Bennett was killed, but said where there were people that were opposite in their beliefs there was always trouble. Mother told him some sorrows would come to him if he persisted to live as he was living. He smiled, saying: "Oh, we aren't such a bad people, after all, Mrs. Whitney, and when you become one of us you will think just as we do." He shook hands and was gone. Mother said to father: "I do believe we shall have to leave here soon or we shall be forced to become Mormons." Father assured her that would never be. JOHN GOEING AND HIS DEAR OLD IRISH HOME. John Goeing came to the island and had been with us two years. He was an educated and refined gentleman from Ireland. His father was a rich Irish lord. John had been disappointed in love and left his "dear old Irish home" to come to America. From a visit to friends in Canada he had wandered to Beaver Island, and had been with us ever since. He was a great reader, having a box full of books. He did not work, and being very fond of us children he took it upon himself to teach us. He received money from home often, with the finest of broadcloth suits of clothes with silk underwear. Every evening after the lessons were heard John would read to us or tell us about his "old home in Erin." What brother Charley and I loved most was to have John tell about the chase with hounds. I liked it all except where the fox was killed by the dogs, then I would say, "John, can't you tell some stories where the fox gets away from the hounds?" Then he smiled, saying, "I won't have the foxes killed any more. It makes Elizabeth feel too sorry." Then he would get his books, saying, "Now, children, where shall we go tonight? England, Ireland or Scotland?" Sometimes we all wanted different stories. Then he would say, "I will take you to Ireland, my own native home." To me it was fairyland to listen to John telling of the home he had left, with its lovely green parks, graveled walks, shady bowers where his father and mother often strolled about with their children. We could almost see it all as he told it to us, and so often when he finished the tears would be falling through his fingers as his head rested on his hands. And the books, how wonderful were the places he took us to in them! He had traveled almost everywhere and we loved best to hear about his travels. We could understand it all better. John was like a brother to us younger ones, and like a kind son to father and mother. MY BROTHER CHARLEY GOING TO OHIO. Summer was fast slipping away. Our summer boarders were talking of home. One of our boarders, Mr. William Hill, was anxious to take my brother Charley home with him, put him to school and teach him the engineer's trade. It was all talked over and settled that Charley was to go. We children could not realize much about what it meant. My eldest brother had been one winter with the same man. Charley was to remain with Mr. Hill until he was twenty-one, he being past ten now. Papers were made out and signed. Mother prepared all the clothes for her boy that was going away to another home. I remember so well seeing the tears rolling down her cheeks as she sewed and stitched far into the night, making the little jackets that Charley was to wear in his far away new home. She sacrificed her own feeling that her boy might have an education, and a good trade when he became a man. The time had now come for Charley to go. Father and mother had grown thin and pale. The packing began. Mother could not finish and neighbors had to come in and finish it for her. BROTHER LEWIS AND I WERE GOING TO OHIO WITH MR. CRANE. Mr. Hill told her Charley could come back to see us every summer. But somehow it seemed it never would be the same. Charley would never be ours again. It was terrible to think about when the time came for them to go. A letter came to Mr. Hill from his sister in Painesville, Ohio, asking if he could not bring the little sister, meaning me, that she would like to have a little girl to be with her two small children. She would send me to school and I would be near my brother. Then I could come home in the spring and go back another winter if all was agreeable. It was at last decided that I, too, should go the last trip of the steamer Michigan, in December. BROTHER CHARLEY GONE. The steamer was at the dock. Good-byes were said. Charley was gone. The boat steamed away, taking the first one from the home nest. It was hard for mother to give up her boy, but she felt it was best for him. Oh, how long the time seemed to me! No more could we wander about together. Our little canoe lay idle upon the beach. There was no little brother to help row the boat, or swing in the old swing from the big maple tree, or chase the plovers along the shore. Our little pet dog was always searching about for Charley. His bows and arrows were put away out of sight. The house seemed still; it was as if some one lay dead. John felt just as sad as any of us. Our neighbors came to cheer us, telling us we should meet again when the spring time came. Mother still was busy getting the rest of us ready to go. Mr. Crane was our neighbor. He came from the headlands near Fairport, Ohio. His daughter Elizabeth came with him and her brother to be their housekeeper. They owned a farm in Ohio. They were a large family and money could be earned easily at the island as the fish were so plenty. They came with several other Ohio families. Mr. Crane was coming back next season and I could return with them. Nearly all our summer people were gone. We had just two left and they were going on the last boat. The Mormons were now taking boats and nets every chance they got and the Gentiles felt very unsafe. Our two Mormon friends told our people there was great trouble among them in the Church, as Strang's laws were becoming unbearable. The weather had changed and snow and ice were now with us, and brother Anthony had gone to Green Bay to his uncle John Gebeau. In another week brother Lewis and I would be gone. How often I said to John, "Now you will be good to father and mother, won't you? for they will have no one but you, and you will read to them and tell them about Ireland and your old home." John promised all and mother told me afterward she never could have lived through the winter only that John was so kind. He read them stories, and being a good singer, he sang his old native songs of Ireland. All was ready. Our trunks were packed. Mr. Crane's goods were on the dock. Fishing had been good and those who had not had their nets stolen were going home with money. There were about twenty families of the Gentiles to remain all winter at the settlement at Cable's dock. The rest went to their winter homes. I was busy bidding my little playmates farewell, as the boat was expected every hour. At last the steamer was beside the dock. Elizabeth Crane had packed my trunk, as mother could not do it. I had my dolls packed and then took them out, saying to mother, "I will leave my dolls so you can see them and you won't be so lonesome." When she could speak she said, "Yes, leave the dolls. When I look at them I shall think you are near." So the dolls were left in their little beds covered up with their sheets and quilts just as I always put them to sleep. We all ate our dinner together. It was a sad, silent meal. Mr. Crane and Elizabeth were charged over and over again to take good care of me if I should be sick. They promised to do all they could for me. Mr. Crane said. "I shall take care of your child as if she were my own." I said to John. "Now who will go to England, Ireland and Scotland with you these long winter evenings?" He said, "I guess I will have to take your father and mother with me as you children will all be gone." "Well John, be sure you take little dog Prince and all the dolls. Don't leave them here alone." The whistle blew, good-byes were said, mother caught me in her arms with one last long kiss and "God bless you, my child." Mr. Crane and Elizabeth with brother hurried to the boat, John and father coming as the captain shouted "all aboard." Father kissed me, saying, "Be a good girl, come home in the spring and God bless you." ON BOARD STEAMER MICHIGAN. My hand slipped from his into Elizabeth's. She led me over the gang-plank. My little dog had followed me. He put his paws upon my shoulder and was licking the tears off my face. Father called to him, but he would not leave me. The men carried him to father, the plank was pulled in, the paddles turned and we steamed away with those on the dock waving us good-by. Elizabeth took me up on deck where brother and I stood waving as long as we could see the old home where we had all been so happy together. We soon reached the harbor, we landed at the Point dock to take freight. Mr. McKinley had taken his family the trip before and gone to Ohio for the winter, his clerk taking charge of the business in his absence. His father, grandpa McKinley as we called him, came on board to go away for the winter. He was always so kind to us children and we all loved him. It was Sunday, but I noticed the Mormon women had their washing on the line, Saturday being their Sunday. We steamed away and soon could see nothing about us, as it was snowing and the sea was heavy. Our boat rolled and pitched about so no one could stand upon their feet. Jane, the cabin maid, took me to her private cabin and let me lie on her couch. As I lay there I began to realize I was leaving my home. It was dark, the lamps were lighted and I said, "Oh I must go home. I can't leave father and mother." Elizabeth took me to her room, putting me in her berth. There I sobbed myself to sleep. AT MACKINAC ISLAND. When I awakened we were at the dock at Mackinac Island. Everything was white with snow. The whole island looked like white marble. The damp snow had covered the trees. The fort on the hill looked so pretty where the snow was on the tops of the houses and chimneys. A flag waved over the fort. There were soldiers in their blue clothes walking up and down the fort hill. Dogs and ponies hitched to sleds with people dressed in fur coats, caps and mittens riding along the front street that reached round the pretty bay. The dock was full of people. Men, women and children nearly all speaking in French. There were a number of families going away on the last boat to their winter homes. Elizabeth took me ashore. We went into several stores and there I met old grandpa. I told him I was going to see Charley. He was so pleased to see me and cautioned me to be careful not to fall overboard and to be sure and tell Charley grandpa had not forgotten him. Then he gave me packages of candy, apples and raisins. I met several that knew me, as they were so often with us at home. We walked down to the Mission House, as mother had told me so much about the Mission. When Mr. Ferry was there mother had attended the Mission school for a time. We saw Robinson's Folly with the white snow covering the rocks and trees. We then came back to the old Mission Church, and going inside I told Elizabeth my mother had often taken me there when I was a baby. I showed her the Dousman pew in front where the family used to sit, my mother being adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Dousman. We then came to the "Old Agency House" with its quaint old chimney outside at the end, its little dormer windows in the roof. It was now all covered with the pure white snow and every shrub around its doors was draped in white. We passed on, going toward the Grand, many little houses covered with cedar bark and some had cedar bark put all around the outside, with narrow strips of wood tacked on to hold it. Some had little square windows with four and six panes of glass with white muslin curtains. They looked like little toy houses, but were warm and comfortable. It was a quaint little village full of jolly, kind hearted people whose hearts were tender and true to their neighbors. It being cold we soon went back to the boat. Our boat looked like a huge snow bank beside the dock. The freight was being rolled over the plank and all was confusion. There were handshakes and good-byes as the people hurried over the plank. The "all aboard" was shouted, the plank was pulled in, the paddles turned and we were moving away amid the waving of caps and fluttering of handkerchiefs. Our whistle was saluting, and many of the people on the dock joined in one of the old French-Canadian glee or boat songs, their voices sounding far out over the waters as we passed Round Island. ON LAKE HURON. For a short time we watched the white island covered with snow. It soon set in thick again and the snow came down in blinding sheets with a cold wind. Our boat rocked and tumbled about. We were now out on Lake Huron in a heavy snow storm. Our captain and sailors were dressed in their warm fur coats. Every turn of the paddies was taking me farther from home, and soon such a longing came over me which I could not shake off. I wanted to go home. Elizabeth and my brother tried their best to comfort me, telling me I was going to see brother Charley; but nothing could make me feel better. Brother tried to have me eat something, but I could not. My chin quivered, I tried so hard not to cry, I ran to my room, throwing myself on my bed, trying hard to keep the tears back. Soon Mr. Crane came with a big doll he bought for me at Mackinac Island and grandpa McKinley came to see me, taking me in his arms and rocking me in one of Jane's chairs. I was very glad to see him. He was a dear white haired old man. He told me some droll stories that made me laugh. Then I told him I was going to see my brother Charley and that I was homesick, and if I didn't get better soon I was going to ask the captain to turn the boat and take me back to Beaver Island. The storm grew worse, the seas ran higher, the snow was blinding and all things had to be made secure on the boat. No one but the sailors could walk about. Any that tried would be thrown down. The only way they could move about was to creep on their hands and knees. Sometimes our boat was high on the waves, when it seemed every timber in her would be broken. She trembled and then sank way down, where it seemed we would be buried in the foaming waters. CROSSING SAGINAW BAY. We were now crossing Saginaw Bay in a blinding snow storm. The whistle was blowing almost constantly, and once we heard another quite close to us. Women and children were crying in their state-rooms, others were groaning in fear and sickness. Our boat was creaking and tossing, sometimes on her side, when it seemed she would never rise again. Sailors were running on the deck and orders were shouted by the captain. Water was splashing into the cabins, glass was broken from the windows, and cabin boys were hurrying about nailing up blankets. Dishes were smashing as they fell from the lockers. Cabin doors could not be shut, our boat was twisted, and it seemed she could not last much longer she settled and trembled so at times, and then the great waves dashed all over her. PRAYING FOR THE STORM TO CEASE. Our blankets were wet by water coming in upon us as Elizabeth and I lay in our berth with our hands tightly clasped in each others. She had been telling me about her home, mother, sisters and brothers. How they were waiting and watching for them to come home, saying, "I know my mother is praying for us." Then I said, "And we must pray, pray awful hard, because my father, mother and John said if I was in trouble God would hear me and help me, and I guess I will pray for our boat to be saved." Elizabeth said, "Yes child, pray for us all." And I am sure God heard the feeble prayer I made as I told him how sorry everybody would be if our dear old Michigan steamboat went down. I felt no fear through all the storm. I said to Elizabeth, "Now we must go to sleep." She kissed me, saying, "Dear child, what a comfort you are to me." We were cold and wet in our berths and now the boat seemed pitching and tossing another way. Her head would go down so far it seemed she would pitch over head first. Many were screaming in the cabins. Mr. Crane with my brother and William were on the cabin floor near our door. Our door had to be tied back to keep from slamming. My brother had the life preservers ready and some had already put them on. Oh the praying and the screaming was terrible; but in the midst of all I went sound to sleep. When I awoke our boat was still. We had weathered the gale. AT PRESQUE ISLE DOCK. There was tramping of feet and scraping of shovels. I was sure we had run aground. Brother soon told us we were safe at Presque Isle dock. Oh how glad we felt! Brother said hurry and dress so you can get out on deck and look at our boat. She is a sight to look at. We were soon on the dock looking at our boat covered with snow and ice. One could never have imagined it was a boat that lay there. It was like a big ice berg. Her spar was so covered with ice it looked like a great tree. Our boat was a side wheel steamer with a walking beam. Capt. Newberry was owner and master. He said to his mates, "Boys, when this old steamer of ours can weather such a gale she can go through anything." People came running down to the dock to see the steamer as the news spread. We laid there two days and nights to clear the snow and ice off and make some repairs so she could go to Buffalo to lay up for the winter. Brother Lewis said he could not tell how many barrels of salt were used on that trip to keep the boat from sinking with ice. Our ears were tired hearing the shovels scraping the snow and ice for the rest of the trip. AT DETROIT AND CLEVELAND. Our passengers began to feel better that the great storm was over and again we were moving. Many were to leave the boat at Detroit, as some were to cross over to the Canada side. At Detroit we remained for some time, our Captain's home being there. Mr. Crane, Elizabeth, William, Lewis and I went ashore. Mr. Crane bought me some red morocco shoes and a pretty red silk hood to match my red cloak. We had not many passengers after we left Detroit, and again the sea was rough with a heavy rain storm. When we reached Cleveland we again went ashore, walking about the city all morning, and in the afternoon Mr. Crane took a carriage and we drove about the city, seeing many handsome residences, but they could not get me to say anything I saw was nicer to me than my island home. That night there was a gale on Lake Erie so our boat laid in port. I was still homesick and the tears would come often, though I tried to keep them back. My brother Lewis was to leave us here at Cleveland, as this was where he was going to school. After he left us I was very lonely. TRYING TO BE HAPPY. Elizabeth said. "Now my dear child you must have patience. Spring will soon be here and we will take you home again. So now, have patience." All day long after she talked to me I kept repeating every little while. "Patience, patience; have patience." I did not know its meaning. At last I asked her what it meant. She tried to explain to me it meant not to worry, not to fret, to be quiet and wait, try to be happy, sing when I wanted to cry, and be cheerful and not give up to sadness. I repeated many times what she said to me and promised to do the best I could. How much I needed that lesson before my face was again turned homeward! I did not cry any more. I told Elizabeth my heart was getting too big and I was sure it would burst. When I felt so bad and it was hard to keep the tears back I took my doll Jane (I had named her after the dear, kind cabin maid) in my arms, rocking and singing some of my old French songs my mother had taught me. When Elizabeth looked at me I said, "Now I am getting patience." Soon the captain came in, saying, "Is this the little girl that is homesick?" I said, "Oh no, I'm not homesick any more. I have got patience." He laughed heartily. Elizabeth explained to him what I meant. He said, "No don't you get homesick any more. I will take you home next April on this old steamboat of mine. So get all the patience you can." ON THE HEADLANDS. At nine o'clock that evening we reached Fairport. It had been raining hard and the night was dark. We were ready to leave the boat. Jane, the cabin maid kissed me many times, saying, "Now my dear child try not to be homesick and we hope to meet you in the spring and take you home with us." We stepped ashore, it seemed to me the dock was moving from under us, we had been over a week on the boat. Elizabeth was soon with her brothers and sisters who had come to meet her. She took my hand saying, "This is my little friend, Elizabeth Whitney." They gave me a hearty welcome and I knew I was among friends. We hurried to the hotel kept by Mrs. Root in Fairport, where we remained all night. Next morning after breakfast we crossed over the river on the scow ferry, where we were met by Mr. Crane's carriage and we drove to their home on the Headlands. There Mrs. Crane was standing in her door to meet her husband and children. After all had greeted their father and mother, Mrs. Crane with the rest of the family gave me a kind welcome and I felt quite happy with them. Their nearest neighbor was Mr. Alexander Snell. He had been to Beaver Island and knew my parents. Mrs. Snell and everybody was very kind to the little "Island Girl," as I was called. Her sister, Mrs. Wright, was our neighbor at home. Mr. Crane's youngest child was a girl of five years, and a boy named Charley eight, so we children had great fun hunting hen's eggs in the big barn. After one week one bright morning Mr. Crane took me in the carriage to Painesville to my new home. We crossed the Grand river at Fairport, then took the old plank road to Painesville. How the horses' hoofs did clatter as we drove on a fast trot! We stopped at the turn of the road, where Mr. Crane had two sisters living. Their house was on a pretty knoll on the right as we drove into Painesville. We had dinner with Mrs. Matthews. The other sister was a maiden lady called by the children "Aunt Margaret." They were all very kind to me. IN MY NEW HOME. After dinner we drove into Painesville up to the cottage door to my new home. The lady came to the door and knew at once I was the little girl she expected and said, "Come in." We stepped inside, Mr. Crane saying, "I have brought you this child as you directed me in your letter. Her father has put her in my care and I am responsible for her. If you do not like to keep her this winter I shall take her home with me. If you do take her and at any time don't want her, let me know. I shall come once every week to see her until I go back to the island, and of course you know she is to go back to her home with me unless she wants to stay and you want to keep her." The lady said, "Yes you have said just as my letter to her father reads." She looked at me, then turning to Mr. Crane she said, "She is so small she won't be able to help me much." Mr. Crane said, "Why you said in your letter you wanted her for company and to do little errands and chores for you and be with your children." "Yes," the lady said, "But I shall expect her to help me some." Mr. Crane told her, "You promised to send the child to school and I have money from her father to buy her books." The lady said, "Oh I know we shall like her." Then Mr. Crane handed her the money for my books, saying, "She has clothes enough. If there is anything more needed let me know." He gave her his address and went out to bring my trunk. He said, "Now my dear child, I hope you will be happy in your new home. I will come every week to see you." Turning to Mrs. Shepard, he said, "If this child gets sick let me know." He bent down and kissed me, the tears falling fast from his eyes, he bowed to Mrs. Shepard and hurried away. The last link that reminded me of my island home was gone. Oh it was terrible! I tried to run after him to call him back. I wanted to say come back, come back and take me to your home. I could not speak, I could not move, never while life lasts can I forget how I felt when I saw Mr. Crane driving away in the carriage. I was among entire strangers in a strange land. A child of seven and a half years of age. The lady said, "Come to the fire you must be cold." She then took my cloak and hood. I sat down in a little chair. She went about the house at her work, never speaking to me. All was silent and quiet. In a little while the two little children, one a boy of three, the other a year old, just walking, came to me. The oldest brought me some toys and put in my hands, never speaking. Then the youngest came and put his little face up to mine. I kissed him, which seemed to please him, and soon I took him on my lap, where he soon fell asleep, while the other child was sitting quietly beside me on the floor playing with his toys. The lady took the child and laid him on the bed saying. "Do you like children?" I answered. "Yes Ma'm." It was the first word I had spoken since I entered the house. She took her sewing and never spoke. Oh how long the time seemed! I cannot tell how I felt. No tears would come to give me relief. At last she put her sewing away and began the supper. Then the lights were lit; the baby had wakened and I again took him in my arms. The other child stood close beside me. MR. MILTON A. SHEPARD. Soon the door opened and a man came in. The children cried, "Papa." He kissed the children saying, "Who is this little girl?" His wife told him, "This is the little island girl we expected." He took my hand, saying. "I am glad to see you. But wife what a little midget she is." He was a kind looking man with black hair and eyes. Supper was on the table. I was placed near the children. I tried to eat, but I could not swallow. The food stuck in my throat. Mr. Shepard noticed I did not eat, so he asked me if I would like some milk. I answered, "Yes, sir." Mrs. Shepard told him there was none only what the children had. I said, "Never mind," but little Henry gave me his cup full. I managed to drink it. When the meal was over I asked if I should do the dishes. "Not tonight, but tomorrow," she said. Mr. Shepard asked me a few questions about my island home, which was the only time in all my stay that my home or my parents were ever mentioned to me. HOMESICK. I was put to bed upstairs alone in a room. The first time in my life I was ever alone at night, but I was not afraid, only homesick. I took my doll Jane in my arms, saying my prayers I went to bed, but not to sleep. My thoughts went back to my home on the island. I could see my pets, father, mother and John sitting around the table, mother sewing, John reading, and the tears would come in spite of all my efforts to keep them back. Then I thought about what Elizabeth said to me that I must have patience, yes I must not cry and I would soon see brother Charley. I would ask Mr. Shepard in the morning about my brother. Then I whispered so low to Jane, telling her it was naughty to cry and complain, and that we must pray God to help us, asking her if she had forgotten the big storm when we were on the lake. In talking to my doll I fell asleep and only awoke when Mr. Shepard was building the fire in the morning. I was soon dressed and was down stairs, where I began dressing the children, and always after that I took care of them. The dear children, how they loved me and I loved them! Never once were they cross to me, and I hope I never was to them. Of course I could not comb my hair. It was long and heavy. Mrs. Shepard did it for me. I helped her with the dishes and soon learned how she did her work. She was very neat and her home was always in order. By standing on a little stool I could reach the dishes on the pantry shelves and soon could do the dishes alone and help about the other work. GOING TO SCHOOL IN THE LITTLE RED SCHOOL HOUSE. The next week I was sent to school in the little red school house. Miss Elizabeth Crawford was my teacher. She and her mother lived near the school house in a little vine covered cottage. I was very happy in school. Mr. Shepard heard my lessons in the evenings so he could see what progress I made. Mr. and Mrs. Shepard had both been teachers. The Christmas time was saddest for me, for then I missed my home the most. MEETING BROTHER CHARLEY. I was in Painesville over a month before I saw my brother Charley. He came one day and staid to dinner. I could scarcely believe it was he, he had grown so tall and seemed such a little man. After dinner we took the children on the sled and went to Mr. Shepard's shop where he made the wagons. Then we went down the bank to the river. At four o'clock he must start for home. I wanted him to stay all night, but he said he could not. The time came all too soon for him to go and with many promises to come again we bade good-by and he was gone. For days afterward I wondered "had I dreamed he was there or was it a reality." I never saw him again while I remained. One morning soon after when Mrs. Shepard was combing my hair she took the shears and cut it off short. My heart was broken. She said, "I can't be troubled with your long hair every morning." Mr. Shepard was sorry, but said, "Never mind, it will grow again," which comforted me because I feared it would always be short like the Mormon women's hair. Mrs. Shepard had a niece boarding with her. She liked to tease me, telling me it would never grow again. Every Sabbath I went to church and always had my verse learned for my Sabbath school teacher. One morning on my way to school I met Mr. Peter McKinley. He lived in a large house near our school. He was very glad to see me. To me it seemed like seeing some one from home. Mr. Crane came every week to see me, but I never saw him. Sometimes I was at school, twice I was in the house upstairs with the children but never knew he was there until he was gone. Spring was drawing near and I wondered if I ever would see Mr. Crane and go home. One day Mr. and Mrs. Shepard left home and went to Willoughby. Her niece kept house and I helped her take care of the children. They were gone two days. The front door was always locked and I was told not to go to the door if anyone came. Once when I was on the street I saw Elizabeth Crane and her sister driving. They knew me and I knew them, but they were out of sight so quick I had not time to speak to them. Mr. and Mrs. Shepard came home. They began to pack their goods. Once I said, "Are you going away?" She said, "Yes, we are going to move to Willoughby." A CHILD'S PRAYER. All that night I lay awake. I knew then they intended to move and take me with them, and then I would never see my father and mother again. My heart was heavy, and all night I kept praying that God would help me to go to my own home. Mrs. Shepard had a sister living near, and next day I went to her, telling her I had not seen Mr. Crane and I feared I was to be taken away to another place and would never see my people again. She was a dear, kind lady, and she said, "I will see my sister about this," and she came right home with me. She talked with her sister for a long time. I did not hear their conversation, only I saw Mrs. Shepard was displeased. When Mrs. Robinson left she kissed me. I saw tears in her eyes. She had been so kind to me all winter. It was the one bright spot in that winter's life for me. The next morning we were to start for Willoughby. As I went to my room my heart was heavy with trouble. I took my doll Jane, telling her my sorrows and fears, but somehow Jane could not comfort me. I said to her, "It is because you don't know anything about my people. You have never been to Beaver Island." The moon was shining bright into my room. I lay a long time thinking and saying, "Oh, what shall I do!" I got out of bed and knelt beside it praying as I had never prayed before. I told God all about my sorrows, saying, "Oh won't you help me and take me home to my father?" My heart felt lighter. With Jane in my arms I lay me down to sleep and never wakened until Mr. Shepard called. We hurried our breakfast. Mrs. Shepard appeared nervous. My heart felt lighter than it had for many a day and I kept listening for carriage wheels which I felt sure would come. One load of goods had gone to the depot, the dray had just left the door with another and there were just a few things left for the last load. Our wraps lay on a chair. A CHILD'S PRAYER ANSWERED. Mr. Shepard had gone to the postoffice. A carriage drove up and stopped before our door. A lady came quickly in. I looked and saw it was Aunt Margaret, Mr. Crane's sister. I threw my arms about her, saying, "I am so glad to see you. Will you take me home?" She said, "Do you want to go?" "Yes, I want to go." She turned to Mrs. Shepard saying, "I see you are moving. I am Mr. Crane's sister. He was not able to see this child this winter. He sent me as the time is drawing near when my brother returns to the Island. He promised this child's father to bring her back if she wants to go." Mrs. Shepard told her she would have no interference and would keep me. "No," said Aunt Margaret, "Your letter reads the child could go home and come again if all was agreeable. And she says she wants to go and I shall take her. Elizabeth get your things on." I just flew I got my trunk, the lady putting it into the carriage. I was following her when Mrs. Shepard said, "Child aren't you going to kiss me and the children?" I put my arms about her neck, kissing her and caught the children in my arms with a hug and a kiss, then ran to the carriage. Aunt Margaret lifted me to the seat, took the lines, and our horse just flew down the plank road till we arrived at Mrs. Matthews, where Mr. Crane was waiting for us. He came, saying, "Dear child how I have worried about you. When I saw I could never get to see you I sent sister Margaret and now you can go home on the steamboat Michigan." Oh what a happy child I was! All the sad, gloomy, lonesome days were forgotten. I was going home. Home to my father and mother. Going to my island home. We soon started for the Headlands once again. The horses' hoofs clattered over the road to Fairport. We crossed the river, and in a short time were at Mr. Crane's house, where all the family met me with greetings of love. I entered school; Miss Marion Brooks was my teacher. I was at the Headlands three weeks when a letter came from the Captain of the steamboat Michigan to be ready at a certain date to meet the boat at Fairport. Mr. Crane made preparations, and on the date mentioned in the letter we were all in Fairport to take the steamboat. My brother had come from Cleveland. HOMEWARD BOUND ON STEAMBOAT MICHIGAN. How my heart swelled with joy when I heard the Michigan's whistle and saw the steamer nearing the dock. Mr. Crane's people were sad to have them go, but all was ready, good-byes were said and again the old familiar sound of "all aboard" was heard. We stepped upon the gang-plank. Jane met us with her pleasant greetings, lines were cast off, our boat was moving, we steamed out upon the waters of Lake Erie with many blocks of floating ice about us, and the sea gulls were again soaring high above us, uttering their shrill cries, as if they, too, were glad to have the spring time come. We reached Cleveland, where several families took passage for the island, some of whom were our boarders of the year before. At Detroit more came on board. Among the rest Mr. and Mrs. Loaney. They had been to Toronto, Canada, for the winter. There were many fishermen returning to the island on this first trip. More would follow later. The weather was fair. Our steamer had been repaired since that terrible trip in December. The Captain said to me, "Little girl did you get lots of patience this winter?" At first I could not remember what he meant. Then it flashed through my mind and I answered, "Yes sir." He said, "Well child, I told you this old steamboat would carry you home and now you will soon be there." Jane was glad to see us all again, the tears ran down her face when I told her how homesick I was and what a comfort my Jane had been to me. It was pleasant enough for us to be on deck after we left Detroit. We stopped at almost every port. Lake Huron was calm and quiet this time with just a ripple on Saginaw Bay, but we could feel the motion of big swells, which sent many to their state rooms. AT MACKINAC ISLAND. We passed Bois Blanc, and were soon at the dock at Mackinac Island. This time green trees greeted our view, but the white fort on the hill with the flag waving over it looked just the same. The people were all out to greet the first steamboat of the season, it being sometime about the middle of April, 1852, old grandpa being among the rest. He was glad to see us, but sorry Charley was not among us. Again we walked the streets and climbed to the fort. The grass was springing up in the yards, and all nature told us spring had come. There were happy, cheerful smiles on people's faces, children were playing in the sunshine. We had now left the dock and again there was waving and singing on the dock to cheer us on our way. Our boat moved out past Round Island. There were great blocks of drifting ice on every side. Near the little island of St. Helena we almost stopped to keep clear of the ice. We steamed past Hog Island, with little Hat Island looking white with ice packed about it. Over to the northward was all ice, which had not yet broken to drift. We soon were at the McKinley dock at the harbor; freight was taken on for Green Bay, again the "all aboard" was called and we steamed along past Big Sand Bay. We could see all the little homes that would soon be occupied by summer people. HOME AGAIN. Brother and I saw our home, with father, mother and John standing in the door. We waved to them; they saw and answered. Our boat was landed; father and John were there to meet us with other friends. I could scarcely wait for the gang plank to be put out. Ah well, the home coming was almost worth the waiting for. As soon as I had greeted father and John I ran up the dock for home, my little dog chasing after me. I met Mr. Cable hurrying down. As I ran past without stopping, he said, "Aren't you going to shake hands?" "Oh yes, but I am in such a hurry to get home," I answered. Oh the joy to be once more at home! I took both hands and dashed the water up into my face as I ran along the shore to our house. The sound of the waves seemed welcoming me home. I looked back once toward the boat and saw father with Elizabeth and the rest coming. I ran almost breathless into the house saying, "Mother I have come home." She hurried toward me saying. "Charley." Then she caught at the back of a chair. Her face was so pale I thought she would fall, and I gave her water to drink. She kissed me with her eyes full of tears. I whispered, "No, Charley has not come." The rest came in. Mr. Crane's people were to stay with us until their house was ready. We were a happy family around our table at supper time. I was now home and yet there was a sadness about it. We were not all together as we once had been. Father and mother had grown thin and pale. John said he could never tell how much we children had been missed. He had read his books, sung his songs and told his stories to pass away the winter evenings, and they had all worried much about the Michigan, knowing that we were out in that terrible storm when we left in the fall. I was busy for a few days visiting our neighbors and telling them about my trip and where I had been. My little friend Rose and her mother were glad to see me, as I could tell them about their people on the Headlands. Their Aunt Mary Snell and Cousins Andrus, Alva and the rest. There was a sweet little babe at Cable's. They called her Cora, and I was so glad, because now I could help take care of her. Somehow life had changed. Before going away the world did not seem to reach out very far beyond our island home, now it began to seem like a great big world to me, and many were the questions I asked John, which he was always glad to answer. Once I said, "John were you ever homesick?" After a minute he answered, "Yes, sometimes." I said, "I know what homesick means now." A MOTHER'S LONGING TO SEE HER BOY. Though life was busy with us, we missed Charley. Brother Anthony had returned from Green Bay, being delighted with his school, his uncle and aunt were so kind to him. One evening I went to the beach to sit beside the water. I wanted to hear its soft low whisperings again. I was not there long before I heard some one sobbing. I turned and mother was beside me. She said, "I came to look for you and I was thinking that perhaps Charley may never come home." She sat beside me silent for a time and then said, "Now we must not spend our time in sorrow. Sometime Charley may come." And she told me how anxious she was about a sick neighbor she was caring for, saying, "I shall depend on you, Elizabeth, to help me, and I want you to be careful never to repeat anything we talk about. There is much trouble among the Mormons themselves. Strang has been gone all winter, and some of the apostles refuse to obey the laws of polygamy. There are spies all about us and the Mormons are not our friends any more." I promised her I would be careful. She said, "Mr. Sinclair is afraid of his life, as he knows he may be made an example of for refusing to obey Strang's laws. I have many things to think about and do for this sick woman. And I want to tell you something else. Elizabeth Crane is going to be married in June. Charles Angel will come after her. Then her home will be in Saginaw and her sister Jennie will come in her place to keep house for her father. So now do not worry Elizabeth about anything, for she has lots of sewing and we must help her all we can." Life was busy; our summer people were with us. Elizabeth Crane had left us never to return. Mr. Angel and she were married at Mackinac Island. When the boat came back her sister Jennie, a beautiful girl of nineteen, came to remain until fall, when she, too, married Mr. James Corlette of the Headlands. Mr. Crane, with others, left the island early in September, as the Mormons had taken every boat along the shore below Cable's dock, with the nets from the lake and fish from their fish houses. They left the island, never coming back again, just a few months before we, too, were obliged to leave or become Mormons. MENOMINEE INDIAN FAMILY. Sometime in June there came a canoe of Indians to our shore. They made their camp near us. Mother went to see them. When she came home she told us they were Menominee Indians come to fish for a time. They had been over to Cross Village visiting some friends. Their home was in Green Bay county. There were two small children, the Indian and his wife. The Indian woman was a pretty woman with jet black hair cut straight across the forehead, this being the fashion with Menominee squaws. Their wigwam was always nice and clean. She was a nice sewer, piecing pretty bed quilts, which always looked clean. Often when mother got in a hurry with her work she hired the Indian woman to scrub and wash, and other times to do some sewing. She was always smiling, showing her pretty white teeth. One morning when I awoke I found father and Mr. Dora, a neighbor, had gone to Mackinac Island. They were gone about three days. When they came home father had clothing for mother which Mr. Cable did not keep in his store. Among the rest was a great quantity of bright colored glass beads and many yards of colored ribbon, which she put away in her trunk, saying to me, "Do not speak about what I have put away." Mother and the Indian woman were often together speaking softly, so I never knew what they said. Mother seemed anxious, and the Indian woman also seemed quiet and thoughtful. Soon after father's return mother said to me, "Elizabeth I want you to let all your other work alone and string beads for me." I was delighted, for if there was anything I loved to do it was to string the pretty colored beads. So I began at once, each color on a strong thread. After stringing a great quantity in this way, then I made many strings in different colors, mixing the beads. As much as I enjoyed it I got very tired, and whenever I went to the camp the little Indian children were stringing beads and their mother was sewing, making deerskin moccasins, on which she sewed the beads, which were so pretty when finished. She made many pairs of them. Sometimes the Indian woman came to our house, helping mother and me to string the beads, which she did so fast, and talked so pleasantly in her own language, mother speaking her language as well as the other tribes' that lived around us. There were several camps of Chippewa Indians that lived along the shore that helped the fishermen clean their fish, and the women made oil from the fish refuse which sold for one dollar a gallon or more, according to quality. Most of these Indians came from Garden Island. THE ROBBERS' DEN. Our Mormon friends who used to come to our house did not come any more. There were two who sometimes came in a few minutes, but never remained long. Everybody was anxious to know what the king would do about his people when he came back. Many of the Mormons believed Strang would take no notice of the refusal of some of his elders to practice polygamy, while others thought that the man who hoped to have Strang's place would influence him to make them suffer the penalty, which the Mormons themselves told us was death, this elder contending severe measures was the only way to enforce obedience to the law. [Illustration: THE KING'S HIGHWAY. BEAVER ISLAND.] Having already organized a band of forty thieves, these men were being trained to go out and do all the robbing from the Gentiles they saw fit to do. The two men who headed the band were brothers and were large and powerful men, Isaac and John Pierce. They were well suited to do such work. The place they chose to secrete their stolen goods was a long point at the lower end of Beaver Island, distant about three miles from the harbor. This place was called by them "Rocky Mountain Point." Being an out-of-the-way place they would not be seen secreting much of their plunder. WAKING AND SEEING INDIANS IN MY ROOM. One night I was awakened out of a sound sleep by hearing footsteps in the room. I opened my eyes and saw mother with the Indian woman and another woman going up stairs. I waited sometime for them to come down, but fell asleep before they came. I was awakened again. There was a very dim light in the room. I saw a tall Indian who seemed to walk about very feeble as if sick. His black hair was pulled over his eyes and he held his hand up as if to shade his eyes from any light. There were two Indian women in the room, one the Menominee woman, the other was a stranger but she wore her hair cut across the forehead. She seemed young and was dressed very beautifully. Her moccasins were trimmed with pretty beads, and many strings of bright colored beads were about her neck, and I thought she must be a princess, the daughter of a chief. She and the Indian walked about the room several times, while mother and the Menominee woman spoke to them in their language, they answering in the same. I saw father nod and smile, at which they all took up parcels and small bundles from the table and walked out in single file. DEPARTURE OF THE INDIANS. I waited some little time, and hearing nothing I got frightened, thinking father and mother had gone away and left me, I got up, ran out of doors and met mother. She took a blanket from my bed, saying, "Come Elizabeth and see the Menominee Indians, they are going away. They must go home and see to their crops and cannot stay here any longer." I said, "Where did the other two come from?" She made a quick motion, putting her hand over her mouth, which I understood was to be silent and ask no questions. We were both speaking in French. I followed her to the beach, where a large birch bark canoe was packed. I saw four little children packed away Indian fashion, each had a little black puppy dog in his arms. The tall sick Indian got in first, seating himself and smoking his pipe, then the young Indian woman followed, then the Indian and his wife. There were many "bou shou's" (good-byes) spoken in subdued tones. The Indian and his wife took the paddles, father gave one hard push and away sped the bark canoe over the blue water. The sky was just getting red in the east, little birds were twittering in the branches of the trees, we all stood watching the fast receding canoe, which soon looked a speck upon the water. I ran to the house and crept into bed, and when I awakened the sun was high. I asked mother where the Indians were now; she answered. "They are far away." All day she seemed cheerful, and I heard her sing for the first time since I came home from Ohio. I wandered down to the Indian camp and all I saw was just a few marks where the wigwams had stood. No rubbish was lying about. They had vanished as if they had never been. Surely "They had folded their tents like the Arabs and as silently stole away." THE APOSTLE AND HIS FAMILY AMONG THE INDIANS. It was eight years afterward when I learned just who it was that stole away on that quiet morning in the bark canoe. I was living for a short time in the Green Bay country. I was invited out one afternoon to a quilting party. The men were to come for supper and a lady was to play for us on the violin, she being an accomplished musician. She had come there from Baltimore for her health. As we sat at our quilting in the afternoon, one of the women asked the lady of the house why it was they had settled there near the Menominee Indian reservation, and if they were not afraid to be killed sometime by the Indians. Then the lady of the house explained and told her story of how her husband, herself and children had been saved by one family of these Indians with the help of a white family, and this was why her husband was devoting his time to preaching among the Indians. I, being a stranger in the place, had not met this family before, but had been invited to their home with others. Before she had finished I seemed to understand it all. I knew now what all the beads and bright colored ribbons were used for and I knew who the tall sick Indian was with the pretty young Indian woman and the two little children with the others in the canoe. When I made myself known to the lady and her family they were overjoyed to see me. I met them several times afterward, and she told me how they crossed over to the north shore and kept along close to the shore, camping many times where the Indian and his wife set their net and caught all the fish they needed to eat, all the time teaching them to speak their language. They did not go direct to the Indian settlement until fall, then her husband concluded to settle among them and act as a missionary to them. Never very strong in health he had grown stronger in the open air life. Their children were educated at Green Bay. I will try to tell just a little of this woman's story. Of how they came to Beaver Island with many others, and how they got away from the Island after much sorrow. THE APOSTLE'S WIFE'S STORY. Our home was in a small town in New Jersey. We had a little farm and were very comfortable. It was spring time, our crops were planted and growing. It was told us one day two men had asked for our little church to hold a meeting in for a couple of evenings and the whole neighborhood was invited to attend. My husband being an elder in our little church we, with many other neighbors went to hear the men speak. They were both good talkers and we were all greatly interested. They continued the meetings a week and we all became so interested they were invited to remain longer. One claimed to be a minister, the other an elder. They told a great deal about the Land of Promise they had found. My husband's two brothers were ready to join and prevailed upon my husband to come with them. About thirty were ready to follow the new preaching. They left us to go to other parts and told us to be ready at a certain time, when they would come back and take us with them. We sold our little farm and stock at a great sacrifice, keeping only our bedding and clothing, as they told us it was a long journey. We waited for them to come until November and had almost given up in despair, when one day they came. When we started there were twenty-five grown people with their children. We had two small children, twins, a boy and a girl. Our hopes were high, we were going westward they told us. We took a steamboat at Buffalo, as they told us no railroad had yet been built to reach there. The trip was hard, cold and tedious. Not one of us had ever been on the water before. We were afraid and we were all sick, but we stood it as bravely as possible and hoped for better times. It was a dark, stormy night when we landed. Snow was falling. We were a cold, shivering company as we stumbled along up the dock. We were taken into a house, where we soon had a warm supper and were told we could sleep on the floor if we had bedding of our own, as their beds were all full. We made our beds and found it very cold, as doors were opening and shutting until almost morning. We were all put into one large room which was very bare of furniture. Children cried and there was not very much sleep. At the first peep of day most of us were up to take our first look at the Promised Land. At first we tried to look out of the windows, but they were steamed and frosty and we could not see. We then went out of doors. Our first glance was out on the cold, rough water of a little harbor, as they called it, and never shall I forget the lonely feeling that came over me. All was silent but the sound of the waves that washed upon the shore. What little ground was visible where the snow had drifted was all bare white sand. There were many pretty evergreen trees back a short distance from the water. There being few houses visible we were told the houses and farms were farther back in the country. We were called to breakfast, and when it was finished we were told we could go to the King's house, which was pointed out to us, and he would direct us what to do next. "The King's House." What did they mean? We had never heard of any king. They said, "You will soon know. We are ruled by a king who has revelations direct from God. There are twelve apostles to rule with him, and out of this company of people he will choose four more which are needed." Our surprise was great. We were anxious to know all, so were taken to the King's house. He met us very kindly and explained many things to us. He talked considerable about his revelations and what he hoped to do for his people. His manner was very captivating, and we all felt much encouraged after he had talked with us. We were all divided up among the other families on the island until we could build our homes. We were there over a week before we knew for certain we were on an island. To me it was a terrible shock but we had no time to think much about it only what we should do to provide shelter for the long winter. The King soon left to go travelling for the winter to bring more converts in the spring. It so happened the home we went to live in the people kept a boarding house and I soon found to my horror the man had four wives, had had six but two were dead. We soon found them a peculiar people with great faith in Strang and of his building up of Zion calling themselves Latter Day Saints, or Mormons. We had not known or heard of this but had been led to think we could worship as we liked. We soon found it was best not to exchange much thought with our neighbors on the subject and we were so scattered about we seldom met only at meetings. There was being a temple built to worship in and my husband being a carpenter he was most of his time working on it. We soon learned every tenth of our income belonged to the King and many extras to help the expenses. It took quite a large sum to build this temple. They had a small saw mill and there the lumber was cut. Everybody was busy. We were ruled by a man who had no pity for any one. That winter was too terrible to remember. We were all glad to have the King come back in the springtime. He brought more people who seemed to have more means, for those who had, had to share with those who had little. My husband and his two brothers were made apostles soon after Strang came. I saw very little of my husband after he was made an apostle. There was always something to be talked over and explained, so the King had to have most of their time. Our funds were getting low and I felt very low spirited, but my husband told me he thought that everything would be satisfactory in time. I longed to be free. I wanted to feel I could talk to my husband for it soon dawned upon me we must not discuss the subject of the doctrine only with a true belief in all of Strang's revelations. The most of the people were gay. The winter time was their time for gaiety. The following spring after we came, when my husband was made an apostle, there was a great feast and we were all baptized in the waters of Little Font Lake. The King was dressed in a robe of white and purple. He gave a short brilliant discourse. To most of them the ceremony was impressive. His wife, Mrs Strang, did not attend as she was not a believer in the doctrine. To me it all seemed a sham. Just before my husband was made an apostle I asked Strang about polygamy and why some had more than one wife. He answered that they had practiced it to some extent in Joseph Smith's time but he would have no such practice but had allowed those who had several to keep them. On the next Sabbath he preached a powerful sermon against polygamy. I felt more secure because I hoped he would keep his word. Very soon after this it came like a thunderbolt to us. The king had a revelation. He must take more wives, and very soon took some more. In his absence his wife took her three children and left. Before going we managed to meet, as we were fast friends from the first. She advised me to persuade my husband to get away as soon as possible, as she was sure there was great sorrow in store for me. She then told me any disobedience to the oath of allegiance of the apostles, to the king, would be punished with death, saying she knew this to be true, having overheard the apostle that ruled in her husband's absence, talking about it. But they never knew she heard, and now I must be watchful. It was terrible to know all this, yet I knew she told me the truth. She said, "Make a confidant of no one." We had talked many times before this, but now she told me more, saying, "I would stay here and fight it to the bitter end but I know it would do no good. My life would soon be ended. They have already said, 'Dead people tell no tales.'" "I feel sure Strang's own life is in danger by the plotting of his head apostle." She ended by saying, "I never expect to come back unless I can help some poor soul to be happier. If you ever need a friend's help send a letter to me. You can always trust the Indians." She said, "I have warned Strang of his danger and begged him to put away that bad man, but he will not heed me." She left. I was very sad, but not yet realizing how soon I would need her help. After awhile a law was made by the King that all officers of the church must have a plurality of wives. Then we women banded ourselves together, I being at the head, we met the king in the temple and took votes, coming out victorious each time. The whole island was in a state of agitation. Every woman interested took her Bible and talked and read God's laws faster than the king could tell us about his revelations. One little woman spoke, saying, "Take all our earnings, but leave us our husbands. We want to live an honest life." He said he did not propose to be ruled by a lot of weak, whining women. This roused me. I jumped to my feet and I talked two hours. He answered sarcastically and I answered him in the same way. I recounted everything to him. How we had been deceived. He ordered me from the room, and when his guards attempted to obey his orders the other women interfered and Strang was obliged to let me have my say. Often the women applauded me. At last I could speak no more. I was exhausted, but I managed to tell him I hoped he would consider all we had asked of him and grant our request. After a few moments of silence he looked me in the face, saying, "Madam, you have shown such great ability in discussing this matter I think I had better put my temple robe upon you." I answered in the same sarcastic tone, "Yes, and I think your robe would be far more becoming to me than it is to you and I could rule the people and make them happier than you have so far." Never can I forget the look of hatred he gave me. The men hurried me from the room and appeared very much excited. After I left other women made an appeal to him, but left without gaining any promise from him, saying he would give them an answer the next morning. I heard nothing more. Next morning I was sent home in a lumber wagon. My two children and husband were not allowed to come with me. My home was very near to the Gentile settlement. My heart was heavy. I went to some of my Mormon neighbors. Their doors were shut in my face and none spoke to me when I met them. After a week I was very sick in bed. I became unconscious. When I realized anything I recognized a Gentile neighbor. She was preparing some food for me to eat. I asked her many questions about my children and husband, but she could give me no information. She told me I had many friends among the Mormons, as it was a Mormon woman who had directed her to come to me. She told me to be quiet and have courage and all would be well and that I must get well as fast as possible. Strang had gone for the winter and she feared there might be trouble between the Gentiles and Mormons, as the fishermen felt they could not endure much more robbery. I felt more courage because I knew this woman had an influence with the Indians, as she could speak their language and was always the Indian's friend. This woman's children were away for the winter and her heart was sad. We could sympathize with each other. One dark night in March I heard a gentle tap at my window. I opened the door. It was my husband. He had been handed a note that morning saying, "Go home. You are safe for awhile." He had walked all the distance after dark. Next day the neighbor woman came and told me my children were both well and cared for. Oh joy! I could get well now, and gained my strength fast. Navigation opened; Strang came home, remaining only a few days. He was becoming greatly troubled over the discontent of his people and thought best to be away for a time. The fishermen began to come, and several Indian families came also to fish and make oil. Myself and husband were left to ourselves. One night a letter came to my husband saying, "When the king comes home Mr. Sinclair must be prepared to obey the law or suffer the consequences." It was signed by the head apostle. My husband was greatly worried, knowing the laws so well. In my heart I asked God to help me in my sore distress. I recalled the words of Mrs. Strang that if ever I needed a friend to call on her and she would come if possible. I wrote her to come. I gave the letter to my faithful friend. The letter was taken to Mackinac Island and from there it was taken to Mrs. Strang. She came, she got my children and brought them to the Indian camp. Myself and husband were disguised as Indians, our children the same, and all were taken away from the island in a birch bark canoe. CHOLERA AT THE ISLAND. The summer was passing, it was late in August. Cholera was raging at Mackinac Island. Fifty-two deaths had occurred there and three deaths occurred at Beaver Island. A lady was boarding with us from Mount Clemens. Her two youngest children died from cholera in our house. My father and I both had it but recovered. Also a captain of a small vessel died. After the deaths our clothing was all washed and the Mormons came, taking everything they could find. They took several boats and all the fish from the fish houses between Cable's dock and the harbor. It was now becoming serious between the Gentiles and the Mormons. Peter McKinley had moved his family to Mackinac Island, not considering it safe to carry on business any longer. Mr. Cable had also left and gone to Indiana. His uncle, Mr. Alva Cable, came with his vessel, taking C. R. Wright and family, with several others, to Charlevoix, then called "Pine River." All the Ohio, Canada and Detroit fishermen had gone home. My two brothers had gone to Detroit to school for the winter. Our family, and seven others, were the only Gentiles left on the island, and we were preparing to leave as soon as possible. One morning about the first of November a messenger came to every Gentile family with a letter from the king, saying every Gentile family must come to the harbor and be baptized into the Church of Zion or leave the island within ten days after receiving the notice signed by the King, James J. Strang. Within twenty-four hours after receiving the notice every Gentile family had gone but ours. They had taken what they could in their fish boats. Our boat being small, father thought best to wait for a vessel to come and take us away. The fourth day no vessel had come. Father feared the message to the captain of the vessel had not been delivered, which had been sent by an Indian family going home to the Old Mission. Winds were ahead, the weather rough. Our goods were packed, and every day some Mormon men could be seen walking along the beach, each carrying a gun, but none ever spoke to us. These were anxious days to us, watching and waiting for a sail. Father had made up his mind if the vessel did not come we would take what we could in our small boat and go to the Indians for protection until we could get to the main land. The evening of the ninth day had come and no welcome sail in sight. John Goeing, our faithful friend, was with us and cheered us with his strong faith that the vessel would come in time. I had laid down and fallen asleep. I was wakened by hearing low voices talking. I listened a few moments and knew it was Mr. Bower. He was the man who had doctored father when he was sick. He had stolen away from his home in the darkness and came to sympathize with us. He then told us he was going to leave the island the next spring if possible, as he was tired of the life he had to live among the Mormons, saying. "There are many excellent people here that would be glad to go, but they have no means to go with and fear to try to go." With a warm clasp of the hand and a good-by to all, he was gone. LEAVING THE ISLAND. I was called from a sound sleep by my mother saying, "Get up quick Elizabeth, here is the vessel at anchor just in front of our house." I was up in a minute and ran out to see. Yes, there was the little vessel resting so quietly on the water. Father and John were carrying goods to the shore, the captain and another man were loading the yawl, mother and I carried what we could. Our pets had all been put on board, our clothing and most of our bedding was loaded. Mother and I had gone to the vessel. All was loaded except a few boxes and two large trunks. When father and John started to go back to the shore after them several men were standing beside the goods and each had a gun in his hands. This was enough. Father knew the rest of our goods must be left. Our sails were quickly hoisted, the anchor pulled up and soon we were sailing toward Charlevoix, where we knew our friends were waiting for us. The sun was just coming up in the east, and as we looked back we could see the door of our house stood open as our doors had always been to strangers or any who needed help. None had ever gone away cold or hungry. And some of the people who now stood on the shore with guns pointed toward us had been fed and cared for by my people. With a fresh breeze and a fair wind our little vessel was nearing Charlevoix, the land that seemed to promise us safety. Surely there we could live in peace. As we neared the river we could see our friends waiting for us on the shore. We came to anchor on the north side of the river, the wind making a big sea at the river's mouth. I remember how happy we all felt that night to be with friends and no Mormons to be afraid of. Mr. Alva Cable had built a large house and shop on the south side of the river on the bank, very close to the water. The lumber he had bought at Traverse City. Captain Morrison had built his house also on the south side just close to the river bank. Several houses were made on the north side of the river. There were twenty-five families of Gentiles, and two Mormon families had stolen away with the fishermen, claiming their protection, which was freely promised them. One was a Mormon elder and his family, the other a young man living with his widowed mother. THE LITTLE VILLAGE OF CHARLEVOIX. The little village of Charlevoix was just about complete. Our house was built just beside the river, not far from the shore, with just room for a foot path between the house and the river bank. A high hill was on the other side of us. One night a storm came up with a great tidal wave and Mr. Cable's house was almost washed away. The whole village turned out and helped to save the goods. Many of the neighbors had advised him not to put his house so near the water, but he said he always liked to "experiment." Next time he built his house farther up the river, several rods below where now stands the Lewis Opera House. Fishing being good, those that had not had their nets stolen put them out, catching all the fish they could take care of. Mr. Cable had a cooper shop which employed several men. He kept a store, supplying groceries and provisions to the little village, and having a few dry goods to supply their needs. When Christmas and New Years came the people had many little parties and took their dinner together. Many of them employed their time by preparing their nets and knitting new ones for the next season's fishing. There was no sickness and all felt very happy and secure from the Mormons, at least while the winter lasted. WILLIAM DAVENPORT OUR MAIL CARRIER. Our mails came every two weeks. Our mail carrier was William Davenport of Mackinac Island, his route being from the Island to Traverse City, calling at Old Mission and Elk Rapids. Davenport had four large hound dogs. His sled was made of thin boards steamed and bent at one end, with many little ribs or cleats across to give it strength. It glided along on top of the snow and would hold heavy loads. It was called a train. The winter was extremely cold, with deep snow and heavy ice. The mail carrier always stopped with us over night each way, going south and coming north, our people knowing his parents so well he always felt at home with us. It was always a pleasure seeing the mail carrier coming with his dogs and great pouches full of mail. The tinkling of the bells around the dogs' necks always made us drop our work to see them coming on a fast trot, for the dogs enjoyed being noticed and petted. Always a crowd gathered around William to hear the news from the outside. He always trimmed the harness up with gay colored ribbons before coming to the village. How we children loved to watch those great dogs run and play when taken out of the harness, rolling over each other in the deep snow. Father made them a warm place to sleep in the woodshed. Davenport always had various little packages for the whole village. He was obliging and good natured. All of northern Michigan in those days had very few white settlers. Only just now and then a white family. Indians were everywhere. In the summer season their bark canoes could be seen coming and going in all directions. The smoke from their wigwams was seen rising along the lake shore where they fished and made gardens. In winter they usually went further inland to hunt. OPENING OF NAVIGATION. Navigation was now open. Boats and vessels could be seen passing. Fishermen had come from Detroit, Cleveland, Lake Huron and Canada. Several had brought their families to spend the summer beside the sea. My brothers came with the rest. Mr. Cable, or Uncle Alva as he was called by every one, was very happy. He felt sure the little village would grow fast, as he intended making many improvements as soon as possible. Word soon came from Beaver Island for those two Mormon families to come back to the island. In some way the Mormons had found out the men were with the Gentiles. The men sent back word that they would never go back. Soon another message came saying a boat with force enough would be sent to bring them to the island. As soon as navigation opened Strang extended his territory by sending several families to South Fox Island and several more to Grand Traverse, where they settled near the pretty little harbor, which they named "Bower's Harbor" in honor of the man who had charge of the little settlement, where a beautiful resort is now situated at the harbor, which is called "Neahtawanta" (peaceful waters.) Those who settled there were Mormons only in name, as they were only too glad to get away from the island. About this time it was becoming quite difficult for Strang to manage all his people. The new people coming to the island had very little faith in his "Divine Revelations." They enjoyed the island life for its healthful climate. Strang was losing hold upon many of his people. The newcomers had means of their own and felt free to come and go when they pleased. Many of the women were refusing to wear the bloomer dress and their hair cut short. This greatly annoyed Strang, for he could see he was fast losing control of the people. There had been many improvements, farms were well cultivated, a new dock and store at the harbor village, roads made through the island, good warm houses with gardens attached, and the most of them were very comfortable. COMING OF THE MORMONS. One bright, clear day, the 14th of July, 1853, our men were nearly all on the lake at their work. A watch was kept every day by our people from the high hill near us, where the lake could be seen for many miles. Father and Captain Morrison were on duty this day, taking turns in watching. The men on the lake also keeping a close watch toward the island. Sometime in the forenoon of that day two small dark objects could be seen upon the calm water in the direction of Beaver Island. Captain Morrison took a powerful field glass and soon made out the objects were fish boats coming from the island. The boats were being rowed and seemed to come slow, keeping very close together. We watched their approach with anxious hearts, fearing our men would not see them in time to reach shore as soon as the boats came. It so happened on that day nearly all the women were together at a quilting party given by Mrs. Morrison. When they learned the Mormons were coming they became greatly excited at first, knowing their husbands had made up their minds to fight if necessary. Father and the captain began to prepare everything for battle. Thinking there might not be bullets enough the lead was melted and father said to me, "Here Elizabeth, take these moulds and run the bullets," which I did. We had notified Uncle Alva Cable and he, too, was preparing. The boats came along, steadily nearing the shore. At one time all took them to be Indians, but as they came nearer it was plain they were white people. A short time before they landed we saw the white sails of our fishing fleet hoisted nearly all at one time. Then we were sure they had seen the strange boats coming. A light breeze sprang up fair for our boats and they came sailing in to land. The fishermen's boats would land over by the south point from the river, as that made the best landing. This was some little distance, a mile or more by land. Captain Morrison went round by the path back from the beach so that he would not be seen by the Mormons. He was to notify the men to come as soon as possible. TO BRING THEM DEAD OR ALIVE. My father went down the shore to meet the Mormons. They landed on the south side of the river, and the boats were landed side by side. The head man of the boats was one of the Pierce brothers. Father asked him his business. He said, "We have come to take the two men that are here with you. Our orders are to bring them dead or alive." Father said. "Why do you want these men? They have left you and will do you no harm. Why not let them go when they do not want to stay with you? And I warn you now, Mr. Pierce, our people have made up their minds to give these men their protection and it will not be best to try to force them to give them up. If you do try to take them there will be trouble, so you had better go." He answered, "I will never leave this shore until we have these men, and we will make you all as humble as mice, and your blood shall mingle with these waters if you attempt to resist us," and many more boastful threats, which he made while he kept walking about swinging his arms. Father talked to him quietly, but he would not be quieted. He grew more fierce every moment. After a time the youngest of the men they came after walked down to the boat, telling Pierce himself he would not be taken back by them. He and the leader had many hot words together pertaining to their own troubles which they had had together before he left them. He had been a member of Pierce's crew and becoming tired of the life had quit them. This they did not like, as they knew he knew too many of their secrets. Soon Captain Morrison came back and walked down to the boats, telling them not to persist in taking the men. Pierce was more furious than ever. Father and the two others walked away from them towards the house. The Mormons talked a few minutes together. One boat captain seemed to want to push off his boat and go. But Pierce would not let him. I stood looking out of a small window from Captain Morrison's house. I could see directly on to both boats and was but a short distance from them. I could hear almost every word spoken by the leader, as he spoke in a loud, deep voice. THE BATTLE AT CHARLEVOIX. Soon shots were fired, I cannot say how many. All was confusion, women were screaming, some were praying. Men were talking, trying to quiet them. I never took my eyes from the Mormon boats, and when the smoke cleared away I saw the men hurriedly push their boats off and jump into them, taking their oars and pulling with all their might. Then I saw our men coming towards the house carrying a man who seemed to be dead, as blood was streaming down. The form looked familiar to me. I ran to the door and saw it was my brother Lewis. They carried him home, laying him down and examined his wound. He was shot in the calf of the leg. It was a flesh wound. The place was small where the bullet went in, but the flesh was badly torn where the bullet came out. Excitement was great; the men wanted to follow the Mormon boats. At the river there were but two boats at the time, our own, which was too small, and Captain Morrison's, which was a large, heavy boat. GIVING CHASE TO THE MORMONS. The men concluded at last to take that boat and give chase to the Mormons, as the delay would be too great in getting a boat from the fishermen's landing. So the boat was manned by a double crew to row. One man was placed in the bow with his rifle to shoot into the Mormon's boats and sink them if possible. Every bullet he shot seemed to take effect. Our men were powerful oarsmen, and in spite of the distance the two boats had made before our men had got started, our boat was gaining on them fast. Soon one of the Mormon boats was sinking, and they made some delay by getting out of the sinking boat into the other. Our men were straining every nerve to overtake them, which they soon would have done had not the Mormons hurried toward a large vessel which lay becalmed just ahead of them. It was getting dusk, but everything could be plainly seen. MORMONS SAVED BY "BARK MORGAN." The Mormons rowed with all their might to the vessel, telling the captain that they were fishermen and that the Mormons were chasing them and begged to be saved from their enemies. Of course the captain could do no less than let them get aboard his vessel, which they soon did. Our men came as near to the vessel as they could and told the captain how it was. He told them he could not do anything, and it was best for them to go quietly home, which they did. The vessel was the "Bark Morgan." It was stated in "The Northern Islander," a paper edited and printed at the island, that seven were killed and five wounded of the Mormons at the battle of Charlevoix. A man who boarded with me several years after this happened told me that this was the correct number. As he was in the boat and one of the wounded, he being shot in the shoulder. He was very young when he was in training with these bad men. He also told us that Pierce, the leader, was very angry and had planned to come back and drive us away or murder us all. They wanted to settle there themselves, which they did as soon as we left. LEAVING CHARLEVOIX. Mr. Alva Cable called the people together and consulted about what was best to be done. Some wanted to remain and fight the Mormons if they came again, but the women all wanted to go. About that time a Mormon that had left the island and never intended to go back, advised us all to go. So it was decided we should get away as soon as possible, as news kept coming that it was not safe for us to remain longer. Mr. Alva Cable, Wrights and many other families went to Little Traverse, now Harbor Springs, my two brothers going with them. My father decided we should go to Traverse City. Our friend, John Goeing, had left us the week before the Mormons came. He received a letter from home. His mother was very sick and wanted to see her son before she died. He went to Mackinac Island, and from there took a steamer to Buffalo. He wrote us just before he took the steamer from New York City, promising to write us as soon as he reached home. We never heard from him again. We felt sorry to have him go. He had been with us four years and seemed like one of our own family. Our friends and neighbors were all gone. We were left alone at Charlevoix. Waiting patiently for the little vessel to come from Northport which was to take us to Traverse City. At last we saw the white sails which proved to be our vessel. It was dark before the vessel anchored outside the river. The night was warm, our goods were on board, all was silent, only the splash of the waves as they washed along the shore. The little village was in darkness when we closed the latch to our door and walked down to the little yawl waiting for us to be taken on board. We were soon on the deck of the little vessel, the moon was rising, and by the time our sails were up and we were ready to start the water was sparkling like diamonds as the soft light shone upon it. Never had we appreciated its beauty before as now in this beautiful moonlight. Tears were in our eyes, for we had been very happy there with our neighbors. Now we were leaving all and going to a strange place, but we hoped to find a place of safety. Long we watched the beautiful shore as we sailed along in the light breeze. Again we were driven from home. Father helped the captain sail the vessel. Mother and I lay down for a while in the little cabin. I was wakened by hearing the anchor chain when the captain said, "Here we are at Northport." We visited there several days. The captain's home was there. We met many kind people, who invited us to make our home with them for the time of our stay. We accepted the invitation of the Rev. George Smith and were nicely entertained by himself and his family. Their beautiful vine covered home was a perfect bower of roses. The most beautiful flowers grew everywhere about their grounds. Mr. Smith was a Congregational minister. His family were very musical, and our stay of nearly a week is a bright spot in my memory. Our little vessel had to have some repairs before we could proceed on our journey. We then sailed direct to Bower's harbor, remaining two days with our old friend, Mr. Bower. Himself and wife were glad to see us and to know we had escaped safely from Mormon persecutions. They were very happily situated in their new home and their new surroundings of scenery were very beautiful. Oh, how glad Mrs. Bower was to be released from Mormon rule. TRAVERSE CITY. The day was fair, the sun shone bright when our sails were filled with the breeze that carried us along over the blue waters to Traverse City. Arriving at Traverse City, we found several people whom we knew, so we felt that we were not entirely among strangers. We were soon comfortably settled among very kind neighbors. Traverse City at that time was very new. The Boardman Company had settled there to lumber. The firm of Hannah, Lay & Co. bought the Boardman Company out. A steam saw mill, also a water mill run by water power. This small mill was in the west part of town beside the big mill pond. The company's big boarding house was where the company's men boarded. This was in charge of Dr. D. C. Goodale. Then the company's store, with a large stock of general merchandise, presided over by the genial clerk, H. D. Campbell, or "Little Henry," as we children always called him. He was the children's friend. No matter how busy he might be he always had a kind word and a pleasant smile for us children. Then there was the large steam mill and blacksmith shop just beyond the store. There was no bridge there then to cross the river on. We children most always crossed over on the boom which held the logs in the river. The only bridge on the river was up near the Boardman Lake. HAPPY SCHOOL DAYS IN TRAVERSE CITY. The school house was near the river bank, just about opposite to the river's mouth. It stood back far enough for a good wide street. It was in the midst of a pretty grove of small oak trees that reached their branches far out, giving cool shade where we could sit and eat our lunch. The evergreens and maple trees were mixed about, giving it a variety of change. Wild roses grew everywhere. It was truly an ideal spot that we never tired of. Our teacher was Miss Helen Goodale. I will just mention a few names of the scholars I first met on the morning of my first school day in Traverse City. Alexander, James and Jane Carmicheal, George, John and Tom Cuttler, James, William and Richard Garland, Augusta and Lucius Smith, Helen Rutherford and brother, Albert Norris and Agnes Goodale, sister of the teacher. The next year more people came and more scholars. Our little school house was filled. We were a happy lot, seeming almost like one family. We drank from the same cup, swung in the same swing, sharing our lunches together, and no matter where we have roamed through the wide world can we forget that little old log school house. I have seen it many times in my dreams, and the happy faces of each as we tried to excel to please the teacher. We all loved her, though trying her patience often. Yet we knew and felt she loved us. Oh, happy school days and pleasant school companions! Only a few of us are left at this writing, many have crossed over on the other side, yet I believe it will be a happy re-union if sometime we may meet where no good-byes are said. EARLY DAYS OF TRAVERSE CITY. Very near to our school house east Mr. J. K. Gunton built the house which bore the name of "The Gunton House," and was run with success by himself and wife for a number of years. There was no steamboats coming to Traverse City in those days. The lumber was shipped by vessel to Chicago. The schooner "Telegraph" made regular trips every two weeks. The "Telegraph" brought all the supplies for the Company. At the opening of navigation it was a pleasant sound to hear someone say for the first time, "Here comes The Telegraph." Our mails were brought by a mail carrier from Grand Rapids. An Indian and sometimes a white man carried the mail. It was brought down along the shore, it being considered the safest way to travel alone. Sometimes the rivers had no bridges and the mail carrier had to swim across. Mr. Hugh McGinnis carried the mail on that long lonely route for a long time while we lived there. No farms were yet cleared about Traverse City at that time. Mr. Lyman Smith being the only family living out at Silver Lake, seven miles south of this city. Soon Mr. Alvin Smith took some land on the west side of Silver Lake with Mr. West. More people moved in, and soon the Bohemians came in, settling on the east side of Silver Lake and made nice homes for themselves. Mr. Rice's family came the next year after we came. There were five girls in their family. The two eldest soon married, the other three entered school. Mellisa, Emma and Annie. They lived very near to us and we girls were always fast friends. We walked to school, picked berries in summer time, played, sang and worked together. And of all the places we liked best to go was out to the "Company's Garden." There we waded the brook, picked the flowers and wild strawberries, and sometimes we caught the horses that belonged to the Company, and climbing on their backs we rode around the field, for it was only a garden in name. It was used for a pasture field for the Company's cattle and horses. Those were days to be remembered. The little water mill, as it was called, had a horse car track laid from it down to the west dock where the lumber was put on the car and the horse drew it to the dock for shipment. Then what fun we all had to run down the track and get the ride back on the car. The huckleberry plains, as they were called, were between east and west Bay. There on Saturdays, when there was no school, almost everybody went picking and took their lunches with them. Mrs. and Mr. Garland, one of our neighbors, moved to Old Mission on a farm and new people took their house. MY FATHER ADOPTING A LITTLE BOY. The same year we went to Traverse City a family came from Chicago. The next week the man's wife died, being very sick when she came. In six weeks after the little baby died, leaving three more children. Mr. Churchill was sick himself. Mother brought them all home. A neighbor, Mrs. Hillery, took the oldest girl of nine and kept her all winter. There were two little boys left, Frank aged seven, and George aged five. Father and mother adopted little Frank, so I now had a little brother for company. Mr. Churchill left the next June for Chicago, taking Amelia and George with him, promising to write us often. We never heard from him again, and always felt anxious to know what became of the two children. Little Frank was very happy with us. Mr. Greilick and family now came. They built a steam mill near Mr. Norris, about two miles west of Traverse City, on the shore. After we were in Traverse City three years we moved to Greilick's mill. Frank and I used to walk around to the city to school on the shore road. The road was pleasant and very close to the water most of the way. There were no churches in Traverse City then, but Sunday was kept just as sacred as though the people had churches to go to. Sometimes religious services were held by a minister that came from Chicago, going around among the settlers. There were also no saloons in Traverse City. Mr. Hannah kept a large number of men to do his logging in the camps in winter. No liquor was sold nearer than Old Mission and very little being sold there. A drunken man was seldom ever seen in Traverse City in those days. In the camps there was always many accidents and deaths from falling trees and accidents in the mills. Dr. Goodale being the only doctor was kept very busy at times, my mother helping him often. The life at Traverse City was a busy one for us all. We were very happy with our neighbors, often going to Bower's harbor in summer time in our own boat to visit friends. Rumors many times reached us about the Mormons and their doings on Beaver Island, and at one time everybody feared they were coming to Traverse City to drive the Gentiles away. Mr. Hannah set watchmen to guard the place by night for a long time, and the fishermen were more unsafe than ever, and were making an appeal to the Government for protection. [Illustration: THE OLD MORMON PRINTING OFFICE. NOW THE GIBSON HOUSE. AT SAINT JAMES, BEAVER ISLAND, MICHIGAN.] THE KILLING OF "KING STRANG." I must now hurry over many things that happened while at Traverse City. In June of 1856 news came that "King Strang" had been shot by his own people. It was a long time before we could get the particulars. The fishermen and merchants had now made a strong appeal to the government asking for protection, and this time Strang could not make his plea strong enough to prevent the coming of the U. S. steamer Michigan with officers to make an investigation of the matter. The king met the steamer at Mackinac Island, hoping to gain a little more time to prevent any arrests of his people. The U. S. steamer proceeded to Beaver Island, landing at the village dock in the harbor. King Strang took passage on her back to the island, and as soon as landing he immediately went to his home not far distant from the dock. He was soon sent for by the officers, as they wished to consult with him about the affair. He started for the steamer, and when about half way on the dock two men stepped from behind a pile of cordwood and both fired their revolvers at once, both bullets taking effect. He was shot through the back twice, but did not die until eleven days after. He knew his last hours had come, and he begged to be taken to his wife Mary, his true wife. The women he had with him now were no comfort to him. Dr. McCulloch dressed the wounds and told him he feared the trip would be too much for him, that he might die on the way. He said, "No, no, take me home to Mary, my true wife. I cannot die here, doctor. I want to die with my wife and children. Take me to Mary, I know she will forgive me." Dr. McCulloch had him put on a mattress, carried on board a steamboat and taken to his wife's home in Wisconsin. The death of Strang was a terrible blow to most of his people, but a relief to those that were suffering such persecutions from him. One woman at Bower's Harbor expressed great joy when she heard it, but I could not understand why she should be glad of any one's death. She said. "I will tell you just a little of what the king made me suffer." THE STORY MRS. H---- TOLD ME. I was born and raised in a dear little nook in York state. There were four girls in our family, my oldest sister being deaf and dumb. After a time she and sister next to her married, then myself and youngest sister were left with father and mother. A young man came to our village to teach the village school. We became acquainted and in time were married. Mr. H---- built us a nice little home and we settled down to a very happy life. Our home was just a short distance from my parents. My deaf sister was married to a deaf and dumb man. He had a high temper and did not treat sister Nellie very kindly. After awhile Nellie came home to live with our parents, bringing her little twin babies with her. We all helped to care for them and then John, her husband, seemed more kind. Five years rolled around, when one day three Mormon elders came to our village, going around from house to house talking their doctrine, calling themselves Latter Day Saints. They visited us. My mother being in, she seemed greatly taken with their talk. They came again in a few days. Mr. H---- was out in the fields, and when I told them they said they would go out and find him. They did so and remained with us for supper, staying the evening; then father came over to hear them talk. One of the men was a fluent talker. He kept the attention of all when speaking. I felt a great dread; I knew not why. Then they held services in our little church in the evenings, which continued a week. Many were greatly excited. My parents and younger sister, Sarah, my husband and a number of our neighbors. The men left us promising to come again soon, when they hoped many would join their religion. I could see as the days went by Mr. H---- and my people, with others, were ready to follow these men. I said all I could to discourage them, but it was of no use, I could do nothing. Preparations were made to leave. Our home was sold at a sacrifice and father's the same. At the time set the three elders came again, holding more meetings. Our goods were packed; also father's and mother's, and as Nellie and the babies could not be left, we took them with us. One pleasant day in August we bade farewell to our dear old home and kind good neighbors I had known my lifetime. And with many tears of sorrow and regret on my part we started for the Promised Land. After a tedious trip we reached "Beaver Island." I need not try to tell how disappointed many of us were, as everything was so different from what it had been represented to us. The island itself was very beautiful, just as nature had made it. But to us that had come from a settled country with farms all cultivated, it was a great change. I saw Mr. H---- was very low-spirited, and knowing we must make the best of it, I tried to cheer him, saying, "Now we will soon make us another home, and if all is well we shall soon be as happy as we were before. But you know I can never enjoy this new doctrine." We also found when reaching the island that the bright talking elder was "King Strange" himself, and he well knew I had no sympathy or belief in his teachings. However, Strang gave us our choice of a building spot and we chose as pleasant a place as possible, with father and mother near us, just a short distance from the pretty little Font Lake. We tried to make our home like the one we had left behind. I went to work with a will helping Mr. H---- to build the new home. That first winter I never like to think about, the people suffered so much, but were always patient, never complaining. The next spring I helped to make our garden, also our flower garden, putting in the seeds I had brought from the old home. That first winter we endured hunger and cold, but I tried to bear it without complaint. I kept the best for my husband to eat and many times went supperless to bed, fearing there would not be enough for his breakfast, as he had to be out chopping wood during the day. A tenth part of our income must be given to the King, and sometimes there was little left, as there was always extras to help other expenses. We had plenty of clothing when we came, but in a few months we had divided most of it with our suffering neighbors. With hard work and scanty food, and great anxiety about Nellie's sick babies, it began to tell on my health. I scarcely knew a care in the old home, now it all seemed to fall on me. When spring came I was much run down in health. When Mr. H---- would sometimes blame himself I would cheer him up by telling him, "Never mind, we have each other, and together we can endure almost anything." We dared not talk much to others that we felt any disappointment. We soon found the King exacted perfect obedience from his people. I knew in my heart he did not like me because he could not win me over to his belief. The third year we began to be a little more comfortable, and I found a little more time to rest. I had been so busy with hard work trying to make our home bright and cheerful I had not noticed what was going on at the Tabernacle meetings. I soon began to hear rumors how the king was preaching polygamy. I felt worried and I could see that other women were the same, though we dared not talk much together about the King's affairs. I spoke with my husband about it and he said, "Have no fears. Strang can never make me bring another wife into our home." Soon a friend told me she feared our husbands might be forced to obey the law that the King had made. She was an elder's wife. She then told me my husband was soon to be ordained as an elder. Again I spoke to my husband about my fears. He took me in his arms, saying, "Have no fears Mary. We have worked and suffered together and do I not know how you have endured hunger and cold and gave up our pleasant home to come here with me? I will never desert you or treat you so mean as to bring another into our home. The King has urged me to do so, but I told him I could not obey that command." In a few days several women came asking me to join them in voting down Strang's new law. I said to them. "No, I dare not oppose that man. I feel such a dreadful fear of him." In a day or two they came again, saying, "Mrs. H---- you will be sorry if you do not help us try to vote against this law. We believe if we women band ourselves together, and now that we have the right to vote on this subject the king may think better of it when he sees how we feel about it, and don't you feel afraid your husband may bring home another wife?" I said, "Oh, no, I am sure this cannot be." Then they left me. I felt like one in a dream. This seemed such a strange life to live. I did so long to once more feel free like I used to in the other days. I tried hard at times to understand about this religion, but could not. I went very seldom to the Tabernacle to hear the preaching so I knew very little about what was said. Father and mother never talked about the old home any more. To them it was as if it never had been. Mr. H----, too, never talked about it, and sometimes I wondered had I dreamed that we ever lived in our eastern home. It was very seldom I ever went to the harbor, as my husband always brought me anything I wanted. I often heard about the parties given there, but never attended any. One pleasant day in August, the eighth anniversary of our wedding, my husband said to me, "I shall not be home to dinner as there is some very important business to be done at the temple among the elders. Have tea at five o'clock and I shall surely be home at that hour." I followed him to the door saying, "Now remember, Mr. H----, this is our anniversary." He kissed me saying, "I will remember it Mary and be home at five." I sang at my work as I had not done before for months. I felt so happy. I looked about the home and it seemed more like the old home in York State: my flowers on each side the walk to the gate, in front the mountain ash was lovely, and my climbing rose bushes all about, which gave it all such a home-like look. I soon started for the woods to gather wild flowers, mosses and trailing vines to trim the room with so it would look nice when Mr. H---- came home. I met a neighbor and asked her to go with me. She said. "No, my heart is too sad. I fear my husband will soon bring home another wife. Are you not afraid Mrs. H----?" I answered, "No I am not afraid, for Mr H---- would tell me so if anything like that was to happen." She gave me such a sad look with her eyes full of tears. Pulling her sunbonnet over her face she passed on. I gathered my flowers and vines, returned home and trimmed my rooms. I put the vines around my white muslin window curtains with the pretty lace I had knit around the edge and the white bed curtains to match. I set my table the prettiest I knew how, with the lovely wild flowers in the center; I then ran over to mother, telling her all I had done. I saw her and sister Sarah exchange looks, both saying they were glad I had done so. I played with the children a few minutes, then ran home to prepare the tea. I wore a pink muslin dress, the only one I had left from the old home, and a pretty white apron, the last I had of the kind. Somehow the day had been long, but I felt no fear, only a sadness for the neighbor I had met. Her sorrowful face seemed always before me. Remembering my husband was fond of warm biscuit, I made some, and just as the clock struck five I heard the gate click and our faithful dog Tiger give a low growl. I thought strangers must be coming, as he always barked with delight to see his master. I hurried to the door. Mr H---- was coming up the path with a woman holding to his arm. Before I had time to move or speak they stepped past me into the house. Mr. H---- said to me, "Mary let me introduce you to my wife to whom I have just been sealed in spirit this day, and I hope you will welcome her and show her the respect which is her due from you." I stood still; I could not move; I could not speak; my tongue would not move in my mouth. I tried to say "husband, husband," but no sound came. Oh the agony I suffered! I could only follow them with my eyes. I could not speak; I was dumb. The woman gave me an insolent look, saying, "I guess I must have been expected. The house seems to be pretty well fixed up, but she doesn't seem to be very glad. She'll get used to it soon. We'll make her know that I am the mistress here now. Won't we Mr. H----?" He smiled and nodded, saying, "Come let's have some supper. Come Mary, pour the tea." I rushed from the house, running to my mother's house. She met me calmly at the door. "Oh mother, did you know of this?" She answered, "Yes Mary, we all knew it all along and what is the use of making any fuss. It's God's commands." I ran to my sister. She laughed, saying to me, "Well, you must be a fool. You ought to be proud to know your husband is made an apostle of the Church of Zion and already blessed with a spiritual wife. Now do have some sense and don't disgrace us all." It just began to dawn upon me my sister was just the rankest little Mormon alive. I then went to my father, thinking I would receive sympathy from him. He said, "Now Mary do be quiet. Your husband has talked this over with us. We all thought best to say nothing to you about it and when you saw it could not be helped you would just settle down. Your mother and I believe in this doctrine, and we think it is right." I stayed to hear no more. Wild with grief I ran back home. Oh, my home no longer, to make a last appeal to my husband, to be sure it was not a horrible joke just to try me. I rushed in, throwing myself down at his feet, crying. "Tell me, tell me this is not true! Tell me it is only a joke to try me." I very soon learned it was only too true. They both threatened me with a straight jacket, with bread and water diet until I would quietly submit. I got upon my feet and staggered from the door down the walk to the road. I was blind, my limbs refused to carry me, and just as I was sinking down my dumb sister caught me in her arms. She had seen by my face I was in great trouble, and she saw my mother did not sympathize with me. She followed me, then looking toward the house saw the two standing together. She seemed to understand what it meant, and the first sound I ever heard her make aloud, she gave a hoarse cry and partly dragged me away to a large log beside the road a short distance from the house. It was a large tree that was upturned from the roots and sheltered us from the passers-by. She rubbed my hands, smoothed my hair, pressing kisses upon my face, and showing me she sympathized with me in my trouble. Many times she showed anger, stamping on the ground and shaking her fist toward the house. The moon had risen, and every time I opened my eyes I could not bear to look at it. I wanted it all dark. Dark as midnight. Dark as the world now seemed to me. After awhile the neighbor woman I had met in the morning came to me. She took my hands saying, "Mrs. H---- I am truly sorry for you. I wanted to tell you this morning, but you seemed so happy I could not do it. I saw you had entire belief in your husband's word. I blame him very much for not telling you his intentions. You might have felt different about it. I, too, have just one week of freedom, then my husband brings in another wife, as he, too, was made an apostle today. But in my case I have been told of it and have the privilege of choosing among the young women the one I think I can best endure. I have chosen a friend of mine. We have agreed to live as sisterly as possible. For my four children's sake I can endure much and I don't see how I can help myself; but I must not be found talking with you, as such things are forbidden." In a still lower tone she said, "I will help you all I can in your sorrow." She pressed a kiss on my face and was gone. I sat beside my dumb sister thinking. "Was it for this I had suffered cold and hunger, leaving our comfortable home in New York State? And of all the days in the year, the anniversary of our wedding day he had brought home the most homely old grass widow to be found on the island, that everybody detested." The king said afterwards he did this to humble my pride. After the woman left us Nellie made me understand she would go to mother's and get me a shawl. The dew was falling, I had no wrap, my dress was muslin. She made me understand I was to wait here until she came back. As soon as she left me I partly crawled and dragged myself to little Font Lake, which was about a quarter of a mile distant. I laid myself down on the moss covered bank, the darkness of despair rolled over me. My husband did not seem the same to me now. He seemed only a great monster beast that I wanted to get away from. I thought how happy our home had been before we knew anything about these strange people, and the dear friends I had left to come to this island. Then I thought of baby's grave far away in the old home. I could endure it no longer. I would end it all by plunging into the little lake where my husband and I had strolled so many times along its green shores. I gave the leap that would end my earthly suffering. I was held back by the dress and dear old Tiger whined, jumping up, licking my face and hands and pulling me back from the water. This is the last I remember until I felt the warm sunshine upon my face and old dog Tiger was lying beside me. When he felt me move he began to whine and lick my hands. I had no recollection of time any more as Tiger and I wandered about through the woods. I ate berries and drank from the lake. All the food I had was what my dog brought me. Bread crusts and meat bones. At last my dumb sister found me by watching Tiger and following him. I knew Nellie, although I was in a very weak condition. She tried her best to get me home with her, but I would not go. Just about the time all this happened to me Nellie's deaf and dumb husband had come to the island on a steamboat. He had not come with the rest of us, and since we came he had fallen heir to considerable money and had come to claim Nellie and the children. They had gone to housekeeping in a little log cabin built in a secluded spot on the edge of the heavy woods. The little home was not yet finished. Nellie by her dumb language made me understand John had come and brought letters from the old home. She made me promise I would wait until she came back with John and the letters. In a short time they came. When he saw me it was terrible to look upon his silent rage. He foamed at the mouth and stuck his knife into the earth, but he could make no sound. He passed his hand over my hair. It was white as snow. It was auburn in color when I left my home. I did rouse up a little when I watched the tears roll down his cheeks. Nellie put a dress on me and a shawl. My bare feet were cut and swollen. They both helped me to walk; I was too weak to walk alone. At the last John carried me in his arms to his home. Nellie made me understand that I had been over three weeks in the woods and by the king's orders no one had dared openly to hunt for me or give me aid in any way, claiming that was the way to subdue an unruly spirit. It was told me that he who once had been my loved husband never made an effort to find me, not even my own father and mother. Strang called all this "Divine Revelation." Oh he was more cruel than the grave to me. From the time I entered John's home my three dumb friends never left me. It was a hard struggle for life with me. I saw no one and none ever came to see us. The dear children kept me alive with their sweet, childish prattle. At that time Strang's rule was absolute. None would have dared to give me aid. Many were living a double life, seemingly good Mormons, but only waiting for an opportunity to get away. Strang had enemies that would strike hard when the time came. Not long after I went to Nellie's he that I once called husband, watched and shot my faithful dog Tiger. Then I was roused. All the demons in me came to the surface. I could not keep quiet any longer. I got well as fast as possible and caused the King and Mr. H---- all the trouble I could. The people were divided, not all were pleased with the king and his rule. The Gentiles were leaving as fast as they could, as there was no safety for them or their property. Strang was losing much control of his people. Then he concluded to extend his territory to the mainland, Charlevoix and Bower's Harbor in Grand Traverse. Some had gone to Fox Island. About this time Nellie's husband died very sudden. We never knew the cause of his death. Nellie with her children went with me to Charlevoix, staying there all winter, then went to Bower's Harbor. That winter in Charlevoix we almost starved before spring came. The snow was very deep and ice heavy in the lake. The latter part of March teams came over from Beaver Island on the ice, bringing us provisions. They also went to Fox Island, as the people there were in a starving condition. This was not done by any of Strang's orders. There were some good people who knew our provisions could not last us till the opening of navigation and they came without orders and saved our lives from starvation. "Now do you wonder I am glad of Strang's death?" The story was a sad one, but true. It had not been all pleasure in Strang's kingdom. The doctrine they believed in and practiced beyond limit stifled all the good there was in their hearts. There was no pity felt or shown to those who went contrary to the "Divine Revelations" which their king was supposed to have. Poor, deluded people, how different would all have been for them had their leader used his splendid talent for good and taught his people the way of life and truth. MY BROTHER LEWIS VISITING US AND HIS STORY. Another year had rolled round. The June days lingered with us still when my brother Lewis came from Beaver Island to visit us. We had not seen him since he left us at Charlevoix after he was wounded. The four years had changed him from a boy to a man. He was now twenty-three years of age. He had many things to tell us, he being one of the men chosen the year before to help preserve law and order in the sending away of the Mormons after the king was shot. He went to the island to help get the people away on the steamboats that were sent to carry them from the island. As soon as Strang was shot a great number of the people left at once, having means of their own to help themselves with. There were others who had small means. Their homes were all they had. Strang had preached and taught in the temple that no bullet could pierce his body, and strange as it may seem, there were a large part of his people who believed it. And now when they knew their king was killed, and killed by the bullet, they were prostrate with sorrow; many of them completely incapable of thinking or doing for themselves. My brother said it was a sad sight to look upon when they came to the harbor to go on board the boats. Their sorrow was great. They seemed like a people without a hope in the world. Many wrung their hands and wept with sad moanings, saying, "Our king, our king is dead." Women fainted and were carried on board; children were crying. Even men were sobbing, and two or three attempted to throw themselves from the dock into the water to end their misery. All were allowed to take their household goods, yet many did not do so. Some only took their clothing and bedding. Poor suffering people! No doubt they were afraid of the Gentiles, thinking great harm would be done to them. The feeling had become so bitter between them that in a great many cases justice was not done where it should have been. These people now had no desire to remain on the island now that their king was dead, even when going meant leaving their comfortable homes and all they had in the wide world. Those that worked the hardest suffered most. The building and making of their homes and improving their farms had occupied all their time and attention. They loved their king and their hearts were loyal to him, seeing him only in his best moods, as he was always kind and pleasant to them in his visits about the island. They knew nothing about the workings of the inner circle or private temple teachings. TEACHINGS OF MORMONISM. Strang knew just how to manage these hardworking, faithful people, and the reason so many were beginning to think favorably of polygamy was because they were taught that only those who were faithful could be sealed, and in this way were counted God's elect. But there were a large number of women who came to the island that had been better taught than to believe in such a doctrine, which was the reason of Strang's failure to enforce the law. The two men who shot Strang had their own wrongs to avenge. Bedford had been whipped, he claimed unjustly. The other man, Wentworth, also had much bitterness in his heart of treatment he had suffered from Strang. So the two had planned to shoot him at their first opportunity. Immediately after they shot him they ran to the U. S. steamer Michigan and gave themselves up to the officers saying, "We have shot Strang and are willing to suffer the consequences." They were taken to Mackinac Island and put in jail, where they remained about one week. One dark night the door was unlocked and a man said to them. "Ask no questions, but hurry to the dock and go on board the steamboat that is there." They did so. Nothing was ever done in the way of giving these men a trial. Public sentiment was so great at the time against the Mormons it would have been impossible to find a jury to convict them. FATHER AND MOTHER'S VISIT TO BEAVER ISLAND. My brother remained with us three weeks. Father and mother thought they would like to go back to the island with him to visit many of their old-time friends, who had gone back to the island after the Mormons left. Mr. Bower, at Bower's Harbor, owned a small vessel and was anxious, as he said, "To go and see how the island looked with the Mormons gone." So, with several more friends from Traverse City and Old Mission, father, mother and Frank went to Beaver Island. They were gone two weeks. I remained with Mrs. Hitchcock, my former teacher, Miss Helen Goodale. She had gone to housekeeping in their cozy new home just built on First street. I was very contented while they were gone never thinking of such a thing that father would move away from Traverse City. When they came back I could see mother was greatly pleased with the island. There she had met so many of her old friends, and there she could talk her own language again. A MOTHER LONGING TO SEE HER CHILDREN. I could see when mother spoke of the island her heart was drawn to it. I said to her, "Would you leave Traverse City and go to Beaver Island?" It was dark and I could not see her face, but I knew by her voice there were tears in her eyes as she said, "Well, I don't know Elizabeth, but it seemed to me while I was there I was nearer to my boys, Charley and Anthony, and now as both are sailing they might sometime come into the harbor in a storm." I spoke with father about it. He said he knew mother wanted to go back, but he did not want to take me from school. Frank, too, said mother was anxious to go to the island, telling him there she might see her two boys who were sailing and have her oldest son with her all the time. There was nothing said to me again about it. I had forgotten all about my talk with my mother. One morning the latter part of August Frank came and said to me, "Elizabeth you must come home. We are going to move to Beaver Island." At first I said. "No, this can't be so. I can't leave my school which will soon now begin." But I hurried home to find it was true. Packing was going on and all preparations were made to move. Mother was happy. She was going to be near her boys as she so many times said when her neighbors urged her not to go. My heart was heavy. How could I go and leave all my dear companions and my dear school, which was my greatest sorrow. Mr. Therian Bostwick had been our teacher the winter before and would be again the coming winter. He was a highly educated man and he and his wife wanted me to remain with them all winter and go to school. Father said I might if I wanted to and then I could go to the island the next spring, but I felt I could not do it. My winter in Ohio, where I had been homesick, made me timid about being separated from my parents. Dearly as I loved my young companions and Traverse City, I felt I was needed by my parents. Father's health was failing, that I could plainly see, and Frank not old enough to be much help. LEAVING TRAVERSE CITY. With many tears of sorrow to think of leaving companions, friends and Traverse City, the place where we had been so happy in the four years of our stay, we bade adieu to our kind friends and neighbors and once more were sailing away over the waters to Beaver Island. As we sailed toward Northport it was not long before all traces of the little city had passed from our view, and though I could not see it with my eyes, I could see it with my heart, as I said to one of the gentlemen on board our vessel. There were three summer people that had been at the island since early June. They came over to Traverse City to see what the country looked like and voted their preference for the island as a summer home. We called at Northport, stopping to see several friends and wait for a fresher breeze. There we met Mr. Dame, his wife and daughter, Mrs. Page, and son Sebe, as we always called him. Mr. and Mrs. Smith and many more wished us "God speed" on the way across the water to our "Island home." We left Northport just as the sun was rising over the treetops. The little town looked bright and pleasant in the morning sunlight. The wind was fair and sea smooth. We soon were past the point, where we could look upon Lake Michigan. North and South Fox Islands at our left, Charlevoix shore on our right, and soon Cat Head was left far behind, with the "Beavers" growing larger every minute. LANDING AT THE ISLAND. The day was fair; the sky was blue; the sea gulls soared about our little ship, uttering their shrill cries in search of food. Soon the land could be plainly seen along the island, and as we neared its shores my thoughts went back to a few years ago, when I stood on the deck of the steamboat Michigan watching so eagerly to catch the first glimpse of the dear old island that was my home. And now as we passed Cable's dock and saw the houses, and people walking about, how familiar everything looked to me. I watched to see our old home, but father said to me, "It is burned down." I looked at the place where it had stood and through my tears it seemed I could almost see my little brother Charley and myself strolling along the beach as we so often did in the old days, chasing the plovers along the shore. Then again I could see ourselves hurrying to get on board the little vessel with our goods left upon the beach and the Mormon men pointing the guns at us. Father seemed to know what was passing in my mind as he said. "There are only friends here now." We sailed along Big Sand Bay, and there were many little buildings left where the fishermen lived. The Martin's and Sullivans place, with Kilty's and others, all looked so familiar, then past Loaney's Point with the big rock, and the homes looked just the same. In a short time our little ship was sailing into the harbor, where something new greeted my eyes, and that was the light house on the point, which was not there when I was there last. Everything was so beautiful and fair to look upon I could not help enjoying the lovely trip across the lake. HOTELS AT THE HARBOR. My brother and other friends met us and took us to the Mormon printing office, which had been turned into a hotel. When reaching there we were met by ever so many old friends, nearly all speaking in French, and their manner so hearty we could not help but feel their welcome. At supper time the dining room was filled with a jolly crowd of fishermen with a number of city people that were staying for rest and recreation in the summer months. Several of them had been with the fishermen on the lake that day watching the process of setting and lifting the nets, and many were the jokes that were made at their expense. Next door was another larger hotel, kept by Mr. David Lobdell and his wife. Mrs. Lobdell came from Fremont, Ohio. This hotel had been full of summer boarders, but many had gone to their city homes. This house had been used by the Mormons as a dance hall and theater. The summer at the island had been a very gay one. About twenty families had summered there, living in the deserted homes of the Mormons. There were also two or three smaller boarding houses that were all filled and doing a good business. Fish were plenty, bringing a good price. Everybody had money and used it freely. The fishermen were a good, kind, jolly people as a class, borrowing no troubles for the morrow. In those days there were no tugs used in the fishing business, neither were there pound-nets used. There were many seines used. The fish caught were usually very large in size, both whitefish and trout. The merchants did a prosperous business. In winter the cord wood was chopped and brought to the docks for the steamers' fuel during the summer season. THE FAREWELL RECEPTION TO FRIENDS. The evening before we reached there a large party had been given as a farewell to the many summer friends that were going to their city homes. The two young Mormon sisters that Strang had chosen as Spiritual wives were also going away. They were to have a great festival, or feast, in July to celebrate the sealing ceremony of the King's marriage with the two young sisters, but death had come and taken the King before the time of the ceremony. These two sisters were very beautiful girls who were orphans and had a home with their uncle, he being a staunch Mormon, but a very good man. The summer people had been very interested in these two young sisters. Their parents had both died while they were very young. Being raised in the Mormon faith they thought it was right and considered it a great honor to have been chosen by the prophet and King. I was told by one who knew them intimately that they expressed great joy that they had escaped such a fate. Since the shooting of Strang they, as well as many others, had lost their faith in his religion. RETURN OF THE MERCHANTS. We were soon settled in a comfortable house left by the Mormons. The houses as a rule were placed close together in groups of three. Their yards were nicely laid out and filled with handsome flowers, which were now in bloom. When we reached there houses were plenty and we could take our choice. Mr. C. R. Wright and family had returned to the island, starting a large cooper shop and employing a number of workmen. Mr. James Moore and family, T. D. Smith and family, and many others who had left in 1852 had now returned. Mr. James Cable had taken possession of his property at the head of the island and was again in business. Mr. Peter McKinley had returned and was in business across the harbor on the opposite side from the point at what was called the "Gregg property." Mr. McKinley had been elected to the State Legislature at Lansing, so did not return to the island until late in the fall. His brother Morrison taking charge of the business. Peter McKinley was first cousin to William McKinley, our late President of the United States. There was a very comfortable school house, built by the Mormons. It was a frame building containing a large library of fine books which belonged to the King. There were books of Greek and Latin, with histories and law books. Our school was taught that winter by Mr. Isaac Wright from Illinois. The Mormons had always had good schools, as the king wanted to have his subjects educated, but would not allow them to go outside to be educated. The teachers being their own people. About a mile back from the shore on high, level land was Mr. Campbell's farm. This was a beautiful location on the south side of the harbor. This family had remained when the Mormons had left. They were glad to be left in peace and had become tired of Strang's rule. They were my neighbors for many years and proved themselves kind and true friends. Mrs. Campbell had been one of Strang's greatest enemies in preventing his enforcing the laws of polygamy. She carried her family Bible to the temple, and there with many other women read God's laws from its pages faster than the king could explain it in his way. She told me all this herself, and said many times when she started for the temple it was with fear and trembling, not knowing sometimes whether she would ever return to her home. She knew she was defying the King, and no one at the time could tell what the outcome might be, adding, "But we knew we were right and were fighting for our homes. We kept agitating and gained time. Strang began to find his power was not absolute. We women banded ourselves together and fought him with words so strong he had to stop to consider where he stood. Before it was settled the king was shot." DR. McCULLOCH'S RESIDENCE. At the harbor side, or St. James, was quite a village. Two docks, two stores, with the two hotels and two or three boarding houses; further around the bay was the old Mormon boarding house building that had been run by the Mormon with four wives. It was built of logs smooth on both sides. Mr. C. R. Wright converted that building into a large cooper shop. There were about twenty houses back along the hill, reaching along past the temple and Strang's cottage, with several more in the other direction around the bay toward the point. Just back a short distance from the street just opposite the dock stood what was called "Dr. McCulloch's residence." A very pretty gothic story and a half cottage. It was painted white with a white picket fence around it. Dr. McCulloch was the Mormon doctor from Baltimore. A fine physician. Coming to the island just to rest, he gained his health and liked the climate so well he settled there. His wife was a highly cultured lady. While not wholly Mormons, they were just enough so as to live peaceably with the King. Mrs. McCulloch was the leader in much of their amusements, and she often ridiculed Strang about his way of living and insisting upon the women wearing short hair and bloomer costumes. She always wore her dresses long when going on her annual trips home to Baltimore. But when on the island she wore the regulation short dress, as she said, "Just for fun." The year we returned, in 1857, a Mr. Burke, a merchant from Buffalo, N. Y., had been that summer at the island with a stock of goods, leaving in the fall, selling his goods to Mr. George R. Peckham, of Toledo, Ohio, who carried on the business a few years alone, after which C. R. Wright went partner with him; then for a number of years the firm of Peckham & Wright was known. Later George Peckham sold his interest to Mr. Wright, and then the firm was known as C. R. Wright & Son. The business grew, as thousands of barrels of fish were caught and shipped every season. It soon became equal to the fish market at Mackinac Island, it being nearer to most of the fishing grounds. In a few years the property at the point was bought by the firm of Dormer & Allen, of Buffalo, N. Y. A large store and warehouse was built, with the dock improved, and the business was carried on at the point with success by that firm for a number of years. THE KING'S HIGHWAY. At Cable's dock Mr. John Corlette, of Ohio, had settled, and after a fair success in business of several years he moved to Cheboygan, Mich., with his son-in-law, Mr. Andrew Trombley. Captain Appleby, of Buffalo, N. Y., took Mr. Loaney's place as keeper of the light-house at the head of the island, where his nephew, Frank Blakeslee, assisted. After a few years Mr. Harrison Miller took Capt. Appleby's place, remaining eleven years or more, assisted by his nephew, Edwin Bedford. Mr. William Duclon succeeded Miller, and after about eight years was transferred to Eagle Bluff light-house, where he still continues at this writing. Mr. Harrison Miller, after leaving the light-house, was appointed keeper of the life saving station at Beaver Harbor, and was transferred to Point Betsey life-saving station. Mr. Owen Gallagher succeeded him at the Beaver Island station. The Mormons laid the roads out very convenient for the settlers that were in the interior of the island. One road went direct from the harbor across to Bonnar's landing, a distance of five miles. This road passed through many fine farms, and there were roads branching from this one leading to all parts of the island, with the king's highway leading direct through from the harbor to the head of the island. The king's highway was very beautiful with its wild scenery. Many of the roads were built with small logs cut the width of the road and laid down firmly close together. These were called cause-ways or corduroy. This kind was built where it was swampy and low land to go through. These cause-ways were very beautiful in summer time with their branches arching overhead in many places, with beautiful evergreens mixed in with willows, green mosses and flowers. HORSEBACK RIDING ABOUT THE ISLAND. I soon became acquainted with Mr. Campbell's daughter. She was a bright, jolly girl just two years older than I. They had horses, so Mary and I used to ride horseback almost every day until she had taken me almost all over the island. Oh, those delightful rides! There were roads and bridle paths going in every direction. I would soon have been lost, but Mary knew them all, and when she had any doubts about the way out from the deep woods those two horses never failed to take us right. Mary was a pleasant companion. She knew the names of all the people who had lived on those now deserted farms. Every house we came to was vacant. The little gates were broken off their hinges in several places, and in some of the houses the curtains were still at the windows. Weeds were growing all about the doors, flowers were still in bloom, with weeds mixed in among them, barns were empty with some of their doors open. There were broods of chickens around many of the barns, and one yard we rode into some pretty little kittens ran scampering under the barn. Mary was talking all the time, saying, "Such a man lived here; they were very good people. Just see how pretty the flowers grow and the lovely currant bushes. Ma and I came and picked the most of them this season, as Mrs. M---- told us to. Oh we did feel so sorry for her to have to leave her home. Now these people were awfully queer. They never talked to anybody; and just see the lovely hay in this field all going to waste." We rode along where there were several houses built close together with a large barn, and the flowers were beautiful. Roses climbing about the windows. "Yes, this is where one of the apostles lived. We didn't like him a bit. Ma says he made Strang do lots of things he didn't want to and wanted to put father high in office and have him sealed to some more wives, but Ma would not allow it. She went to the temple and did all she could do to stop it, and I believe Strang was afraid the women would mob him. At any rate he let us alone. We liked that apostle's wife. She was a kind little woman." I enjoyed the riding, but it made me sad to see all those deserted homes. I could see how much hard work had been done to make everything so comfortable. THE HOME WHERE THE WIFE HAD BEEN DRIVEN OUT. One day, on our last ride, we rode directly across to Bonnar's landing. Mr. and Mrs. John Bonnar had bought and settled on a very fertile piece of land. At that time there was not much cleared; later they had a beautiful home. Mr. Ray Peckham and wife also had bought a good farm near Mr. Bonnar's. This day Mary and I rode around all the homes out on that road, then came down and took the road leading out to Long Lake, near Font Lake. Our horses were walking, Mary was pointing out and telling me about the people that lived on this road. We soon came to a home that it seemed to me I had seen before. I said, "Mary, who lived here?" "Oh, this is where Mr. H---- lived; the man who treated his wife so badly because she did not like it when he brought home another wife." We tied our horses and walked about the yard. Yes, here was the home. There were the rose bushes about the windows, the flowers down the walk, a mountain ash with its red berries, the vegetable garden at the back of the house with the currant and gooseberry bushes. I looked a long time, seeing it all in my mind as the woman had told me her story. I could see the man and woman standing together in the door while the wife was hurrying away to her mother for sympathy. I could not keep the tears back. Mary saw I felt sad and said, "Why do you cry? Are you lonesome for the friends you have left in your old home?" I said, "No, I am crying because I have heard the story about the woman. She told it to me herself." "Oh yes, I remember hearing ma tell me about this woman. She says she thinks it was the most cruel joke Strang ever planned." (Strang always called such things jokes.) Over there is where her father and mother lived and way over there (pointing to the woods) is where that deaf and dumb sister of her's lived. We walked over to the woods. The little log cabin stood almost hid by the trees and bushes. It had a more deserted look than the rest of the houses. Bushes and weeds were right up to the door. Mary said no one had ever lived in it since the deaf and dumb man had died and his wife and children had gone away. We hurried away. It gave us such a gloomy feeling. We were glad to come back where the sun was shining. TIGER'S GRAVE. Mary said, "Come, I will show you old Tiger's grave, where the woman and her deaf and dumb sister buried him after Mr. H---- shot him for his faithfulness to his mistress." We stood beside the spot where the wronged wife had buried her faithful dog. She had planted a rose bush beside it. There were many beautiful roses on the bush that season. Tiger's grave was near the shore of little Font Lake at the place where he pulled his mistress from a watery grave. We then rode down through Enoch, and there Mary pointed to a grave with a beautiful lilac bush at its head with a white picket fence about it. That is where the mother of four young girls is buried. It almost broke their hearts to go away and leave their mother's grave. They had asked Mary to see to it sometimes, which she had promised to do. THE JOHNSON HOUSE. Mary said, "Now just one more place to go and see before we go home." We rode around pretty Font Lake, soon coming to a large two story and a half house, built very near the sloping shore of the lake. We tied our horses, walking down the path to the water. There were seats in among the small cedars, which grew thickly about. The house was still in good repair. "This is the Johnson House. The people were rich. He was a merchant living in Buffalo. The King and 'Douglas' went to their home and soon persuaded them to sell and come here. They built this house, and out there you can see the large barn. They brought their horses and carriages. They brought their dead daughter's body and buried it out there on that little knoll." I looked and saw the white railing about the lonely grave with rose bushes at the head. We went up stairs and saw the large dancing hall with its waxed floors which were still glossy. She told me how beautifully it had been furnished. The parlors and all the rooms were large. Rose bushes grew near the windows, flower gardens with blooming flowers. The setting sun was shining through the windows; the house was clean and it seemed the occupants had just cleaned house and not yet arranged the furniture. It had such a bright, cheerful look. Some city visitors had lived there all summer. Yes, these people were another disappointed family. They had a very handsome daughter highly educated and a fine musician. Strang and "Douglass" used to go there to the parties given, the family not knowing at first that "Charles Douglas" was a woman, that being another one of the king's jokes. Mr. Wentworth married this daughter and the king's visits became disagreeable to the young wife. This caused hard feelings and may have been one of the reasons for Wentworth's shooting the king. We hurried home as the sun was sinking in the west, and I wanted to get away from all these empty houses, for every one seemed like an open grave. I staid with Mary all night and her mother told me many things about their life on the island. [Illustration: FONT LAKE, BEAVER ISLAND, WHERE KING STRANG BAPTIZED HIS PEOPLE.] MRS. CAMPBELL'S STORY. "We had a comfortable home in New York State near to where many more of our neighbors who came with us lived. Strang himself, with two more apostles, were traveling through the country preaching and telling about the rich beautiful country they had found. We went to hear them, and, like many others, were greatly pleased. Strang did most of the talking himself. He was a brilliant talker. He had such a bright, cheerful manner we were won from the first. We sold our home, the other neighbors doing the same, and in a short time started for the 'Promised Land.' When we reached here we found nothing as it had been represented to us. The island was in its wild natural state. A few had cleared some land and were struggling along the best they could. Our first winter was a hard one, and I cannot bear to think how sadly we were disappointed. When I asked Strang why we had not been told the truth he always turned it off in some way, talking so encouragingly and always making us see the brightest side. Life became busy, as we had a large family dependent upon us. We had some money saved and bought this land and built this house, which you see is large and comfortable. Our children were sent to school and we were beginning to feel quite contented. I often went to hear Strang preach, but I did not feel satisfied, his doctrine did not sound the same as he told it to us before we left our old home, and he was having so many 'New Revelations' that I soon lost what little belief I had ever had in the doctrine. Somehow it was different from what my old family Bible taught me, but I said very little about it at first, although a few of us women used to say Strang had too many revelations to be true. He never spoke anything to me about them, but often spoke to other women he called upon. Very soon he preached in the temple that he had a new revelation that all the apostles and officers in the Church of Zion must take more wives, and had already taken more himself. This preaching stirred us women up, as he had preached before against polygamy, and about this time I found the king was urging my husband to accept a high office in the church. I called upon the king, asking if this was all true that we heard. He answered in a very decided tone, 'Yes, it is true, and the law will be enforced if you do not quietly submit.' I told him I would never submit or consent to another woman coming into my house while I lived. He said, 'You are not yet high enough in the faith to understand the true meaning of being sealed to spiritual wives.' Well, I tell you I was mad. I went home, and in a few days I joined with several other women. We went to the temple, I carrying my family Bible, and there we faced the King. We women talked faster than he could. He tried to have us stopped but could not. You know how it all ended; I was sorry to see him killed, yet I knew something terrible would happen to him and I told him so when I talked that day. I said such things cannot go on any longer. All these homes would not be empty had Strang lived according to the doctrine he preached to us before we sold our old homes and came here; we would have been a happy, contented people, but his teachings were all false from beginning to end, and he has suffered the same fate of Joseph Smith, whose example he followed. I know there were bad men influencing him to do all this. It might have been for the purpose of getting rid of him so they themselves could take his place. It is all ended and I am glad I never knew anything more about Mormonism than I have since I came here." BURNING OF THE MORMON TEMPLE. At the time the Mormons left the island the temple was left standing. The excitement was so great and the Gentiles feared the Mormons might return with another leader in Strang's place, so they thought best to burn the temple. It was of the exact pattern as the one at Kirtland, Ohio, as Strang had built it after the same plans. The building was all up and inclosed, but not yet finished. The large room used for preaching was also used for the council room. ROCKY MOUNTAIN OR INDIAN POINT. In my rides about the island there were many narrow paths in every direction and the young growth of trees made it almost impossible to pass through. We would come upon many little log cabins in the dense woods with no clearing except a small yard and I wondered why this was so. I was told these were some of the places where they used to secrete stolen goods, it being such an out-of-the-way place and in the dense woods no one would expect to find a house. One of the band of "Forty Thieves" who lived with us a few months after I was married and keeping house, told us there were many such places about that locality of Rocky Mountain, or Indian Point as it has always been called late years, where goods could be hid and they could hide themselves so as not to be found by any stranger. The very mention of the band of "Forty Thieves" struck terror to people's hearts in the days of Mormon rule. There were rumors of many dark deeds done by that band of highwaymen, or pirates as they were sometimes called. It was common talk among Gentiles, and told us by some of their own people who were not very loyal to the king, that vessels were plundered and the crews never heard from. Of course this none of us knew to be true, yet a great many things happened to lead us to think that it might be a possibility. When my people came back to the island there was still a great quantity of goods left stored away in some houses up in that part called "Enoch," about one mile distant from the harbor. There were several boxes of shoes, some crates of dishes partly full, screen cupboards, furniture, chairs and tables. One small house was almost full of stoves. All these goods were new and did not seem to have been damaged. The people who came had helped themselves to all they wanted and wondered where all the goods came from. This helped to make the rumors prove more true that vessels had been plundered and the crews killed. One of our lake captains told me he had a brother who was last seen at Beaver harbor. The vessel and crew were never heard from and no one knew their fate. Of course when Strang's people were getting so bold, doing what they did, taking everything from the fishermen, it could easily be believed they would plunder vessels if a good opportunity came. THE SECRET SOCIETY. Many have been the hours spent, and days even, by people hunting to find the hull of a schooner which was said to have been sunk off Little Sand Bay, myself among the rest, and several times we were sure we could see the hull of the vessel lying at the bottom of the lake several rods from shore. We often went rowing and sailing in that direction and we were sure to say, "Let's look for the wreck." I asked the young man that boarded with us about it, as he had once been a member of the "Secret Society." I said, "Is it true? Has there been such things done?" He said, "If only these stones could talk they would tell you of some things that would horrify you, and though I am free from Mormon rule, I would not dare to tell you some things which our band was sworn to do. We were trained for our work and were known among ourselves as the 'Secret Society.' It meant sure death to any of us to betray anything pertaining to our business." He was only eighteen at the time he joined the "Secret Society." He often had spells of great sadness and many nights walked the floor because he could not sleep. Once I said to him. "Did the King ever give you orders what to do?" He said. "At first the orders were given our captains by the King, but it was not long before we never waited for orders from headquarters. We did what we found to do. It was the intention that Strang should own and rule the whole territory about these islands and mainland as fast as he could get his people scattered about to possess the whole. Strang got too busy making laws that did not suit many of the women, which was one cause of the ill-feeling among his people." PAGE TOWN. In one of my rides with Mary we went to the place called "Rocky Mountain Point," where the forty thieves had their rendezvous. It was a lonely place, with the waves rolling in over the rocky shore where we went to the beach and the woods were dense. I had heard so many stories of the Mormons' doings there I felt afraid and told Mary I wanted to hurry away, which we did as fast as our horses could travel through the path. When we came to "Page Town" then the spell was broken. No one could look upon this beautiful place and feel fear. The view is grand out over the water to the neighboring islands and the evergreens are most beautiful. "Page Town" is just on the Lake Michigan side of Font Lake. We could see the Johnson House as we rested on the bank of the lake. There were about a dozen houses scattered about, some right near the bank and others back in among the evergreens. It was named in honor of Mr. Page, who first built his house there with several of his relatives. The location is most beautiful. At this spot Lake Michigan is not quite a half mile from Font Lake. The land is a little rolling going out to Font Lake, which gives it a most beautiful view all about. The road was good to the portage. We rode around by the Station Hill, a station put there for government survey, and is a most beautiful place for a look-out, with its white sandy beach and clear water sparkling in the sunlight. During my stay on the island that was always a favorite place to go for a quiet, restful stroll, and our summer visitors never failed to visit Station Hill. There Garden Island, with its lovely green trees, was a pleasant view. VISITING THE LIGHT KEEPER AND HIS WIFE. From there Mary and I turned our horses' heads toward the point to visit the light keeper and his wife. They were a dear old couple. They would not let us go before we had tea with them. Their children were all married but one daughter. She was visiting with her sister, Mrs. E. Kanter, in Detroit, and expected to remain there for the winter. The old couple had a young boy named Anthony Frazier living with them. Their home was a marvel of neatness. Their name was Granger. He had been light-keeper at Bois Blanc, near Mackinac Island. His son had taken his place and Mr. Lyman Granger had come to take charge of Beaver Island harbor light, just erected the year before. They took us in the tower to see the lamp It was in beautiful order. Mrs. Granger seeing to the polishing of the lamp and fixtures herself. A few years later I was married and lived neighbor to them until they left the light-house. Then Mr. Peter McKinley was appointed keeper, where he remained nine years with his two young daughters, Effie and Mary. He lost his health soon after his appointment, but the girls took charge of the light house and were faithful to their charge during the whole time of their stay, finally resigning to go away. OUR SCHOOL TEACHERS. There were always good schools at the island, having several teachers from the city at different times. I will mention a few of our city and island teachers. The city teachers were Miss Ann E. Granger, Detroit; Clara Holcomb, Fremont, Ohio; Miss Belle and Hattie Buckland, Buffalo, N. Y.; Miss J. Voas and Miss J. V. Wilkes, both of Buffalo, N. Y. Our island teachers were C. R. Wright, Michael F. O'Donnell, Miss Effie McKinley, Miss Sarah O'Malley, Miss Sarah J. Gibson, Miss Annie Gibson, and many others. There were two brothers. Charles and George Gillett, of Detroit, Mich. They came several summers. Both were fine musicians. They were sure to be on our first boat in the spring, remaining until fall. One spring Charles came alone. The younger brother had died during the winter. We missed his pleasant face and sweet music. When the other brother returned home that fall he took a bride with him, marrying Miss Clara Holcomb, of Fremont, Ohio. Life on the island was never dull. Our summer friends were pleasant, friendly people, making the life happier by their coming. Good books were sent us for winter reading, and many little tokens of remembrance were often sent us. We gladly hailed the first boat in the spring because it always brought some friends from the outside world. GOING TO MACKINAC ISLAND. I was again on board the steamer Michigan. The same captain, the same crew; Jane, the cabin maid was there with her pleasant smile. There were several passengers from Green Bay going to Mackinac Island, for it was payment time. Among the passengers was Mr. Scott, of Green Bay, who once lived at Mackinac Island. Another was Mr. Michael Dousman, he being another that had lived many years on Mackinac Island. His home then being in Milwaukee. When we landed at Mackinac Island the entire beach from Mission House Point to the place where the "Grand" now stands was filled with a row of Indian wigwams. There were Indians wearing their blankets and the women dressed in bright gay colors with their papooses strapped on their backs in their Indian cradles. The cradles were trimmed with gay colored ribbons. Dogs and children were all mixed up together. Many squaws were pounding Indian corn to make soup for their supper. The streets near the water at Mackinac looked very bright in their gay colors. Indian women and their children were strolling and chatting together looking at the bright colored goods, while the men were most of the time walking about the streets wrapped in their white blankets, they talking together in low tones. Perhaps telling about how their grandfathers had met for councils of war at this same place so many years before. The island was just as beautiful as ever. It was early spring time when I saw it last with the straits full of floating ice. Now the grass was green and the trees were in autumn dress with the beautiful evergreens mixed in among the pretty colored leaves of maple and birch. The crisp autumn air gave new life after a hot summer. It had been a busy season with summer visitors and a few had lingered for payment time. MY RETURN TO BEAVER ISLAND. My visit of a month was greatly enjoyed and I returned to Beaver Island, entering school at once. Our winter was a cold one, with heavy ice in the lake, but the next spring we had the steamer Michigan in our harbor on April first. There was still drifting ice, fishing soon began and the summer was a busy one, with many summer visitors. Our island people were very happy not to be disturbed any more by the Mormons or have their property stolen. There were several Irish families that came as soon as the Mormons left, and more soon followed. They bought the land and made themselves homes. Among those that came was our genial friend Capt. Roddy, so well known all over Northern Michigan. He was a true sailor, owning several sailing crafts at different times, also owning a very fine farm on the island. He lived there a number of years. He died leaving his family very comfortable. Many of the people who came to the island bought land and took some of the houses the Mormons had left that were around the harbor and moved them to other locations, so that in a few years the island was changed in its appearance by the buildings being taken away from where they had been. Soon there were enough people to support a church, then a Catholic Priest came, and by subscription a church was built, the Protestants helping. Rev. Father Murray was the first priest stationed there. He was a very social and kind hearted man. After him came Rev. Father Gallagher, a young student just from college. His former home was Philadelphia. He made many improvements to the church building, devoting his whole time to his people. He was a jolly social man and a great entertainer. He passed away after a useful life of thirty-two years service. His remains were taken to his native city, Philadelphia, for interment. THE GIBSON HOUSE. Mr. Robert Gibson and wife came to the island the spring of 1858, buying the property of the old Mormon printing office, converting it into a hotel known ever since as "The Gibson House." Its doors have been open to guests up to the present. Mr. Gibson died some years ago, since which time his widow, Mrs. Julia Gibson, with her family, have continued the business with success. The "King Strang Cottage" has gone to ruin. What little there was left of it after summer visitors had carried away pieces as relics took fire and burned. Capt. Bundy with his gospel ship "Glad Tidings" often came to our harbor and sailing around other parts of the shores and islands in later years holding religious services among the people. THE NURSE'S STORY. Soon after our return to the island after the going away of the Mormons I became acquainted with a lady that had come to the island just a few weeks before Strang was shot. She came to visit her brother. She was a nurse. She told me what a sad time it was to those people when their king was shot. Some would not believe until they saw him. Soon after Strang was carried home the doctor sent a messenger to this lady to come and take charge of the sick room, as no one else could be found capable, all being in such an excited state of mind. She said, "When I reached Strang's home I found him resting under an opiate. His wounds had been dressed. The doctor was sitting beside the bed. I knew him well and he motioned me to a seat. I went across the hall into another room, hearing the sounds of crying and sobbing. There I saw the four wives with several neighbor women all in a sorrowful state of mind. There was one that sat by herself by an open window looking out over the water. She was silent and quiet with a far away look in her eyes. I motioned to the rest to be quiet, as I feared it would disturb the sick man. I went close and spoke to the quiet woman. She was the one called 'Douglas,' the favorite wife. Strang often called her Charley. I told her why I had come, that I had been sent for. She roused herself up, saying, 'Oh yes, now I remember some one is needed in the sick room.' She seemed to be almost in a dream. I said to her, 'This may not be so bad. He may get well.' She shook her head, her lips quivered, then she spoke in low tones to me, saying, 'No, he says himself he can't get well and he wants the doctor to take him away from the island.' She stopped a moment and then went on, 'He wants to go to his wife in Wisconsin. He says he must go. The doctor told him he had better not go, but his mind is made up to go. And I think it is best, but the rest don't think so,' meaning the other three women. She told me where I could find everything I needed. There were soon large crowds gathering about the house, women were wringing their hands and sobbing aloud. The quiet woman went out among them, telling them they must be quiet and not disturb the sick man, but they did not seem to know what she said. They acted as if they were dazed. The doctor went out and explained to them that they must be quiet. Some of them went away, others sat down on the grass, sobbing quietly, seeming almost heartbroken. I was in the room when Strang awoke. The doctor was near him. The first words he spoke were, 'Doctor can I go? Will a boat soon come to take me home to my wife?' His voice was strong. The doctor answered, 'We will think about this later.' 'No doctor I must go, I cannot die here on the island. I must go to my wife and children. I must see her before I die. I can't get well, I know it, and I know she will forgive me.' His voice was pleading. It was hard for the doctor to know just what to do or say to him. I soon went to him with some drink. He looked straight in my face saying, 'Tell the doctor I must go home to my wife and children. I am going to die.' Then after a few moments of quietness he exclaimed, 'If I had only heeded her counsel this would not have happened.' His pleadings never ceased until the doctor said. 'Yes. I will take you.' Such a look of joy came over his face and the great tears started from his eyes. The quiet woman came and took his hand and wiped away the tears, but he seemed not to see her. He repeated several times, 'I am going home to Mary.' His eyes had a far away look and his mind was not dwelling on the daily cares, and he took no interest in anything about the house. He never mentioned anything about the business of the temple, as his only desire was to live until he reached his wife. This quiet woman that seemed so much to him before was nothing to him now. Her sorrow was great but she bore it quietly and helped in the preparations to make him comfortable on his journey, knowing she would never see him again in this life. Four days after he was wounded he was carried on board the steamer. The scene was a sorrowful one; everybody came to see their King who had taught them no harm could come to him. Strang was calm and quiet through it all, for to him they only seemed as passing friends. His thoughts were not of earth and his lips moved often as if in prayer. He stood the journey well, and the kind and loving wife freely forgave him as he died in her arms. He suffered much, but bore it bravely, seeming perfectly satisfied to be at home with his true wife." MARRIED AND KEEPING HOUSE. The light-keeper Mr. Granger, had given up his position as a keeper, Mr. Peter McKinley succeeding him. I was now married to Mr. Van Riper and living very near the light-house. My husband had come from Detroit for his health. After we were married he started a large cooper shop at the Point, employing several men in the summer season. My father had now moved into the "Strang House," as the King's house was always called by the islanders. Up to this time no one had ever lived in it since the King's death. Somehow no one cared to live in it, but father and mother found it very comfortable and pleasant. There were more people coming to the island all the time to settle, buying farms. The "Johnson House" was now taken down and moved on some farm. All the houses between Strang's house and Enoch had been taken down. We found the light-keeper and his daughters very kind neighbors. The two girls and myself were like sisters as time went on. There was no doctor at that time on the island. When anything serious happened the people had a doctor come from Mackinac Island and later from Charlevoix. Our mails came by ice in winter from Mackinac Island, a distance of fifty miles. When our mail carrier came with the pouches full we were like a hungry lot of people, as often we were without mail for a month or six weeks. Work was laid aside until the letters and papers were read, then for several days news was discussed among us. Good news was enjoyed by everybody and sad news was sadness for all. In later years our mail route was changed in winter to Cross Village, distant about twenty-five miles. Both Indians and white men were engaged in carrying it, using dogs with sleds as the mail grew heavier, with more inhabitants coming. Winter was the time for social amusements. We usually had fine ice for skating, which was enjoyed by both old and young, women, as well as men. The merchants laid in a good stock of everything necessary in the fall, but many times people ran short of provisions, then other neighbors divided with them. TRAVELLING BY WATER. In the sixties Charlevoix people came to Beaver Island to do much of their trading, going back and forth in small boats. All travelling had to be done by water. People felt no fear. We were going from island to island in summer time. In those days at Little Traverse, now Harbor Springs, there were just a few white settlers, with one or two stores. In the early fifties Mr. Richard Cooper started a store and another was kept by the "Wendells" of Mackinac Island. Many Mackinac Island people took their families every summer for several years to the Gull islands, that being a fine fishing ground. Thousands of dollars worth of fish were caught there. Beaver Harbor was then the center for trade. Near to reach. "The boats were our carriages, the wind our steeds." Sometimes there were accidents and many were drowned, still people had to live, and their work was on the water most of the time. The winter of 1861 my husband and I went to Milwaukee to spend the winter. Mr. C. R. Wright was elected to the State Legislature at Lansing that winter, his family spending the winter in Fairport, Ohio. We all returned to the island in springtime. My parents had now gone back to Traverse City to live. Frank, my adopted brother, had enlisted as a drummer boy at the beginning of the Civil War. OUR INDIAN SCHOOL AT GARDEN ISLAND. In July of 1862 my husband was appointed as a Government school teacher to the Indians at Garden Island. The school was a large one as there was a large band of Indians. Our school continued for two years, then was discontinued for several years before another teacher was sent among them. That two years was a busy life for us both. The Government furnished seeds of all kinds for their gardens, flower seeds as well to beautify their homes. We were expected to teach them how to plant and cultivate their gardens and farms. They learned rapidly to make their gardens, to plant corn and vegetables, but these little flower seeds, they could not manage them. Chief Peain was a very social, intelligent man. He watched the process of making the flower beds and the putting in of the small seeds. Then he said, "Too much work for Indian." He then took many of the boys and girls with some of the older ones to help clearing off three or four acres of land, put a brush fence around it, they then took the flower seeds of the different kinds, sowing them like grain and raked them in. Well, such a flower garden was never seen! There was every flower in the catalogue growing up together, and never were flowers enjoyed as those Indians enjoyed that flower garden. Every day at all hours could be seen both old and young going out to look at the bright flowers. Old grandmothers with the little grand children would sit in the shade near the flowers and work the pretty beads on the deerskin moccasins while the children played and amused themselves. As soon as school was over then the race began for the flower garden. And it was a pleasure to us to see them so happy. It was called "The Chief's Garden." He was greatly pleased with the bright flowers, and had us write a letter of thanks to the Indian agent for him. We always had several friends visiting us from Milwaukee and other cities, which made the time seem all too short. I often look back to that two years of my life and feel that my time was not wasted. WENTWORTH'S VISIT TO HIS ISLAND HOME. Soon after I was married Alexander Wentworth, one of the men that shot Strang, boarded with us for several weeks. He came back to the island to visit and see how things were prospering. He was a fine looking and intelligent man, very quiet in his manner. We had several other boarders at the same time, people who came to see King Strang's Island. Alec, as they always called him, was their guide to show them the best fishing streams and take them to hunt ducks and wild pigeons. I often talked with Wentworth about the shooting of Strang, asking him if he had any regrets about what he had done. He said, "I have never yet regretted what I did. The Mormon life was bad, and there was no good in it as I can see and I would not live it over again for anything." The place he liked to go best was to little Font Lake to the "Johnson House," his wife's old "Island Home." This had been the second season he came. After that he never came again and we never heard from him any more. MY HUSBAND APPOINTED LIGHT-KEEPER. The winter of 1865 we spent a very pleasant winter in Northport, the next winter in Charlevoix, where we had built us a new home on Bridge street. We sold and returned again to the island, engaging in the fishing business quite extensively for a few years. In August of 1869 Mr. Peter McKinley resigned his position as light-keeper, my husband being appointed in his place. Then began a new life, other business was discontinued and all our time was devoted to the care of the light. In the spring of 1870 a large force of men came with material to build a new tower and repair the dwelling, adding a new brick kitchen. Mr. Newton with his two sons had charge of the work. A new fourth order lens was placed in the new tower and the color of the light changed from white to red. These improvements were a great addition to the station from what it had been. Our tower was built round with a winding stairs of iron steps. My husband having now very poor health I took charge of the care of the lamps; and the beautiful lens in the tower was my especial care. On stormy nights I watched the light that no accident might happen. We burned the lard oil, which needed great care, especially in cold weather, when the oil would congeal and fail to flow fast enough to the wicks. In long nights the lamps had to be trimmed twice each night, and sometimes oftener. At such times the light needed careful watching. From the first the work had a fascination for me. I loved the water, having always been near it, and I loved to stand in the tower and watch the great rolling waves chasing and tumbling in upon the shore. It was hard to tell when it was loveliest. Whether in its quiet moods or in a raging foam. VESSELS SEEKING SHELTER FROM THE STORMS. My three brothers were then sailing, and how glad I felt that their eyes might catch the bright rays of our light shining out over the waste of waters on a dark stormy night. Many nights when a gale came on we could hear the flapping of sails and the captain shouting orders as the vessels passed our point into the harbor, seeking shelter from the storm. Sometimes we could count fifty and sixty vessels anchored in our harbor, reaching quite a distance outside the point, as there was not room for so many inside. They lay so close they almost touched at times. At night our harbor looked like a little city with its many lights. It was a pleasant sound to hear all those sailors' voices singing as they raised the anchors in the early morning. With weather fair and white sails set the ships went gliding out so gracefully to their far away ports. My brothers were sometimes on those ships. Many captains carried their families on board with them during the warm weather. Then what a pleasure to see the children and hear their sweet voices in song in the twilight hours. Then again when they came on shore for a race on land, or taking their little baskets went out to pick the wild strawberries. All these things made life the more pleasant and cheerful. DEATH OF MY HUSBAND, THE LIGHT-KEEPER. Life seemed very bright in our light house beside the sea. One dark and stormy night we heard the flapping of sails and saw the lights flashing in the darkness. The ship was in distress. After a hard struggle she reached the harbor and was leaking so badly she sank. My husband in his efforts to assist them lost his life. He was drowned with a companion, the first mate of the schooner "Thomas Howland." The bodies were never recovered, and only those who have passed through the same know what a sorrow it is to lose your loved one by drowning and not be able to recover the remains. It is a sorrow that never ends through life. MY APPOINTMENT AS LIGHT-KEEPER. Life to me then seemed darker than the midnight storm that raged for three days upon the deep, dark waters. I was weak from sorrow, but realized that though the life that was dearest to me had gone, yet there were others out on the dark and treacherous waters who needed to catch the rays of the shining light from my light-house tower. Nothing could rouse me but that thought, then all my life and energy was given to the work which now seemed was given me to do. The light-house was the only home I had and I was glad and willing to do my best in the service. My appointment came in a few weeks after, and since that time I have tried faithfully to perform my duty as a light keeper. At first I felt almost afraid to assume so great a responsibility, knowing it all required watchful care and strength, with many sleepless nights. I now felt a deeper interest in our sailors' lives than ever before, and I longed to do something for humanity's sake, as well as earn my own living, having an aged mother dependent upon me for a home. My father had passed beyond. Sorrows came thick and fast upon me. Two brothers and three nephews had found graves beneath the deep waters, but mine was not the only sorrow. Others around me were losing their loved ones on the stormy deep and it seemed to me there was all the more need that the lamps in our light-house towers should be kept brightly burning. Let our lamps be brightly burning For our brothers out at sea-- Then their ships are soon returning, Oh! how glad our hearts will be. There are many that have left us, Never more will they return; Left our hearts with sorrows aching, Still our lamps must brightly burn. TRIBUTE TO THE SAILORS. Oh sailor boy, sailor boy, sailor boy true! The lamps in our towers are lighted for you. Though the sea may be raging your hearts will not fail; You'll ride through the rolling foam not fearing the gale. And God in his mercy will lead you aright. As you watch the light-house with lamps burning bright. The wind your lullaby, as the raging seas foam; Oh sailor boy, sailor boy, we welcome you home. Oh sailor boy, sailor boy, sailor boy true! Your dear darling mother is praying for you; Your sweet bride is weeping as her vigil she keeps, Not knowing your ship has gone down into the deep. As she walks on the shore, her eyes out to sea, "Oh husband, my sailor boy, come back to me!" The wild waves dash up at her feet in a foam, They answer, "Your sailor boy no more can come home." In sorrow she kneels on that wave-beaten shore, "Shall I never, see my dear sailor boy more?" The waves whisper softly, their low moaning sound, "You'll meet your dear sailor boy, in Heaven he's crowned." LIGHT-KEEPERS AND THEIR WORK. Our light keepers many times live in isolated places, out on rocks and shoals far away from land and neighbors, shut off from social pleasures. In many places there can be no women and children about to cheer and gladden their lonely lives. There is no sound but the cry of the sea gulls soaring about or the beating of the restless waters, yet their lives are given to their work. As the sailor loves his ship so the light-keeper loves his light-house. Where there are three or four keepers at one station they manage to make the time pass more pleasantly. They must in many cases be sailors as well as light-keepers, as it requires both skill and courage to manage their boats in sailing back and forth between their lights and the mainland, where mail, provisions and other necessaries are procured for their comforts. Often they are drowned in making these trips. The passing of the ships near their stations are like so many old friends to them. They learn to love the passing boats and vessels, and it is a pleasure to know our lights cheer and gladden the hearts of the sailors as the waves run high and the wild winds blow on dark, stormy nights. May the hearts of the light-keepers, as well as the life savers in the life saving service along the great lakes and coasts, be strengthened and cheered in the grand and noble work. As we lie in our beds so snugly and warm. The sailors are on the sea battling the storm. As the sailors are tramping their decks in the midnight hours, We are trimming our lamps in our light-house towers. GALES ON OUR LAKES. There were many wrecks towed into our harbor, where they were left until repaired enough to be taken to dry docks in cities. Sometimes in spring and fall the canvas would be nearly all torn off a schooner in the terrible gales which swept the lakes, many of which I have been out in, in my trips on the lakes and among the islands. One of our pioneers, Capt. Robert Roe, of Buffalo, N. Y., had settled on South Fox Island in 1859. He put out a dock, built a comfortable house, and bought the land the Mormons had occupied. He farmed, and furnished cord wood to lake steamers for many years. Many were the gales he sailed through in his trips passing from the island to main land. His brother was keeper of the light-house several years at South Fox Island. STEAMER "BADGER STATE." Of all the many steamers that came to our harbor as the years passed on, and there were many, the "Badger State" of the Union Line of Buffalo, N. Y., gave us the longest service, running for ten years into Beaver Harbor, never once missing a trip and most always on time. Capt. Alexander Clark was master. No matter what the weather might be, how heavy the gale, the good ship "Badger State" never failed us. Thousands of barrels of fish were shipped on her to city markets, bringing the merchants' goods and merchandise. She also carried our summer mails and being a popular boat was always filled with passengers. From the spring of 1873 to the summer of 1883 the "Badger State" was a faithful friend. No one but those who reside on an island can appreciate the steamboat service or what it means to the people. We learn to love the boats, the sound of the whistle even in the midnight hours was music in our ears and brought cheer and comfort to our hearts. CAPT. E. A. BOUCHARD. Capt. E. A. Bouchard, of Mackinac Island, commanded several steamers around the lakes and islands of Northern Michigan and Green Bay. Steamers Passaic and Canisteo of the Green Bay line and the Grace Dormer, which burned in our harbor, where one man was burned and the captain and his wife had a narrow escape with their lives. In the early days Capt. E. A. Bouchard sailed a small steamboat called the "Islander," and oftentimes when we saw the craft coming it looked as though it might be one of the small islands broke loose from its moorings floating along the water. And it really seemed the captain loved his little craft, for his face always wore a pleasant smile when he greeted us. It mattered not for the "Islander's" beauty, she brought our mail and many friends, who came to enjoy a summer vacation on our beautiful island. In the sixties we had the steamers Galena, Capt. Stelle, master; Queen of the Lakes, Capt. Lewis Crarey, master; Mayflower, Capt. Woodruff, master; S. D. Caldwell, Capt. Hunt, master; Fountain City, Capt. Penney, master; Dean Richmond, Cuyahoga, Norton, and many others. In the year 1883 steamers Lawrence and Champlain made regular trips until replaced by the newer and larger boats of the Northern Michigan Line. OLD NEIGHBORS LEAVING THE ISLAND. About the year 1876 Mr. James Dormer, who had done an extensive business at the Point, retired and went to his home in Buffalo, N. Y., renting his property to Mr. John Day of Green Bay, Wis. Later Mr. C. R. Wright and son, also one of the old pioneers of the island who had carried on the fish business so many years, sold his dock property and store building, moving to Harbor Springs, still continuing in the dry goods business. About that time others of our island people moved to the main land, settling in different parts, making new homes. Several of the young men filling responsible positions as captains, mates and clerks on the lake steamers, and several of the young women being trained nurses in city hospitals. I now married again, still holding my position as light-keeper. Since my marriage my official title has been Mrs. Daniel Williams. Having a desire to change my residence from the island to the mainland I made the request to be changed to a mainland light station. I was soon transferred to the Little Traverse light-station at Harbor Springs, Mich. The light-house just finished, the lamp being lighted the first time September 25th, 1884. The light-station is situated on the extreme end of Harbor Point, at the entrance of Little Traverse harbor. SAD THOUGHTS ON LEAVING MY ISLAND HOME. Preparations were made, goods were packed, the steamer "Grace Barker" with Capt. Walter Chrysler as master, had come to take us to our new home. So often before had I left the island, passing several winters in other parts, but always returning again, and happy to get back to my neighbors and pleasant island home, with its fresh, pure air. But now I knew this was different. There would be no more coming back to live, this time was to be the last. The dear old island and I must part. I had always thought it beautiful in the many years I had called it my home; but never before had I realized what it had been to me until now. I was leaving, perhaps never more to return. Recollections came of my childhood days when free from care and knowing no sorrow, I had wandered through the pleasant paths strewn with flowers, sending their sweet perfume upon the air, as my brothers had so often taken me with them on their hunts; and the beautiful white beach where the blue waters came rolling in where so often we had wandered together, chasing the waves as they came tumbling in upon us, or as we paddled about the shores in our canoes, and where I so often had watched to see their white sails returning to land when I had not gone with them upon the water. As all these thoughts came passing through my mind I wondered if I could leave all these memories behind, or could I carry them away to the new home, the new land as it almost seemed. Though our family was broken and no more could we gather around the hearth at evening time, some had passed over into the beyond, yet there was no place on earth where we all seemed so close together as on the island shores. We had passed through many storms, both mental and physical, but had felt the mighty power of him who rules all things to give us peace and strength. And the "light-house!" That had been my home so many years, I loved the very bricks within its walls. Under its roof I had passed many happy years as well as some sorrowful ones. It was filled with hallowed memories. Then came the separation from the friends and neighbors. Could their places ever be filled? The sun shone bright, the day was fair as we stepped upon our steamer that was to bear us away from our island home. As we steamed so fast away, we looked back to watch its white shores with beautiful green trees in the background and the pretty white tower and dwelling of our light-house, which soon could be seen no more only in sad, sweet memories. Just a few hours passed when we steamed into Little Traverse Harbor, and the "red light," just like the one we had left, was flashing its rays over the waters of Little Traverse Bay for the first time. The water was calm and still. The "red light" shone deep into the quiet waters, and many eyes were watching the bright rays from the light-house tower, and the wish of their hearts had been gratified in having a light house on Harbor Point to guide steamers and vessels into the harbor. The evening was clear and the picture was a lovely one as we rounded the point so near the light. Some passengers said to me. "Here is your home. Don't you know the red light is giving you a welcome?" Yes, it was all one's heart could wish, yet I felt there was another I had left in the old home that was now just a little more dear to my heart. IN THE NEW HOME. We were met by friends and taken to their home for the night. Next morning we drove through the resort grounds to "Harbor Point Light House," as it is known by the land people, but to the mariner it is "Little Traverse Light House." We were soon at work putting our house in order, and the beautiful lens in the tower seemed to be appealing to me for care and polishing, which I could not resist, and since that time I have given my best efforts to keep my light shining from the light-house tower. Many old-time friends came to see us in our new home on Harbor Point, and though we greatly missed our island home and island neighbors, we soon felt an interest in our new surroundings. What I missed here most was not to see the passing ships and steamers, as they were constantly passing where we could see them from the island. There were a number of steamers, both large and small, running on our bay. Steamers City of Grand Rapids, T. S. Faxton, both owned by Mr. Hannah at Traverse City, that ran as far as Mackinac Island, steamer Van Raalte, owned by Mr. Charles Caskey of Harbor Springs. She was put on the Manistique route, calling at St. James, carrying the mail, with Capt. E. A. Bouchard as master; Clara Belle, another small steamer, with several tugs. Northern Michigan line was Lawrence, Champlain, City of Petoskey, and City of Charlevoix. At this writing the same company have the Kansas, and the two staunch new steamers, Illinois and Missouri. We also have the large passenger S. S. Manitou with Steamer Northland, and the Hart line boats of Green Bay. [Illustration: LITTLE TRAVERSE LIGHT HOUSE, AT HARBOR POINT MICHIGAN] VISITING AT TRAVERSE CITY. Since coming to mainland I have visited my old Traverse City home. There I met many friends of my childhood days, my teacher among the rest, with her sister Agnes. For a couple of weeks I was entertained by my old friends, Mr. and Mrs. H. D. Campbell and family. While there I visited all the old haunts and located the spot where the little log school house had stood, and the crooked tree which we school children loved so much to climb into and sit while our companions played about among the green pines and oaks. I strolled around to Bryant's where the road turns off to Old Mission. The old Bryant home looked just the same, nestling among the green trees, as in the years of long ago. Close beside it was the beautiful home of my school days' friend, Mrs. Frank Brush, where I was very cordially entertained by herself and family. I visited with my old friends in their handsome country home, Mr. and Mrs. J. K. Gunton, then around the bay to Greilick's. It seemed but yesterday since I had left it, and yet I missed so many of the old familiar faces. There was much sadness mixed in with the pleasure of meeting with old friends. The city had changed, no traces were left of my old home. The mill pond was filled in and streets and buildings were in its place. Strangers were in the places where once we children had run our races down the car track to the dock. The house where I had last visited my father, had been removed and another built in its place, but the little gurgling brook was still singing its cheerful songs and the flowers were blooming on its mossy banks. The beautiful forest trees had been cut down and a city was made where once the wild strawberries and June roses grew, even the Company's garden where we school children used to go and ride the horses around the field, was all changed into a city. While there I found where my three school friends were, the Rice girls. I had thought them dead, but happy was the meeting after thirty-six years of separation, and every summer since they never fail to make a little visit to the light-house, where we again live over the old days. Although there are silvery threads among the gold of our hair, we feel our hearts are young when speaking of the old school days. Since I left my island home I have never returned but once. The short time I was there were precious hours to me, and though I cannot go I so often see it in memory as it was when nature had put on her most lovely garments of green; when June roses were in bloom filling the air with fragrance with the friends of my younger days. Such pictures can never fade from memory. I always feel a deep interest in the prosperity and welfare of the island people. My present surroundings are all that could be wished for, and the light-house on Harbor Point is the place that is dearest to me. A few of the old pioneers of the island are Capt. Manus Bonnar, who owns and runs the Hotel Beaver; Mr. and Mrs. James Dunlevey have a fine, large dry goods store; Mr. James McCann has another with general merchandise; Mr. William Gallagher is the pioneer pound-net fisherman of the island; Mr. William Boyle and several others are in business. Several outside people have invested in land and in the near future expect to have a resort with daily boats running to main land in the summer months. No more healthful place can be found for rest and recreation than the fair and beautiful Beaver Island. RESORTS AROUND LITTLE TRAVERSE BAY The growth of many resorts around little Traverse Bay have been wonderful since my coming to Harbor Point light-house. Bay View with its summer schools of music, paintings and works of art, with its splendid gospel teachings and quiet restful places where people come to rest the tired brain from a busy city life. It is an ideal place for summer rest. Petoskey is a beautiful little city built upon a hillside. It has many advantages of pure air, beautiful views of the water on the bay and Lake Michigan. With its boats and railroads nothing more is needed for comfort. Roaring Brook, a picturesque spot of nature which must be seen to be appreciated. One must listen to the roaring of the brook to understand the meaning of the gurgling sound. One never tires in rambling about through the quiet, shady, green mossy nooks where the birds sing sweetly among the cedar trees. Wequetonsing, how fair to look upon. With its handsome cottages, green lawns, flowing water clear as crystal. Surely no drink can be sweeter than this pure water! It has a beautiful view of the bay, with Petoskey showing so prettily across the waters, and the light-house point with its green trees making delightful scenery for the eyes to rest upon. Then the pretty town of Harbor Springs nestling so near the high bluff with its many pretty buildings on the heights from which the view is perfect. On clear days Fox Islands and Beaver Island can be plainly seen. And beautiful Charlevoix. Her natural beauties with works of man have made her fair to look upon. I love to remember the beautiful scenery as I saw it when a child, with its lovely forest trees growing down to the water's edge, wild birds warbling in the branches, wild ducks swimming upon the quiet, calm waters of little Round Lake. There are many other resorts scattered all about the bays and shores where people find rest and strength. Last, but not least, is beautiful Harbor Point. A narrow point of land which helps to form the harbor with water on both sides and a heavy growth of trees of many different kinds making lovely, natural, shady parks, with many fine summer homes and beautiful drives. On the end of the Point stands the lighthouse with its red light flashing out at night over the waters, looking like a great red ruby set with diamonds as the electric lights are shining around the bay and harbor. What more is needed of nature's beauty to make the picture complete? The sun has sunk in the west, leaving the sky all purple and pink. The moon, just risen, sheds her soft, mellow light over the earth; all nature is resting. The birds are in their nests, the whip-poor-will has ceased her plaintive notes, the sea gulls are soaring away to their nightly rest. No sound is heard save the soft, low murmurings of the waves upon the shore. [Illustration: _FINIS._] * * * * * Transcriber's Corrections Following is a list of significant typographical errors that have been corrected. - Page 14, "morroco" changed to "morocco" (little red morocco shoes). - Page 19, "is" changed to "its" (from its tower). - Page 27, "cant'" changed to "can't" (Me can't stay). - Page 29, "swoolen" changed to "swollen" (still badly swollen). - Page 31, "you" changed to "your" (your mother on my back). - Page 34, "to" added (happened to grandpa). - Page 83, "and" added (and also held their yearly feasts). - Page 88, "it" added (it has gone to decay). - Page 136, "somthing" changed to "something" (There was always something). - Page 178, "langauge" changed to "language" (her own language again). - Page 194, "disapointed" changed to "disapointed" (we were disappointed). 
9949	----	THE BARK COVERED HOUSE, OR or, BACK IN THE WOODS AGAIN; BEING A GRAPHIC AND THRILLING DESCRIPTION OF REAL PIONEER LIFE IN THE WILDERNESS OF MICHIGAN BY WILLIAM NOWLIN, ESQ. 1876 PREFATORY NOTE. I little thought when I left my farm yards, horses and cattle in the care of other men, and began to write, that I should spend nearly all the winter of 1875 in writing; much less, that I should offer the product of such labor to the public, in the Centennial Year. But I have been urged to do so by many friends, both learned and unlearned, who have read the manuscript, or listened to parts of it. They think the work, although written by a farmer, should see the light and live for the information of others. One of these is Levi Bishop, of Detroit, who was long a personal friend of my father and his family, and has recently read the manuscript. He is now President of the "Wayne County Pioneer Society," and is widely known as a literary man, poet and author. W.N. KEY. Sketch of the lives of John and Melinda Nowlin; of their journeying and settlement in Michigan. Thrilling scenes and incidents of pioneer life, of hopes and fears, of ups and downs, of a life in the woods; continuing until the gloom and darkness of the forest were chased away, by the light of civilization, and the long battle for a home had been fought by the pioneer soldiers and they had gained a signal victory over nature herself. Hope never forsook them in the darkest hours, but beckoned and cheered them on to the conquest of the wilderness. When that was consummated hope hovered and sat upon her pedestal of realization. For better days had come for the pioneers in the country they had found. Then was heard the joyful, enchanting "Harvest Home;" songs of "Peace and Plenty." Crowned with honor, prosperity and happiness--for a time. PREFACE. I have delineated the scenes of this narrative, from time to time, as they took place. I thought at the time when they occurred that some of them were against me. I do not place this volume before its readers that I may gain any applause: I have sought to say no more of myself than was necessary. This is a labor of love, written to perpetuate the memory of some most noble lives, among whom were my father and mother who sought a home in the forests of Michigan at an early day. Being then quite young, I kept no record of dates or occurrences, and this book is mostly sketched from memory. It is a history of my parents' struggles and triumphs in the wilderness. It ought to encourage all who read it, since not many begin life in a new country with fewer advantages than they. It is said that "Truth is stranger than fiction." In this I have detailed the walks of ordinary life in the woods. In these pictures there is truth. All and more than I have said have been realized. My observations have been drawn from my own knowledge, in the main, but I am indebted to my sisters for some incidents related. Together, with our brother, we often sat around the clay hearth and listened to father's stories, words of encouragement and counsel. Together we shared and endured the fears, trials and hardships of a pioneer life. This work cannot fail to be of deep interest to all persons of similar experience; and to their descendants for ages to come who can never too fully appreciate the blessings earned for them by their parents and others amid hardships, privations and sufferings (in a new country) the half of which can never be told. CONTENTS. CHAPTER. I--TALKING OF MICHIGAN II--DISAGREEABLE MUSIC III--HOW WE GOT OUR SWEET, AND THE HISTORY OF MY FIRST PIG IV--OUR SECOND HOUSE AND FIRST APPLE TREES V--THE JUG OF WHISKY AND TEMPERANCE MEETING VI--HOW WE FOUND OUR CATTLE VII--TROUBLE CAME ON THE WING VIII--HARD TIMES FOR US IN MICHIGAN IX--A SUMMER HUNT X--HOW WE GOT INTO TROUBLE ONE NIGHT AND I SCARED XI--THE INDIANS VISIT US--THEIR STRANGE AND PECULIAR WAYS XII--THE INSIDE OF OUR HOUSE--A PICTURE FROM MEMORY XIII--METHEGLIN; OR, THE DETECTED DRINK XIV--OUR ROAD--HOW I WAS WOUNDED XV--PROSPECT OF WAR XVI--FISHING AND BOAT RIDING, XVII--HOW I GOT IN TROUBLE RIDING IN A CANOE XVIII--OUR CLEARING AND THE FIRST RAILROAD CARS XIX--TREES XX--DRAWING CORD-WOOD--HOW THE RAILROAD WAS BUILT--THE STEAM WHISTLE XXI--HOW I HUNTED AND WE PAID THE MORTGAGE XXII--BEAR HUNT XXIII--GRANDFATHER'S POWDER HORN--WAR WITH PIRATES XXIV--LIGHT BEGINS TO DAWN XXV--MAKING A BARGAIN XXVI--HOW I COMMENCED FOR MYSELF--FATHER'S OLD FARM XXVII--THOUGHTS IN CONNECTION WITH FATHER AND EARLY PIONEER LIFE XXVIII--FATHER'S NEW HOUSE AND ITS SITUATION--HIS CHILDREN VISIT HIM XXIX--MY WATCH LOST AND VISIT TO CANADA XXX--MOTHER'S VISIT TO THE EAST XXXI--LEAVING NEW YORK CITY FOR HOME ILLUSTRATIOINS. "THE MICHIGAN" THE BARK-COVERKD HOUSE THE THOMPSON TAVERN HOUSE BUILT IN 1836 FIRST RAILWAY CARS HOUSE BUILT IN 1854 CHAPTER I. TALKING OF MICHIGAN. My father was born in 1793, and my mother in 1802, in Putnam County, State of New York. Their names were John and Melinda Nowlin. Mother's maiden name was Light. My father owned a small farm of twenty-five acres, in the town of Kent, Putnam County, New York, about sixty miles from New York City. We had plenty of fruit, apples, pears, quinces and so forth, also a never failing spring. He bought another place about half a mile from that. It was very stony, and father worked very hard. I remember well his building stone wall. But hard work would not do it. He could not pay for the second place. It involved him so that we were in danger of losing the place where we lived. He said, it was impossible for a poor man to get along and support his family; that he never could get any land for his children there, and he would sell what he had and go to a better country, where land was cheap and where he could get land for them. He talked much of the territory of Michigan. He went to one of the neighbors and borrowed a geography. I recollect very well some things that it stated. It was Morse's geography, and it said that the territory of Michigan was a very fertile country, that it was nearly surrounded by great lakes, and that wild grapes and other wild fruit grew in abundance. Father then talked continually of Michigan. Mother was very much opposed to leaving her home. I was the eldest of five children, about ten or eleven years of age, when the word Michigan grated upon my ear. I am not able to give dates in full, but all of the incidents I relate are facts. Some of them occurred over forty years ago, and are given mostly from memory, without the aid of a diary. Nevertheless, most of them are now more vivid and plain to my mind than some things which transpired within the past year. I was very much opposed to going to Michigan, and did all that a boy of my age could do to prevent it. The thought of Indians, bears and wolves terrified me, and the thought of leaving my schoolmates and native place was terrible. My parents sent me to school when in New York, but I have not been to school a day since. My mother's health was very poor. Her physician feared that consumption of the lungs was already seated. Many of her friends said she would not live to get to Michigan if she started. She thought she could not, and said, that if she did, herself and family would be killed by the Indians, perish in the wilderness, or starve to death. The thought too, of leaving her friends and the members of the church, to which she was very much attached, was terribly afflicting. She made one request of father, which was that when she died he would take her back to New York, and lay her in the grave yard by her ancestors. Father had made up his mind to go to Michigan, and nothing could change him. He sold his place in 1832, hired a house for the summer, then went down to York, as we called it, to get his outfit. Among his purchases were a rifle for himself and a shot gun for me. He said when we went to Michigan it should be mine. I admired his rifle very much. It was the first one I had ever seen. After trying his rifle a few days, shooting at a mark, he bade us good-by, and started "to view" in Michigan. I think he was gone six or eight weeks, when he returned and told us of his adventures and the country. He said he had a very hard time going up Lake Erie. A terrible storm caused the old boat, "Shelvin Thompson" to heave, and its timber to creak in almost every joint. He thought it must go down. He went to his friend, Mr. George Purdy, (who is now an old resident of the town of Dearborn) said to him: "You had better get up; we are going down! The Captain says 'every man on deck and look out for himself.'" Mr. Purdy was too sick to get up. The good old steamer weathered the storm and landed safely at Detroit. Father said that Michigan was a beautiful country, that the soil was as rich as a barn-yard, as level as a house floor, and no stones in the way. (I here state, that he did not go any farther west than where he bought his land.) He also said he had bought eighty acres of land, in the town of Dearborn, two and a half miles from a little village, and twelve miles from the city of Detroit. Said he would buy eighty acres more, east of it, after he moved in the spring, which would make it square, a quarter section. He said it was as near Detroit as he could get government land, and he thought Detroit would always be the best market in the country. Father had a mother, three sisters, one brother and an uncle living in Unadilla Country N.Y. He wished very much to see them, and, as they were about one hundred and fifty miles on his way to Michigan, he concluded to spend the winter with them. Before he was ready to start he wrote to his uncle, Griffin Smith, to meet him, on a certain day, at Catskill, on the Hudson river. I cannot give the exact date, but remember that it was in the fall of 1833. The neighbor, of whom we borrowed the old geography, wished very much to go West with us, but could not raise the means. When we started we passed by his place; he was lying dead in his house. Thus were our hearts, already sad, made sadder. We traveled twenty-five miles in a wagon, which brought us to Poughkeepsie, on the Hudson river, then took a night boat for Catskill where uncle was to meet us the next morning. Before we reached Catskill, the captain said that he would not stop there. Father said he must. The captain said he would not stop for a hundred dollars as his boat was behind time. But he and father had a little private conversation, and the result was he did stop. The captain told his men to be careful of the things, and we were helped off in the best style possible. I do not know what changed the captain's mind, perhaps he was a Mason. Uncle met us, and our things were soon on his wagon. Now, our journey lay over a rough, hilly country, and I remember it was very cold. I think we passed over some of the smaller Catskill Mountains. My delicate mother, wrapt as best she could be, with my little sister (not then a year old) in her arms, also the other children, rode. Father and I walked some of the way, as the snow was quite deep on the mountains. He carried his rifle, and I my shot-gun on our shoulders. Our journey was a tedious one, for we got along very slowly; but we finally arrived at Unadilla. There we had many friends and passed a pleasant winter. I liked the country better than the one we left, and we all tried to get father to buy there, and give up the idea of going to Michigan. But a few years satisfied us that he knew the best. Early in the spring of 1834 we left our friends weeping, for, as they expressed it, they thought we were going "out of the world." Here I will give some lines composed and presented to father and mother by father's sister, N. Covey, which will give her idea of our undertaking better than any words I can frame: "Dear Brother and Sister, we must bid you adieu, We hope that the Lord will deal kindly with you, Protect and defend you, wherever you go, If Christ is your friend, sure you need fear no foe. "The distance doth seem great, to which you are bound, But soon we must travel on far distant ground, And if we prove faithful to God's grace and love, If we ne'er meet before, we shall all meet above." About twenty years later this aunt, her husband and nine children (they left one son) sons-in-law, daughters-in-law and grand-children visited us. Uncle had sold his nice farm in Unadilla and come to settle his very intelligent family in Michigan. He settled as near us as he could get government land sufficient for so large a family. With most of this numerous family near him, he is at this day a sprightly old man, respected (so far as I know) by all who know him, from Unionville to Bay City. Now as I have digressed, I must go back and continue the story of our journey from Unadilla to Michigan. As soon as navigation opened, in the spring, we started again with uncle's team and wagon. In this manner we traveled about fifty miles which brought us to Utica. There we embarked on a canal boat and moved slowly night and day, to invade the forests of Michigan. Sometimes when we came to a lock father got off and walked a mile or two. On one of these occasions I accompanied him, and when we came to a favorable place, father signaled to the steersman, and he turned the boat up. Father jumped on to the side of the boat. I attempted to follow him, did not jump far enough, missed my hold and went down, by the side of the boat, into the water. However, father caught my hand and lifted me out. They said that if he had not caught me, I must have been crushed to death, as the boat struck the side the same minute. That, certainly, would have been the end of my journey to Michigan. When it was pleasant we spent part of the time on deck. One day mother left my little brother, then four years old, in care of my oldest sister, Rachel. He concluded to have a rock in an easy chair, rocked over and took a cold bath in the canal. Mother and I were in the cabin. When we heard the cry "Overboard!" we rushed on deck, and the first thing we saw was a man swimming with something ahead of him. It proved to be my brother, held by one strong arm of an English gentleman. He did not strangle much; some said the Englishman might have waded out, in that case he would not have strangled any, as he had on a full-cloth overcoat, which held him up until the Englishman got to him. Be that as it may, the Englishman was our ideal hero for many years, for by his bravery and skill, unparalleled by anything we had seen, he had saved our brother from a watery grave. That brother is now the John Smith Nowlin, of Dearborn. Nothing more of importance occurred while we were on the canal. When we arrived at Buffalo the steamer, "Michigan," then new, just ready for her second trip, lay at her wharf ready to start the next morning. Thinking we would get a better night's rest, at a public house, than on the steamer father sought one, but made a poor choice. Father had four or five hundred dollars, which were mostly silver, he thought this would be more secure and unsuspected in mother's willow basket, which would be thought to contain only wearing apparel for the child. We had just got nicely installed and father gone to make preparations for our embarkation on the "Michigan," when the lady of the house came by mother and, as if to move it a little, lifted her basket. Then she said, "You must have plenty of money, your basket is very heavy." When father came, and mother told him the liberty the lady had taken, he did not like it much, and I am sure I felt anything but easy. But father called for a sleeping room with three beds, and we were shown up three flights of stairs, into a dark, dismal room, with no window, and but one door. Mother saw us children in bed, put the basket of silver between my little brother and me, and then went down. The time seemed long, but finally father and mother came up. I felt much safer then. Late in the evening a man, with a candle in one hand, came into the room, looked at each bed sufficiently to see who was in it. When he came to father's bed, which proved to be the last, as he went round, father asked him what he wanted there. He said he was looking for an umbrella. Father said he would give him umbrella, caught him by the sleeve of his coat; but he proved to be stronger than his coat for he fled leaving one sleeve of a nice broadcloth coat in father's hand. Father then put his knife over the door-latch. I began to breathe more freely, but there was no sleep for father or mother, and but little for me, that night. Everything had been quiet about two hours when we heard steps, as of two or three, coming very quietly, in their stocking feet. Father rose, armed himself with a heavy chair and waited to receive them. Mother heard the door-latch, and fearing that father would kill, or be killed, spoke, as if not wishing them to hear, and said: "John have the pistols ready," (it will be remembered that we had pistols in place of revolvers in those days) "and the moment they open the door shoot them." This stratagem worked; they retired as still as possible. In about two or three hours more, they came again, and although father told mother to keep still, she said again: "Be ready now and blow them down the moment they burst open the door." Away they went again, but came once more just before daylight, stiller if possible than ever; father was at his station, chair in hand, but mother was determined all should live, if possible, so she said "They are coming again, shoot the first one that enters!" &c., &c. They found that we were awake and, do doubt, thought that they would meet with a little warmer reception than they wished. Father really had no weapons with him except the chair and knife. I said, the room had no window, consequently, it was as dark at daylight as at midnight. The only way we could tell when it was daylight was by the noise on the street. When father went down, in the morning, he inquired for the landlord and the man that came into his room; but the landlord and the man with one sleeve were not to be found. Father complained to the landlady, of being disturbed, and showed her the coatsleeve. She said it must have been an old man, who usually slept in that room, looking for a bed. We went immediately to our boat. As father was poor and wished to economize, he took steerage passage, as we had warm clothes and plenty of bedding, he thought this the best that he could afford. Our headquarters were on the lower deck. In a short time steam was up, and we bade farewell to Buffalo, where we had spent a sleepless night, and with about six-hundred passengers started on our course. The elements seemed to be against us. A fearful storm arose; the captain thought it would be dangerous to proceed, and so put in below a little island opposite Cleveland, and tied up to a pier which ran out from the island. Here we lay for three weary days and nights, the storm continually raging. Finally, the captain thought he must start out. He kept the boat as near the shore as he could with safety, and we moved slowly until we were near the head of the lake. Then the storm raged and the wind blew with increased fury. It seemed as if the "Prince of the power of the air" had let loose the wind upon us. The very air seemed freighted with woe. The sky above and the waters below were greatly agitated. It was a dark afternoon, the clouds looked black and angry and flew across the horizon apparently in a strife to get away from the dreadful calamity that seemed to be coming upon Lake Erie. We were violently tempest-tossed. Many of the passengers despaired of getting through. Their lamentations were piteous and all had gloomy forebodings of impending ruin. The dark, blue, cold waves, pressed hard by the wind, rolled and tumbled our vessel frightfully, seeming to make our fears their sport. What a dismal, heart-rending scene! After all our efforts in trying to reach Michigan, now I expected we must be lost. Oh how vain the expectation of reaching our new place, in the woods! I thought we should never see it. It looked to me as though Lake Erie would terminate our journey. It seemed as if we were being weighed in a great balance and that wavering and swaying up and down; balanced about equally between hope and fear, life and death. [Illustration: "THE MICHIGAN."--AFTER LEAVING THE ISLAND IN THE SPRING OF 1834.] No one could tell which way it would turn with us. I made up my mind, and promised if ever I reached terra-firma never to set foot on that lake again; and I have kept my word inviolate. I was miserably sick, as were nearly all the passengers. I tried to keep on my feet, as much as I could; sometimes I would take hold of the railing and gaze upon the wild terrific scene, or lean against whatever I could find, that was stationary, near mother and the rest of the family. Mother was calm, but I knew she had little hope that we would ever reach land. She said, her children were all with her and we should not be parted in death; that we should go together, and escape the dangers and tribulations of the wilderness. I watched the movements of the boat as much as I could. It seemed as if the steamer could not withstand the furious powers that were upon her. The front part of the boat would seem to settle down--down--lower and lower if possible than it had been before. It looked to me, often, as though we were going to plunge headforemost--alive, boat and all into the deep. After a while the boat would straighten herself again and hope revive for a moment; then I thought that our staunch boat was nobly contending with the adverse winds and waves, for the lives of her numerous passengers. The hope of her being able to outride the storm was all the hope I had of ever reaching shore. I saw the Captain on deck looking wishfully toward the land, while the white-caps broke fearfully on our deck. The passengers were in a terrible state of consternation. Some said we gained a little headway; others said we did not. The most awful terror marked nearly every face. Some wept, some prayed, some swore and a few looked calm and resigned. I was trying to read my fate in other faces when an English lady, who came on the canal boat with us, and who had remained in the cabin up to this, time, rushed on deck, wringing her hands and crying at the top of her voice, "We shall be lost! we shall be lost! oh! oh! oh! I have crossed the Atlantic Ocean three times, and it never commenced with this! We shall be lost! oh! oh! oh!" One horse that stood on the bow of the boat died from the effects of the storm. Our clothes and bedding were all drenched, and to make our condition still more perilous, the boat was discovered to be on fire. This was kept as quiet as possible. I did not know that it was burning, until after it was extinguished; but I saw father, with others, carrying buckets of water. He said the boat had been on fire and they had put it out. The staunch boat resisted the elements; ploughed her way through and landed us safely at Detroit. Some years after our landing at Detroit, I saw the steamboat "Michigan" and thought of the perilous time we had on her coming up Lake Erie. She was then an old boat, and was laid up. I thought of the many thousand hardy pioneers she had brought across the turbulent lake and landed safely on the shore of the territory whose name she bore. But where, oh where "are the six hundred!" that came on her with us? Most of them have bid adieu to earth, and all its storms. The rest of them are now old and no doubt scattered throughout the United States. But time or distance cannot erase from their memory or mine the storm we shared together on Lake Erie. CHAPTER II. DISAGREEABLE MUSIC. It was night, in the Spring of 1834, when we arrived at Detroit, and we made our way to the "United States Hotel" which stood near where the old post office was and where the "Mariner's Church" now stands, on Woodbridge street. The next morning I was up early and went to view the city. I wished to know if it was really a city. If it looked like Utica or Buffalo. I went up Jefferson Avenue; found some brick buildings, barber poles, wooden clocks, or large watches, big hats and boots, a brass ball, &c., &c. I returned to the Hotel, satisfied that Detroit was actually a city, for the things I had seen were, in my mind, sufficient to make it one. After I assured myself that there was a city, so far from New York, I was quite contented and took my breakfast. Then, with our guns on our shoulders, father and I started to see our brand-new farm at Dearborn. First we went up Woodward Avenue to where the new City Hall now stands, it was then only a common, dotted by small wooden buildings. Thence we took the Chicago road which brought us to Dearbornville. From there the timber had been cut for a road one mile south. On this road father did his first road work in Michigan and here afterwards I helped to move the logs out. The road-master, Mr. Smith, was not willing to allow full time, for my work; however I put in part time. Little did I think that here, one mile from Dearbornville, father would, afterwards, buy a farm, build a large brick house, and end his days, in peace and plenty. From this point, one mile south of the little village, we were one mile from father's chosen eighty, but had to follow an Indian trail two miles, which led us to Mr. J. Pardee's. His place joined father's on the west. We crossed Pardee's place, eighty rods, which brought us to ours. I dug up some of the earth, found it black and rich, and sure enough no stones in the way. Late in the afternoon I started back to mother, to tell her that father had engaged a Mr. Thompson (who kept tavern in a log house, half a mile east of Dearbornville) and team, and would come after her in the morning. When I reached the Chicago road again, it seemed anything but inviting. I could just see a streak ahead four or five miles, with the trees standing thick and dark either side. If ever a boy put in good time I did then. However, it was evening when I reached Detroit, and I had traveled more than twenty-six miles. Mother was very glad to see me, and listened with interest, to her boy's first story of Michigan. I told her that father was coming in the morning, as he had said; that Mr. Joseph Pardee said, we could stay with him while we were building. I told her I was glad we came, how nice the land was, what a fine country it would be in a few years, and, with other comforting words, said, if we lived, I would take her back in a few years, to visit her old home. The next morning father and Mr. Thompson came, and we were soon all aboard the wagon. When we reached Mr. Pardee's his family seemed very much pleased to see us. He said: "Now we have 'Old Put' here, we'll have company." Putnam county joined the county he came from, and he called father "Old Put" because he came from Putnam county. Father immediately commenced cutting logs for a house. In one week he had them ready, and men came from Dearbornville to help him raise them. He then cut black ash trees, peeled off the bark to roof his house, and after having passed two weeks under Mr. Pardee's hospitable roof, we moved into a house of our own, had a farm of our own and owed no one. Father brought his axe from York State; it weighed seven pounds; he gave me a smaller one. He laid the trees right and left until we could see the sun from ten o'clock in the morning till between one and two in the afternoon, when it mostly disappeared back of Mr. Pardee's woods. Father found it was necessary for him to have a team, so he went to Detroit and bought a yoke of oxen; also, at the same time, a cow. He paid eighty dollars for the oxen and twenty-five for the cow. These cattle were driven in from Ohio. The cow proved to be a great help toward the support of the family for a number of years. The oxen were the first owned in the south part of the town of Dearborn. They helped to clear the logs from the piece father had cut over, and we planted late corn, potatoes and garden stuff. The corn grew very high but didn't ear well. The land was indeed very rich, but shaded too much. The next thing, after planting some seeds, was clearing a road through a black ash swale and flat lands on our west section line, running north one mile, which let us out to the point mentioned, one mile south of Dearbornville. We blazed the section line trees over, cleared out the old logs and brush, then felled trees lengthwise towards each other, sometimes two together, to walk on over the water; we called it our log-way. We found the country was so very wet, at times, that it was impossible to go with oxen and sled, which were our only means of conveyance, summer or winter. When we could not go in this style we were obliged to carry all that it was necessary to have taken, on our shoulders, from Dearbornville. We had many annoyances, and mosquitoes were not the least, but they did us some good. We had no fences to keep our cattle, and the mosquitoes drove the oxen and cow up to the smoke which we kept near the house in order to keep those little pests away. The cattle soon learned, as well as we, that smoke was a very powerful repellant of those little warriors. Many times, in walking those logs and going through the woods there would be a perfect cloud of mosquitoes around me. Sometimes I would run to get away from them, then stop and look behind me and there would be a great flock for two rods back (beside those that were around me) all coming toward me as fast as their wings could bring them, and seeming only satisfied when they got to me. But they were cannibals and wanted to eat me. All sang the same song in the same old tune. I was always glad when I got out of their company into our own little clearing. [Illustration: THE BARK COVERED HOUSE--1834.] But Mr. Pardee was a little more brave; he said it was foolish to notice such small things as mosquitoes. I have seen them light on his face and run in their bills, probe in until they reached the fountain of life, suck and gormandize until they got a full supply, then leisurely fly away with their veins and bodies full of the best and most benevolent blood, to live awhile, and die from the effects of indulging too freely and taking too much of the life of another. Thus at different times I saw him let them fill themselves and go away without his seeming to notice them; whether he always treated them thus well or not, I cannot say, but I do know they were the worst of pests. Myriads of them could be found any where in the woods, that would eagerly light on man or beast and fill themselves till four times their common size, if they could get a chance. The woods were literally alive with them. No one can tell the wearisome sleepless hours they caused us at night. I have lain listening and waiting for them to light on my face or hands, and then trying to slap them by guess in the dark, sometimes killing them, and sometimes they would fly away, to come again in a few minutes. I could hear them as they came singing back. Frequently when I awoke I found them as wakeful as ever; they had been feasting while I slept. I would find bunches and blotches on me, wherever they had had a chance to light, which caused a disagreeable, burning and smarting sensation. Frequently some one of us would get up and make a smudge in the room to quiet them; we did it by making a little fire of small chips and dirt, or by burning some sugar on coals, but this would only keep them still for a short time. These vexatious, gory-minded, musical-winged, bold denizens of the shady forest, were more eager to hold their carniverous feasts at twilight or in the night than any other time. In cloudy weather they were very troublesome as all the first settlers know. We had them many years, until the country was cleared and the land ditched; then, with the forest, they nearly disappeared. As I have said our oxen were the first in our part of the town. Mr. Pardee had no team. Father sold him half of our oxen. They used them alternately, each one two weeks, during the summer. For some reason, Mr. Pardee failed to pay the forty dollars and when winter came father had to take the oxen back and winter them. The winter was very open, and much pleasanter than any we had ever seen. The cattle lived on what we called "French-bogs" which grew all through the woods on the low land and were green all winter. We found wild animals and game very numerous. Sometimes the deer came where father had cut down trees, and browsed the tops. Occasionally, in the morning, after a little snow, their tracks would be as thick as sheep-tracks in a yard, almost up to the house. The wolves also, were very common; we could often hear them at night, first at one point, then answers from another and another direction, until the woods rang with their unearthly yells. One morning I saw a place by a log where a deer had lain, and noticed a large quantity of hair all around on the snow; then I found tracks where two wolves came from the west, jumped over the log, and caught the deer in his bed. He got away, but he must have had bare spots on his back. One evening a Mr. Bruin called at our house and stood erect at our north window. The children thought him one of us, as father, mother and I were away, and they ran out to meet us, but discovered instead a large black bear. When they ran out, Mr. Bruin, a little less dignified, dropped on all fours, and walked leisurely off about ten rods; then raised again, jumped over a brush fence, and disappeared in the woods. Next morning we looked for his tracks and, sure enough, there were the tracks of a large bear within four feet of the window. He had apparently stood and looked into the house. [Illustration:] The first Indian who troubled us was one by the name of John Williams. He was a large, powerful man, and certainly, very ugly. He used to pass our house and take our road to Dearbornville after fire-water, get a little drunk, and on his way back stop at John Blare's. Mr. Blare then lived at the end of our new road. Here the Indian would tell what great things he had done. One day when he stopped, Mrs. Blare and her brother-in-law, Asa, were there. He took a seat, took his knife from his belt, stuck it into the floor, then told Asa to pick it up and hand it to him; he repeated this action several times, and Asa obeyed him every time. He, seeing that the white man was afraid, said: "I have taken off the scalps of six damned Yankees with this knife and me take off one more." When father heard this, with other things he had said, he thought he was the intended victim. We were all very much frightened. Whenever father was out mother was uneasy until his return, and he feared that the Indian, who always carried his rifle, might lay in ambush, and shoot him when he was at work. One day he came along, as usual, from Dearbornville and passed our house. Father saw him, came in, took his rifle down from the hooks and told mother he believed he would shoot first. Mother would not hear a word to it and after living a year or two longer, in mortal fear of him, he died a natural death. We learned afterward that Joseph Pardee was the man he had intended to kill. He said, "Pardee had cut a bee-tree that belonged to Indian." According to his previous calculation, on our arrival, father bought, in mother's name, eighty acres more, constituting the south-west quarter of section thirty-four, town two, south of range ten, east; bounded on the south by the south line of the town of Dearbon. A creek, we called the north branch of the River Ecorse, ran through it, going east. It was nearly parallel with, and forty-two rods from, the town line. When he entered it he took a duplicate; later his deed came, and it was signed by Andrew Jackson, a man whom father admired very much. Mother's deed came still later, signed by Martin Van Buren. This land was very flat, and I thought, very beautiful. No waste land on it, all clay bottom, except about two acres, a sand ridge, resembling the side of a sugar loaf. This was near the centre of the place, and on it we finally built, as we found it very unpleasant living on clayey land in wet weather. This land was all heavy timbered--beech, hard maple, basswood, oak, hickory and some white-wood--on both sides of the creek; farther back, it was, mostly, ash and elm. CHAPTER III. HOW WE GOT OUR SWEET, AND THE HISTORY OF MY FIRST PIG. We made troughs, tapped hard maples on each side of the creek; took our oxen, sled and two barrels (as the trees were scattered) to draw the sap to the place we had prepared for boiling it. Now I had an employment entirely new to me: boiling down sap and making sugar, in the woods of Michigan. This was quite a help to us in getting along. We made our own "sweet" and vinegar, also some sugar and molasses to sell. Some springs, we made three or four hundred pounds of sugar. Sugar was not all the good things we had, for there was one added to my father's family, a little sister, who was none the less lovely, in my eye, because she was of Michigan, a native "Wolverine." Now father's family, all told, consisted of mother and six children. The children grew to be men and women, and are all alive to this day, January 26, 1875. After we came to Michigan mother's health constantly improved. She soon began to like her new home and became more cheerful and happy. I told her we had, what would be, a beautiful place; far better than the rocks and hills we left, I often renewed my promise that if she and I lived and I grew to be a man, we would go back, visit her friends and see again the land of her nativity. To cheer her still more we received a letter from Mr. G. Purdy of York State, telling us that he was coming to Michigan in the fall, with his wife (mother's beloved sister, Abbie,) and her youngest sister, Sarah, was coming with them. Asa Blare, the young man who picked up the Indian's knife, bought forty acres of government land joining us on the east, built him a house, went to Ohio, married and brought his wife back with him. Now we had neighbors on the east of us, and Mr. Henry Travis (a brother-in-law of Mr. Pardee) came, bought land joining Mr. Pardee on the west, built and settled with a large family. About the same time many families from the East came and settled along the creek, for miles west of us. Now we were on the border of civilization. Our next clearing of any importance was the little ridge. Father commenced around the edge, cut the brush and threw them from the ridge all around it to form a brush fence; then all the trees that would fall into the line of the fence were next felled, also, all that would fall over it, then those which would reach the fence were felled toward it. Then we trimmed them, cut the logs and piled the brush on the fence. I felt very much interested in clearing this piece. When father took his ax and started for work I took mine and was immediately at his side or a little behind him. In this manner we returned and we soon had the two acres cut off and surrounded by an immense log, tree-top and brush fence; at least, I thought it was a great fence. Now came the logging and burning, father worked with his oxen and handspike, I with my handspike. Some of the large logs near the fence he swung round with the oxen and left them by it. Others we drew together and when we piled them up, father took his handspike and rolled the log, I held it with mine until he got a new hold. In that way I helped him roll hundreds and thousands of logs. We soon had them all in heaps but they were green and burned slowly, some of them would not burn at all then. We scratched round them and put some seeds in every spot. We could do but very little with a plow. Father made a drag out of the crotch of a tree and put iron teeth in it; this did us some service as the land was exceedingly rooty. In raising our summer crops we had to do most of the work with a hoe. Sometimes where it was very rooty we planted corn with an ax. In order to do this we struck the blade into the ground and roots about two inches, then dropped the corn in and struck again two or three inches from the first place which closed it and the hill of corn was planted. Now I must go back to the first season and tell how I got my first pig. It was the first of the hog species we owned in Michigan. Father went to the village and I with him. From there we went down to Mr. Thompson's (the man who moved us out from Detroit). He wished father to see his hogs. They went to the yard, and as was my habit, I followed along. Mr. Thompson called the hogs up. I thought he had some very fine ones. Among them was an old sow that had some beautiful pigs. She seemed to be very cross, raised her bristles and growled at us, as much as to say, "Let my pigs alone." [Illustration: "THE THOMPSON TAVERN"--1834.] I suppose Mr. Thompson thought he would have some sport with me, and being generous, he said: "If the boy will catch one I will give it to him." I selected one and started; I paid no attention to the old sow, but kept my eye on the pig I wanted, and the way I went for it was a caution. I caught it and ran for the fence, with the old sow after me. I got over very quickly and was safe with my pig in my arms. I started home; it kicked and squealed and tried to get away, but I held it tightly, patted it and called it "piggy." I said to myself, '"Now I have a pig of my own, it will soon grow up to be a hog, and we'll have pork." When I got home I put it in a barrel, covered it up so it could not get out and then took my ax, cut poles, and made it a new pen and put it on one place in Adam's world where pig and pig-pen had never been before. Now, thought I, I've got an ax, a pig and a gun. One morning, a day or two after this, I went out and the pig was gone. Thinking it might have gone home, I went to Mr. Thompson's and enquired if they had seen it. I looked in the yard but the pig was not there. I made up my mind that it was lost, and started home. I followed the old trail, and when within sixty rods of the place where I now live, I met my pig. I was very glad to see it, but it turned from me and ran right into the woods. Now followed a chase which was very exciting to me. The pig seemed running for its life, I for my property, which was going off, over logs and through the brush, as fast as its legs could carry it. It was a hard chase, but I caught the pig and took it back. I made the pen stronger, and put it in again, but it would not eat much and in a few days after died, and away went all my imaginary pork. Mr. Pardee had bought a piece of land for a Mr. Clapp, of Peakskill, New York, and was agent for the same. He said the south end of this land was openings. It was about one mile from our place, and Mr. Pardee offered to join with father and put corn on it, accordingly, we went to see it. There was some brush, but it was mostly covered with what we called "buffalo grass," which grew spontaneously. Cattle loved it very much in the summer, but their grazing it seemed to destroy it. It soon died out and mostly disappeared, scrub-oak and other brush coming up in its place. Mr. Pardee and father soon cleared five or six acres of this land, and with the brush they cut made a light brush fence around it, then tore up three or four acres and planted it with corn. The soil was light yellow sand. When the corn came up it was small and yellow. They put in about two acres of buckwheat. A young man by the name of William Beal worked for Pardee. He helped to tend the corn. One morning, as they were going up to hoe the corn, William Beal took his gun and started ahead; this he frequently did very early. He said, when about half way to the corn, he looked toward the creek and saw a black bear coming toward him. He stood in the path, leading to the corn-field, which they had under-brushed. The bear did not discover him until he was near enough, when he fired and shot him dead. This raised quite an excitement among us. I went to see the bear. It was the first wild one I saw in Michigan. They dressed it, and so far as I know, the neighbors each had a piece; at all events, we had some. They hoed the corn once or twice, and then made up their minds it was no use, as it would not amount to much, the land being too poor. The whole crop of corn, gathered there, green at that, nubbins and all, was put into a half bushel handle basket, excepting what the squirrels took. The buckwheat didn't amount to much, either. Wild turkeys trampled it down and ate the grain, in doing which, many of them lost their lives. I began to consider myself quite a marksman. I had already, with father's rifle, shot two deer, and had gotten some of the turkeys. Father never cropped it any more on the openings, and his experience there made him much more pleased with his own farm. That land is near me, and I have seen a great many crops growing on it, both grain and other crops, but never one which I thought would pay the husbandman for his labor. Father's partnership with Mr. Pardee was so unsuccessful on the openings, and in having to take the oxen back, and buy hay for them when that article was very high (their running out helped him some) that he concluded to go into partnership with Mr. Pardee, no more. He sold half of his oxen to Asa Blare, who paid the money down, so their partnership opened in a little better shape. This partnership, father said, was necessary as our money had become very much reduced, and everything we bought, (such as flour and pork) was extremely dear; besides, we had no way to make a farthing except with our "maple-sweet" or the hide of a deer. Father could not get work, for there were but few settlers, and none near him, who were able to hire. So he economized to save his money as much as possible, and worked at home. The clearing near the house grew larger and larger, and now we could see the beautiful sun earlier. Father worked very hard, got three acres cleared and ready for wheat. Then he went away and bought about four bushels of white wheat for seed. This cost a snug sum in those days. About the last of August he sowed it and dragged it in with his drag. He sowed about a bushel and a peck to the acre. (I have for many years back, and to the present time, sowed two bushels to the acre). His wheat came up and looked beautiful. The next spring and early summer it was very nice. One day a neighbor's unruly ox broke into it. I went through it to drive him out and it was knee high. Father said take the ox home. I did so. The neighbor was eating dinner. I told him his ox had been in our wheat and that father wished him to keep the ox away. He said we must make the fence better and he would not get in. This was the first unkind word I had received from a neighbor in Michigan. The wheat escaped the rust, headed and filled well and was an excellent crop. It helped us a great deal and was our manna in the wilderness. Father and I continued our chopping until we connected the two clearings. Then we commenced to see the sun in the morning and we thought it shone brighter here than it did in York State. Some of the neighbors said that it really did, and that it might be on account of a reflection from the water of the great lakes. Perhaps it was because the deep gloom of the forest had shaded us so long and was now removed. Israel like, we looked back and longed for the good things we had left, viz:--apples, pears and the quince sauce. Even apples were luxuries we could not have and we greatly missed them. We cleared new ground, sowed turnip seed, dragged it in and raised some very large nice turnips. At this time there was not a wagon in the neighborhood, but Mr. Traverse, being a mechanic and ingenious, cut down a tree, sawed oft two short logs, used them for hubs and made the wheels for a cart. These he took to Dearbornville and had them ironed oft. He made the body himself and then had an ox-cart. This was the only wheeled vehicle in the place for some years. As Mr. Traverse was an obliging man the neighbors borrowed his cart. Sometimes it went to Dearbornville to bring in provision, or other things, and sometimes it went to mill. (There was a mill on the river Rouge, one mile north of Dearbornville.) With this cart and oxen the neighbors carried some of their first products, sugar, butter, eggs, &c., to Detroit. Some young sightseers, who had not seen Detroit since they moved into the woods and wished to see it, were on board. They had to start before midnight so it would be cool traveling for the oxen. This was the first cart and oxen ever seen in Detroit from our part of the town of Dearborn. They reached home the following night, at about ten o'clock, and told me about the trip. We wanted apples, so father took his oxen, went and borrowed the cart, loaded it with turnips, went down the river road half way to Detroit, traded them with a Frenchman for apples and brought home a load which were to us delicious fruit. In this way we got our apples for many years. These apples were small, not so large and nice as those we had been used to having; but they were Michigan apples and we appreciated them very much. They lasted us through the winter and did us much good. CHAPTER IV. OUR SECOND HOUSE AND FIRST APPLE TREES. Father said he would get us some apple trees. He had heard there was a small nursery below Dearbornville. One morning he and I started for the village; from there, we went to Mr. McVay's, about two miles east, near the Rouge. Of him father bought thirteen apple trees, did them up in two bundles, his large, mine small. We took them on our shoulders and started home, through the woods, thus saving two miles travel. On our way we explored woods we had never seen before. We planted the apple trees on the west end of the little ridge. They are now old trees. I passed them the other day and thought of the time we set them. Now some of them look as if they were dying with old age. I counted and found that some of them were gone. I thought there was no one but me, who could tell how, or when, those trees were planted, as they are nearly forty years old. East of those trees father built his second house in 1836. He made the body of this house of large whitewood logs, split oak shakes with which to cover it, and dug a well east of the house. Into this well he put the shell of a large buttonwood log; we called it a "gum." It was said that water would not taste of buttonwood; we had very good water there. Father borrowed Mr. Traverse's cart, loaded up our things and we were glad to leave our Bark Covered house, clay door-yard and Mr. Pardee's woods, to which we had lived so near, that we could see the sun only for a short time in the afternoon. In the house we were leaving we had some unwelcome visitors, an Indian, John Williams, and a snake. One day, towards evening, mother was getting supper, and as the floor boards were lain down loosely they would shake as she walked across the floor. Some member of the family heard a strange noise (something rattling) which seemed to come from a chest that stood in the back part of the room on legs about six inches high. Every time mother stepped on the board upon which he was coiled up, his snakeship felt insulted and he would rattle to let them know that he was there and felt indignant at being disturbed. Mother said they all tried to find out what it was; they finally looked under the chest and there, to their astonishment, they saw a large black rattlesnake all curled up watching their movements and ready, with his poisonous fangs, to strike any one that came within his reach. He was an interloper, a little too bold. He had, however, gotten in the wrong place and was killed in the room. He had, no doubt, crawled up through a hole in the floor at the end of a board. The children were very much alarmed and mother was frightened. She said she thought it was a terrible place where poisonous reptiles would crawl into the house. Near the house sometime after, brother John S. and sister Sarah were out raking up some scattering hay. I suppose sister was out for the sake of being out, or for her own amusement. While she was raking she saw a large blue racer close by her with his head up nearly as high as her own, looking at her and not seeming inclined to leave her. I never heard of a blue racer hurting any one and this was the only one I ever knew to make the attempt. Sister was greatly scared and hallooed and screamed, as if struck with terror. Brother John S., then a little way off ran to her as quickly as possible; while he was running the snake circled around her but a few feet off and seemed determined to attack her. Though brother was the younger of the two his courage was good. With the handle of his pitchfork he struck the snake across the back, a little below the head, and wounded him. Then he succeeded in sticking the tine of the pitchfork through the snake's head; at that sister Sarah took courage and tried with her rake to help brother in the combat. As she held up the handle the snake wound himself around it so tightly that he did not loosen his coils until he was dead. That snake measured between six and seven feet in length. We knew nothing of this species of reptile until we came to Michigan. I have killed a great many of them, but have found that if one gets a rod or two the start, it is impossible to catch him. I well recollect having run after them across our clearing (where we first settled). They would go like a streak of blue, ahead. I make this statement of the reptiles, so that the people of Wayne County, or Michigan, who have no knowledge of such things may know something about the vexatious and fearful annoyances we had to contend with after we settled in Michigan. We were all pleased when we got into the new house. We had a sand door-yard, and lived near the centre of our place. East of this house, on the little ridge, we raised our first patch of-water-melons, in Michigan. Father said they raised good melons on Long Island, where it was sandy soil, and he thought he could raise good ones there. He tried, and it proved to be a success; the melons were excellent. When they were ripe father borrowed the cart, picked a load of melons and (just before sundown) started for Detroit. Mother and my little Michigan sister, Abbie, went with us. I think it was the first time mother saw Detroit after she left it, on the morning following her first arrival there. She wished to do some trading, of course. Father and I walked. We took a little hay to feed the oxen on the road. The next morning we reached Detroit. The little market then stood near where the "Biddle House" now stands, or between that and the river. Father sold his melons to a Frenchman for one shilling apiece. The market men said this was the first full load of melons ever on Detroit market; at all events, I know it was the first load of melons ever drawn from the town of Dearborn. Mother's youngest sister lived in the city, and was at the store of Mr. Cook, or "Cook & Burns," where we did some of our trading. Their store was on Jefferson avenue. Mr. Cook was an eccentric man, and had his own way of recommending his goods, and one which made much sport. Auntie called for some calico. Mr. Cook took a piece off the shelf, threw it on the counter, threw up both arms, put his hands higher than his head, then picked it up again shook it and said: "There, who ever saw the like of that in Michigan? Two shillings a yard! A yard wide, foot thick and the colors as firm as the Allegheny Mountains!" But an old colored woman came in who rather beat the clerk. She inquired for cheap calico; the clerk threw down some and told her the price. She said, "Oh that is too much! I want some cheap." Then the clerk threw down some that looked old and faded. With a broad grin, showing her teeth and the white of her eyes not a little, she said: "Oh, ho! my goot Lo'd dat war made when Jope war paby!" When father and mother had traded all they could afford, it was nearly night, and we all got into the cart and started for home. We got upon the Chicago road opposite where the Grand Trunk Junction now is, and stopped. Mother thought she could not go any farther, and the oxen were tired. Father went into a log house on the north side of the Chicago road and asked them if they could keep us all night. They said they would, and we turned in. They used us first-rate, and treated us with much respect. Next morning after breakfast we went home. CHAPTER V. THE JUG OF WHISKY AND TEMPERANCE MEETING. I have already said that, as money was getting short; father sold Asa Blare half of his oxen. They thought they could winter the oxen on marsh hay. They found some they thought very good on the creek bottom, about a mile and a quarter from where we lived. They said they would go right at work and cut it before some one else found it. As there was some water on the ground, and they would have to mow in the wet, they thought they would send and get a jug of whisky. In the morning we had an early breakfast, and they ground up their scythes, then started, I with the jug, they with their scythes. We went together as far as our new road. Father told me after I got the whisky, to come back round the old trail to a certain place and call, when they heard me they would come and get the jug. I went to Dearborn, got my jug filled, paid two shillings a gallon, or there-abouts, and started back. When I had gone as far as the turn of the road, where Dr. Snow now lives, out of sight, I thought to myself I'd take a drink. I had heard that whisky made one feel good and strong and as my jug was heavy, took what I called "a good horn;" I thought, however, it did not taste very pleasant. After that I went on as fast as I could, a little over a mile, till I got beyond where the road was cut out and into the trail, when I made up my mind I was stouter and my jug really seemed lighter. There I stopped again and took what I called "a good lifter." It burnt a little but I went on again till I came to the creek, then I called father who answered. I felt so wonderfully good that I thought I'd take one more drink before he came in sight. So I took what I called "a good swig." When father came he said they had found plenty of good grass and he wished me to go and see it. I told him I didn't feel very well (I was afraid he would discover what I had been doing, I began to feel queer) but I followed along. The grass was as high as my head in places and very heavy. It was what we call "blue-joint," mixed with a large coarse grass that grew three square at the butt. I got to the scythes where they had been mowing, told father I could mow that grass, took his scythe, cut a few clips and bent the blade very badly. (He often told afterwards, how much stronger I was than he, said he could mow the stoutest grass and not bend his scythe, but I had almost spoiled it.) I lay down the scythe, everything seemed to be bobbing up. I told father I was sick, he said I had better go home and I started gladly and as quickly as possible. The ground didn't seem to me to be entirely still, it wanted to raise up. I struck what I called a "bee-line" for home. When I got there I told mother I was sick, threw myself on her bed and kept as quiet as possible. When father came he inquired how I was; I heard what he said. Mother told him I was very sick but had got a little more quiet than I had been. He said they had better not disturb me so I occupied their bed all night, the first time I had ever had it all alone one night. The next morning I felt rather crest-fallen but congratulated myself in that they did not know what the trouble was, and they never knew (nor any of the rest of the family until I state it now). But I knew at the time what the trouble was, and the result was I had enough of whisky for many years, and took a decided stand for temperance. Some years after that, there was a temperance meeting at a log school-house two miles and a half west of us. I was there and the house was full. After the opening speech, which pleased me very much, others were invited to speak. Thinking I must have a hand in I found myself on the floor. When I got there and commenced speaking, if it had been reasonable, I would have said I was somebody else, I would have been glad to have crawled out of some very small knot-hole, but I found it was I and that there was no escaping, so I proceeded. Of course I did not relate my own experience, nor tell them that I had been sick. I gave them a little of the experience of others that I had heard. I had an old temperance song book from which I borrowed some extracts and appropriated them as my own. I swung my arms a little and with my finger pointed out the points. I stepped around a little and tried to stamp to make them believe that what I said was true. As I advanced and became more interested I spoke loud, to let them know it was I, and that I was in earnest. I admonished them all to let whisky alone. Told some of its pernicious effects; how much money it cost, how many lives it had taken, how many tears it had caused to flow and how many homes it had made desolate. When I came away I was pleased with myself, and thought I had made quite a sensation. A few days afterward I met my friend, William Beal, and asked him how the neighbors liked the temperance meeting. Of course, I was anxious to know what they said about my speech. He told me the old lady said I was "fluent and tonguey," that I was like a sort of a lawyer, she named, who lived at Dearbornville. I knew this man well, and hadn't a very good opinion of him. But what she said was not so much of a breaker as what the old gentleman said, for I considered him in many respects a very intelligent man. He came here from Westchester County, near Peakskill. He owned the farm and lived on it (I have seen where he lived) which was given to John Spaulding for the capture of Major Andre. His occupation there was farming and droving. He drove cattle to New York city in an early day, when that great metropolis was but a small city. I have often heard him tell about stopping at Bullshead. He said that was the drovers' headquarters. I know he was worth ten thousand dollars there, at one time; how much more I cannot say, but somehow his thousands dwindled to hundreds and he came here to seek a second fortune. Of course I thought a man of his experience was capable of forming a pretty correct opinion of me. He said, "Who is he? His father brought him here, and dropped him in the woods; he's been to mill once and to meeting twice. What does he know?" When I heard this it amused me very much, although the decision seemed to be against me. I made no more inquiries about temperance meeting, in fact, I didn't care to hear any more about it. Writing my first temperance effort has blown all the wind out of my sails, and if I were not relating actual occurrences I should certainly be run ashore. As it is, sleep may invigorate and bring back my memory. When relating facts it is not necessary to call on any muse, or fast, or roam into a shady bower, where so many have found their thoughts. When relating facts, fancy is hot required to soar untrodden heights where thought has seldom reached; but too freely come back all the weary days, the toils, fears and vexations of my early life in Michigan, if not frightened away by the memory of the decision of the old lady and gentleman, on my temperance speech. Perhaps I should say, in honor of that old gentleman, Mr. Joseph Pardee, now deceased, that he was well advanced in years when he came to Michigan, in the fall of 1833, stuck his stakes and built the first log house on the Ecorse, west of the French settlement, at its mouth, on Detroit River. He was a man of a strong-mind and an iron will. He cleared up his land, made it a beautiful farm, rescued it from the wilderness, acquired, in fact, a good fortune. When he died, at the good old age of eighty-one years, he left his family in excellent circumstances. He died in the year one thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine. CHAPTER VI. HOW WE FOUND OUR CATTLE. The old cow always wore the bell. Early in the spring, when there were no flies or mosquitoes to drive them up the cattle sometimes wandered off. At such times, when we went to our chopping or work, we watched them, to see which way they went, and listened to the bell after they were out of sight in order that we might know which way to go after them if they didn't return. Sometimes the bell went out of hearing but I was careful to remember which way I heard it last. Before night I would start to look for them, going in the direction I last heard them. I would go half a mile or so into the woods, then stop and listen, to see if I could hear the faintest sound of the bell. If I could not hear it I went farther in the same direction then stopped and listened again. Then if I did not hear it I took another direction, went a piece and stopped again, and if I heard the least sound of it I knew it from all other bells because I had heard it so often before. That bell is laid up with care. I am now over fifty years old, but if the least tinkling of that bell should reach my ear I should know the sound as well as I did when I was a boy listening for it in the woods of Michigan. When I found the cattle I would pick up a stick and throw it at them, halloo very loudly and they would start straight for home. Sometimes, in cloudy weather, I was lost and it looked to me as though they were going the wrong way, but I followed them, through black-ash swales where the water was knee-deep, sometimes nearly barefooted. I always carried a gun, sometimes father's rifle. The deer didn't seem to be afraid of the cattle; they would stand and look at them as they passed not seeming to notice me. I would walk carefully, get behind a tree, and take pains to get a fair shot at one. When I had killed it I bent bushes and broke them partly off, every few rods, until I knew I could find the place again, then father and I would go and get the deer. Driving the cattle home in this way I traveled hundreds of miles. There was some danger then, in going barefooted as there were some massassauga all through the woods. As the country got cleared up they disappeared, and as there are neither rocks, ledges nor logs, under which they can hide, I have not seen one in many years. One time the cattle strayed off and went so far I could not find them. I looked for them until nearly dark but had to return without them. I told father where I had been and that I could not hear the bell. The next morning father and I started to see if we could find them. We looked two or three days but could not find or hear anything of them. We began to think they were lost in the wilderness. However, we concluded to look one more day, so we started and went four or five miles southeast until we struck the Reed creek. (Always known as the Reed creek by us for the reason, a man by the name of Reed came with his family from the State of New York, built him a log house and lived there one summer. His family got sick, he became discouraged, and in the fall moved back to the State of New York. The place where he lived, the one summer, was about two miles south of our house and this creek is really the middle branch of the Ecorse). There was no settlement between us and the Detroit River, a distance of six miles. We looked along the Reed creek to see if any cattle had crossed it. While we were looking there we heard the report of a rifle close by us and hurried up. It was an Indian who had just shot a duck in the head. When we came to him father told him it was a lucky shot, a good shot to shoot it in the head. He said, "Me allers shoot head not hurt body." He took us to his wigwam, which was close by, showed us another duck with the neck nearly shot off. Whether he told the truth, or whether these two were lucky shots, I cannot tell, but one thing I do know, in regard to him, if he told us the truth he was an extraordinary man and marksman. Around his wigwam hung from half a dozen to a dozen deer skins; they hung on poles. His family seemed to consist of his squaw and a young squaw almost grown up. Father told him we had lost our cattle, oxen and cow, and asked him if he had seen them. We had hard work to make him understand what we meant. Father said--cow--bell--strap round neck--he tried to show him, shook his hand as if jingling a bell. Then father said, oxen--spotted--white--black; he put his hand on his side and said: black--cow--bell--noise, and then said, as nearly as we could understand, "Me see them day before yesterday," and he pointed in the woods to tell us which way. Father took a silver half-dollar out of his pocket, showed it to the Indian, and told him he should have it if he would show us the cattle. He wiped out his rifle, loaded it and said, "Me show." He took his rifle and wiper and started with us; we went about half a mile and he showed us where he had seen them. We looked and found large ox's tracks and cow's tracks. I thought, from the size and shape of them, they were our cattle's tracks. The Indian started upon the tracks, father followed him, and I followed father. When we came to high ground, where I could hardly see a track; the Indian had no trouble in following them, and he went on a trot. I had hard work to keep up with him. I remember well how he looked, with his bowing legs, it seemed as if he were on springs. He moved like an antelope, with such ease and agility. He looked as if he hardly touched the ground. The cattle, in feeding round, crossed their own tracks sometimes. The Indian always knew which were the last tracks. He followed all their crooks, we followed him by sight, which gave us a little the advantage, and helped us to keep in sight. He led us, crooking about in this way, for nearly two hours, when we came in hearing of the bell. I never had a harder time in the woods but once, and it was when I was older, stronger, and better able to stand a chase, that time I was following four bears, and an Indian tried to get them away. I was pleased when we got to the cattle. Father paid the Indian the half-dollar he had earned so well, and thanked him most heartily, whether he understood it or not. Father asked the Indian the way home, he said, "My house, my wigwam, which way my home?" The Indian pointed with his wiper, and showed us the way. Father said afterward, it was strange that the Indian should know where he lived, as he had never seen him before. I never saw that Indian afterward. The cattle were feeding on cow-slips and leeks, which grew in abundance, also on little French bogs that had just started up. We hallooed at them very sharply and they started homeward, we followed them, and that night found our cattle home again. Mother and all the children were happy to see them come, for they were our main dependence. They were called many dear names and told not to go off so far any more. CHAPTER VII. TROUBLE CAME ON THE WING. Among the annoyances common to man and beast in Michigan, of which we knew nothing where we came from, were some enormous flies. There were two kinds that were terrible pests to the cattle. They actually ate the hide off, in spots. First we put turpentine, mixed with sufficient grease so as not to take the hair off, on those spots. But we found that fish oil was better, the flies would not bite where that was. What we called the ox-flies were the most troublesome. In hot weather and in the sun, where the mosquitoes didn't trouble, they were most numerous. They would light on the oxen in swarms, on their brisket, and between their legs where they could not drive them off. I have frequently struck these flies with my hand and by killing them got my hand red with the blood of the ox. The other species of flies, we called Pontiacers. This is a Michigan name, and originated I was told, from one being caught near Pontiac with a paper tied or attached to it having the word Pontiac written upon it. These flies were not very numerous; sometimes there were three or four around at once. When they were coming we could hear and see them for some rods. Their fashion was to circle around the oxen before lighting on them. I frequently slapped them to kill them, sometimes I caught them, in that case they were apt to lose their heads, proboscis and all. These flies were very large, some were black and some of the largest were whitish on the front of the back. I have seen some of them nearly as large as young humming birds. The Germans tell me they have this kind of fly in Germany. But with the mosquitoes, these flies have nearly disappeared. CHAPTER VIII. HARD TIMES FOR US IN MICHIGAN, 1836-7. The oxen having worked hard and been used to good hay, which we bought for them, grew poor when they were fed on marsh hay. Then Mr. Blare wanted to sell his part to father; then the cattle would not have so much to do. Father was not able to buy them, as his money was nearly gone. He said he would mortgage his lot for one hundred dollars, buy them back, buy another cow and have a little money to use. He said he could do his spring's work with the cattle, then turn them off, fatten them, and sell them in the fall for enough to pay the mortgage. Mother said all she could to prevent it, for she could not bear the idea of having her home mortgaged. It seemed actually awful to me, for I thought we should not be able to pay it, and in all probability we should lose the place. I said all I could, but to no avail. The whole family was alarmed; one of the small children asked mother what a mortgage was, she replied that it was something that would take our home away from us, if not paid. Father went to Dearbornville and mortgaged his lot to Mrs. Phlihaven, a widow woman, for one hundred dollars, said to be at seven per cent., as that was lawful interest then. We supposed, at the time, he got a hundred dollars, but he got only eighty. Probably the reason he did not let us know the hard conditions of the mortgage, was because we opposed it so. Mrs. Phlihaven said as long as he would pay the twenty dollars shave money, and the seven dollars interest annually, she would let it run. And it did run until the shave money and interest more than ate up the principal. Father bought the oxen back for the old price, forty dollars, and bought another cow, of Mr. McVay, for which he paid eighteen dollars, leaving him twenty-two dollars of the hired money. It was now spring, the oxen became very poor, one of them was taken sick and got down. Father said he had the hollow horn and doctored him for that; but I think to day, if the oxen had had a little corn meal, and good hay through the winter, they would have been all right. After the ox got down, and we could not get him up he still ate and seemed to have a good appetite. I went to Dearbornville, bought hay at the tavern and paid at the rate of a dollar a hundred. I tied it up in a rope, carried it home on my back and fed it to him. Then I went into the woods, with some of the other children, and gathered small brakes that lay flat on the ground. They grew on beech and maple land, and kept green all winter. The ox ate some of them, but he died; our new cow, also, died in less than two weeks after father bought her. Then we had one ox, our old cow, and two young cattle we had raised from her, that we kept through the spring. In the summer the other ox had the bloody murrain and he died. Then we had no team, no money to get a team with, and our place was mortgaged. Now when father got anything for the family he had to bring it home himself. We got out of potatoes, these he bought at Dearbornville, paid a dollar a bushel for them, and brought them home on his back. He sent me to the village for meal. I called for it and the grocerman measured it to me in a quart measure which was little at the top, such as liquors are measured with. I carried the meal home. In this way we had to pack home everything we bought. When potatoes got ripe we had plenty of the best. On father's first visit to Michigan he was told that the soil of Michigan would not produce good potatoes. We soon found that this was a mistake for we had raised some good ones before, but not enough to last through the summer. We still had wheat but sometimes had to almost do without groceries. We always had something to eat but sometimes our living was very poor. Sometimes we had potatoes and milk and sometimes thickened milk. This was made by dampening flour, rolling it into fine lumps and putting them into boiling milk with a little salt, and stirring it until it boiled again. This was much more palatable than potatoes and milk. One afternoon two neighbors' girls came to visit us. They stayed late. After they went away I asked mother why she didn't give them some tea; she said she had no tea to give them, and that if she had given them the best she had they would have gone away and told how poor we were. Mother had been used to better days and to treating her guests well, and her early life in Michigan did not take all of her spirit away. She was a little proud as well as I, but I have learned that pride, hard times and poverty are very poor companions. It was no consolation to think that the neighbors, most of them, were as bad off as we were. This made the thing still worse. CHAPTER IX. A SUMMER HUNT. Father and I went hunting one day. I took my shot-gun, loaded with half a charge of shot and three rifle bullets, which just chambered in the barrel, so I thought I was ready to shoot at anything. Father went ahead and I followed him; we walked very carefully in the woods looking for deer; went upon a sand ridge where father saw a deer and shot at it. I recollect well how it looked; it was a beautiful deer, almost as red as a cherry. After he shot, it stood still. I asked father, in a whisper, if I might not shoot. He said, "Keep still!" (I had very hard word to do so, and think if he had let me shot, I should have given it a very loud call, at least, I think I should have killed it.) Father loaded his rifle and shot again. The last time he shot, the deer ran away. We went to the place where it had stood. He had hit it for we found a little blood; but it got away. It is said "the leopard cannot change his spots nor the Ethiopian his skin," but the deer, assisted by nature, can change both his color and his hide. In summer the deer is red, and the young deer are covered with beautiful spots which disappear by fall. The hair of the deer is short in summer and his hide is thick. At this time the hide is most valuable by the pound. His horns grow and form their prongs, when growing we call them in their velvet; feel of them and they are soft, through the summer and fall, and they keep growing until they form a perfect horn, hard as a bone. By the prongs we are able to tell the number of years old they are. In the fall of the year when an old buck has his horns fully grown to see him running in his native forest is a beautiful sight. At that season his color has changed to a bluish grey. When the weather gets cold and it freezes hard his horns drop off, and he has to go bareheaded until spring. Then his hair is very long and grey. Deer are commonly poor in the spring, and at this season their hide is very thin and not worth much. So we see the deer is a very singular animal. As I have been going through the woods I have often picked up their horns and carried them home for curiosities. They were valuable for knife-handles. When the old buck is started from his bed and is frightened how he clears the ground. You can mark him from twenty to thirty feet at every jump. (I have measured some of his jumps, by pacing, and found them to be very long, sometimes two rods.) How plump he is, how symmetrically his body is formed, and how beautiful the appearance of his towering, branching antlers! As he carries them on his lofty head they appear like a rocking chair. As he sails through the air, with his flag hoisted, he sometimes gives two or three of his whistling snorts and bids defiance to all pursuers in the flight. He is able to run away from any of his enemies, in a fair foot race, but not always able to escape from flying missiles of death. Before the fawn is a year old, if frightened and startled from its bed, it runs very differently from the old deer. Its jump is long and high. It appears as though it were going to jump up among the small tree tops. The next jump is short and sometimes sidewise, then another long jump and so on. It acts as though it did not know its own springs, or were cutting up its antics, and yet it always manages to keep up with the rest of the deer. [Illustration] Father had killed some deer. He shot one of the largest red bucks I had seen killed. After this we wanted meat. Father said we'll go hunting and see if we can get a deer. He said I might take his rifle and he would take my gun. (For some reason or other he had promoted me, may be he thought I was luckier than he.) We started out into the woods south of our house, I went ahead. There was snow on the ground, it was cold and the wind blew very hard. We crossed the windfall. This was a strip of land about eighty rods wide. It must have been a revolving whirlwind that past there, for it had taken down pretty much all the timber and laid it every way. Nothing was left standing except some large trees that had little tops, these were scattered here and there through the strip. It struck the southeast corner of what was afterward our place. Here we had about three acres of saplings, brush and old logs that were windfalls. I think this streak of wind must have passed about ten years before we came to the country. It came from the openings in the town of Taylor, went a northeast course until it struck the Rouge (after that I have no knowledge of it.) In this windfall had grown up a second growth of timber, saplings and brush, so thick that it was hard work to get through or see a deer any distance. We got south of the windfall and scared up a drove of deer, some four or five. The woods were cracking and snapping all around us; we thought it was dangerous and were afraid to be in the woods. Still we thought we would run the risk and follow the deer. They ran but a little ways, stopped and waited until we came in sight, then ran a little ways again. They seemed afraid to run ahead and huddled up together, the terrible noise in the timber seemed to frighten them. The last time I got sight of them they were in a small opening standing by some large old logs. I remember well to this day just how the place looked. I drew up the rifle and shot. Father was right behind me; I told him they didn't run. He took the rifle and handed me my gun, saying, "Shoot this." I shot again, this gun was heavily loaded and must have made a loud report, but could not have been heard at any great distance on account of the roaring wind in the tree-tops. The deer were still in sight, I took the rifle, loaded it, and shot again; then we loaded both guns but by this time the deer had disappeared. We went up to where they had stood and there lay a beautiful deer. Then we looked at the tracks where the others had run off, and found that one went alone and left a bloody trail, but we thought best to leave it and take home the one we had killed. When we got home we showed our folks what a fat heavy deer we had and they were very much pleased, as this was to be our meat in the wilderness. A man by the name of Wilson was at our house and in the afternoon he volunteered to go with us after the other deer. We took our dog and started taking our back tracks to where we left; we followed the deer but a very little ways before we came across the other one we had hit; it had died, and we took it home, thinking we had been very fortunate. Here I learned that deer could be approached in a windy time better than in any other. I also learned that the Almighty, in His wisdom, provided for his creatures, and caused the elements, wind and snow, to work together for their good. Now we were supplied with meat for a month, with good fat venison, not with quails, as God supplied his ancient people over three thousand years before, in the wilderness of Sinai, or at the Tabernacle, where six hundred thousand men wept for flesh, and there went forth a wind and brought quails from the Red Sea. No doubt they were fat and delicious, and the wind let them fall by the camp, and around about the camp, for some distance. They were easily caught by hungry men. Thus was the wind freighted with flesh to feed that peculiar people a whole month and more. When the terrific wind, that helped us to capture the deer, raged through the tree-tops it sounded like distant thunder. It bent the tall trees, in unison, all one way, as if they agreed to bow together before the power that was upon them. When they straightened up they shook their tops as though angry at one another, broke off some of the limbs which they had borne for years, and sent them crashing to the ground. Some of the trees were blown up by the roots, and if allowed to remain would in time form such little mounds as we children took to be Indian graves when we first came into the woods. Those little mounds are monuments, which mark the places where some of those ancient members of the forest stood centuries ago, and they will remain through future ages unless obliterated by the hand of man. We thought that the wind blew harder here than in York State, where we came from. We supposed the reason was that the mountains and hills of New York broke the wind off, and this being a flat country with nothing to break the force of the wind, except the woods, we felt it more severely. CHAPTER X. HOW WE GOT INTO TROUBLE ONE NIGHT, AND I SCARED. One warm day in winter father and I went hunting. I had the rifle that day. We went south, crossed the windfall and Reed creek, and went into what we called the "big woods." We followed deer, but seemed to be very unlucky, for I couldn't shoot them. We travelled in the woods all day and hunted the best we could. Just at sundown, deer that have been followed all day are apt to stop and browse a little. Then if the wind is favorable and blowing from them to you, it is possible to get a shot at them; but if the wind is blowing from you to them, you can't get within gunshot of them. They will scent you. They happened to be on the windward side, as we called it. I got a shot at one and killed it. It was late and, carelessly, I didn't load the rifle. It being near night, I thought I should not have a chance to shoot anything more. It was my custom to load the rifle after shooting, and if I didn't have any use for it before, when I got near home, I shot at a mark on a tree or something. In that way I practiced shooting and let the folks know I was coming. In this way I also kept the rifle from rusting, as sometimes it was wet; when I got into the house I cleaned it off and wiped it out. In a few minutes we had skinned the two fore quarters out. Then we wrapped the fore part of the hide around the hind quarters, and each took a half and started. It was now dark, and we did not like to undertake going home straight through the woods, so took our way to the Reed house, from which there was a dim path through to Pardee's, and we could find our way home. We were tired and hungry, and our feet were wet from travelling through the soft snow. As Mr. Reed had moved away there was no one in the house, and we went in and kindled a fire in the fireplace. The way we did it, I took some "punk" wood out of my pocket, held flint stone over it, struck the flint with my knife, and the punk soon took fire. We put a few whitlings on it, then some sticks we had gathered in the way near by the house. We soon had a good fire and were warming and drying our feet. This "punk" I got from soft maple trees. When I wanted some I went into the woods and looked for an oldish tree, looked up, and if I could see black knots on the body of the tree, toward the top, I knew there was "punk" wood in it and would cut it down, then cut half way through the log, above and below the black knot, and split it off. In the center of the log I was sure to find "punk" wood. Sometimes, in this way, I got enough to last a year or two from one tree. It was of a brown color and was found in layers, which were attached and adhered together. When I chopped a tree I took out all I could find, carried it home, laid it up in a place where it would get drier, and it was always ready for use. We had to use the utmost precaution not to get out of this material. Sometimes I have known my little Michigan sister, Abbie, to go more than a quarter of a mile, to the Blare place, to borrow fire; on such occasions we had to wait for breakfast until she returned. I do not know that the fire was ever paid back, but I do know that we had callers frequently when the errand was to borrow fire. When I went hunting I was careful to take a piece of this with me. I broke or tore it off (it was something like tearing old cloth). With this, a flint and a jackknife I could make a fire in case night overtook me in the woods and I could not get out. Fire was our greatest protection from wild animals and cold in the night. This was the way we kindled our fire in the Reed house, before "Lucifer matches" or "Telegraph matches" were heard of by us, although they were invented as early as 1833. After we got a little comfortable and rested, and the wood burned down to coals we cut some slices of venison, laid them on the coals and roasted them. Although we had no salt, the meat tasted very good. Late in the evening we took our venison and started again. It was hard work to follow the path in the thick woods, and we had to feel the way with our feet mostly as it was quite dark. We had got about eighty rods from the house when, as unexpected as thunder in the winter, broke upon our startled ears the dismal yells and awful howls of wolves. No doubt they had smelled our venison and come down from the west, came down almost upon us and broke out with their hideous yells. The woods seemed to be alive with them. Father said: "Load the rifle quick!" I dropped my venison, and if ever I loaded a gun quick, in the dark, it was then. I threw in the powder, ran down a ball without a patch, and, strange to say, before I got the cap on the wolves were gone, or at least they were still, we didn't even hear them run or trot. What it was that frightened them we never knew; whether it was our stopping so boldly or the smell of the powder, or what, I cannot say; but we did refuse to let them have our venison. We got away with it as quickly as possible and carried it safety home. Another wolf adventure worth relating: I had been deer hunting; I had been off beyond what we called the Indian hill and was returning home. I was southwest of this hill, and on the north side of a little ridge which ran to the hill, when two wolves came from the south. They ran over the little ridge, crossing right in front of me, to go into a big thicket north. I had my rifle on them. They did halt, but in shooting very quickly I did not get a very good sight, however, I knocked one down and thought I had killed him. (They were just about of a size, and when I shot, the other went back like a flash the way he came from.) I loaded the rifle, but before I had it loaded the one I had shot got up and looked at me. I saw what I had done. I had cut off his lower jaw, close up, and it hung down. Another shot finished him quickly. He measured six feet from the end of his nose to the point of his tail. I have seen many wolves, I have seen them in shows, but never saw any that compared in size with these Michigan wolves. It takes a very large, long dog to measure five feet. There was a bounty on wolves. I went down through the woods to Squire Goodel's, who lived near the Detroit river, got him to make out my papers and got the bounty. These pests were more shy in the day-time. They were harder to get a shot at than the deer. There were many of them in the woods, and we heard them so often nights that we became familiar with them. When the "Michigan Central Railroad" was built, and the cars ran through Dearborn, there was something about the iron track, or the noise of the cars which drove them from the country. CHAPTER XI. THE INDIANS VISIT US--THEIR STRANGE AND PECULIAR WAYS. Some three or four years after we came to the country there came a tribe, or part of a tribe, of Indians and camped a little over a mile southwest of our house, in the timber, near the head of the windfall next to the openings. They somewhat alarmed us, but father said, "Use them well, be kind to them and they will not harm us." I suppose they came to hunt. It was in the summer time and the first we knew of them, my little brother and two sisters had been on the openings picking huckleberries not thinking of Indians. When they started home and got into the edge of the woods they were in plain sight of Indians, and they said it appeared as if the woods were full of them. They stood for a minute and saw that the Indians were peeling bark and making wigwams: they had some trees already peeled. They said they saw one Indian who had on a sort of crown, or wreath, with feathers in it that waved a foot above his head. They saw him mount a sorrel pony. As he did so the other Indians whooped and hooted, I suppose to cheer the chief. Childlike they were scared and thought that he was coming after them on horseback. They left the path and ran right into the brush and woods, from home. When they thought they were out of sight of the Indian they turned toward home. After they came in sight of home, to encourage his sisters, my little brother told them, he wouldn't be afraid of any one Indian but, he said, there were so many there it was enough to scare anybody. When they got within twenty rods of the house they saw some one coming beyond the house with a gun on his shoulder. One said it was William Beal, another said it was an Indian. They looked again and all agreed that it was an Indian. If they had come straight down the lane, they would have just about met him at the bars, opposite the house, (where we went through). There was no way for them to get to the house and shun him; except to climb the fence and run across the field. The dreaded Indian seemed to meet them everywhere, and if possible they were more scared now than before. Brother and sister Sarah were over the fence very quickly. Bessie had run so hard to get home and was so scared that in attempting to climb the fence she got part way up and fell back, but up and tried again. Sister Sarah would not leave her but helped her over. But John S. left them and ran for his life to the house; as soon as they could get started they ran too. Mother said Smith ran into the house looking very scared, and went for the gun. She asked him what was the matter, and what he wanted of the gun; he said there was an Indian coming to kill them and he wanted to shoot him. Mother told him to let the gun alone, the Indian would not hurt them; by this time my sisters had got in. In a minute or two afterward the Indian came in, little thinking how near he had come being shot by a youthful hero. Poor Indian wanted to borrow a large brass kettle that mother had and leave his rifle as security for it. Mother lent him the kettle and he went away. In a few days he brought the kettle home. A short time after this a number of them had been out to Dearbornville and got some whisky. All but one had imbibed rather too freely of "Whiteman's fire water to make Indian feel good." They came down as far as our house and, as we had no stick standing across the door, they walked in very quietly, without knocking. The practice or law among the Indians is, when one goes away from his wigwam, if he puts a stick across the entrance all are forbidden to enter there; and, as it is the only protection of his wigwam, no Indian honorably violates it. There were ten of these Indians. Mother was washing. She said the children were very much afraid, not having gotten over their fright. They got around behind her and the washtub, as though she could protect them. The Indians asked for bread and milk; mother gave them all she had. They got upon the floor, took hold of hands and formed a ring. The sober one sat in the middle; the others seemed to hear to what he said as much as though he had been an officer. He would not drink a drop of the whisky, but kept perfectly sober. They seemed to have a very joyful time, they danced and sang their wild songs of the forest. Then asked mother for more bread and milk; she told them she had no more; then they asked for buttermilk and she gave them what she had of that. As mother was afraid, she gave them anything she had, that they called for. They asked her for whisky; she said she hadn't got it. They said, "Maybe you lie." Then they pointed toward Mr. Pardee's and said, "Neighbor got whisky?" She told them she didn't know. They said again, "Maybe you lie." When they were ready the sober one said, "Indian go!" He had them all start in single file. In that way they went out of sight. Mother was overjoyed and much relieved when they were gone. They had eaten up all her bread and used up all her milk, but I suppose they thought they had had a good time. Not more than two or three weeks after this the Indians moved away, and these children of the forest wandered to other hunting grounds. We were very much pleased, as well as the other neighbors, when they were gone. Father had a good opinion of the Indians, though he had been frightened by the first one, John Williams, and was afraid of losing his life by him. He considered him an exception, a wicked, ugly Indian. Thought, perhaps, he had been driven away from his own tribe, and was like Cain, a vagabond upon the face of the earth. He was different from other Indians, as some of them had the most sensitive emotions of humanity. If you did them a kindness they would never forget it, and they never would betray a friend; but if you offended them or did them an injury, they would never forget that either. These two traits of character run parallel with their lives and only terminate with their existence. I recollect father's relating a circumstance that happened in the State of New York, about the time of the Revolutionary War. He said an Indian went into a tavern and asked the landlord if he would give him something to eat. The landlord repulsed him with scorn, told him he wouldn't give him anything and to get out of the house, for he didn't want a dirty Indian around. There was a gentleman sitting in the room who saw the Indian come in and heard what was said. The Indian started to go; the gentleman stepped up and said: "Call him back, give him what he wants, and I'll pay for it." The Indian went back, had a good meal and was well used; then he went on his way and the gentleman saw him no more, at that time. Shortly after this the gentleman emigrated to the West, and was one of the advanced guards of civilization. He went into the woods, built him a house and cleared a piece of land. About this time there was a war in the country. He was taken captive and carried away a long distance, to an Indian settlement. He was tried, by them, for his life, condemned to death and was to be executed the next morning. He was securely bound and fastened. The chief detailed an Indian who, he thought, knew something of the whites and their tricks and would be capable of guarding the captive safely, and he was set as a watch to keep him secure until morning. I have forgotten what father said was to have been the manner of his execution; whether he was to be tomahawked or burned, at all events he was to meet his fate in the morning. Late in the night, after the warriors were fast asleep and, perhaps, dreaming of their spoils, when everything was still in the camp, the Indian untied and loosed the captive, told him to be careful, still, and follow him. After they were outside the camp, out of hearing, the Indian told the white man that he was going to save his life and show him the way home. They traveled until morning and all that day, and the night following, the next morning they came out in sight of a clearing and the Indian showed him a house and asked him if he knew the place; he said he did. Then the Indian asked him if he knew him; he told him that he did not. Then he referred him to the tavern and asked if he remembered giving an Indian something to eat. He said he did. "I am the one," said the Indian, "and I dare not go back to my own tribe, they would kill me." Here the friends par Led to meet no more. One went home to friends and civilization; the other went an exile without friends to whom he dared go, with no home, a fugitive in the wilderness. There was a man by the name of H. Moody who often visited at father's house he told me that when he was young he was among the Mohawk Indians in Canada. This tribe formerly lived in what is now the State of New York. They took up on the side of the English, were driven away to Canada and there settled on the Grand River. Mr. Moody was well acquainted with the sons of the great chief, Brant, and knew the laws and customs of the tribe. He said when they considered one of their tribe very bad they set him aside and would have nothing to do with him. If one murdered another of the same tribe he was taken up and tried by a council, and if it was found to be wilful murder, without any cause, he was condemned and put to death; but if there were any extenuating circumstances which showed that he had some reason for it, he was condemned and sentenced, by the chief, to sit on the grave of his victim for a certain length of time. That was his only hope and his "City of refuge." If any of the relatives of the deceased wanted to kill him there they had a right (according to their law) to do so. If he remained and lived his time out, on the horrible place, he was received back again to the fellowship of his tribe. This must have been a terrible punishment. It showed, however, the Indian's love of his tribe and country, to sit there and think of the danger of being shot or tomahawked, and of the terrible deed he had committed. He had taken away what he could never give. How different was his case from the one who left tribe, friends and home, and ran away to save the life of a white man who had given him bread. About two and a half miles southwest of our house there was a large sand hill. Huckleberries grew there in abundance. I went there and picked some myself. On the top of that hill we found Indian graves, where some had been recently buried. There were pens built of old logs and poles around them, and we called it the "Indian Hill." It is known by that name to this day. The old telegraph road runs right round under the brow of this hill. This hill is in the town of Taylor. I don't suppose there are many in that town who do not know the hill or have heard of it, and but few in the town of Dearborn. I don't suppose there are six persons living who know the reason it is called the "Indian Hill" for we named it in a very early day. Some twelve or fifteen years after this a man by the name of Clark had the job of grading down a sand hill nearly a mile south of Taylor Center. In grading he had to cut down the bank six or seven feet and draw it off on to the road. He hired me with my team to go and help him. I went. He had been at work there before and he showed me some Indian bones that he had dug up and laid in a heap. He said that two persons were buried there. From the bones, one must have been very large, and the other smaller. He had been very careful to gather them up. He said he thought they were buried in a sitting or reclining posture, as he came to the skulls first. The skulls, arm and thigh bones were in the best state of preservation, and in fact, the most that was left of them. I took one thigh bone that was whole, sat down on the bank and we compared it with my own. As I was six feet, an inch and a half, we tried to measure the best we could to learn the size of the Indian. We made up our minds that he was at least seven, or seven and a half, feet tall. I think it likely it was his squaw who sat by his side. They must have been buried a very long time. We dug a hole on the north side of a little black oak tree that stood on the hill west of the road, and there we deposited all that remained of those ancient people. I was along there the other day (1875) and as I passed I noticed the oak. It is now quite a large tree; I thought there was no one living in this country, but me, who knew what was beneath its roots. No doubt that Indian was a hunter and a warrior in his day. He might have heard, and been alarmed, that the white man had come in big canoes over the great waters and that they were stopping to live beyond the mountains. But little did he think that in a few moons, or "skeezicks" as they called it, he should pass to the happy hunting ground, and his bones be dug up by the white man, and hundreds and thousands pass over the place, not knowing that once a native American and his squaw were buried there. That Indian might have sung this sentiment: "And when this life shall end, When calls the great So-wan-na, Southwestern shall I wend, To roam the great Savannah." --_Bishop_, No doubt he was an observer of nature. In his day he had listened to the voice of Gitche Manito, or the Great Spirit, in the thunder and witnessed the display of his power in the lightning, as it destroyed the monster oak and tore it in slivers from top to bottom, and the voice of the wind, all told him that there was a Great Spirit. It told him if Indian was good he would go to a better place, where game would be plenty, and, no one would drive him away. No doubt he had made preparation for his departure and wanted his bow, arrow, and maybe other things, buried with him. If this was so they had disappeared as we found nothing of the kind. It is known to be the belief of the Indian in his wild state, that he will need his bow and arrow, or his gun and powder horn, or whatever he has to hunt with here, to use after lie has passed over to the happy hunting ground. About the time that Clark dug up the bones, I became acquainted with something that I never could account for and it has always been a mystery to me. An Englishman was digging a ditch on the creek bottom, to drain the creek, a little over three-quarters of a mile west of father's house. He was digging it six feet wide and two feet deep, where brush called grey willows stood so thick that it was impossible for a man to walk through them. He cut the brush and had dug eight or ten inches when he came to red earth. Some day there had been a great fire at this place. The streak of red ground was about an inch thick, and in it he found what all called human bones. I went to see it myself and the bones we gathered up were mostly small pieces, no whole ones; but we saw enough to convince us that they were human bones. The ground that was burned over might have been, from the appearance, twelve feet square. It must have been done a great many years before, for the ground to make, and the brush to grow over it. This creek, the Ecorse, not being fed by any rivulets or springs from hills or mountains, is supplied entirely by surface water. It is sometimes quite a large stream, but during dry weather in the summer time it is entirely dry. The Englishman was digging it deeper to take off the surface water when it came. It is possible that, sometime, Indians had burned their captives there. In fact there is no doubt of it. It must have been the work of Indians. We may go back in our imaginations to the time, when the place where the city of Detroit now stands was an Indian town or village, and ask its inhabitants if they knew who were burned twelve miles west of there on a creek, they might not be able to tell. We might ask the giant Indian of the sand hill, if he knew, and he might say, "I had a hand in that; it was in my day." But we have no medium, through which we can find out the dark mysteries of the past. They will have to remain until the light of eternity dawns, and all the dead who have ever lived are called to be again, and to come forth. Then the dark mysteries of the past which have been locked up for centuries will be revealed. CHAPTER XII. THE INSIDE OF OUR HOUSE--A PICTURE FROM MEMORY. As I have been led away, for some years, following poor Indian in his belief, life and death, and in doing so have wandered from my story, I will now return to the second or third year of our settlement. I described how the body of our second house was made, and the roof put on. I now look at its interior. The lower floor was made of whitewood boards, in their rough state, nailed down. The upper floor was laid with the same kind of boards, though they were not nailed When they shrunk they could be driven together, to close the cracks. The chimney was what we called a "stick" or "Dutch chimney." The way it was built; two crooked sticks, six inches wide and four inches thick, were taken for arms; the foot of these sticks were placed on the inner edge or top of the second log of the house, and the upper ends laid against the front beam of the chamber floor. These sticks or arms were about six feet apart at the mouth of the chimney. Father cut a green black oak and sawed off some bolts, took a froe, that he brought from York State, and rived out shakes three inches wide and about an inch thick. Of these and clay he laid up the chimney. It started from the arms and the chamber beam. After it got up a little it was like laying up a pen. He spread on some clay, then laid on four sticks and pressed them into the clay, then spread on clay again, covering the sticks entirely. In this way our chimney was built, and its size, at the top, was about two by four feet. It proved to be quite a good and safe chimney. [Illustration: "THE HOUSE BUILT 1836."] The last thing before retiring for the night, after the fire had burned low and the big coals were covered with ashes, was to look up chimney and see if it had taken fire. If it had, and was smoking on the inside, father would take a ladder, set it up in the chimney, take a little water and go up and put it out. This was seldom necessary, as it never took fire unless the clay cracked in places, or the weather wore it off. When there was a small fire in the evening, I could stand on the clay hearth and look through the chimney at the stars as they twinkled and shone in their brightness. I could count a number of them as I stood there. Father drove into a log, back of the fire place, two iron eyes on which to hang a crane; they extended into the room about one foot. Around, and at one side of these he built the back of the fireplace of clear clay a foot thick at the bottom, but thinner when it got up to the sticks; after the clay dried he hung the crane. It is seen that we had no jambs to our fireplace. Father sometimes at night would get a backlog in. I have seen those which he got green, and very large, which were sometimes twenty inches through and five or six feet long. When he got the log to the door, he would take a round stick as large as his arm, lay it on the floor, so that his log would come crossways of it, and then crowd the log. I have seen him crowd it with a handspike and the stick would roll in opposite the fireplace. He would tell us children to stand back and take the chairs out of the way. Then he would roll the log into the fireplace, and very carefully so as not to break or crack the clay hearth, for mother had all the care of that, and wished it kept as nicely as possible. When he had the log on to suit him, he would say, "There, I guess that will last awhile." Then he would bring in two green sticks, six or eight inches through and about three feet long, and place them on the hearth with the ends against the backlog. These he called his Michigan andirons; said he was proud of them. He said they were wood instead of iron, to be sure, but he could afford to have a new pair whenever he wanted them. When he brought in a large fore-stick, and laid it across his andirons, he had the foundation for a fire, for twenty-four hours. On the crane hung two or three hooks, and on these, over the fire, mother did most of her cooking. As we had no oven, mother had what we called a bake kettle; this was a flat, low kettle, with a cast cover, the rim of which turned up an inch or two, to hold coals. In this kettle, she baked our bread. The way she did it; she would heat the lid, put her loaf of bread in the kettle, take the shovel and pull out some coals on the hearth, set the kettle on them, put the lid on and shovel some coals on to it. Then she would watch it, turn it round a few times, and the bread was done, and it came on the table steaming. When we all gathered around the family board we did the bread good justice. We were favored with what we called "Michigan appetites." Sometimes when we had finished our meal there were but few fragments left, of anything except the loaf, which was four or five inches through, a foot and a half across, and four and a half feet in circumference. Later, mother bought her a tin baker, which she placed before the fire to bake her bread, cake, pies, etc. This helped her very much in getting along. It was something new, and we thought it quite an invention. Mother had but one room, and father thought he would build an addition at the west end of our house, as the chimney was on the east end. He built it with a shed roof. The lower floor was made of boards, the upper floor of shakes. These were gotten out long enough to reach from beam to beam and they were lapped and nailed fast. This room had one window on the west, and a door on the east, which led into the front room. In one corner stood a bed surrounded by curtains as white as snow; this mother called her spare-day bed. Two chests and a few chairs completed the furniture of this room; it was mother's sitting room and parlor. I remember well how pleased she was when she got a rag-carpet to cover the floor. Now I have in my mind's eye a view of my mother's front room. Ah! there is the door on the south with its wooden latch and leather string. East of the door is a window, and under it stands a wooden bench, with a water pail on it; at the side of the window hangs the tin dipper. In the corner beyond this stands the ladder, the top resting on one side of an opening through which we entered the chamber. In the centre of the east end burned the cheerful fire, at the left stood a kettle, pot and bread-kettle, a frying pan (with its handle four feet long) and griddle hung over them. Under the north window stood a table with its scantling legs, crossed, and its whitewood board top, as white as hands and ashes could scour it. Farther on, in the north-west corner stood mother's bed, with a white sheet stretched on a frame made for that purpose, over it, and another at the back and head. On the foot and front of the frame were pinned calico curtains with roses and rosebuds and little birds, some perched on a green vine that ran through the print, others on the wing, flying to and from their straw colored nests. These curtains hung, oh, how gracefully, around that bed! They were pinned back a little at the front, revealing a blue and white coverlet, of rare workmanship. In the next and last corner stood the family cupboard. The top shelves were filled with dishes, which mother brought from the state of New York. They were mostly blue and white, red and white and there were some on the top shelf which the children called their "golden edged dishes." The bottom of the cupboard was inclosed; by opening two small doors I could look in. I found not there the luxuries of every clime, but what was found there was eaten with as much relish as the most costly viands would be now. It was a place I visited often. In hooks attached to a beam overhead hung two guns which were very frequently used. A splint broom and five or six splint bottomed chairs constituted nearly all the furniture of this room. Before that cheerful fire in one of those chairs, often sat one making and mending garments, little and big. This she did with her own hands, never having heard of a sewing machine, as there were none in existence then. She had to make every stitch with her fingers. We were not so fortunate as the favored people of ancient times; our garments would wax old. Mother made a garment for father to work in which he called his frock. It was made of linen cloth that she brought from the State of New York. It was like a shirt only the sleeves were short. They reached half way to his elbows. This he wore, in place of a shirt, when working hard in warm weather. Southeast of the house father dug into the ground and made him an out door cellar, in which we kept our potatoes through the winter without freezing them. We found it very convenient. Father wanted a frame barn very much but that was out of his reach. We needed some place to thrash, and to put our grain and hay, and where we could work in wet weather, but to have it was out of the question, so we did the next best thing, went at it and built a substitute. In the first place we cut six large crotches, went about fourteen rods north of the house, across the lane, dug six holes and set the two longest crotches in the center east and west. Then put the four shorter ones, two on the south and two on the north side so as to give the roof a slant. In the crotches we laid three large poles and on these laid small poles and rails, then covered the whole with buckwheat straw for a roof. We cut down straight grained timber, split the logs open and hewed the face and edges of them; we laid them back down on the ground, tight together and made a floor under the straw roof. This building appeared from a distance something like a hay barrack. Now we had a sort of thrashing-floor. Back of this we built a log stable. So the north side was enclosed but the east and west ends and the south side were open. We had to have good weather when we threshed with our flails, as the snow or rain would blow right through it. It was a poor thing but the best we had for several years, until father was able, then he built him a good frame barn. It stands there on the old place yet (1875). I often think of the old threshing floor. When I got a nice buck with large horns I cut off the skull with the hide, so as to keep them in a natural position, and nailed them on the corners of our threshing floor in front. The cold and storms of winter did not affect them much. There they remained, mute and silent, to guard the place, and let all passers by know that a sort of a hunter lived there. Father had good courage and worked hard. He bared his arms and brow to the adverse winds, storms, disappointments, cares and labors of a life in the woods. He said, if he had his health, some day we would be better off. In a few years his words of encouragement proved true. He fought his way through manfully, like a veteran pioneer, raised up from poverty to peace and plenty. This he accomplished by hard labor, working days and sometimes nights. One time father wanted to clear off a piece of ground for buckwheat by the first of July. He had not much time in which to do it. We had learned that buckwheat would catch and grow very stout on new and stumpy ground. Sometimes it filled very full and loaded heavy. It was easily gathered and easily threshed, and helped us very much for our winter's bread. One night after supper, father sat down and smoked his pipe; it was quite dark when he got up, took his ax in his hand and went out. We all knew where he had gone. It was to put up his log heaps, as he had some burning. Mother said, "We will go and help pick up and burn." When we started, looking towards the woods, we could see him dimly through the darkness. As we neared him we could see his bare arms with the handspike in his hands rolling up the logs. The fire took a new hold of them when he rolled them together. The flames would shoot up bright, and his countenance appeared to be a pale red, while thousands of sparks flew above his head and disappeared in the air. In a minute there was an awkward boy at his side with a handspike, taking hold and doing the best he could to help, and there was mother by the light of the fires, who a short time before in her native home, was an invalid and her life despaired of, now, with some of her children, picking up chips and sticks and burning them out of the way. We were well rewarded for our labor. The buckwheat came up and in a little time it was all in bloom. It put on its snow white blossoms, and the wind that caressed it, and caused it to wave, bore away on its wings to the woods the fragrance of the buckwheat field. The little industrious bee came there with its comrades and extracted its load of sweet, then flew back to its native home in the forest. There it deposited its load, stored it away carefully against the time of need. Nature taught the bee that a long, cold winter was coming and that it was best to work and improve the time, and the little fellow has left us a very bright example to follow. CHAPTER XIII. METHEGLIN OR THE DETECTED DRINK. As will be remembered by the early settlers of Michigan, bee hunting and wild honey constituted one of the comforts and luxuries of life. Father being somewhat expert in finding bees found a number of trees, one of which was a large whitewood and stood full a mile or more, from home. One day he and I cut it down. It proved to be a very good tree, as far as honey was concerned. We easily filled our buckets and returned home, leaving a large quantity in the tree, which we intended to return and get as soon as possible. When we returned we found to our surprise, that the tree had caught fire and was burning quite lively where the honey was secreted. The fire originated from the burning of some straw that father had used in singeing the bees to prevent their ferocious attacks and stinging. We found that the fire had melted some of the honey and that it was running into a cavity in the tree which the bees had cleaned out. It looked as nice as though it had dripped into a wooden bowl. Father said there was a chance to save it, and we dipped out a pailful of nice clear honey, except that it was tinged, somewhat, in color and made a little bitter by the fire. This formed one of the ingredients used in making the metheglin. We also secured some more very nice honey. Father said, judging from the amount we got, he should think the tree contained at least a hundred pounds of good honey, and I should think so too. And he said "This truly is a goodly land; it flows with milk and honey." He also said, "I will make a barrel of metheglin, which will be a very delicious drink for my family and a kind of a substitute for the luxuries they left behind. It will slake the thirst of the friendly pioneers, who may favor us with a call in our new forest home; or those friends who come to talk over the adventures of days now past, and the prospects of better days to come." But in order to make the metheglin, he must procure a barrel, and this he had to bring some distance on his back, as we had no team. When he got the barrel home, and ready to make his metheglin, he located it across two sticks about three feet long and six inches through. These he placed with the ends toward the chimney on the chamber floor, and on them next to the chimney, he placed his barrel. He filled it with metheglin and said that the heat of the fire below, and warmth of the chimney above, would keep it from freezing. Being placed upon the sticks he could draw from it at his convenience, which he was quite sure to do when any of the neighbors called. Neighbors were not very plenty in those days and we were always glad to see them. When they came father would take his mug, go up the ladder and return with it filled with metheglin. Then he would pour out a glass, hand it to the neighbor, who would usually say, "What is it?" Father would say, "Try it and see." This they usually did. He then told them: "This is my wine, it was taken from the woods and it is a Michigan drink, the bees helped me to make it." It was generally called nice. Of course he frequently, after a hard day's work, would go up in the chamber, draw some and give us all a drink. It tasted very good to all, and especially to me, as will be seen by what follows. It so happened that the chamber where the barrel was kept, was the sleeping apartment of myself and brother, John S. I played the more important part in the "Detected drink;" at least I thought so. I found, by examining the barrel, that by removing a little block, which was placed under the side, taking out the bung and putting my mouth in its place I could roll the barrel a little, on the sticks, and by being very careful, could get a drink with ease. Then replacing the bung and rolling the barrel back to its place, very carefully so as not to make a noise or arouse suspicion, I would put the block in its place thinking no one was any wiser, but me, for the drink which I thought was very palatable and delicious. Not like the three drinks I had taken from the jug some time before. This continued for sometime very much to my comfort, as far as good drink was concerned. It was usually indulged in at night, after I had undressed my feet, and father and mother supposed I had retired. There was one difficulty. I was liable to be exposed by my little brother, John S., who slept with me; so I concluded to take him into my confidence. There were two reasons for my doing so: first, I wished him to have something good; and second, I wanted to have him implicated with myself, fearing that he might reveal my proceedings. So we enjoyed it together for a few nights. I would drink first, then hold the barrel for him while he drank. We thought we were faring like nabobs. But alas for me! One evening brother John S. and I retired as usual, leaving father and mother seated by the fire, I suppose talking over the scenes of their early days or, more probably, discussing the best way to get along and support their family in this their new forest home. I thought, of course, we must have some of the good drink before we shut our eyes for the night, and no sooner thought than we went for it. As usual, I removed the block and out with the bung, then down with my mouth to the bung hole and over with the barrel until the delightful liquid reached my anxious lips. My thirst was soon slaked by a good drink, I relished it first rate. Then came brother John S.' turn, and, some way, in attempting to get his drink I let the barrel slip. He was small and I had to hold it for him, but this time the barrel went. I grabbed for it, made some racket and some of the metheglin came out, guggle, guggle, good, good, and down it went to the chamber floor, which was made of loose boards. It ran through the cracks and there was a shower below, where father and mother were sitting. I was in a quandary. I knew I was doomed unless I could use some stratagem to clear myself from the scrape in which I was so nicely caught. When lo! the first thing I heard from below was father, apparently very angry, shouting, "William! what in the world are you doing with the metheglin barrel?" Then came my stratagem. I began to retch and make a noise as if vomiting, and hallooed to him that I was sick. Of course, I wanted to make him believe that it was the contents of my stomach that was falling at his feet in place of the metheglin. He said he knew better, it was too sudden an attack, and too much of a shower of the metheglin falling at their feet. I found that I could not make this ruse work. He started for me, his head appeared above the top of the ladder, he had a candle and a gad in his hand. I had been glad to see him often, before, and was afterward, but this time I saw nothing in him to admire. I found I had entirely failed. I told him that I would not do that again. "Oh honestly!" if he would only let me off, I would never do that again. He would not hear one word I said, but seized hold of my arm and laid it on. Then there might have been heard a noise outside, and for some distance, like some striking against a boy about my size, if there had been any one around to have heard it. He said he did not whip me so much for the metheglin, as for lying and trying to deceive him. I do not think I danced a horn but I did step around lively, maybe, a little on tip He said, he thought he had cured me up, that the application he gave would make me well. I crawled into bed very much pleased indeed to think the mat was settled, as far as I was concerned. John S. had crawled into bed while I was paying the penalty. Father excused him because he was so young; he said I was the one to blame, and must stand it all. I thought as all young Americans do that it was rather hard to get such a tanning in Michigan, and I had begun to think myself quite a somebody. From that day, or night, I made up my mind that honesty was the best policy, at all events, for me. When I went to bed, at night, after that I gave the metheglin barrel a wide berth and a good letting alone, for I had lost my relish for metheglin. The metheglin story is once in a while, until this day, related by John S., especially when we all meet for a family visit. It not unfrequently causes much laughter. I suppose the laughter is caused as much by the manner in which he tells it (he trying to imitate or mimic me) as its funniness. It sometimes causes a tear, perhaps, from excessive laughter and may be, from recollections of the past and its associations. It may once in a while cause me to give a dry laugh, but never a sad tear since the night I spilt the metheglin. One way the bee-hunter took of finding bee trees was to go into the woods, cut a sappling off, about four feet from the ground, square the top of the stump and on this put a dish of honey in the comb. Then he would take his ax, cut and clear away the brush around the place so that he could see the bees fly and be able to get their course or line them. This he called a bee stand. In the fall of the year, when there came a warm, clear and sunny day, after the frost had killed the leaves and flowers, and the trees were bare, was the best time to find bee trees. Sometimes when father and I went bee-hunting he took some old honey comb, put it on a piece of bark or on a log, set it on fire and dropped a few drops of anise on it from a vial. If we were near a bee tree in a short time a lone bee would come. When it came it would fly around a few times and then light on the honey comb in the dish which it had scented. No doubt, it had been out industriously hunting and now it had found just what was desired. Very independently it would commence helping itself and get as much as it could possibly carry off to its home. Then it went and, no doubt, astonished some of its comrades with its large load of wealth. It was obtained so quickly and easily and there was plenty more where it came from. Then some of the other bees would accompany it back, all being very anxious to help in securing the honey they had found ready made. In a short time there were several bees in the dish and others were coming and going; then it was necessary for us to watch them. It required sharp strong eyes to get their line. They would rise and circle around, higher and higher, until they made out their course and then start like a streak straight for their colony. After we had staked or marked out the line the next thing was to move the honey forty or fifty rods ahead. At this the bees sometimes appeared a little suspicious. It was sometimes necessary to make a few of them prisoners even while they were eating by slipping a cover over them, and moving them ahead on the line. This made them a little shy, however, but they soon forgot their imprisonment. They had found too rich a store to be forsaken. After a little while they would come flocking back and load themselves as heavily as before. If they flew on in the same direction it was evident that the bee tree was still ahead, and it was necessary to move the honey again. Then if the bees flew crooked and high and zigzag it was plain to the bee-hunters that they were in close proximity to the bee tree. When the hunters could get sight of the bees going back or up towards the tree tops it was an easy matter to find the bee tree, as that would be between the two stands or right in the hunter's presence. The little bees had, by their unceasing industry and through their love of gain, labored hard extracting their sweet and had laid it up carefully. Now they pointed out their storehouse by going directly to it when anxious eyes were watching them. The little aeronautic navigators could be seen departing from and returning to their home. Sometimes they went into a small hole in the side of the tree and at other times they entered their homes by a small knot-hole in a limb near the top of the tree. I saw that a swarm which father once found went into the tree top more than eighty feet from the ground. At that distance they did not appear larger than house-flies. The first thing that father did after finding a bee-tree was to mark it by cutting the initials of his name on the bark with his pocket-knife. This established his title to the bees. After that they had a legal owner. The mark on the tree was one of the witnesses. I knew a man who happened to find a bee tree, and said that he marked it close down to the ground and covered the mark with leaves so that no one could find it. That appeared more sly than wise, as it gave no notice to others, who might find the tree, of his ownership, or of its having been previously found. CHAPTER XIV. OUR ROAD AND HOW I WAS WOUNDED. Father got our road laid out and districted for a mile and a half on the north and south section line. One mile north of our place it struck the Dearborn road. Father cut it out, cut all the timber on the road two rods wide. After it was cut out I could get on the top of a stump in the road, by the side of our place, and look north carefully among the stumps, for a minute, and if there was any one coming, on the road, I could distinguish them from the stumps by seeing them move. In fact we thought we were almost getting out into the world. We could see the sand hill where father finally bought and built his house. Father was path-master for a number of years and he crosswayed the lowest spots and across the black ash swales. He cut logs twelve feet long and laid them side by side across the center of the road. Some of the logs, that he put into the road on the lowest ground, were more than a foot through; of course smaller poles answered where the ground was higher. We called this our corduroy road. In doing our road work and others doing theirs, year after year, in course of time we had the log way built across the wettest parts of the road. When it was still I could hear a cart or wagon, coming or going, rattling and pounding over the logs for nearly a mile. But it was so much better than water and mud that we thought it quite passable. We threw some clay and dirt on to the logs and it made quite an improvement, especially in a dry time. But in a wet time it was then, and is now, a very disagreeable road to travel, as the clay gathers on the feet of the pedestrian, until it is a load for him to carry. This gave it, in after times, the name of the "Hardscrabble Road." When it was wet it was almost impossible to get through with a team and load. At such times we had to cross Mr. Pardee's place and go around the ridge on a road running near the old trail. Now the "Hardscrabble Road" is an old road leading to the homes of hundreds. Sometimes there may be seen twelve or fifteen teams at once on the last half mile of that road, besides footmen, coming and going all in busy life. They little know the trouble we once had there in making that road. Father had very hard work to get along. He had to pay Mrs. Phlihaven twenty-seven dollars every year to satisfy her on the mortgage, as he was not able to pay the principal. That took from us what we needed very much. If we could have had it to get us clothes it would have helped us, as we were all poorly clad. Some of the younger children went barefooted all winter a number of times. I often saw their little barefooted tracks in the snow. As we had no team we had to get along the best we could. Father changed work with Mr. Pardee: he came with his oxen and plowed for us. Father had to work two days for one, to pay him. In this way we got some plowing done. There was a man by the name of Stockman who lived near Dearbornville. He had a pair of young oxen. Being a carpenter, by trade, he worked at Detroit some of the time. He would let father use his oxen some of the time for their keeping, and that he might break them better, as they were not thoroughly broken. They would have been some profit to us it they had not crippled me. One day I was drawing logs with them. I had hitched the chain around a log and they started. I hallooed, "Whoa!" but they wouldn't stop. They swung the log against me, caught my leg between the log they were drawing and the sharp end of another log and had me fast. It cut the calf of my leg nearly in two, and tore the flesh from the bone, but did not break it. I screamed and made an awful ado. Father and Mr. Purdy heard me and came running as fast as they could, they took me up and carried me to the house. It was over three long months before I could take another step with that leg. This accident made it still harder for father. I know I saved him a good many steps and some work. I am sure he was pleased when I got over my lameness and so I could help him again. I took a great interest in everything he did and helped him all I could. Finally father got a chance to work by the day, for the government, at Dearbornville. He received six shillings a day in silver. He said he would leave me, to do what I could on the place, and he would try working for Uncle Sam a part of the time. In haying and harvesting he had to work at home. He cut all the grass himself and it grew very stout. We found our land was natural for timothy and white clover. The latter would come up thick in the bottom, of itself, and make the grass very heavy. It was my business to spread the hay and rake it up. In this way we soon got through with our haying and harvesting. We had already seeded some land down for pasture. We went to Dearbornville and got hayseed off of a barn floor and scattered it on the ground, in this way we seeded our first pasture. Father sometimes let a small piece of timothy stand until it got ripe. Then took his cradle, cut it and I tied it up in small bundles and then stood it up until it was dry. When dry it was thrashed out; in this way we soon had plenty of grass seed of our own, without having to buy it. We began to have quite a stock of cows and young cattle. We had pasture for them a part of the time, but sometimes we had to let them run in the woods. At night I would go after them. When I got in sight of them I would count them, to see if they were all there. The old cow (which had been no small part of our support and our stand-by through thick and thin) would start and the rest followed her. When they were strung along ahead of me and I was driving them I would think to myself: now we've got quite a herd of cattle! From our first settlement mother wanted to, and did, raise every calf. Father worked for the government what time he could spare. He had to go two miles morning and night. He carried his dinner in a little tin pail with a cover on it. When the days were short he had to start very early, and when he returned it would be in the evening, I recollect very well some things that he worked at. The arsenal and other buildings were up when we came here. They built a large brick wall from building to building, making the yard square. The top of the wall was about level. I think this wall was built twelve or fifteen feet high, it incloses three or four acres. There thousands of soldiers put on their uniforms and with their bright muskets in their hands and knapsacks strapped upon their backs drilled and marched to and fro. There they prepared themselves for the service of the country and to die, if need be, in defending the old flag of stars and stripes which waved there above their heads. Little thought they that the ground under their feet, so beautiful and level inside that yard was made ground, in some places for six or eight feet deep, and that it was done at Uncle Sam's expense for the pleasure of his boys in blue. It was their school yard in which to learn the science of war. My father helped to grade this enclosure. They drew in sand from the sand ridge back of the yard, from where the government barn now stands, with one-horse carts. Father was very fond of Indian bread which he called "Johnny cake." When mother had wheat bread for the rest of us she often baked a "Johnny cake" for him. One day he took a little "Johnny cake," a cup of butter and some venison, in his little tin pail, for his dinner. He left it as usual in the workshop. At noon he partook of his humble repast. He said he left a piece of his "Johnny cake" and some butter. He thought that would make him a lunch at night, when his day's work was done and he started home. He went for his pail and found that his lunch was gone, and in place of it a beautiful pocket knife. He said there were two or three government officers viewing and inspecting the arsenal and ground that day. He said they went into the shop where he left his dinner pail and lunch. He was sure they were the ones who took his lunch. He said they knew what was good, for they ate all the "Johnny cake" and butter he had left. The knife was left open and he thought they forgot and left it through mistake. But I think more probably they knew something of father's history. He was one who would have been noticed in a crowd of workmen. I have no doubt the boss told them that he was a splendid workman. That he had had bad luck, that he lived on a new place, two or three miles back in the woods, that he had a large family to support and came clear out there every day to work. "Here is his dinner pail" one says, "let's look in it" and what did they see but a piece of Indian bread and some butter? Methinks, one of the officers might have said: "I have not eaten any of that kind of bread since my mother baked it down in New England. Let's try it." Then took out his knife, cut it in three or four pieces, spread the butter on and they ate it. Then he said, "Here is my knife, worth twelve shillings, I will leave it open; he shall have it. I will give it him as an honorary present, for his being a working man, and to compensate him for what we have eaten. It has reminded me of home." Now if the view I have taken is correct, it shows that they were noble, generous and manly; that they felt for the poor, in place of trifling with their feelings. After father finished working there, he sold some young cattle and managed in some way to buy another yoke of oxen. We had good hay for them. Father went to the village and bought him a new wagon. It was a very good iron axletree wagon, made in Dearbornville by William Halpin. We were very much pleased to have a team again and delighted with our new wagon. We had very good luck with these oxen and kept them until we got a horse team, and in fact longer, for after I left my father's house (and I was twenty-two years old when I left) he had them. Then he said his place was cleared up, and the roots rotted enough so that he could get along and do his work with horses. He sold his oxen to Mr. Purdy, and they were a good team then. CHAPTER XV. PROSPECT OF WAR--A.D. 1835. The dark portentous cloud seemed to hang above our horizon. It looked dark and threatening, (and more terrible because the disputants were members of the same family). We thought it might break upon our heads at any time. The seat of war being so near us, the country so new and inhabitants so few, made it look still more alarming to me. I asked father how many inhabitants we had in our territory and how many the State of Ohio contained. He said there were as many as fifteen or twenty to our one. I asked him if he thought the Michigan men would be able to defend Toledo against so many. He said that Michigan was settled by the bravest men. That almost every man owned a rifle and was a good shot for a pigeon's head. He thought they would be able to keep them at bay until the government would interfere and help us. He said, to, that Governor Mason was a fearless, brave, courageous man. That he had called for militia and volunteers and was going himself with General Brown, at the head of his men, to defend the rights of Michigan. One day, about this time, I was at Dearbornville; they had a fife and drum there and were beating up for militia and volunteers. A young man by the name of William Ozee had volunteered. I was well acquainted with him; he had been at our house frequently. Sometimes, in winter, he had chopped for us and I had hunted with him. He had a good rifle and was certainly a sharp shooter. I found that he beat me handily, but I made up my mind it was because he had a better rifle and I was considerable younger than he. I saw him at Dearbornville just before he went away. He told me to tell my folks that he was a soldier and was going to the war to defend them; that Governor Mason had called for troops and he was going with him. We heard in a short time that he was at Toledo. We also learned that Governor Lucas, of Ohio, with General Bell and staff, with an army of volunteers, all equipped ready for war, had advanced as far as Fort Miami. But Governor Mason was too quick for the Ohio Governor. He called upon General Brown to raise the Michigan militia, and said that his bones might bleach at Toledo before he would give up one foot of the territory of Michigan; said he would accompany the soldiers himself, to the disputed ground. He, with General Brown, soon raised a force of about a thousand men and took possession of Toledo; while the Governor of Ohio, with volunteers, was fooling away the time at Fort Miami. When we heard that Governor Mason had arrived at Toledo, we wondered if we should hear the roar of his cannon. Sometimes I listened. We thought if it was still and the wind favorable, we might hear them, and we expected every day there would be a battle. But when Governor Lucas learned how determined Governor Mason was, and that he had at his back a thousand Michigan braves, and most of them with their rifles in their hands, ready to receive him, he made up his mind that he had better let them alone. We afterward learned that Governor Lucas only had six or eight hundred men. The conclusion was, that if they had attacked the Michigan boys at Toledo, they would have gotten badly whipped, and those of them left alive would have made good time running for the woods, and would have wished that they had never heard of Michigan men. Perhaps the Ohio Governor thought that discretion was the better part of valor. He employed his time for several days, watching over the line. May be he employed some of his time thinking if it could be possible that Governor Mason and General Brown were going to subjugate Ohio, or at least a part of it, and annex it to the territory of Michigan. Let this be as it may; while he seemed to be undecided, two commissioners from Washington put in an appearance and remonstrated with him. They told him what the fearful consequences, to him and his State, would be, if he tried to follow out his plan to gain possession of the disputed territory. These commissioners held several conferences with both Governors. They submitted to them several propositions for their consideration, and for the settlement of the important dispute. Their proposition was this: that the inhabitants, residing on the disputed ground, should be left to their own government. Obeying one or the other, as they might prefer, without being disturbed by the authorities of either Michigan or Ohio. They were to remain thus until the close of the next session of Congress. Here we see the impossibility of man being subjected to and serving two masters, for, "He will love the one and hate the other, or hold to the one and despise the other." Governor Lucas was glad to get out of the scrape. He embraced the proposition, disbanded his men and left the disputed ground. Governor Mason considered himself master of the situation; Toledo and the disputed territory were under his control. He would not compromise the rights of his people, and he considered that it rightly belonged to Michigan. He disbanded a part of his force and sent them home, but kept enough organized so that he could act in case of emergency. He kept an eagle eye upon the "Buckeyes" to see that our territorial laws were executed promptly and they were executed vigorously. In doing it one Michigan man was wounded, his would-be murderer ran away to Ohio and was protected by Governor Lucas. The man who was wounded was a deputy-sheriff of Monroe County. He was stabbed with a knife. His was the only blood spilled. Some few surveyors and Ohio sympathizers were arrested and put into jail at Monroe. But Uncle Sam put his foot down, to make peace in the family. He said if we would submit, after awhile we might shine as a star in the constellation of the Union. So we were promised a star in a prominent place in the old flag and territory enough, north of us, for a State. To be sure it is not quite so sunny a land as that near Toledo, and our Governor and others did not like to acquiesce in the decision of the government, yet they had to yield to Uncle Sam's superior authority. Then they did not imagine that the upper peninsula was so rich a mining country. They little knew at that time that its very earth contained, in its bosom and under its pure waters, precious metals, iron, copper and silver enough to make a State rich. Finally our people consented and the Territory of Michigan put on her glory as a State. Became a proud member of the Union; her star was placed in the banner of the free. It has since sparkled upon every sea and been seen in every port throughout the civilized world, as the emblem of the State of Michigan. In the excitement of the Toledo war we looked upon the Ohio men unfavorably. We were interested for ourselves, and might have been somewhat selfish and conceited, and, maybe, jealous of our neighbors, and thought them wrong in the fray. We had forgotten that there were then men living in Ohio, in log houses and cabins, some of them as brave men as ever walked the footstool; that they came to Michigan and rescued the country from the invaders, the English and savages, long before some of us knew that there was such a place as Michigan. When Michigan was almost a trackless wilderness they crossed Lake Erie, landed at Malden, drove the redcoats out of the fort and started them on the double quick. They made for the Canadian woods, and the British and Indians, who held Detroit, followed suit. They were followed by our brave William Henry Harrison, accompanied by Ohio and Kentucky men to the Thames. There, at one blow, the Americans subjected the most of Upper Canada and punished the invaders of Michigan, who had the hardihood to set their hostile feet upon her territory. It seems as though it must have been right that the strip of country at Toledo was given to the brave men, some at least of whom long years before, defended it with their lives and helped to raise again the American flag at Detroit. In about five years from the time of the Toledo War, William Henry Harrison, of Ohio, was nominated, by the Whig party, for President, and John Tyler, of Virginia, for Vice President, of the United States. The intelligence spread like wild-fire. It went from town to town and from county to county, through the brand-new State of Michigan. General Harrison appeared to be the coming man. The Whigs of Ohio and Michigan met and shook hands, like brothers, over the difficulties of the past; now they had a more patriotic undertaking before them. In union with the rest of the Whig party of the United States, they were to elect the old farmer of the West, the good man who loved his country. In its defence he had won imperishable honors. After he laid down his armor he resided in a log house and was often clad in the habiliments of a husbandman. Now he was nominated for President of the United States. With such a candidate for the presidency men's hearts leaped for joy in anticipation of a victory at the ballot-box in the fall of 1840. The nomination of General Harrison raised quite an excitement throughout the entire country. Even in Dearborn, what few Whigs there were in the town united as one man, entered upon the campaign and banded themselves together to work for the good of the Whig party. Alonzo T. Mather was one who stood at the head of the party in Dearborn. He was a man noted for his good religious principles, and was one of the most prominent and influential citizens of the town. He was sent to the Legislature, at Detroit, for Wayne county, one term and held other offices of trust and honor. He was the chieftain of his party and one of the prime movers in getting up a log cabin in Dearborn. This log cabin was built on large truck wheels. When finished it appeared somewhat the shape of a log car. It was thought necessary to have something on board to eat and drink. It was desired to make all typical and commemorative of the veteran, pioneer, farmer and general who had escaped the bullets of the savages at Tippecanoe, although he was a special mark for them, without a scar and the loss only of a lock of hair, which was clipped off by a bullet. This, too, was the man who shared his own supplies with his soldiers when they were reduced to the necessity of eating horse flesh. Now, in honor to such a man, the Whig bakers of Dearborn made a "Johnny cake" at least ten feet long and the width of it was in proportion to the length. They patted it with care, smoothed it over nicely and baked it before the fire. It was a good, plump cake, and nothing like it was ever seen in Dearborn, before or since. Careful hands put it on board the log cabin, also a barrel of hard cider was put on board. At this time, although the country was new, politics ran high in Dearborn. A friendly invitation was sent around to the farmers to come, at a certain time, with their ox-teams and help draw the log cabin to its destination and accompany the Whig delegation with it to Detroit. I knew one Democrat who, when invited, refused to go. He appeared to be rather eccentric. He said, "I allow that my oxen are not broke to work on either side, and they are too Democratic to pull on both sides of the fence at one and the same time." He considered the excitement of the people, their building log cabins and baking such "Johnny cakes" boyish and foolish. He said, in fact, that those who were doing it were "on the wrong side." Many of the Democratic frontier men admired General Harrison for his great worth as a man and liked his having a national reputation for bravery. They said he was an honor to America as an American citizen and soldier, but that he was on the wrong side. At that time I was in my teens and looking anxiously forward for time to help me to the elective franchise. Perhaps, I should state here that father was a Democrat as long ago as I can remember. In York State he was a strong Jackson man and coming into the woods of Michigan did not change his political principles. He was an irrepressible Democrat and remained one. Jackson was his ideal statesman. When he went to Dearbornville to attend town meeting or election, he almost invariably carried a hickory cane, with the bark on it as it grew, in honor of "Old Hickory." He was always known by his townsmen as a staunch Democrat. It was natural for his young family, to claim to be Democrats in principle, in their isolated home. The first settlers in our neighborhood, on the Ecorse, were Democrats, with one exception, and that one was Mr. Blare. He often visited at our house, and to tease my little brother, then five or six years old, told him that he must be a Whig, he would make a good one, that he was a Whig, he appeared like one and so forth. Brother denied it stoutly and said that he would not be a Whig for any one. This amused Mr. Blare very much for some time. Finally, when he called one day, he said he was going to have company, he could see plainly that J.S. was changing to a Whig very fast. J.S. denied it as strongly as ever, but it was evident that the idea of being a Whig troubled him greatly. One morning (a short time after Mr. Blare had been talking to him) he was crying bitterly. Mother said she thought it very strange that he should cry so and tried sometimes, in vain, to persuade him to tell her what the trouble was. Finally she threatened to punish him if he did not let her know what the difficulty was. At last he said he was afraid he was turning to be a Whig. Mother assured him that it was not so. She said there was no danger of her little boy changing into a Whig, not in the least. J.S. has often been reminded, since he became a man, of the time Mr. Blare came so near making a Whig of him. But back to that cabin. There were plenty of men who volunteered and took their teams. They hitched a long string of them, I think twenty-two yoke of oxen, to the trucks. Quite a large crowd, for Dearborn, of old and young, were on hand to witness the start. Most of them appeared very enthusiastic. Each gave vent to some expression of admiration like the following: "The General is the man for me;" or, "He is one of the people, one with the people, one for the people, one with us and we are for him." That's my sentiment, said one and another. After such exclamations and the singing of a spirited campaign song, the order was given to start the teams. The large wheels rolled and the log cabin began to move. Nearly all appeared to be excited and there was some confusion of voices. Cheer after cheer arose clear and high for the honest old farmer of North Bend. I learned afterward that the march to Detroit was one continued ovation. As a matter of course, I didn't go with them. I was too busy, at that time, taking lessons and studying my politics, and all that sort of thing at home in the woods. CHAPTER XVI. FISHING AND BOATING. In the spring of the year when the ice broke up, in the creek, the (pike) or (pickerel) came up in great abundance from Detroit River, and they were easily caught. At such times the water was high in the creek, often overflowing its banks. Sometimes the Ecorse appeared like quite a river. We made a canoe of a white-wood log and launched it on the Ecorse. Sometimes we went fishing in the canoe. At such times it needed two, as the pickerel were fond of lying in shallow water or where there was old grass. By looking very carefully, on the surface of the water, I could see small ripples that the fishes made with their fins while they were sporting in their native element. By having a person in the back end of the canoe, pole it carefully, toward the place where I saw the ripples, we would get up in plain sight of them, and they could be either speared or shot. I think the most successful way was shooting them, at least I preferred it. If the fish lay near the surface of the water, I held the gun nearly on it, and if it was six inches deep I held the gun six inches under it, and fired. In this way, for the distance of two or three rods, I was sure to kill them or stun them so that they turned belly up and lay till they were easily picked up with a spear. In this way I frequently caught a nice string. I have caught some that would weigh eight pounds apiece. Sometimes I stood on a log that lay across the creek and watched for them when they were running up. I recollect one cloudy afternoon I fished with a spear and I caught as many as I wanted to carry to the house. Sometimes they would be in a group of three, four or more together. I have seen them, with a big fish below, and four or five smaller ones above him, swimming along together as nicely as though they had been strung on an invisible string, and drawn along quietly through the water. I could see their wake as they were coming slowly up the creek keeping along one side of it. When I first saw them in the water they looked dark, I saw it was a group of fishes. It looked as though the smaller ones were guarding the larger one, at least they were accompanying it. They appeared to be very good friends, and well acquainted, and none of them afraid of being eaten up, but any of them would have eagerly caught the smaller ones of another species and swallowed them alive and whole. I do not know that they devour and eat their own kind, I think not often, for nature has given the pickerel, when young and small, the ability to move with such swiftness that it would be impossible for a larger fish to catch them. They will be perfectly still in the water, and if scared by anything they will start away in any direction like a streak. They go as if it were no effort and move with the rapidity of a dart. I have cut some of the large pickerel open and found whole fish in them, five or six inches long. But I must finish describing that group of fishes! As they were swimming up, the smaller ones kept right over the large one. I stood until they got almost to me and I killed four of them at once and got them all. It is known that it is not necessary to hit a fish with a bullet in order to get it. It is the force of the bullet, or charge, striking the water that shocks or stuns him, and causes him to turn up. These fish ran up two or three weeks every spring. Then those which were not caught went back again into the Detroit River. Father made him what he called a pike net which had two wings. By the time the fish were running back, the water was settled into the bed of the creek. Then father would set his net in the creek, stretch the wings across and stake it fast. The mouth of the net opened up stream. This he called a funnel; it was shaped like the top of a funnel. It was fastened with four hoops. The first one was about as large around as the hoop of a flour barrel, the next smaller, the third smaller still, and the last one was large enough for the largest fish to go through. When the net was fastened around these hoops it formed a tunnel about four feet long. Then we had a bag net eight or ten feet long. The mouth of this was tied around the first or large hoop of the tunnel, so when the fish came down and ran into that they could not find their way out. Father said when the fish were running back to Detroit River, it was right to catch them, but when they were going up everybody along the creek ought to have a chance. I never knew him to put his net in, so long as the fish were running up. When they got to going back, as they most all run in the night, in the evening he would go and set his net, and next morning he would have a beautiful lot of fish. In this way, some springs, we caught more than we could use fresh, so salted some down for summer use. They helped us very much, taking the place of other meat. For years back there have hardly any fish made their appearance up the Ecorse. Now it would be quite a curiosity to see one in the creek. I suppose the reason they do not come up is that some persons put in gill nets at the mouth of the Ecorse, on Detroit River, and catch them, or stop them at least. It is known that fish will not run out of a big water, and run up a small stream, at any time except in the night. These denizens of the deep have their own peculiar ways, and although man can contrive to catch them, yet he cannot fathom the mysteries that belong alone to them. Where they travel he cannot tell for they leave no track behind. It is seen that I used a hunter's phrase in my description of holding the gun while shooting fish. The hunter will readily understand it as given. If he has seen a deer and it has escaped him, and you ask him why he didn't shoot it; he almost invariably says, "I couldn't get my gun on it before it jumped out of my sight." To such as do not understand that phrase I will say, the expression is allowable, as the bullet or charge of shot flies so swiftly (even in advance of the sharp report of the gun). The distance of twenty rods or more is virtually annihilated: Hence the expression, "I held the gun on it," (though it was rods away.) If he sighted his gun straight toward the object he wished to hit whether it was in the air, under water, or on the ground, he would claim that he held his gun on it. I said that the bullet flew in advance of the report of the gun. That is true, on the start, or until it struck an object. If the object was at a reasonable distance, but if the distance proved too far, it of course would fall behind the sound. The bullet is the bold--fearless--and often cruel companion of the report of the gun, and loses in its velocity the farther it flies, being impeded and resisted by the air, and at last is left flattened and out of shape, a dead weight, while the report of the gun passes on very swiftly, and dies away in the distance to be heard no more. I have often heard the reports of guns very plainly that were fired at ducks on Detroit River, six or seven miles away. With what velocity their sounds approached me, I leave Dr. Derham to determine. According to his calculation it must have been at the rate of eleven hundred and forty-two feet per second. It has also been ascertained with what velocity the ball leaves the gun and pierces the air. The following is the practical result ascertained by the experiments of Mr. Robins, Count Rumford, and Dr. Hutton: "A musket ball, discharged with a common charge of powder, issues from the muzzle of the piece with a velocity between sixteen and seventeen hundred feet in a second." CHAPTER XVII. HOW I GOT IN TROUBLE RIDING IN A CANOE. I often rode in my canoe when I did not go fishing. I took one ride in it that I shall always remember, at least the remembrance of it has forced itself upon my mind a number of times, in the days gone by, and I expect to think of it a few times more. Of course my oldest sister, Rachel, who is now Mrs. Crandell, of Dearborn, became acquainted with the young ladies of the neighborhood. One fine afternoon, in the spring of the year when the water was high, two of her friends came to see her. They were considered very fine young ladies. One was Miss Lucy Lord, the other I will call nameless, but she is an old resident and lives near by. If at any time this should meet her eye she will vouch for the truth of it. They came to spend the afternoon with sister. Of course (as all young men do, I believe) I felt a little flattered, and thought, no doubt, one object of their visit was to see me. Whether my humble self was once in all their thoughts, when they were making their toilet that day or not, I gave them the credit of it. I thought I had never seen one of them, at least, look any better than she did that afternoon. Her hair was arranged very nicely and she was very graceful. Of course, when my sister told me they wished very much for a boat ride, I could not very well to refuse to go with them. I hoped to let them see with how much skill I could manage my canoe. But alas for my skill! The flat was covered with water from our little ridge to the creek, a distance of twenty rods. It looked like a large river. The canoe was anchored near the ridge; the young ladies got in and we started from the landing. I had to look out for the stumps and hummocks so as not to run against them nor run my boat aground. I had my passengers aboard and I stood in the hind end of the canoe, and with a hand pole I set it along with greater rapidity than it could have been paddled. We glided over the water, on the flat, amid the joyful acclamations and gleeful laughter of my fair companions. One said, "I haven't had a boat ride before in Michigan." Miss Lucy, who sat on the bow end of the boat, waved her handkerchief and said, "Oh, bless me! isn't this pleasant, sailing on the water!" Another said, "How nice we go!" Of course I propelled along with considerable speed. I thought I had one of the nicest, prettiest and most intelligent load of passengers that had ever been in my canoe or on that water, and I would give them a nice ride. At last we got round as far as the creek. There the water ran more swiftly than it did on the flat. I told the young ladies I thought we had better not try to navigate that, but they all said, "Let us ride up the creek!" I thought I was master of the situation and could manage the canoe. I did not want to tell them that I was afraid, for fear they would say I was fainthearted. I thought that would be very much against me, and as I had such a brave crew, I made up my mind to go up the strong current. I turned the bow of the boat up against the current, as much as I could with one hold, but could not get it straight against the current. It shot ahead its length or more, then I moved my hand pole to get a new hold. Now we were over the creek and the water being four or five feet deep, it was impossible for me to get my pole down to the bottom again in time to save us. While I was trying to do that, the current being stronger than I supposed, turned the boat sidewise. I saw that we were gone for it. The girls sprang to one side of the boat and down we went, at one plunge, all together into the water. My craft was foundered, filled with water and went down, (stream at least). Miss Lucy Lord was the heroine of the occasion; luckily, she saved herself by jumping, though she got very wet. She got on to a little hummock on the bank and was on terra-firma. As soon as I took in the situation, I exerted myself to save the rest of the crew. The nameless girl's head came in sight about the same time my own did. As soon as she could halloo she said, "Lord have mercy! Lord help!" Miss Lucy held out her hand and said, "Come here and Lord will help you." I helped her and my sister to the bank as quickly as possible. I had to be very lively in securing the white pocket handkerchief that had been our flag while sailing. After they got fairly out, they started like three deer, as three dears they were, for the house, each one for herself. The way they made three wakes through that water was something new to me. I had never seen the like of that before. Miss Lucy went ahead full of life. They went through the water from one to two feet deep all the way to the ridge. There were father, mother and all the rest, to witness their safe arrival on the shore, and join them in their merry, though I think sad laugh. I knew it would all be laid to me. After I watched them to the house and knew they were very jolly, I started for the canoe. It had gone down in the water to a large log that lay across the creek and lodged against it. I was as wet as I could be, and I jumped in again, drew it from the log and pulled it along full of water, up the creek, until I got where the bank was a little higher. Then I drew the front end up and the water ran over the back end. When it was so that I could tow it, I took it across the flat in front of the house, and left it there in its place.. Then I went in the house. They had coined a brand new title for me; they called me "Captain." They said I had come near drowning my passengers. Mother said it was not safe for young ladies to ride with me on the water. Father said, he thought I was not much of a sailor, that I did not understand navigation; and I made up my mind that he was correct, that I was not much of a water-man. CHAPTER XVIII. OUR CLEARING AND THE FIRST RAILROAD CARS IN 1838. Our prospects began to brighten a little, and it is needless for me to attempt to describe what our feelings were, when we got a strip of the primeval forest cleared away. Our clearing now extended across the two lots, being half a mile east and west. It was about eighty rods wide on the west side, running this width to the east a little over half way, and it was forty or fifty rods wide on the east line. It contained about sixty acres mostly logged and cleared off, but a few logs remained lying on some of it. We had burned the wood all up on the ground, as there was no market for it, it was worthless. We burned up out of our way enough timber to have made five thousand cords of cordwood. Father's big ax, which he brought from the State of New York, and mine, by striking innumerable blows, had been worn out long before this strip was cleared. The heavy, resounding blows of those axes had been heard, and before them many trees had fallen. They stood before the blows and trembled and swayed to and fro and at last fell with a thundering crash, to the earth, to rise no more. Some of their bodies broken, their limbs broken off, wounded and bruised, and stripped of their beautiful foliage. The noise of their fall and the force with which they struck the earth made the ground tremble and shake, and let the neighbors know that father and I were chopping, and that we were slaying the timber. The grand old forest was melting away. The sides of many a tree had been cleft, and the chips bursted out, and they had disappeared all but their stumps. The timber was tall, I cut one whitewood that was about a foot through at the butt, and measured eighty-three feet to a limb. It ran up as straight as a liberty pole. I think our large timber was about one hundred feet high. It was, to me, a little singular that the smaller timber should run up so tall, equally as high as the large timber. All appeared anxious to look at the sun, bask their green tops in his rays and nestle and wave, in ruffles of green, above the high arching boughs of the trees. Once I saw them wave, arrayed in a different coat. Beautiful workmanship of nature was displayed in the growth of that timber. It is not always necessary to peer through glass slides in order to take a panoramic view of the brilliant scenes dame nature presents, her varying pictures and beautiful face. Her handiwork as exhibited by herself is the most enchanting. Sometimes, the spectacle after a storm of rain and sleet is grand and sublime, but the effect of such a storm is not often seen as we view it now. Early one spring, after nature had covered her face with a mantle of snow and appeared to repose, she aroused from her winter slumber, and adorned herself in a silvery robe. It was formed by drops of cold rain showered down upon the little snow that was left, upon the trees and, in fact, upon everything not under cover. Every bush and little twig was loaded and hung down its head. The bodies and limbs of the trees were alike covered and the boughs bent down under the heavy load of icy armor. Icicles, glistening like jewels, hung from the eaves of the house, from the fence rails, and from the limbs of our little fruit trees. The currant brush, the rose bushes, the briers and prickly ash were all encased in ice. From the points and ends of all the boughs, small and large, icicles formed and hung down like tapers. To the point of each was hanging a silver-like gem which had been frozen fast while in the act of dropping. Some of the trees were loaded so heavily that the limbs broke off and went tearing down to the earth in a heterogeneous mass. The limbs broke in pieces and their icy coat and icicles broke up like glass. The next morning the "Whirl-dance of the blinding storm" of sleet had passed away, but it had left its impression behind. There was formed a crust on the little snow left which gave it a shining coat, transparent as crystal. It was most beautiful. The sun shone clear and bright and cast his golden rays across the face of nature. The trees and tree-tops, the bushes and shrubs shone and glistened like so many thousand diamonds and the earth was dazzling to look upon. It appeared mystical as a silvery land, everything aglow and sparkling with radiant hues. The trees and earth seemed vying with each other in most charming beauty like many of earth's pictures. It was a scene too bright and strange to last. A change was soon caused by the warming rays of the sun. The icicles, which hung down like jewels, melted, let go their hold and fell to the earth. The icy covering of the trees began to melt and fall like tears. Very soon the snow and ice were all gone and the ground left bare. Father said that he thought the trees were more beautiful when clothed in green leaves than when covered with ice though they were ever so bright. But to the clearing again. Now finally I thought we had quite a clearing. I could stand by our house, and look to the west, and see Mr. Pardee's house and the smoke of his chimney. I could see Mr. Pardee and his sons when they came out in the morning and went to their work. I could look to the east and there, joining ours, was the clearing and house of Mr. Asa Blare, and he could be seen. Then it began to seem as if others were living in Michigan, for we could see them. The light of civilization began to dawn upon us. We had cleared up what was a few years before, the lair of the wolf and the hunting ground of the red man. The Michigan bird of the night had no more chance to make his nest in hollow trees or live there, but had to go back to the woods. There we could hear him almost any evening hallooing. "Whoo! whoo! whoo!" His nearest neighbor would answer him, "Whoo! whoo!" then they would get together and have a great talk about something. Whether they were talking about our chickens, or our clearing off their woods and driving them away, or something else, I cannot say as I did not understand what they said. Father said: "Now our best wood is worth something, as the road," which is now the Michigan Central Railroad, "has got as far as Dearborn, and they are building it farther west." He thought we could cut some of our best timber into cord wood and sell it to the managers of the road, and make something from it. We drew some of the first cord wood that they used on the railroad, and continued to furnish a share of it for years. We had learned what day the first steam car was expected out to Dearborn. I went to see it, as it was to be there at a certain time of day. I was in time and with others waited anxiously for its appearance. While we were waiting I heard that there was to be a race from Mr. Conrad TenEyck's, a distance of one mile, to Dearborn. William Cremer, a young man who lived at TenEyck's, had made up his mind to have the race on his own hook and let the people of Dearborn see him come in. He got his sorrel, white-faced pony, had him saddled and bridled, and wailed in readiness, so that when the iron horse came opposite he could try him a race to Dearborn, and likewise try the speed of his pony. I don't suppose the railroad men knew any thing about his arrangement. As the TenEyck tavern, where he started, stood within twenty rods of the railroad, no doubt some of the railroad men saw him when he started. Toward the village the roads ran nearer and nearer together for about a hundred rods, then came side by side for a short distance. As he had a little the start, and came to the narrows first, he must have been in plain sight of the men on the cars. It is easy to imagine how the puffs of the iron horse scared the little sorrel and gave him, if possible, more speed. The passengers who saw him might have thought it was another "train band captain, John Gilpin," running after his wife. Nearly all the people of Dearborn (who were but few at that time), had gathered in front of the arsenal, in the Chicago road, at the side of the Dearborn House and were anxiously waiting. From this point we could see half a mile down the Chicago road east, and we could see the smoke of the engine beyond the TenEyck place ... The time appointed was up and we were very impatient, waiting and looking, for the least sign of the approach of the long-talked-of cars. As we were waiting some one said the cars would stop for Mr. TenEyck, as he was the richest and most influential man there was in the town, and the road ran a long way through his farm. Some said, "of course they will stop and take him on." At last we could hear a distant rumbling like the sound of a thousand horses running away, and we saw the smoke. As they came nearer we saw a long string of smoke disappearing in the air. The cars were approaching us rapidly, and stopped for no one. When they got opposite Mr. Thompson's tavern, sure enough, there on the Chicago road came William Cremer, like a streak, with his hat off, waving it in his hand, looking back over his shoulder at the cars, hallooing like a trooper and his horse running for dear life. He had beat them for the mile. Of course, before Cremer got up to us, we all started for the railroad, which was about twenty-five rods to the south, to see the iron horse come in. He came prancing and pawing upon the iron track, and he disdained to touch the ground. His body was as round as a log. His bones were made of iron, his veins were filled with heat, his sinews were of brass, and "every time he breathed he snorted fire and smoke." He moved proudly up to the station, little thinking that he had just been beaten by a Dearborn horse. "With his iron reins" he was easily controlled and held in subjection by his master. His groom pampered and petted him, rubbed him down, oiled his iron joints and gave him water to drink. He fed him upon the best of cord-wood, as he relished that very well, and devoured it greedily. The contents of his iron stomach seemed to be composed of fire. While he was waiting he seemed to be very impatient, letting off and wasting his breath and seeming eager for a start. He was sweating profusely. The sweat was falling in drops to the ground. When all was ready, the cry was, "All aboard!" and away he went snorting at every jump. [Illustration: FIRST RAILROAD CARS IN WAYNE COUNTY, MICH.---DETROIT TO DEARBORN, 1837.] I went home and told the wonderful story of the sight I had seen. There was but little talked about, at our house, except the cars, until the whole family had been to see them. We thought, surely, a new era had dawned upon us, and that Michigan was getting to be quite a country. CHAPTER XIX. TREES. There were two stately trees which stood near the center of the place. In view of their antiquity it seemed almost wrong to cut them. One was an elm which stood on the flat of the Ecorse. The other was what we called a swamp white oak. It stood in a little hollow at the west end of the ridge (where we lived) about twenty rods north of the elm. They appeared as though they were about the same age. They were nearly the same size. They were five or six feet through at the butt. Father often said that the tree recorded within itself a true record of its own age. After a tree was cut down, I have known him frequently to count the grains or yearly rings and from them extract a register by which he learned how many years old it was. How my mind reaches back forty years and views again that venerable old oak and elm. Trees whose history and lives began before the first settlement of America. How familiar still their appearance to me, as they stood with their arms stretched out bidding me the most graceful salutations. They seemed almost like friends, at least there was some companionship about them, their forms were very familiar to me. On the west side of the elm, just above the ground and running up about six feet, there was a huge knot which grew out of the side of the tree. It was large enough to stand upon, when upon it, but there was not room enough for us to stand upon it and chop. We had to build a scaffold around the tree, up even with the top of the knot to stand upon. In that way we were able to cut the great tree down. It was a hard job and was attended with danger. When the tree started we had to get down very quickly and run back to a place of safety, for the tree was very angry in the last throes of its dissolution. It broke other trees down, tore other trees to pieces, broke off their limbs, bent other small ones down with it as it went, and held their tops to the earth. Other trees went nearly down with it but were fortunate enough to break its hold and gained again their equilibrium with such swiftness that their limbs which had been nearly broken off, yet, which they retained until they straightened, then their stopping so suddenly, the reaction caused the fractured and dry limbs to break loose, and they flew back of where we had been chopping. They flew like missiles of death through the air, and the scaffold upon which we stood but a minute before was smashed into slivers. In the mean time we were looking out for our own safety. No man, unless he has experienced it himself, can have an adequate idea of the danger and labor of clearing a farm in heavy, timbered land. Then he knows something of the anxieties and hardships of a life in the woods: the walking, the chopping and sweating, the running and the dodging like Indians behind trees. He trusts to their protection to save him from falling trees and flying limbs, although he is often lacerated and bruised, jambed and torn by them. I knew a man and a boy in our town who were killed by falling limbs. Sometimes he is cut by the ax and is obliged to go home, over logs, between stumps and through brush, leaving a bloody trail behind him. Father's farm was rescued from the wilderness and consecrated to the plow and husbandry through sweat and blood. We ofttimes encountered perils and were weary from labor, often times hungry and thirsty, often suffered from cold and heat, frequently destitute of comfortable apparel and condemned to toil as the universal doom of humanity--thus earning our bread by the sweat of our brows. Father and I labored some years in sight of the great elm stump. It appeared like a giant, with a great hump on his back, overlooking the surrounding stumps. It was about eight feet high. But it was doomed to decay, and entirely disappeared long years ago. The oak tree was more fortunate and escaped the fatal ax, a number of years after all the timber around it had been chopped and cleared away. On account of its greatness, and its having so nice a body, father let it stand as monarch of the clearing. But few came into our clearing without seeing his majesty's presence. His roots were immense. They had been centuries creeping and feeling their way along, extracting life from mother earth to sustain their gigantic body. The acorn, from which that oak grew, must have been planted long before, and the tree which grew from it have been dressed many times in its summer robe of green, and it was, doubtless, flourishing when the "Mayflower" left the English Channel. When she was slowly making her way from billow to billow, through the then almost unknown sea, bearing some of the most brave and liberty-loving men and women the world, at that time, could produce; when the hearts of the Pilgrim Fathers were beating high with hopes of liberty and escape from tyranny, when their breath came low and short for fear of what might await them; when they landed on the American shore--yes! when that little band of pilgrims were kneeling on Plymouth Rock, and offering up thanksgiving and praise to the Almighty, who had brought them safely o'er the trackless deep, that oak was quietly standing, gathering strength to make it what it was when we came to Michigan. There it had stood, ever since the days of yore, spreading its boughs over the generations of men who have long since passed away. Around it had been the Indian's camping and hunting ground. When we came to plow and work the ground near it I found some of their stone arrows which had been worked out very beautifully. Their edges and points showed very plainly where they had been chipped off in making. We also found stone hatchets, the bits of which were about two and a half inches broad and worked to an edge. They were about six inches long. The pole or head was round. From their appearance they must have been held in the hand using the arm for a helve. For an encounter with bruin or any other enemy, it is possible they bound a withe around the pole and used that as a handle. Much ingenuity and skill must have been required to work out their implements when they had nothing better with which to do it than other stones. I often picked up the arrows and hatchets and saved them as relics of past ages, knowing that they had been in other hands long years before. I have some of them now (1875). The stones from which they were made must have been brought from some distance as there were few other stones found in this part of the country. If that oak could have talked, what a wild, wild story it might have told, not only of lost arrows and hatchets, but also of their owners, about whom the world has little knowledge. It might have told also of the hundreds of years it had stood there and showered down its acorns upon the earth, enough in one season to have planted a forest of its own kind; how often its acorns had been gathered by the Indian youth, and devoured by the wild beasts of the forest; how many times its leaves had been changed by the autumn frosts from a green to a beautiful golden hue; how the cold wind swept them off and they flew down in huddled races to the ground, carpeted and cushioned the earth, protected the roots and enriched the soil. How, after it had been shorn of its leaves, its life current had been sent back through the pores of its body to its roots and congealed by the cold freezing frosts of winter; how the wind sighed and moaned through its branches while it cracked and snapped with the frost. But there was to be an end to its existence. The remorseless ax was laid at its roots and there is nothing left of it, unless it be a few old oak rails. There are some moss-covered rails on the place yet that were made at an early day. How my thoughts go back and linger round that oak whose branches gave shelter to the deer, furnished them with food, protected the Indian and his home--the place where I, so long afterward, advanced to manhood. It is no wonder that Boston men are so careful in protecting their trees. With their usual care and foresight they have guarded the celebrated elm on Boston common. Thousands of the American people from every State in the Union, even from the Pacific coast, visit the beautiful city of Boston but are not satisfied until they visit the ancient elm, read its history, as far as known, from the iron plate, and gaze with admiration on the wonderful tree and the fence that surrounds it. The full history of that tree is not known, but it reaches back prior to the settlement of Boston. It was a good sized tree in 1656. "A map of Boston made in 1722 showed the tree as one of the principal objects." That tree is a sacred relic of the past. Its branches waved over the heads of honored colonial ancestors. Trees are our most beautiful and best antiquities. "It was a beautiful thought," says Ruskin, "when God thought of making a tree and giving it a life so long." Another says: "What vicissitudes mark its life, almost tender with suggestion. Trees are the Methuselahs of nature. The famous Etna chestnut is a thousand years old. There is a cypress tree in Mexico, over forty feet in diameter, whose zones record nearly three thousand years. The baobab trees of the Green Cape are fully four thousand years old. The great dragon tree at Ortova, Teneriffe, (recently said to be dying), is said to be five thousand years old--a life that runs parallel to almost the entire period of human chronology." No doubt some of those trees will last as long as time. Is it any wonder that I claim some companionship to trees, since I passed so many years of my youth among them? Trees often prevented sharp eyes from seeing me, secreted me and helped me to luck, which was very gratifying to me. Trees, when it rained and the wind was piercing, have often protected, sheltered and kept me dry and comfortable for hours. I frequently when at some distance from home, hunting, and night coming on, began traveling, as I supposed, toward home. I often came to tracks in the snow which, at first, I thought were made by some one else, but, upon a more particular examination, would find that they were my own tracks. Then I would know that I had been circling round and round, that the "wigwam was lost" and I had the gloomy prospect of remaining in the woods all night--"out of humanity's reach." Then I would trust to the trees, look at them, take their directions and start again in a new course. This would seem wrong to me, but I always came out right. Trees never deceived, but showed me the way home. When I have been in the woods, hungry, trees furnished me food. When thirsty, they often supplied me with drink. When cold and almost freezing, trees have warmed and made me comfortable. Trees furnished most of the material for father's "bark-covered house," which sheltered us for more than two years. If trees have done so much for one, surely all humanity have derived great good from them. The earth itself is adorned and beautified by trees. CHAPTER XX. DRAWING CORD-WOOD--HOW THE RAILROAD WAS BUILT--THE STEAM WHISTLE. Father commenced chopping cord-wood and he said I could draw it as fast as he could chop it. I was so much engaged that, when the moon was in its full, I often started with my load of wood a little before plain daylight. Of course I felt cheerful, I thought we were doing some business. Sometimes I walked by the side of the team and load and sometimes behind them. Hallooing at my team, driving them, singing, whistling and looking into the woods occasionally, occupied my time until I got to Dearbornville. One morning I met William Ozee. I told him I had seen two or three deer as I was coming along. Told him where they stood and looked at me and the team, until we were out of sight, and that I thought they were there yet. He said he would attend to them. He had his rifle on his shoulder, and he said he would go for them. I saw him afterward and he said he had taught them better than to stand and look at anybody so impudently as that. He had killed some of them. I made up my mind that if I could get a good rifle, I could make as much, or more, with it than father and I both could make cutting and drawing wood. Father said I might have a new one made. Accordingly I went to John W. Alexander and selected a rifle barrel, from a pack of new barrels that he had. I tried to select as soft a one as I could, as I considered those the best in frosty weather. I selected what I thought was about the right calibre, and told him I wanted him to make it with a raised sight so I could shoot any distance. I told him to make a buster for me, one that couldn't be beat. He said he would try and do it for twenty dollars. I told him I wanted him to make it as quickly as he could; in a short time he had it done. I thought it was a beautiful rifle. The name of the maker was inscribed on the barrel. I took it home feeling very good. I tried it shooting at a mark; shooting the distance of ten rods at a mark the size of a two shilling silver piece. With a rest, when there was not much wind, I could hit it every time and did do it five or six times in succession. Frequently when shooting the bullet holes would break into one another, and sometimes two bullets would go into the same hole. The only way I could tell where the last shot struck was by plugging up the old holes. Often the little white paper would fly away, the pin in the center having been shot away. I made up my mind I had a splendid rifle, one that it would be hard to beat. That same rifle now stands in my bedroom. It was made over thirty-five years ago, with the bright name of John W. Alexander on it. He is now an old resident of Dearborn, a useful and ingenious man, and fills a prominent place in society; if he were gone it would be difficult to find a man capable of filling his place. But I must return to my drawing wood. The place where we heaped it was on the north side of the railroad, about fifteen rods east of where the postoffice is now kept. The woodyard, including the depot, I should judge, was not more than one hundred feet square. Here we piled our wood, sometimes ten feet high. We were to have seven shillings a cord for it and if we chopped and hauled three cords a day we thought we did well. I drew it as fast as I could, sometimes I got to Dearborn just as the old Solar made his appearance in the east. The Lunar had already done her work toward helping me, veiled her face and disappeared. When we had drawn a lot of wood in father had it measured up and got his voucher for the amount. One time when he went to Detroit to get his money I went with him. We went on the cars. The depot and railroad office, where father did his business, stood where the City Hall now stands. I thought the railroad was a splendid thing. We went in so much nicer, easier and quicker than we could have gone on foot, or with our ox-team. Now we were going to get some money of the railroad officers, I thought we would have money to pay the interest on our mortgage and help us along. Father got his pay in Michigan State scrip, a substitute for money. It was good for its face to pay State taxes; but to turn it into money father had to sell it for six shillings on a dollar. Here it will be seen, that what we really received for our wood, was a little over sixty-five cents per cord, and that when we drew in three cords a day (which was as much as father could chop, and all that I and the team could draw) we made a little over a dollar and ninety-five cents per day. What would some of the workingmen of the present day who get together and form "Union Leagues," "Trade Unions," strike for higher wages and conspire against their employers and their capital, doubtless thinking such a course justifiable, think of such wages as that, and provisions very dear, as they were at that time? I began to think myself rough and ready and was able to grapple with almost anything and do a good days' work. Father, I and the team all worked hard and with the wood thrown in we all together did not make two dollars a day. As father had a small job in the building of the railroad and some of the time I was with him, I will describe as well as I can, how the railroad was built. They first graded the road-bed and made it level, then took timbers as long as the trees would make them, hewed them on each side and flattened them down to about a foot in thickness, then laid them on blocks which were placed in the bed of the road. They were laid lengthwise of the road, far enough apart so that they would be directly under the wheels of the cars, and the ground graded up around them. In this manner they continued until the road-bed was finished. The next thing was to get out the ties. These were made from logs nine feet long, which were split open through the heart, then quartered and split from the heart to the center of the back, until the pieces were about six or seven inches through on the back. Then the backs of the ties were hewed flat, making them about three square, when they were ready to be used on the road. They were placed back down across the bed pieces and spiked fast to them. They were laid about three feet apart the length of the road. Over those sills, in the upper edge of the ties, they cut out two gains. In those gains they laid two stringers running directly over the sleepers. These stringers were sawed out about four by six inches square. They were laid in the gains of the ties, spiked fast and wedged with wooden wedges. Then the woodwork was finished and everything ready for pulling on the iron. They used the strap rail iron. The bars were two inches and a quarter wide and half an inch thick. These bars were laid flat on top, and next to the in-edge, of the stringers and were spiked fast to them. In this way our railroad was built. The cars running away west on it, penetrating Michigan as the harbinger of civilization, opened up a way for the resources of the country. The strap iron which they used first proved to be very poor iron. In after years, if a spike came out or the bar cracked off at the spike hole, the bar would turn up like a serpent's head and if not seen in time it was liable to throw the train off the track and do damage. I was at Dearborn at one time when an accident, of this kind, happened to a freight train, a little west of the village. There was considerable property destroyed, barrels broken in pieces and flour strewed over the ground, but no lives were lost. Father said the railroad was a good thing for us and our country, and that they would soon have one, and the cars running on it to the State of New York. Then I reiterated my promise to mother. I said if the cars ran through our native place, we could go back there without crossing Lake Erie, the thought of which chilled me every time I spoke to mother about going back to make a visit. Time sped on, days, months, and some years had passed, since the first of the Michigan Central Railroad was built, and the cars running east and west loaded with passengers and freight, when one morning I heard a strange noise. It was terrible and unaccountable to me, as much so as it would have been if I had heard heavy thunder at mid-day, from a clear sky. I heard it from the direction of Dearbornville; It appeared to originate there, or in the woods that way. I heard it two or three times, several days in succession. If there had come a herald from Dearbornville and told me that the man of the moon had stepped out of his old home, and down on to our earth, at Dearborn, and that he had a great horn, twenty feet long, in his hand, and that it was him, I had heard, tooting on his horn to let us know, and the inhabitants of his own country, that he had arrived safe on the earth, I might not have believed what he said in regard to the arrival of the supernatural being and his visit to us; but I could have believed almost anything wonderful in regard to the horn for I had heard its thrilling blast myself. Father, mother and, in fact, none of us were able to think or imagine what it could be. It came through the woods as swift as lightning and its shrill and piercing voice was more startling than thunder. It echoed and re-echoed across our clearing, from woods to woods and died swiftly away in the distance. What on earth could it be? Could it be the voice of a wild animal? That seemed impossible, it was too loud. I thought such an animal would need lungs as large as a blacksmith's bellows, and a voice as strong as a steamboat, to have raised such an unearthly yell. It was enough to scare all the bears and wolves to death, or at least, enough to make them hide away from the voice and face of the dragon. But there was a man, who lived one mile south of Dearbornville, by the name of Alonzo Mather; he was a little more sensible and courageous. He thought he knew what made the strange noise. When he came out of his house one morning, all at once, the terrible sound broke upon his ear. He had heard it two or three times before, about the same place in the woods, toward Dearbornville. He said to his hired man, a Mr. Whitmore, who was utterly astonished and seemed to be all in a fright, "Hear that! I know what it is! It is a bear, and he lives right over there in the woods. I have heard him two or three times in the same place. Don't say a word to anyone; not let the hunters know anything about his being there and I'll shoot him myself.'" He took down his rifle immediately, and started on the double quick, followed by the hired man, who could help him in case of trouble. He went through the woods looking carefully in every direction, scanning the old logs and large hollow trees and searching from top to bottom to see if he could find a hole large enough for a bear to crawl in. In this way he looked all around, near the railroad, where he thought the noise originated, but he could not find a track or sign of Mr. Bruin, for the bear wasn't there, so, in disgust, he gave up the hunt. About the next day after Mr. Mather's hunt, he and all the rest of us learned what had caused the excitement. It was a new invention, the steam whistle of the cars; something we had never heard before. CHAPTER XXI. HOW I HUNTED AND WE PAID THE MORTGAGE. The mortgage which had hung so long over us, like a dark cloud obscuring our temporal horizon and chilling our hopes, was at last removed, May first, 1841. After the mortgage was on the place it hardly seemed to me as if it were ours. It was becoming more and more valuable all the time, and I thought it was dangerous to let the mortgage run, as the old lady might foreclose at any time and make us trouble and expense. The mortgage was like a cancer eating up our substance, gnawing day and night as it had for years. I made up my mind it must be paid. I knew it caused mother much trouble and although, father said very little about it, I knew that he would be over-joyed to have it settled up. I told him I thought I had better hunt during one fall and winter and that I thought I could, in that way, help him raise money to pay the mortgage. I was about twenty years old at that time and thought I had a very good rifle and knew how to use it. I went to my friend William Beal, and told him I had concluded to hunt through the winter. I asked him if he didn't want to join with me and we would hunt together, at least some of the time. He said he would. I told him I thought we could make more money by hunting than we could in any other way as deer were worth, on an average, from two and a half to five dollars a piece at Detroit, and we could take them in very handily on the cars. We found the deer very numerous in the town of Taylor, next south of the town of Dearborn. Sometimes we went and stayed a week. We stopped nights with an old gentleman whose name was Hodge. He always appeared very glad to see us and gave us a hearty welcome. As he and his old lady (at that time) lived alone, no doubt they were glad of our company. They must have felt lonesome and they knew they would be well rewarded with venison and money for the trouble we made them. Mrs. Hodge took as much pains for us and used us as well as mother could have done. We carried our provisions there on our backs, flour, potatoes, pork and whatever we needed. We carried pork for the reason we relished it better a part of the time than we did venison. Mrs. Hodge prepared our meals at any time we wanted them. Sometimes we ate our breakfast before daylight and were a mile or two on the runway of the deer when in became light. The woods and oak openings abounded in deer and we had very good luck as a general thing. We made it a rule to stay and not go home until we had killed a load, which was not less than six. Then we went and got father's oxen and sled to go after and bring them home. After we brought them home we took the hind quarters, the hide, and sometimes whole deer, to Detroit and sold them. In this way we got considerable money. In fact my pocket-book began to pod out a little. Of course, we saved enough, of the fore-quarters for our family use and for our old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Hodge. But we couldn't afford to let them have the saddles; we wanted them to sell as we were going in for making money. It would be impossible for me to delineate the occurrences incident to my hunting days. The story told in full would fill a volume, but if it were not in connection with my father's family and how we got along, when I was at home with him, I should not mention it at all. As it is, I will try to describe one day's hunt after deer, which might be called a successful day, and another hunt after bears, which was not successful and one or two deer fights. My comrade and I started from father's very early one morning. A nice tracking snow, three or four inches deep, had fallen during the fore part of the night. In the morning it was warm and pleasant. When we came near the head of the windfall, we found the tracks where three large bucks had been along. It is not common that those large deer go together. They are generally scattering, one or two, or with other deer, but in this case, it seemed, three old bucks had agreed to go together. We followed them about half a mile to the west until they crossed what is now the old telegraph road in the town of Taylor, south of where Mr. Putnam lives. We thought the deer went into a large thicket, that stands there yet. We made up our minds they were lying in that thicket. William said he would go around and stand on the ridge, beyond the thicket, in a good place to see them when they were driven out. I told him I wanted him to be sure and down with one, so that I could see how they looked. I stood where he left me about half an hour, to give him plenty of time to get around, then I started along slow on the tracks. I followed them about ten or fifteen rods when I found, that instead of going into the thicket where we supposed, they had turned into a little thicket, near a fence and clearing that had been made at an early day. I little thought they were lying there, but sure enough, in a minute, they jumped up and away they went, one after the other, toward the big thicket. They seemed desirous of making all the sport of me they could; as they were running across a little opening they showed me their white flags. I shot very quickly at the middle one. I told him by the report of my rifle, which rang out clear on the morning air, that I wanted him to stop, and he struck his flag. They were running from me a little diagonally, and were about twenty-five rods off, when my bullet struck his side, it being partly toward me. They ran right into the big thicket where we first supposed they lay. I loaded my rifle and went where they were running when I shot. I saw that the blood flew in small particles on the snow and I was sure he was ours. He ran for one breath, got out of my sight and fell dead, having made his last tracks, being shot through the lights. I hurried across to my friend Beal and told him I had shot a noble buck. That he was running away from me and that I would not allow him to do so. The other two had gone out of the thicket, over the ridge, so far east that he didn't see them at all. We hurried back to where the one we had got lay, took out his entrails, climbed up a sapling, bent down the top and fastened the gambrels of the old buck to it; then sprinkled powder on his hair, so as to keep the ravens from picking him, let go the sapling and it straightened up with him so that he was out of the way of the dogs and wolves. Then we started as quickly as possible after the other two. They went a south-west direction about eighty rods, then turned south-east and went straight for the Indian hill, went over it and took their course nearly east. They had ceased to run and were walking. There was another large thicket east of us, which was about half a mile through and we thought, possibly, they might stop in that before they went through into the woods. It was agreed that I should go around, that time, to the lower end of the thicket, and stand. He was to try and drive them through if they were there. I went south to, what we called, the south branch of the Reed creek. It was frozen over and there were three or four inches of snow on the ice; I went on it without making any noise. I ran down a little over half a mile very quickly; when I was below the thicket I turned north, went through the brush that grew on the bank of the creek, up to a little ridge where it was open and stopped by the side of a tree, which was about twenty or thirty rods from where I turned north. I didn't stand there but a very short time before I heard and saw some partridges fly away, and I knew they had been disturbed by something in the thicket. Then I saw the two deer coming just as straight toward me as they could run, one right after the other. When they got within about eight or ten rods of me I had my rifle ready. They saw me and, as they went to jump side-wise, my rifle spoke to another one and the voice of it forbade him going any farther. That was the second word my rifle had spoken that morning. The deer turned and ran in a semi-circle half round me in plain sight, then off, out of sight, over the ridge where Doctor Snow's farmhouse now stands, in the town of Taylor. In a few moments out came my comrade; I asked him, what the report of my rifle said, as it burst through the thicket by him and echoed over the Indian hill. He said he thought it spoke of luck. We followed the old buck a little ways over the ridge and came to where he had made his last jump. He was a beautiful fellow, equally as fine as the first one. Then we thought we had done well enough for one day, we had each of us one. So we cut a wooden hook, put it into his under-jaw, both took hold and drew him up where the other one hung. We put them together and started slowly for home. We were following along an old trail and had drawn both deer about half a mile together, when we came to where five or six deer had just crossed. They were going south-east and we were going north-east. While we were looking at the tracks two men came in sight. One was Mr. Arvin Sheldon, the other Mr. Holdin. We knew them very well and knew that they were good hunters. They looked at our deer and said that we must hang them up, said they would help us. So we bent down two saplings and hung the deer up, side by side, then we started with them. It was early in the day, perhaps about ten o'clock. We followed the deer beyond what is now Taylor Center, and into the west woods two miles from there. Near Taylor Center, Holdin left us. He thought there were too many of us together, and went off to try his luck alone and followed another flock. We found that these deer were very shy and it seemed impossible for us to get a shot at them. After we got into the west woods we were bound to stick to the same ones. It was late in the afternoon and as we were getting so far from home, we thought we had better use a little stratagem. We would go very slowly; it was agreed that I should follow the tracks and that the other two should be governed by my movements. One was to go to my right, and keep as far off as he could and see me, through the woods; he was to keep a little ahead of me. The other was to manage in the same way at my left. When we started we were something in the shape of a letter V, only spread more. If I went fast they were to go fast and if I went slowly they were to do the same. They were to watch me and look out ahead for the deer. We traveled some little distance in this way when I saw a deer standing about thirty-five rods off. It was a long shot, but I drew up my rifle and fired. Mr. Sheldon had two clogs with him and when I shot they broke from him and ran after the deer we had been following. They went yelling after them, out of hearing. It was always my practice, after I shot, to stand in my tracks and load my rifle, keeping my eye on the place where the deer were. When I shot, my comrades started for me and soon we three friends were together. Sheldon remarked, that he guessed I hadn't hit that one. I asked him why. He said the dogs had already gone out of hearing and that if I had killed one, they would have stopped. I left the tracks and walked along in the direction of where the deer had stood, watching upon the snow and brush to see if I could see any signs where the bullet had struck a bush or twig, until I came to the place where the deer had stood. It proved to be, not one of those we had been following, but an old buck that had just got up out of the bed where he had been lying and was standing over it when I fired. I looked and saw some short hair lying on the snow, and told Mr. Sheldon that that looked as if I had made a square shot and that the dogs had gone after the well ones we had been following, that this one was an old buck which we hadn't disturbed before. I thought perhaps he had got up to see the flock that we were following go by. We didn't follow him more than ten rods before we found where he lay last. He was a very large buck, a full mate for either of those we already had. A little ways back we had crossed a coon's track and we knew that he had been along in the latter part of the night, as it snowed in the earlier part of the night. We thought he hadn't gone far, so we agreed that Sheldon should follow his tracks and find his tree, (at that time coon skins were valuable) while we went back about a mile, to a lone settler's, by the name of Plaster, (who lived on the openings) and borrowed an ax. When we came back to the woods we were to halloo and he was to answer us. We had to do what we did very quickly as it was getting near night. When we had borrowed the ax and were nearly back to the woods again, we heard the report of Sheldon's rifle, as it rang out of the timber clear and sharp and died away in the oak openings. When we got into the woods we hallooed for him, he answered and we went to him; he had found the tree. We asked him what he had shot at, he said at a deer, but missed him. We cut down the tree and were rewarded by getting four coons. Afterward I sold the coon skins in Detroit for a dollar apiece. That Mr. Arvin Sheldon is now an old resident of the town of Taylor and lives about two miles south-west of me. After we got the tree cut down and the coons secure, it was between sundown and dark. We were six or seven miles from home and then had to take the ax home. Late that evening, when I got back under the old paternal roof, there was one there who was very tired but the excitement of the day helped him a little. By hunting (and it was hard work for me as I made a business of it) I accumulated a considerable sum of money. Father had earned and saved some money, so that with what I had, he made out enough to pay off the mortgage to Mrs. Phlihaven and had it cancelled. Then his farm was clear. If I had not felt anxious about it myself, the joy expressed by the other members of the family, when they knew that the mortgage was paid, would have been a sufficient reward for all the labors I had performed, for all the weary walks, the running and racing done, while upon the chase, both day and night. It is a little singular that an animal as mild and harmless as the deer ordinarily is, should when cornered or wounded have such courage that he will fight man or dog in his own defense, jumping upon them, striking with his feet. As their hoofs are sharp they cut to the quick, at the same time they are hooking with their horns. I will relate one or two incidents. One of which came under my own observation: I was out hunting with R. Crandell. We were near the Reed creek when he shot a buck. The deer fell. Crandell thought he was sure of him; handed his rifle to me. I told him to stand still and load his gun, but he ran like an Indian; he took long steps. When he got up near, the old buck had gotten a little over the shock the bullet gave him and he got up, turned upon Crandell, raised the hair upon his back so that it stood forward. Then the scene changed; Crandell ran, and the deer ran after him. He came very near catching Crandell and must have done so if he had not dodged behind a tree, and around it he went and the deer after him. Crandell said he called upon his legs to be true to his body then if ever; and I thought, judging from the way those members of his organism were carrying him around that tree, that they were exerting every nerve to save him. He hallooed every minute for me to shoot the deer. But the race was so amusing, I did not care to hurry having never seen such an exhibition of Crandell's speed before. (Without doubt he did his level best). Soon, however, I thought it necessary and I shot the deer. Crandell said I had laughed enough to kill myself. He appeared to be displeased with me; said I was too slow, and might have released him quicker. Some two or three years after this, Crandell had another hunt with a Mr. Holden, of Dearbornville. The incidents of which are given in his own words: "Being anxious for a hunt, Holden and myself started out for a deer hunt on our southern hunting ground. After traveling about three-fourths of a mile from Dearbornville, Holden, being a little way from me, started a buck, he running directly south; I told Holden where to go on a certain road, newly cut out, and stand and I would drive the deer to him from the east. As expected, I soon started him and Holden's dog followed the deer straight to him. In about three minutes whang went Holden's gun; I ran with all my might. The dog had stopped barking and I knew the deer was ours. But, when I got to the road, I heard Holden hallooing loudly for help. The deer had jumped across the road into the old tree tops and the dog caught him. Holden saw that the deer was getting the better of the dog, laid down his gun, took out his knife and went for the deer. When he got up to the deer the deer paid all his attention to him instead of the dog. The deer had gotten Holden down between two logs and stood on him, stamping and hooking him desperately. Holden said: 'For God sake kill him or he will kill me.' "I was so much excited I was afraid to shoot for fear of killing Holden or the dog, but I shot and the deer fell lengthwise on Holden, I rolled him off and Holden got up, all covered with blood from head to foot, with his clothes torn into shreds. He looked at himself and said despondingly, 'What a spectacle I am!' I peeled some bark, tied his rags round him, patched him up the best possible and we started for home through the woods, got as near his home as we could and not be seen, then I left him, went to his house and got him some clothes, took them back to him and helped him put them on. When clothed he went home a bruised and lacerated man." CHAPTER XXII. BEAR HUNT OF 1842. One day in winter my brother-in-law, Reuben Crandell, and myself started to go hunting deer, as we supposed. We went south across the windfall, started a flock of deer and were following them. We had a good tracking snow and thought it was a good day for hunting. We followed the deer south across Reed Creek and saw a little ahead of us quite a path. It appeared as though a herd of ponies had passed along there. (Then there were plenty of French ponies running in the woods.) When we came up to the trail or path, that we saw they had made, in the snow we discovered it was four bears which had made the path. They had passed along a little time before for their tracks were fresh and new. There seemed to be a grand chance for us and we started after them. We either walked very fast or ran, sometimes as fast as we could stand it to run. In this way we had followed them several miles and expected to see them every minute. We were going a little slower when I looked one side of us and there was an Indian, on a trot, going in the same direction that we were. I told Crandell that he had seen our tracks and knew that we were after the bears and that he was trying to cut us off and get the bears away from us. Just then I saw the bears and drew up my rifle and shot at one, as he was standing on an old log. The Indian then turned and ran up to the bear tracks to see, probably, if I had killed one. I told Crandell to go on with him and not let him get the start of us and I would load my rifle, as quickly as possible, and follow. Being in a hurry, I did not place my bullet right on the patch, in the muzzle of the rifle and it bothered me in getting down. When it was loaded, I broke for them. I could just see Crandell putting in the best he could and trying to make two-forty time; but he was alone the Indian had left him. Then there might have been seen some long steps and tall running done by me, in those woods, (if any one had been there to witness it) for about eighty rods. When I came up with Crandell I asked him where the Indian was; he said, "Yonder he goes almost out of sight." I asked him what he let him get ahead for; he said that he could not keep up with him, and that he had told him, two or three times, to stop and wait for me, but he would not pay the least attention to what he said. I told him to keep on the tracks as fast as he could, and I would try to stop the Indian. I saw that the four bears' tracks were all together yet, and Crandell said I didn't hit one when I shot. I thought it was singular and that perhaps my bullet had struck a bush or twig, glanced off and saved Mr. Bruin's hide. Now it looked as though the Indian was going to get our bears away from us, sure enough, and now for a chase that is more excitable than is often seen in the woods. The Indian was on a good lope after the bears and I on a good run after him. I had the advantage of the Indian, the bears would run crooked. Sometimes they would run on a large log and follow it its whole length right in another direction from the way they had been going. The Indian had to follow their tracks; I followed him by sight and cut off the crooks as much as I could. In this way I ran at least half a mile after leaving Crandell and was cutting off and gaining on the Indian fast, and had got near enough to have hallooed at him and told him to stop. But I though that would do no good, that it was necessary for me to overtake him, and I was bound to stop him. I had got up to within fifteen rods and as good luck would have it, the bears turned from an easterly course around to the northwest. The Indian turned also and I struck across the elbow and came to the tracks ahead of him. I stood facing him when he came up and informed him that the bears were ours. I told him that he should not follow them another step, and to wait, right where he was, until the other man came up. I am sure the Indian thought the white man had outrun him and maybe he did not think how it was done. He stood there perfectly still, and I guard over him. I thought he looked ugly and mad; he would hardly say a word. In two or three minutes Crandell came up, puffing-and blowing like a porpoise. The sweat was running off him in profusion, and while wiping it from his brow with his hands, he said to the Indian: "You would not stop when I told you to, if I had got a good sight of you I would have shot you." Of course Crandell only said this because he wanted to scare the Indian as he had no thought of shooting, or hurting him in the least. We started slowly off on the bear tracks and left the Indian standing and looking at us. I told Crandell I thought the Indian was scared and very mad at us for his threatening to shoot him, and my stopping him; that if he got us both in range, it might be possible he would shoot us. I told him to walk at least a rod one side of me so as not to get both in range of his rifle and I thought he would not dare to disturb us. As we walked away I would once in a while turn an eye over my shoulder and look back to see the Indian. He stood there like a statue until we were out of sight and I never saw that Indian again. As soon as we were fairly out of sight of him we walked fast and finally tried running, some of the time as long as we could stand it. One of the bears was large, another about the common size and two were small; the small ones followed behind. They were a fine sight passing through the woods, but they led us a wild chase. Late in the afternoon they crossed the Reed Creek going north, partly in the direction of father's home. Crandell said, "Now I know where we are. I can follow up the creek until I get to the Reed house and then take the path home. I am so tired I cannot follow the bears another step." So he sat down to rest. I told him to come on, it was necessary for us to have two or three of those bears and I thought if we could kill one of the large ones the small ones would be likely to hang around until we could shoot them. But I could not get him to go another step. He said he was going home and I told him I was going to follow the bears. I went after them as fast as it was possible, and after awhile came in plain sight of them. The large one was standing with his fore feet upon a log, broadside to me and looking back at me. I thought Crandell would see how much he missed it leaving me. I drew up my rifle and fired, "ping went the rifle ball" and it made the woods ring, but away went the bears. I expected to see the bear drop, or at least roll and tumble. I loaded my rifle and went up to where Mr. Bruin had stood. I looked to see if I had not cut off some of his hair, but could see no signs of having touched him with the bullet. I followed along a little ways and made up my mind I had not hit him. I thought it strange; it was a fair broadside shot, not more than twenty or twenty-five rods off, and what the reason was I had missed him I could not tell. I followed them on, very much discouraged and miserably tired, after a little they were making almost straight for father's clearing. I followed them into the windfall within half a mile of home. It was then about sundown and as their tracks turned off I thought I would leave following them until next morning, and would then start after them again. As I came in sight of our clearing I thought, as usual, I would fire off my rifle at a mark, which was on the side of a tree, about ten rods off; I drew it up and shot. My parents knew by the report and sharp song of my rifle that I was coming; it was my parting salute to the forest. As the sound of it penetrated the lonely gloom and died away in the darkness of the woods I looked at the mark on the tree, to see where my bullet had struck. I had shot nearly a foot right over it. Then I looked at the sight of my rifle and found that the back sight had been raised clear up. Strange to say, I had not noticed it before. No doubt it was done by one of my little sisters or John S. They must have taken it down and been fooling with it, on the sly. Then I knew the reason of my bad luck. I think a more tired and discouraged hunter than I was, never crawled out of the woods. With my, hitherto, trusty companion I had met with a signal defeat. I had carried it hundreds of miles on my shoulder and was not afraid, with it, to face anything in the woods, day or night; but this time it failed me and the bears escaped. The report of my rifle, that evening, seemed changed as if the very sound told of my bad luck. I made up my mind, as I went into the house, that the next morning; we would raise as many men and as many dogs as there were bears and try them again. Of course I was too tired to notify any one that night myself, so John S. went down to Mr. Purdy's. I knew he had a large dog, which he called Watch, that was not afraid to tackle anything that ran in the woods, on four legs. I told J.S. to tell Mr. Purdy that I had been following a pack of bears, and that I wanted him to come early the next morning, and be sure and bring his dog to go with me after them. We had a good dog, and I sent Crandell word to be ready with his dog. James Wilson volunteered to go with us and take his dog; they were to be on hand at daylight in the morning. After we got together ready to start after the bears I told them that I thought the dogs would at least tree the small bears. We all started for the bear tracks. We took my back tracks; when we got to the tree I showed them the shot I had made the night before, and told them the reason I was not able to take one, or more, of those bears by the heels the day before, and then I might have examined them at my leisure. We followed my tracks until we found where I left the bear tracks, then we followed them. T supposed they were so tired they would lie down and rest, probably in the windfall. But they were too badly scared for that. They seemed to have traveled all night. We followed them across the north part of the town of Taylor, through-the oak openings, into what we called the west woods and into the town of Romulus. They had given us a wide range before we came up to them, but here in a swamp or swale, between two sand ridges, we found them. They saw us first and ran. As soon as we saw we had started them we let the dogs go. They started with a rush. "And then the dogs the game espy; An ill bred and uncivil pack; And such a wild discordant cry! Another fury on his back!" --_Bishop_. We could hear them yelp, yelp, yelp, while they were on the tracks and heard them when they came up to the bears. Then there was a wonderful confusion of voices. We could hear our dogs and they seemed to be struggling hard for their lives. "Bow-wow, bow, bowwow, yelp, yelp, yelp, tii, tii, tii." When the dogs got to the bears we were about half a mile from them. We hurried through the brush and over the logs, as fast as possible, to help our canine friends for we supposed that they were in a life and death struggle. It is now my opinion that there never was such a noise and conflict in those woods before, nor since, at least heard by white men. When we were about half way to where the battle raged most furiously, it was all at once still; we could not hear a sound from them any more. We went a little farther and met old Watch, and some of the other dogs crawling back. Watch, by his wounds, gave a good report of his courage himself. He was bleeding; had been wounded and torn badly. He was hurt the worst of any of the dogs. Before we reached the battle ground we met the last one; he was not hurt at all, he had kept a proper distance. But they were all badly whipped or scared. They had got enough of the bears. "Sir Bruin to his forest flew, With heart as light as paws were fleet; Nor further dare the curs pursue, It was a 'masterly retreat.'" --_Bishop._ When we got to the battle ground we could see where they had fought, clenched and rolled over and over. The blood of the dogs was sprinkled all around on the snow. We saw that it was the large bears which did the fighting. They would not leave the small ones but fought for them. We saw in one place, where the fight was the most severe, one bear had attempted to climb a tree. He went up a piece on one side of it and down the other, then jumped off, before we got in sight, and ran. We could see by the marks of the claws, on the bark of the tree, and the tracks, where he jumped oft, that he had climbed part way up. I have seen hundreds of times in the woods where bears had reached up as high as they could around little trees and scratched them. It showed the plainest on beech trees as their bark is smooth. It is easy to see the size of the bear's paws and his length from the ground by these marks on the trees. That day we saw where the bears had done some marking of dogs as well as trees. We found that the dogs had separated the bears, some having gone one way and some another. The grit had been taken out of us as well as out of the dogs, and the bear hunt had lost its charms for us. We were a long ways from home and we thought it best to get our wounded dogs back there again, if we could. We gave up the chase and let those bears go. I felt the effects of the previous day's chase and tired out more easily; I wished I had let the Indian have the bears to do what he was a mind to with, and that I had never seen them. I presume there are now many persons in Wayne County, who little think that thirty-three years ago, 1842, there could have been four wild bears followed, in different towns in that county, for two days; yet such was the case. This was about the last of my hunting. My attention was called to other business, of more importance which I thought it was necessary for me to attend to, so I hung up my rifle and have not used it to hunt with, in the woods, six full days since. That Indian, who wanted the bears, was the last Indian I ever saw in the woods hunting for a living. I don't think there is a wild deer in the town of Dearborn at this day and but very few, if any, in Wayne County. I heard that there was one bear killed by a man, near the mouth of the Ecorse, last fall, 1874. He was a stranger and, no doubt, far from his native home. He was the first one I have heard of being seen in this country for years. CHAPTER XXIII. GRANDFATHER'S POWDER-HORN--WAR WITH PIRATES. Time sped on. The earth had traveled its circuit many times since father sold his little place in Putnam County, State of New York, and bade adieu to all the dear scenes of his childhood and youth and came to battle, for himself and family in the wilds of Michigan. And he did his part bravely. He was a strong man; mentally and physically strong, and possessed just enough of the love of a romantic and strange life, to help him battle successfully with the incidents and privations common to such as settle in a new country, with but little capital. He worked his way through. He had a very retentive memory and possessed the faculty of pleasing his visitors, to no common extent. Father at the close of the Tripoli war, 1805, was about the age that I was when we started for Michigan. He often told me of the war with Tripoli and trouble with Algiers. He gloried in the name of an American and often related the prowess and bravery of our soldiers, in defending their flag and the rights of American citizens, at home and abroad, on the land and on the sea. Of course when the Fourth of July came round I went to celebrate the day. As cannon were almost always fired at Dearbornville, on that day, I would go out there to listen to the big guns and their tremendous roar, as they were fired every minute for a national salute. The sound of their booming died away beyond Detroit River, in Canada, and let the Canadians, and all others in this part of the universe, know that we were holding the Fourth of July in Dearbornville. When I went home at night I told father about it, and what a good time I had enjoyed, and that they fired one big gun in honor of Michigan. On such days his patriotic feelings were wrought up and he talked much of wars, patriotism and so forth. On such an occasion he told me that his father, William Nowlin, was a captain of militia, in the State of New York, when he was a boy. That I was named for him and that, when he was done with it, I should have my grandfather's ancient powder-horn. It is red and carved out very nicely, covered with beautiful scrolls and old-fashioned letters. The two first letters of my grandfather's name, W. N., are on it, and toward the smaller end of the horn--my father's given name, John. These were inscribed on it long since the horn was made. It was made when Washington was about twenty-five years old, and, no doubt, saw service in the French and Indian war, in the defence of the English colonies of America. Its history, some of it, is shrouded in mystery. It has passed down through the revolutionary war, and the war of 1812, through four generations of men, and was given to me by my father as an heir-loom, a relic of the past. Next to my father's given name is the inscription, E.b. Then follows these old lines: "I, powder, with my brother ball, A hero like, do conquer all." "'Tis best abroad with foreign foes to fight, And not at home, to feel their hateful spite, Where all our friends of every sex and age, Will be expos'd unto their cruel rage." --Lieut. Abl Prindel's. Made at No. 4. June 30th, 1757. The letters are old fashioned, the "s" on it is made as an "f" is made now. I presume it was a present from Lieut. Prindel to grandfather. This horn is sixteen inches long, measures nine and one-half inches around the butt and would hold fully four pounds of powder. Father said in the war with Tripoli, 1803, one of the Barbary States, Captain Bainbridge sailed, in the Philadelphia, to Tripoli and chased one of the pirate boats into the harbor. He ventured a little too far and ran aground. The officers were made prisoners and the crew slaves, to the Turks, and joined their countrymen who had preceded them. But, father said, the Americans were too brave a people to be subjected to slavery. Other Americans rescued them and it was proved that the United States would protect their flag throughout all the world. He often told me of Commodore Decatur and William Eaton. They were among his ideal American heroes. He said that Decatur conceived the idea of retaking the "Philadelphia" and destroying her. He sailed into the harbor of Tripoli at night and up to the "Philadelphia," made his vessel, the "Intrepid," fast to her side and sprang on board. There he had often walked before under very different circumstances, in the light of other days, when thousands of miles away and among his friends. Now how changed the scene! The "Philadelphia" was in an enemy's hands, and her guns loaded, to turn on her former owners at a moment's notice. Decatur was followed by seventy or eighty men, as brave Americans as ever walked on deck. The surprise was complete, and the astonished Turks now saw the decks swarming with Americans, armed and with drawn swords in their hands. Some of the Tripolitans lost their heads, some of them cried for quarters, others tried to climb in the shrouds and rigging of the ship and some jumped overboard. In ten minutes' time, Decatur and his crew were masters of the frigate. Now what grieved him most was that the noble ship, which they had rescued from the barbarous Arabs, had to be burned, it being impossible to remove her from the sandbar where she lay. So they brought, on board the "Philadelphia," combustible material, which they had with them on the "Intrepid," and set her on fire. In a short time the flames were leaping and dancing along the sides of the doomed ship. The devouring fire, greedily burning, cracking and hissing, destroyed the timbers, leaped up the spars, caught hold of the rigging and lighted up the whole place. It could have been, and was, seen for miles. The spectacle was awfully grand as well as sublime. Tripoli was lighted up and hundreds of people could be seen in the streets, by the light of the burning ship. The land forts and corsairs were all in plain sight of the American fleet. The light enabled the enemy to see the bold "Intrepid," with her valiant crew, leaving the burning ship and sailing away toward the American blockading fleet. The forts and some of the galleys opened fire upon them; it was one continuous roar of cannon belching forth fire and missiles of death. The balls and shot went singing over their heads and around, some striking the water and raising a cloud of spray which flew in all directions. But the victorious crew paid no attention and quietly sailed away to join their country's defenders. They were soon beyond the reach of the foe and out of danger. Then they had time to consider what they had accomplished. They had entered the enemy's stronghold, re-captured and burned the "Philadelphia" and put her Arab crew to the sword, or driven them into the sea. All this they did without the loss of a single man. Father said that the inhabitants of Tripoli were Turks who exacted taxes and received tribute from all Christian nations; that they had taken some of the American seamen and held them as slaves. The Bashaw declared war with America, (a country about which he knew but very little.) He put his American slaves in chain-gangs, in this way they were obliged to labor for that government. There was no chance for them to escape and they must remain in slavery unless rescued by their countrymen. Father said that the Turks of Tripoli were a band of pirates, in disguise, robbers upon the high seas. The war occurred during the administration of President Jefferson. Congress sent Commodore Preble with a squadron of seven sail, and a thousand men, armed with heavy cannon. They appeared before Tripoli; the reigning Bashaw refused to treat for peace or give up his slaves, without he received a large ransom. Then it was that the thunder of the American cannon broke upon Tripoli and the bombardment of that city commenced, 1830. They were answered by hundreds of the enemy's guns. The earth trembled, the sea shook, the wild waves danced and the white caps broke as the cannon balls glanced on, plowed their way and plunged into the water. The strong buildings of Tripoli trembled to their foundations and hundreds of Arabs, who were out upon their roofs when the battle commenced, to witness it, in five minutes' time were skedaddling for their lives. The Bashaw's castle and the entire city felt severely the heavy blows of the American cannon. The enemy's fleet took refuge under the forts and away from the ships of North America. The "Constitution" sunk one of their boats, run two aground and the rest got under shelter the best they could. One of the last wonders of the wrath of the Americans was poured out upon Tripoli in the shape of a fire ship. It contained one hundred barrels of powder stored away below deck, in a room prepared expressly for its reception. On the deck, over the powder, was placed hundreds of shells and pieces of iron, which the powder, when it exploded, would hurl as messengers of destruction among the enemy. The "Intrepid" was the ship selected for the daring deed. She was Decatur's favorite; with her he captured the "Philadelphia." There were twelve American braves who volunteered to take the fire-ship into the enemy's squadron and, near the fort, to fire it with a slow match. Then they were to try and escape back to their countrymen, in a small boat. When it was night they hoisted their sails and the ship quietly started through the darkness, but before they had gone as far as they wished to get, among the enemy's boats, they were discovered from the fort and an alarm raised. The great Decatur, with his comrades, stood gazing at the craft as it receded from them and the sails disappeared in the distance and darkness of the night. What must have been their feelings, as the noble ship disappeared? They were, no doubt thinking of their comrades, so brave, who might be going into the jaws of death. Could it be possible that they would never return, that they would never meet any more? They looked and listened, but they were gone, no sound of them could be heard. Awful suspense--all at once the fort opened fire on the brave crew. The light of their batteries brightened up the shore and the thunder of their cannon shook sea and earth. But where were the twelve Americans? Brave fellows, where were they? They had, no doubt, failed to get as far as they wished to, before they were discovered, and risked their lives a little too long. They applied the fire to the trail of powder and the ship was blown up. Tripoli had never been shaken before, nor had she ever witnessed such a sight. The flames shot up toward the sky; the whole city was illuminated and the report and awful force caused by the blowing up of the ship, made the enemy's vessels in the harbor heave to and fro, and rock as though in a storm. Men's hearts failed them; they did not know but that they were going to sink. The city itself was shaken to its foundation, from center to circumference. Men stood trembling and gazed with horror and astonishment. Not another cannon was fired, and the noise they made was no more when compared with the noise of the explosion, than the sound of a pop-gun compared to the sound of a cannon. In fact it was no comparison at all. Thousands stood ghastly and pale not knowing what the next moment might reveal. The proud Bashaw had been badly "shook up" and disturbed in his dreams of conquering the Americans. He had heard of the advance of William Eaton and he made up his mind that it was dangerous, for him, to carry on a war with beings who fought more like devils than men, so he concluded that he would go in for peace. The twelve brave men, who went with the fireship, were never heard of again. They returned to their comrades, to tell the thrilling story of their last adventure, never, no never. They had sold their lives, for their country, dearly. They were never to see their homes in North America, or their loved ones again; they had met their fate bravely and sacrificed their own lives for their country's glory. Father also related the adventures and hardships that were encountered and overcome by William Eaton, who formed a union with Hamet, the elder brother and rightful heir to reign at Tripoli. Hamet had been driven from his country and family, wife and children, and was in hopes, by the aid of Eaton and the American war, of being reinstated at Tripoli. He joined with General Eaton, who had received his commission from the American government, and assumed the title of General. In conjunction with Hamet, he raised an army of twelve hundred men, adventurers of all nations, who volunteered to fight under the American flag. They started from Alexandria, in Egypt, and marched a thousand miles across the desert of Barca. They bore in their advance the American flag, something that had never been seen in that country before. After a tedious march they arrived at Derne, a city on the Mediterranean, belonging to Tripoli. General Eaton summoned the city to surrender. The Governor sent him this reply, "My head or yours." Then the American general drew up his men and rapidly advanced to attack the fort, which defended the city. He met with a strong resistance, the enemy numbering about three thousand. A terrible fire of musketry enveloped the combatants in fire and smoke. The voice of General Eaton, though he was wounded, was heard, amid the din of battle, encouraging his men. After a severe contest of about two hours they charged and carried, by storm, the principal fort. They tore down the Tripolitan flag and ran up the stripes and stars in its place. This was the first time it had ever been raised over a fort on the Mediterranean Sea, or in fact the old world. General Eaton was fortifying, making the place stronger, receiving some volunteers, through the influence of Hamet, and preparing to march upon Tripoli to help the American fleet. But he was in need of supplies and every day was expecting to receive them. As the city and harbor were under his control, he had everything in readiness for his march, excepting the supplies, when the American Frigate, the "Constitution," appeared and announced that peace was declared, 1805. The conditions were that Hamet should leave the country and his wife and children should be sent to him. The American prisoners were to be exchanged and the American seamen not to be compelled to pay tribute any more. The Americans who had been enslaved by the government of Tripoli were to be paid for the labor they had performed. It is evident that the reigning Bashaw was alarmed for his own safety and was glad to compromise. Father said it always grieved him to think, that the Americans who had been held as slaves at Tripoli never returned to their native home. They were paid for their service during the time they had been enslaved, went on board a ship, sailed for North America and were never heard of again. They slept the sleep of death with the twelve most brave beneath the dark cold waves, never more to see their families or friends. Father often repeated such stories in our wilderness home in regard to this war, the revolutionary war and the war of 1812. I and the other children always listened to these tales with much attention and interest. It was the way I received most of my knowledge, in regard to such things, in those days. As we lived in the woods of Michigan my means of acquiring book-knowledge were very limited. Now, I believe, if I were to read the sum and substance of the same thing every month in the year, for years; the way he related those old stories would still be the accepted way to my mind. Although they might be clothed in language more precise and far more eloquent it would not appear so to me. CHAPTER XXIV. LIGHT BEGINS TO DAWN. Father's farm improved with astonishing rapidity and became quite a pleasant place. Some of the stumps rotted out, some we tore out and some were burned up. In these ways many had disappeared and it began to look like old land. It was rich and productive and, in truth, it looked as level as a house floor. Some seasons it was rather wet, not being ditched sufficiently to take the water off. Yet father raised large crops of corn, potatoes, oats and wheat. Wheat grew very large but sometimes ran too much to straw; some seasons, rust would strike it and then the grain would shrink, but as that and gets older, and the more the clay is worked up with the soil, the better wheat it raises. In my opinion it will be as good wheat land as the oak openings or prairies of the West for all time to come. Father built him a good frame barn and was getting along well. He bought him a nice pair of black horses which proved to be very good and serviceable. It began to seem like home to mother. She too possessed very good conversational powers. Her conversation was always accompanied with a style of frankness and goodness, peculiar to herself, which gained many friends, who became warmly attached to her, enjoyed her hospitality, witnessed her good cheer, as they gathered around her board and enjoyed luxuries, which in some of the years past we had not been able to procure. The learned and illiterate, the rich and the poor, shared alike her hospitality. No one ever asked for bread, at her door, who was refused, if she had it, even to the poor Indian. We had many comers and goers, and I think there were but few in the town of Dearborn who had more friends than father and mother. Several years after we planted the first thirteen apple trees, father set out a little orchard of fifty trees, west of them. Some of these proved to be very good fruit and supplied us with better apples, of our own raising, (and in fact some earlier apples) than we had been used to getting from along the Rouge. Then it could be said of us that we sat under our own vine and apple tree and ate the fruit of our hands, without any one to molest us or make us afraid. And, it could be said of father, that he made the place, where the wilderness stood, to blossom as the rose. Everything seemed to work together for our good and all nature seemed more cheerful. The evening breeze that kissed the rose and made the morning glory (that grew by our window) unfold its robe, so that it would be ready in the morning to display its beauty, and caused the sunflower, aided by the evening dew, to change its face so that it would be ready to look toward the sun, bore away on its wings, over the fields, the fragrance of the rose and the joyful songs of civilization. In the stillness of the beautiful evenings the air, under the starry canopy of heaven was made vocal with the songs and tunes of other days, which had been learned and sung oftimes before in a native land nearly eight hundred miles away. Now the pioneer felt himself safe. He could retire to his bed, in his log house, and quietly rest in sleep, without draining any more of the redman's approach, or having by his own strong arm, to defend his family. Now he need have no fear of Mr. Bruin entering his pig pen and carrying off his pig, as he did ours one night some years before. He tore the hog so badly that it died, although it was rescued by father and his dog. The bear escaped to the woods. Now how changed the scene with us. We could retire and sleep soundly; feeling as secure as if we had gone to bed way down in the State of New York. We could leave the leather string of the door latch hanging out for any one to enter, as nearly all the early settlers were friends. The ax was now left stuck in the wood block on the wood pile. The rifle hung in its hooks, not to be disturbed. In other nights, of our first settlement, father did not feel safe; the string of the door latch was taken in, the door was fastened and blockaded on the inside, his ax and rifle were placed with care back of the curtains, at the head of his bed. None of us knew what might happen before the light of another morning, for we were in a wilderness land and neighbors were far apart. How different a few years have made it! Now nature seems to smile upon us and the evening, when it comes in its beauty, seems to offer us quiet and repose, rest and security. Now when nature puts on her sable habiliments of night, the blue canopy was covered with stars, that glistened and shone in their glory, as they looked down upon us and seemed to witness our prosperity. How they illumined our beautiful spring nights! The beautiful feathered songsters, that had returned from the south, warbled their songs in our ears anew and seemed to exert themselves, to make their notes clear, and let us know they had come. The little grey phebe-birds, the robins and the blue birds were the first harbingers of spring. As night put on its shade their little notes were hushed in the darkness, then the whip-poor-will took up the strain. He would come, circle around and over our house and door yard and then light down. He too came to visit us, he had found our place again. In fact, he found us every spring after we settled in Michigan, and cut out a little hole in the woods. At first his song seemed to be "whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will;" then, by listening, it could be made out to say, "good-will, good-will." In later years, by the aid of imagination, his notes were interpreted, "peace and plenty, peace and plenty." But, whatever we might imagine him to say, his song was always the same. He was a welcome visitor and songster, and his appearance in spring was always hailed with joy. Sometimes I would rise early in the morning and go out of the door just at daylight. I could hear the notes of the little songsters, just waking, singing their first songs of the morning. I would listen to see if I could hear the gobbling of the wild turkeys. I hardly ever failed to hear them, sometimes in different directions. I frequently could hear two or three at once. The old gobblers commonly selected the largest trees, in the thickest woods, with limbs high up, for their roosts and as soon as it came daylight, in the east, they would be up strutting and gobbling. They could be heard, in a still morning, for a mile or two. The gobbling of the turkey, the drumming of the partridge upon his log, the crowing of our and the neighbors' roosters and the noise of woodpeckers pounding the tops of old trees, were the principal sounds I could hear when I set out with my rifle in hand. I made my way through the prickly ash brush, sometimes getting my clothes torn and my hands and face scratched, when going into the dark woods in the early morning. I went for the nearest turkey that I heard, often wading through the water knee deep, the woods being nearly always wet in the spring. If the turkey did not happen to be too far off and I got near it, before it was light, and got my eye on it, before it saw me and flew away, I would crawl up, and get behind some tree that came in range between me and it so that it could not see me. I had lo be careful not to step on a stick, as the breaking of a stick or any noise that I was liable to make would scare the turkey away. If I had the good luck to get up to that tree without his discovering me, I would sit or stand by it and look with one eye at the old turkey as he gobbled, strutted, spread his wings then drew them on the limb where he stood and turned himself around to listen and see if there was anything new for him to gobble at. If he heard the distant woodpecker, pounding away with his beak, on the old hollow top, he would stretch up his neck and gobble again as cheerfully as before. Then I would put my rifle up aside the tree to see if it was light enough for me to see the sights on it. If it was not I would have to take it down and wait a few minutes for it to get lighter. I felt very uneasy and impatient, while waiting, and wanted to take that turkey, by the legs, and carry him home over my shoulder. When it was light enough so I thought it was dangerous to wait, as the turkey might discover me or fly off his perch then I would draw up my rifle, by the side of the tree, and shoot at him. Sometimes the old turkey would retain all his feathers, fly away and leave me, to wade back to the house, thinking to myself I had had a hard job for nothing. The great trouble in shooting wild turkeys on the roosts, in the spring of the year and in the early morning, is in not being able to see the sights on the rifle plain enough. Of course, I was sometimes rewarded, for my early rising and wet feet, by a nice turkey to take home to father and mother for dinner. This style of hunting for the wild turkeys was known by the settlers in an early day. Another way I had of capturing the turkeys by shooting them, was by the use of a small instrument that I almost always carried in my vest pocket when in the woods. It was made from the hollow bone of a turkey's wing. I called it a turkey call. By holding the end of my hand and sucking it right, it would make a noise, or squeak, very similar to the turkey's voice. Sometimes, when I heard one gobbling in the woods, I would go as near as I could, and not let him see me, and hide myself behind an old log, or root, where a tree had been blown down, take the hollow bone out of my pocket and call. I have seen them come up on the run, sometimes one, at other times more. While lying in ambush once I shot two, at the same time, with one rifle bullet and got them both. I have often shot at a flock, in the woods. They would scatter and fly in all directions. I would run ahead, near where I thought they lighted, hide and call. If a lone turkey heard the shrill note, he would answer and was easily decoyed up to me. In this way I was very sure to get him. Father made one of the luckiest shots at wild turkeys of which I ever knew. They had a notion of coming into his buckwheat field and filling their crops with buckwheat, sometimes two or three times a day. Father discovered them in the field; he went away round and approached them from the woods, on the back side of the field, where they came in. The turkeys discovered him through the brush and fence and huddled up, with their heads together. He said they were just getting ready to fly. He shot amongst them, with a shot gun, and killed four at once. There are at the present time, 1875, scattering wild turkeys in the town of Dearborn, but they have mostly disappeared. Tame turkeys, in abundance, have long since taken their place. CHAPTER XXV. MAKING A BARGAIN. When I was twenty-one we had a good young team, of our own, and father made it a rule to go to Detroit once in two weeks, with butter and eggs. When he had other farm products he went oftener. Every other Friday was his market day, for butter and eggs. His butter was contracted at Detroit by the season, for one shilling a pound, and father thought that did very well. By starting early, he could go and do his marketing and return by noon. How different from what it was when it took us two nights and a day, and sometimes more, to go to Detroit and back. Father had to sell his produce cheap; when we had commenced raising and had some to sell, all appeared to have an abundance to sell. Detroit market then seemed rather small not having its outlets for shipping, and everything we had to sell was cheap. We also bought cheap; we got good tea for fifty cents a pound, sugar was from six to ten cents per pound, and clothing much cheaper than it was when we came to Michigan. We could buy brown sheeting for from six to eight cents per yard. Very different from what it was, when everything we bought was so dear, and when we had so little to buy with. One day father and I went to Detroit with a large load of oats. We drove on to the market and offered them for sale; eighteen cents a bushel was the highest offer we could get for them and father sold them for that price. We fattened some pork, took it to Detroit and sold it for twenty shillings per hundred. In days back, father had often paid one shilling a pound for pork and brought it home on his arm, in a basket over two miles. Now we were able to sell more than we had to buy. The balance of trade was in our favor and, of course, we were making some money; laying up some for a rainy day, or against the time of need. I told father, as we had a good team, it would be handy if I got me a buggy. I could take mother at her pleasure, and it would be very handy for me to go around with, so I went and bought one. It was a double buggy with two seats. After the buggy was bought, when mother and my sisters wished to go to meeting or to visit friends, I would hitch up the team and take them in, what I thought, pretty good style. We had, what I called, a gay team and, in fact, a good rig for the woods of Michigan. I took care of the team, and when I went out with them I tried to make those horses shine. I trimmed their head stalls with red balls, as large as hens' eggs, and from them hung scarlet ribbons six inches long. When I came home in the evening between, sun down and dark, through the woods, the little blacks made the evening breeze fan my passengers and we left the little musical songsters in the shade. I now worked very hard and helped father all I could in fixing up his farm. He had everything around him that was necessary to make him and mother comfortable. About this time I formed a more intimate acquaintance with a young lady, Miss Traviss, although her name was very familiar to me and sounded very beautifully in my ear, some how or other I wished to have it changed. After I made this acquaintance I thought I would go to Detroit and spend the next "Fourth" and see what they were doing there and try city life a little. As one of my sisters wanted to go I gave Miss Traviss an invitation to go with us, which invitation she accepted. So when the morning of the "Fourth" came, we started for town. We put up at the "Eagle Tavern" on Woodbridge street and spent the day very patriotically. We had what we thought a very splendid dinner. We had the first cherry pie that some of us had eaten since we came to Michigan. We visited all the sights we could hear of, and honored almost every display with our presence. When the salute of the day was fired, of course, we were there; they fired one big gun for Michigan. As the cannon thundered forth its fire and smoke, it seemed to fairly sweep the street with its tremendous force; it was terrible and grand. It seemed to bid defiance to all the world. It was the salute of the cannon of American freemen. We thought we would go over to Canada to see what was going on there. When we were across, we observed that the people didn't seem to be paying any attention to the "Fourth." But we felt very much like holding Independence and thought we would take a walk, down toward Sandwich. Of course, I was seeing all I could of Canada, but Miss Traviss took the greater part of my attention. The more I enjoyed her company, the more I thought, in view of future life, that it was necessary for me to make a private bargain with her. After we had walked as far as we thought it was pleasant, we turned back toward Windsor; when we were nearly there we met a colored man. I pointed over the river toward Detroit, and asked him, saying, "What place is that yonder?" "Why," said he, "dat am die United States ob 'Merica ober dar." He answered me like a man, with frankness, supposing that I was a stranger to Detroit, and accompanied by beautiful young ladies of Canada he naturally supposed that I did not know the place. I left Canada thinking that all of the North American Continent ought to belong to the United States. We sailed back to Detroit, the beautiful "City of the Straits." We all felt as though we were at home, in our own country and thanked our stars, that we did not live in Canada; that we lived in the land of the free, and that our flag, the old star-spangled banner, waved over "the home of the brave." We went back to the "Eagle Tavern;" I told the hostler I wanted my team. In a very few minutes he had it ready and we were on our way home, enjoying our evening ride. I was very attentive and vigilant, in the presence of my company. When we were home we told our parents all the incidents of the day. We had had a good time and had enjoyed ourselves very much. Then I attended to hard work and farming, and think it would have been difficult to find a man, who would have performed more labor than I did until I was past twenty-two years old. In the mean time, I was having an eye out and thinking of domestic affairs and life. I will not tell what old folks would call it, but I call it falling in love with Miss Traviss. I made a private bargain with her and got the consent of her father and mother, which was a hard job for me although they acquiesced willingly. It was also approved by my parents. We had it ratified by a minister and afterward I heard her called, by others, Mrs. William Nowlin. She had taken a new name upon herself. I left my father's home to build up one for myself and another, and never more to return to my father's house and call it my home. CHAPTER XXVI. HOW I COMMENCED FOR MYSELF--FATHER'S OLD FARM IN 1843. When I commenced for myself, father gave me a strip across the two lots on the south end of his farm, south of the Ecorse, containing forty-two acres and lying on the town line between Dearborn and Taylor. Thus fulfilling (as far as I was concerned) what he had said long before; he wanted land for his children. I supposed, at the time, I should build a house, live there and make it my home. I had a chance to trade it off even, for eighty acres of land lying half a mile west of it, subject to a mortgage of one hundred and fifty dollars. I made the trade, paid the mortgage and afterward built on the place, the house in which I now live. Father bought back the forty-two acres which he had given me, and he easily paid for it--two hundred and fifty dollars. Then he had the old farm together again, with money left, which he had saved by his frugality and industry. He made up his mind that he would buy another place, which was offered for sale, out one mile toward Dearbornville, beyond the clay road. It had a good barn on it and a comfortable farm house. He moved there in 1848 and lived on one of the most beautiful building places in the town of Dearborn and on the corner where three roads met. About this time, my second sister became acquainted with a young man, by the name of Michael Nowlin, and married him. She was more lucky than most young ladies; she did not have to change her name, only from Miss to Mrs. Nowlin. She went with her husband to live near Romeo, Macomb County, Michigan. He was a farmer there. Father did not like to have one of his children so far away. I told him it would be well for him to let my brother-in-law and sister have ninety acres of the old farm, which would make them a good home. So he offered it to them, and they came and settled on it, and lived where I had lived so long before, with my father and mother, brother and sisters, in the woods of Michigan. Father let them have it on easy terms, and gave Sarah what he considered was her portion as far as he was able. My brother-in-law easily met the payments, paid for his place and had a good farm. He, being a good business man, soon had his farm clear and things comfortable around him. But he was not entirety satisfied with the place, though it was the best of land, and he was a man capable of knowing and appreciating it. He thought he was laboring under some disadvantages. In the spring of the year the clay road was very bad and he had hard work to get out and in. School privileges were also poor, not such as he desired for his children, and he made up his mind to sell has place. He sold it in two parts, at a good advantage. The last piece for over a hundred dollars an acre. He bought him a nice house and lot in the city of Ypsilanti, is nicely situated there and has given his children a liberal education. So ninety acres, of what was once my father's old farm, were disposed of. After I had left home, a few years passed and my brother, John Smith Nowlin, was married and started out in life for himself. Father let him have the west seventy acres of the old farm. He, being the youngest son, father desired to see him settled comfortably in life near him. He gave him the place so cheap and on such easy terms that he was able to pay for it in a short time, right off of the place, with the exception of what father gave him as his portion. Father said he gave him his part. He soon had as nice a little farm as any one need wish to own in the State of Michigan, and he had it clear from debt. After my brother-in-law moved away my brother became lonesome, dissatisfied and was not contented with so good a place. He sold it in two pieces and bought a farm out within half a mile of Dearbornville, beyond father's. He moved on to it and lives there now right in sight of the village. It is not my intention to delineate, at any length, the circumstances of any of the family unless in connection, with my father and mother, or the old place where we first settled in the wilderness, where I labored so hard, in my young life, and took so much interest in my father's getting along during his trying days in the woods of Michigan. I was along there, by what was father's old place, one day this winter, 1875. I looked at the barn and saw that it was getting old. I noticed the two little orchards, some of the trees had disappeared and others looked as if they were dying, with old age. I saw young orchards on the place, which were set out by other hands, those who knew but little of us. I thought things looked strange; that there was not one of the Nowlin name who owned a foot of the old farm. I suppose to this day no part of it, nor the whole of it, could be bought for less than one hundred dollars an acre, probably not for that. I counted the dwelling houses that have been built on it, there are five of them; three very good frame houses, well painted and built in good style, the other two houses are not so nice. I noticed there were four good frame barns on it. The old place is inhabited by an industrious race of men. It is divided up into German farms. Men may cover mother earth with deeds and mortgages, call her their own and live upon her bounty, little thinking of the hardships, toils and privations, that were endured by those who preceded them. How they labored, toiled and sweat, sometimes without enough to eat and not knowing where the next meal was coming from. I know this was the case with some of the first settlers. In view of the hardships and sufferings of the pioneer and his passing away, I exclaim in the language of another, "This earth is but a great inn, evacuated and replenished by troops of succeeding pilgrims." "One generation passeth away and another generation cometh, and man here hath no continuing city." [NOTE.--Since this was written, I have learned that I made a slight mistake in regard to the forty-two acres, of the old farm, which father gave me, as it passed through other hands before my brother and brother-in-law came in possession of it; but it was finally divided as I have stated.] CHAPTER XXVII. THOUGHTS IN CONNECTION WITH FATHER AND EARLY PIONEER LIFE. I follow father, in my mind, to his last farm which he bought in 1849, where he lived out his days. It was not cleared up, as he wished to have it, and he continued to labor as hard as ever before, trying to fix it up to suit him and to get it in the right shape for his comfort and convenience. The soil was as good as the place he left. He raised large crops on it. One day I went to father's and inquired for him. Mother said he was down in the field cutting corn. I went to him; he had a splendid field of corn and was cutting it up. The sweat was running off from him. I told him it was not necessary for him to work so hard and asked him to let me take his corn-cutter, as though I was going to cut corn. He handed it to me, then I said I am going to keep this corn-cutter: I want you to hear to me. Let us go to the house and get some one else, to cut the corn; so we went to the house together. But it was impossible for me or anybody else to keep him from hard labor, although he had plenty. He had become so inured to hard work that it seemed he could not stop. He finally got all of his farm cleared that he wanted cleared. A few of the last years of his eventful life, he let some of his land to be worked on shares and kept his meadow land and pasture. He needed all of that, for he kept quite a stock of cattle, sheep and horses and took care of them himself, most of the time, up to his last sickness. He was a great lover of good books; and spent much of his leisure time reading. He did not often refer to the hardships which he had endured in Michigan; but often spoke of the privations and endurance of others. Thus, in his latter days, not thinking of what he had done, he seemed to feast on the idea, that America had produced such and such ones, who had been benefactors and effectual workers for the good of our race. Most of those men who came here in the prime of life, about the time that father came, are gone. The country shows what they have done, but few consider it properly. Some know what it was then and what it is now and know also, that it has arrived at the exalted position it now occupies through the iron will, clear brain and the steady unflinching nerve of others. Yet they pass on in their giddy whirl and the constant excitement of the nineteenth century, when wealth is piled at their doors, and hardly think of their silent benefactors. Who can think of what they have done and not feel their heart beat high with gratitude, admiration and love to the Giver of all good, in that he ever raised up Such glorious people as some of the Michigan pioneers were? So enduring, so self-sacrificing, so noble--in fact, every element necessary to make beings almost perfect seemed concentrated in them. I do not say it would be right, for me to wish the pioneer to live forever here, and labor and toil as is the common lot of man. He might be surrounded by friends and loved ones and plenty of this world's goods, and have time to look back upon his past life and see what he had been through and accomplished. He had gone into the forest, built him a house, cleared up a farm, and lived where a white man had never lived before. I would say to him as Daniel said, 2426 years ago, to King Darius, who visited, very early in the morning, the cavern where he was confined. The king asked him, in a mournful voice, if his God, whom he served, had been able to deliver him. Daniel said, "O King, live forever!" It has been the belief of good men, in all ages of the world, that they were going to have a better and happier existence in the future after this life had passed away. Darius had spent a restless and sleepless night fasting. No instruments of music were brought into his presence, his mind was too much troubled thinking of the prophet, who lay in the lions' den. Thinking how his faithful servant had been divested of his scarlet robe, golden chain and office, and might be devoured by the lions. In the early gray of the morning the king hurried to the cavern and cried out in a sorrowful voice to his friend and said, "Daniel, O Daniel, servant of the living God, is thy God, whom thou servest continually, able to deliver thee from the lions?" Daniel answered the king and said, "O King, live forever. My God hath sent his angel, and hath shut the lions' mouths." Daniel was aware that the King wished him no evil, but had set his heart on him to deliver him and that he had labored hard to save him. He knew, that the king had been caught in a snare which was set for him by the crafty princes. That he had been persuaded by them to sign a decree, which according to law could not be changed. It was gotten up, through jealousy and envy, for the purpose of taking Daniel's life. When Daniel heard the doleful voice of the king, calling him, he answered, and with an honest heart exclaimed; "O King, live forever!" This was not wishing, as some might suppose, that the king might live forever, on the earth, in his natural or mortal state, or forever reign over his kingdom in this world, but this acclamation was "Live forever." As it was evident he could not live long in this world, Daniel wished him a better existence in a future state. Man has not been able to find, in this world, the land of perpetual youth or spring of life. Nearly all the veteran pioneers, who have fought with the forests of Michigan, and labored for themselves and others, until they grew old, and wrinkled and their heads were silvered o'er with gray, have passed from the storms of life. They failed to find such a land as Ponce de Leon, looked for in Florida, in the year 1512. He was so delighted with the variegated flowers, wild roses, ever green and beautiful foliage, and the fragrance of the air, that he thought that these woods must contain the fountain of life and youth and that that must be the place upon the earth where men could live and never grow old. When I was quite young, a few years after our settlement, I think in 1838, Mr. Elijah Lord came and settled about a mile and a half north-west of father's. He came down with his oxen by father's place to get small, hard-maple trees, out of the woods, that he wanted to take home and set out on his place. He was then about a middle-aged man. He set out the trees on both sides of the road, running through his place, for about eighty rods, in front of his house. I asked him if he expected to see them grow up; he said he did not set them out for himself, but for the benefit of other people, for the good of the generations that would follow him. Some years after that, I visited Mr. Lord in his last sickness. He looked very much older than he did when he planted the trees. He looked careworn and sad; his locks were gray and he was very feeble. He was fighting his last battle of life and he soon went to that bourne, whence no traveler returns. He was a good man, a deacon of the Presbyterian church at Dearbornville at the time of his death. The hard maple trees, which he set out, are grown up to be large trees. When leaved out, they have the most beautiful tops, with the most perfect symmetry that could be imagined. They make splendid shade for the road. In summer weather, when the rays of the sun were very hot, thousands have enjoyed walking under their protecting boughs. The poor horses and cattle that travel that road alike enjoy the benefit of those trees. The farmer as he is going or coming from market and stops his team, to rest under their shade, enjoys their cooling and refreshing influence. The pedestrian, who sits down by the fence to rest his weary limbs, takes off his hat and with his handkerchief, wipes the perspiration from his brow, as he fans himself with his hat talks to his neighbor about the price of things and the beautiful shade, that is around and over them. Neither of them know anything about the benevolent man, who over thirty-five years before set out the maple trees, whose shade they enjoy and which protects them, from the scorching rays of the sun, and makes them so comfortable. Now, in looking at the shortness of human life, which is compared to a hand's breadth or to the vapor, which appears in the morning is seen but a little while and then vanishes away to be seen no more; and thinking that the pioneers stopped but so short a time to enjoy the fruits of their toil and the labor of their hands, I would exclaim again in language similar to that of the good man of old, "O, pioneers, pioneers, live forever!" O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, Man passes from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high, Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed That withers away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes, even those we behold, To report every tale that has often been told. For we are the same our fathers have been; We see the same sights our fathers have seen; We drink the same stream, and view the same sun, And run the same course our fathers have run. The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink; To the life we are clinging they also would cling; But it speeds for us all like a bird on the wing. Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, We mingle together in sunshine and rain; And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge. Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? --_Selected._ It appears to me that it will be interesting to men, who in the future shall live along the Ecorce and enjoy their beautiful homes and farms, to know who were the brave, sacrificing, benovolent men who first settled the country, and were a few of the many who have made the State of Michigan what it will be to them. I give together the names of some of those early worthies whom I have mentioned before in this sketch. They were the first settlers of the southeast part of the town of Dearborn. Their names are arranged according to the time of their settlement along and near the Ecorce with the years and seasons of their settlement in the wilderness. Joseph Pardee--Fall of 1833. John Nowlin--Spring of 1834. Asa Blare--Fall of 1834. Henry Traviss--Summer of 1835. George Purdy--Fall of 1835. Elijah Lord, about--1837 or 1838 Let these bright names be imperishable! Let them be indelibly written, in letters of gold, on leaves as white as snow and live in the light. Let them be handed down through future ages, in the archives and annals of the country, until the end of time. Of the six, whom I have mentioned here, only one survives. That one is Mr. George Purdy. He lives on the Ecorce yet and owns a good farm. (1875.) Recently a wise man said to me: "We can engrave the names of our kindred and the friends of humanity upon stately monuments of marble and they will crumble to dust, be obliterated and rubbed out by the hand of time; but, if inscribed upon the flat surface of a written page, their names will live." Men of all ages have delighted to honor their heroes and to perpetuate their names. It is right to give honor to whom honor is due. We cannot tell how many of the names of the good and great of the earth's true philanthropists were engraven upon tablets of dead stone, who have long since been forgotten and the knowledge of them lost in the past. The blight--mildew--blackness and creeping moss of time have hidden their names from earth. How few, in comparison to the many, have been handed down to us in history. CHAPTER XXVIII. FATHER'S NEW HOUSE AND ITS SITUATION--HIS CHILDREN VISIT HIM. I have said that I tried to persuade father to take life more easily and not to labor so hard himself on the new place he had bought. It was a new place to him; but in an early day it was the oldest place south of Dearbornville. The first log house built south of Dearbornville, in the town of Dearborn was built on it by John Blare in the year 1832 or 1833. It was one mile south of Dearbornville. So there was a house standing there when we were slowly making our way to Michigan. When we came, it was the first house south of Dearbornville. Mr. Joseph Pardee, who crossed Lake Erie, with his family, the fall before when father came viewing, built his house a mile south of that. These two houses were the first ones, south of the village of Dearborn, in the town of Dearborn. When we came in and built, our bark covered house was the next. It was at this house of Mr. J. Blare that the Indian, John Williams, threw his knife on the floor and commanded Asa Blare to pick it up. There he sat in his chair, flourished his knife, looked at its frightful edge and told what it had done. If the Indian told the truth, it had cleaved the locks and taken off the scalps of six of the Anglo Saxon race--some body's loved ones. It had been six times red with human gore, and was going to be used again, to take off one more scalp, one of the few who was then in the woods. This house of Mr. Blare's had long since been torn down and had disappeared. I could now go within five rods, and I think less, of where the house stood. When Mr. Mather bought the place he built him a frame house across the road, beyond where Blaire's house stood. It was built on a hill, on five acres of ground, that he owned there by itself as a building spot. Mather sold these two places to Barnard and Windsor and father bought the places of them, and moved into the Mather house. Father talked, from an early day, that when he got able to build a house, he would like to build it of brick or stone. He said if he had stone, he could build a house for himself. I have no doubt that he would have built his house himself, if he had had the stone, as old as he was, when he got the money to do it with. He thought himself quite a stone mason, at least he thought he could lay a stone wall as strong as any one. I stated that I had seen where he had built stone walls. The walls I had reference to then were walls for fence. I saw where he had built one large out door stone cellar and arched it over with stone; I also saw where he had built a smaller one, that opened into what was styled a cellar kitchen. He also built the three walls of the kitchen, on the back side and two ends, of stone; the front of the house being wood. [Image: HOUSE BUILT 1854.] The practice of laying stone, in his early life, made him want to build him a stone house in Michigan. If he had settled in another part of Michigan, he might have done it; but he found that stone were hard to get here, being too far away. So he made up his mind, he would build him a brick house. He said brick buildings were safer, in regard to fire, and were more durable, that they did not require so much repairing, were warmer in winter and cooler in summer than wooden buildings. So he went at it, and built him a good, substantial plain, brick farm-house in 1854. Not so palatial as some might admire, but a good substantial house; a brick basement under the whole of it, with two stories above. He set it right facing the "Hard scrabble road" and right in front of his door yard was the junction of three roads. He lived on the corners and, by looking south, he could see to the place where he first settled in Michigan, from his own door. He built across the front side of his house a double stoop or piazza, running the whole length of the front. There he could sit, in the cool of the day, and rest himself, accompanied by some of his family. Two of my sisters yet lived at home; the rest of the family had gone for themselves. While sitting there he could see people passing and repassing, coming and going in every direction. What a contrast it was to our early life in Michigan. Now he could sit on his veranda in the twilight, when it was pleasant, and when the shadows of evening were spread over the face of nature, he could peer away into the distance to the south and southwest, for a mile and more, and see lights in different places glistening and shining like stars through the darkness. They were the lights of lamps and candles, burning in his distant neighbors' dwellings and shining through their windows. He could go to his north window and see lights all along, from his house to Dearbornville, for he was in plain sight of the village. Now he lived in what might be styled, if not an old country, a thickly inhabited part of the country. A few years before, when father and I were out and could not get home until after dark, we frequently walked through the woods a mile or two without seeing a light. When we came to our clearing we could see one light, and that was mother's lone light in the window waiting for us. It was three or four years, after we settled in Michigan, before the light of any neighbor's window could be seen, from our house. Father's situation was very different when he was comfortably settled in his new house. When he had it built he told me that he lacked a very little of paying for it. I asked him how much he needed. He said, "Not more than a hundred dollars." I told him I could let him have it as well as not. So I gave it to him and he sat down and wrote me a note of a hundred dollars, ten per cent interest per annum. I told him I didn't want any note. He said I must take it if he took the money. So I took the note, looked at it, saw that it was upon interest and told him that I would not take any interest of him. But I took the note home and laid it away. I was pleased to think that father had so good a house and was so well situated. He built him a very strong house and located it upon a commanding eminence overlooking the country in every direction. From its very solid appearance shortly after it was built it was called "Nowlin Castle;" it is now known to many by that name. Father and mother enjoyed their new home very much. They usually invited their children, and their companions home all together once in a year or two. They often got into their carriage and rode down to see me and I was always glad to see them. I usually counseled and consulted with father when I thought of transacting any business of importance. After a year or two father spoke to me about the hundred dollars; I told him I didn't want it, that he could keep it just as long as he wanted it, until he could pay it just as well as not and it wouldn't cost him any interest. Time passed on until about five years were counted after father built, when he came down one day, on foot, to see me. He brought in his hand a little leather bag of silver money--mostly half dollars. He said he had come down to pay me that note, that he didn't need the money at all and wanted me to take it out of his way. I looked up the note, sat down by the table, turned out the money and counted it. I saw there were just fifty dollars; then I looked at the note and saw it had been given about five years before. I told father that I had said I shouldn't take any interest of him, but it had run so long, I didn't know but what it would be right, for me to have the interest. I couldn't quite afford to give so much. The fifty dollars was just enough to pay the interest and I could endorse it on the back of the note. I turned a little in my chair, to look at father, as he sat off at one side and said but little to me, to see what I could make out in mind reading. I found that I failed; I could not make out, by what he said nor by his silence, what he thought of me. Then I told him, that I had a little job or two on hand, which I wanted him to help me about. I asked him it he would help me. He said he would if I didn't bother him too much. I told him I wanted him to have his stoop painted over, it would preserve and make the wood last longer, and make it look better. And I wanted him to go to Detroit for me, as soon as he could conveniently, and get some oysters, and other good things, and bring home with him. Then I wanted him to invite all of his children to come and take dinner with him and mother and enjoy the day together. Besides, I wanted him to take the fifty dollars, toward paying the expenses, and also take that note out of my way, toward what I was owing him. In a few days after that I was invited up to the castle to spend the day. We were all there, father, mother, brother, sister, and our companions. We had a good dinner. The table was spread with the bounties of life. We passed a very pleasant day, and listened to father's stories of wars, and stories connected with his early life. He would relate them as nobody else could. He told us stories that I had often heard him relate before. Still there was a charm in his manner of telling them and they seemed to be always good and new; his old stories were certainly as attractive, interesting and pleasing as ever before. It would make almost any one laugh who listened to them, though he always looked rather grave while repeating them. It pleased him to think that they all enjoyed them so much; but what pleased him still more was that his children were all alive at home. As they were most all singers, sometimes, he would set them singing for him, songs new and old, as he was no singer himself. Mother was a beautiful singer. He often got her to sing for him, and sometimes asked her to sing his favorite song, which was styled "The Star in The East." I have heard her sing it for him, at different times, ever since as long ago as I can remember hearing her sing. It was a beautiful piece, connected with the Messiah's advent, which happened over eighteen hundred years before. One verse of it was this: "Cold on his cradle the dew drops were shining, Low lies his head, with the beasts of the stall; Angels adore him in slumber reclining, Maker and Monarch and Savior of all." It is claimed by some, that the human voice is capable of producing more different sounds and is more musical and pleasing to the ear than anything else earthly; that it is but little below the seraphic strains. "The Star in The East" referred back to the most glorious night, for the human race, that earth ever knew. A multitude of the heavenly hosts came down in the east of Judea; the darkness of night was driven away and the place became more beautiful than day, for glory shone around them. They announced to the wise men of the East, that the Savior of mankind was upon the earth, and that he was at Bethlehem. They told them how and where they would find him. The Heavenly visitors showed them a star or meteor of exceeding brilliancy and told them it would conduct them to the place where he was. They started with the star in advance; it lighted their path and conducted them to the place. There was heard sung, that night, one of the most heavenly, beautiful, thrilling and enchanting songs that ever broke upon the ear of mortal men. It was sung by angels, this was their song: "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men." Then the bright messengers plumed their pinions, spread out their snow white wings, filled up their shining train and in a cloud of glory flew away to Heaven. Now as I have strayed a little in thinking of the subject of "The Star in The East" I find myself back again in the presence of the one who sung father's favorite song. I told mother she must get ready, and, in the fall, we would go back to the state of New York. I asked father to go with us, and tried to get him to say he would go. But he thought he would have to stay at home and take care of things while we were gone. Mother concluded she would go and said she would get ready for the journey and we would go and see the old native places, and old friends and make the visit we had talked about so long. The thought of Lake Erie had always been a dread to mother, whenever we spoke of going back. But now we could go back very easily and in a very short time with the cars on the "Great Western Railway" I told her it would be as easy, for her, as though she were sitting in a parlor. I encouraged her all I could, for she was getting quite old and feeble, and it looked like a big undertaking to her. I said, to encourage her, that she would be able to stand it first rate, and the trip, no doubt, would do her good. I think the thought of going was pleasing to her. But we met not many more times at my father's house, under so favorable and happy circumstances, nor gathered around his board with everything in such good cheer, and prospects so bright. CHAPTER XXIX. MY WATCH LOST AND VISIT TO CANADA. Mother's maiden name was Melinda Light. Her mother died when she was quite young. She and father were married when she was about nineteen years old. She took one of her youngest brothers to live with her, and she acted more the part of a mother than a sister to him. She sent him to school and gave him a good education. His name was Allen Light and he was thoroughly qualified to officiate in the capacity of a pedagogue. He taught a number of terms, prudently saved his wages and bought father's little farm, before we left the state of New York. He married a young woman, who had some capital of her own, before we came away, and they settled on father's old place, and lived there when we came to Michigan. For this uncle I did some of my first working out, mostly picking up stone; he gave me a shilling a day. I worked for him until I had, what I thought was quite a purse of money and I brought some of it to Michigan. As father lived in a hired house I had my own time, during my vacations when I was not going to school. One man was quite displeased with me, because I refused to work for him for sixpence a day. Another man for whom I did work in haying, and spread hay after two or three mowers and raked after, never paid me anything. I supposed he would give me eighteen cents or two shillings a day. I worked for him four days; he was a rich man at that time. I wanted father to ask him for it for me, but he said if the man wasn't a mind to pay it let him go. Thirty years afterward, when I was there, I met the same man, he was riding a horse down a hill as we were going up. I asked my cousin who he was and when he told me I remembered the work I had done for him. I inquired, of my cousin, about his circumstances; he said that he used to be a rich man, but that he had lost his property and was poor. I am sure, I didn't feel much like sympathizing with him. Uncle Allen wrote to mother very often after she came to Michigan. He told her how much he missed her, that she had been a mother to him. He said the doors of the house, as he turned them on their hinges, seemed to mourn her absence. It was this brother and his family that we wanted to see the most. We heard from him often and learned that he had been successful in business. He bought two farms, joining the one he bought of father, and one about a mile off and paid for them, they were farms which father and mother knew very well. We learned, from others, that he was a wealthy, prominent and influential man, in that old country. Fickle fortune had smiled on him and he had taken what she offered to give. In the fall we were going to see them. The war of the rebellion had commenced, 1861, when we got ready to go and see them. Some three or four years before this I hired three or four colored men, who came from Canada, to work for me. The right name of one of them, I think I never knew, it was necessary for him to keep it to himself. Campbell and Obadiah were the names of the other two. The people of the United States, both North and South, were very much excited, at that time, upon the subject of slavery. The Government had passed a law, in favor of the South, thundering forth its penalties against any one who should aid or harbor, feed or employ one who was a fugitive slave. That law required northern men to turn out when notified, leave their business, help to hunt and chase the fugitive down, capture him and help to put on his fetters. So it was not for me to know the name of the one, who had been recently a slave. Campbell had a considerable confidence in me and told me a little of the history of the escaped slave, (some things I knew already); that when he ran away, from the land of bondage, he was guided in his flight by the north star. The slave had heard of Canada and knew if he could reach that country he would own himself and be a free man. If he ever had a family his wife and children would be his, and would not be owned by any one else. They would belong to himself and not another. To gain his freedom he traveled mostly nights. When he came to a creek or river, if he couldn't find a bridge or boat, he either swam or waded across. While on his journey he subsisted on fruit or grain, anything he could get hold of. When he saw it was coming light, in the morning, he would select him a place a little way from the road, if he happened to be in one, in a swamp or woods, or any place that offered him a hiding spot, and there spend the day sleeping or watching. When everything was quiet in the evening he would come out of his hiding place, set his face toward the north and hurry on. He was trying to leave his master as fast as possible, and every night he was making the distance greater between them. Sometimes, when he reached the road, he would stop and listen to see if he could hear the sound of horses' hoofs, or men approaching him, or the shrill yelp of the blood hounds, that might have discovered his whereabouts or been on his tracks. If he heard nothing to alarm him he hastened on. Sometimes he was bare-footed and bare-headed, with no one to pity him, or know the anguish of his heart, but his Creator. When night had spread her mantle over him, and the innumerable stars appeared, sprinkled over the vault of heaven, millions of miles away, all joined together to shower down upon the poor fugitive slave their rays of light. The faithful old north star, with its light beckoned him on to freedom until he got among friends and was safely taken, by the under-ground railroad, into Canada. So I knew these colored men, while working for me, had some fear that one of them, at least, might be arrested and taken back into slavery. They didn't feel safe in working so far from Canada. But I am sure if I had heard of his master's approach, or his agent's, I should have conducted him, or the three, six miles, through the woods, to Detroit River, procured a boat and sent them across to Canada, regretting the existence of the "Fugitive Slave Law," and obeying a higher law. As I have said I hired these three, from Canada, to help me through my haying and harvesting. I also gave them some other jobs. I relate this circumstance as it comes in connection with mother's visit to the East and what I said to my uncle there. The names of two of these men were Campbell and Obadiah, as I have already stated, and these were all the names I ever knew for them. Campbell was an oldish man, and I found him to be very much of a man, trusty, ingenious and faithful in everything he did for me. Obadiah was a young man. He told me his parents died when he was young, that he had a sister younger than himself and a brother still younger. He said that he wanted to keep them together and provide them a home. This young woman kept house for my three workmen. She frequently came down to our house and helped Mrs. Nowlin. She seemed to be very nice and smart and had access to our house. After I had finished my haying and harvesting they moved back to what, I think, was styled the "Reservation" in Canada, near Windsor. A short time after they were gone I missed my watch. It was kept hanging up in my room. It had unaccountably disappeared and seemed to be gone. I made up my mind, after all of my kindness to the colored people, that the girl had taken my watch and given it to her brother, Obadiah, or that at least he knew something about it, and that they had carried it to Canada. I wanted my watch and hated to lose it; what made it seem worse was its being taken from me under such circumstances. I made up my mind that I could contrive to get it again. I went out to Dearborn, saw the Deputy-Sheriff of Wayne County, Daniel D. Tompkins, told him the circumstances and what my suspicions were, and my plan, and asked him if he would go with me to Canada. He said he would. I told him that I would come out with my team, he and I would go to Canada and decoy Obadiah across the river, have the papers ready and arrest him in Detroit. I had made up my mind that he had the watch or knew its whereabouts. I thought he would be glad to give it up in order to get out of the scrape, and all I wanted was, somehow, to get my watch. Accordingly, in the morning I took my team and we started, went to Detroit, drove down to the wharf and waited for the large ferry boat to come to her wharf. Mr. Tompkins was a shrewd man. He thought that he would cross on the little ferry boat, that was then in, and see what he could learn on the other side, and got aboard and went over. While I was waiting I spoke to a mulatto and asked him if he was acquainted in Canada, and what they called the reservation back of Windsor, three or four miles. I told him I wanted to find a man by the name of Campbell. (I thought I should be able to find Campbell as he was the oldest man and he would be able to tell me where Obadiah was.) The mulatto asked me what his given name was. I told him I didn't know, I always called him Campbell. He said there were two men by the name of Campbell there; they were brothers and one of them was a preacher. I told him I thought one of them was the man I wanted to see. He stepped back by the corner of a saloon and commenced talking with another colored man privately; soon another one joined them, and there were three. I noticed them, as they cast sly glances at me, and I thought they were making some remarks about me, or my rig. I had a large team hitched to a covered carriage, double-seated. I led my horses on to the ferry boat, and when it started, two of the colored men stepped aboard. We went across to Canada, I led my horses on to the wharf and found my comrade there waiting for me. I asked him if he had found out where they lived; he said not. We got into the carriage and started for the reservation, being sure that no one knew anything about our business but ourselves, however, I thought, from what I had seen, that things appeared rather suspicious. We drove up the river road. There was another road running back farther from the river, into the country, which also led to the reservation. We drove along a pretty good jog for a mile or two, and who should we meet but the old man Campbell! He seemed very glad to see me, and came right up to shake hands with me. He wondered how I came to be in Canada, and inquired very particularly about the health of my family. I asked him where Obadiah was, told him I wanted to see him. He pointed across the road and said, that he came down with him and stopped there to get an ax helve. Said he would run in and tell him, that I had come, and in a minute out they came; Obadiah laughing and looking wonderfully pleased to see me. Of course I had to appear friendly, although I didn't feel very well pleased. I supposed that I would have to wear two faces that day; but I was spared the disagreeable task. I told Campbell and Obadiah, that I had come over to see them, that I had a little job on hand which I wanted to have done and that if they would go to Detroit with me I would tell them about it. They said they would go and I told them to get into the carriage. They said they could walk, they were afraid of soiling it; I told them to tumble in and I would take them to Windsor in a few minutes. While we were talking up came a colored man on horseback, his horse upon the jump, breathing as if he had rode him fast. He spoke to Campbell and took him one side and talked with him. Then Campbell stepped back to me laughing and told me what the man said. He said: "Heaps of colored people" thought I was a "Kentuckian;" they said, I looked like one and that my team and carriage looked like a Kentucky rig. The man would not believe but that I was one, and thought that I had come to get a colored woman, who had been a slave in Kentucky; and he said, that there was a great excitement among the colored people about it. I learned something of the circumstance; that woman had been a slave in Kentucky. Her master thought a great deal of her, treated her with much kindness, in fact made quite a lady of her and gave her liberties and privileges, which thousands of other slaves never enjoyed. But she made up her mind, that she wouldn't be the property of any one; her life should be her own. She ran away to Canada to gain her liberty. When she arrived there, she didn't find every thing as pleasant as she had expected and expressed a willingness to return to her master and slavery, in the land of bondage. Through a secret agent, her master had learned where she was. He made a bargain with the preacher, Campbell, to get her back. He was to have quite a sum of money if he succeeded in persuading her to return to her master. The colored people had found it out and every man of them branded the preacher Campbell, as a traitor and enemy to his race. They were watching him and the colored woman, and were determined, that no one who had gained their liberty should ever be subjected to slavery again, if they could prevent it. Campbell and Obadiah got into the carriage. By this time we had convinced the first trooper, that I actually was a Michigan man (for he saw for himself, that I had no woman) and we started back toward Windsor. We shortly after met another horseman following up; when he met us he turned with us. They had alarmed all of the colored people on the road and nearly every man had volunteered for duty. They told us that some men had gone on the other road, on horse back, to cut us off in case we turned that way. I began to make up my mind that, sure enough some how or other, we had raised quite an excitement among the colored people. We were attended by quite a cortege. They seemed to be paying a good deal of attention to a couple of Michigan men. We had attendants on foot and on horse back, before and behind, and we were quietly making our way toward Windsor. If persons, who did not know us, and knew nothing of the affair or circumstance, had stood in the main street in Windsor, opposite the ferry, and seen us come in, attended by our retinue, they might have thought, that I, a Michigan farmer, had the King of the Sandwich Islands accompanied by some great Mogul, that I was their driver and that the Deputy Sheriff, of Wayne County, Michigan, was their footman. When we came up opposite the ferry, the crowd of colored men was so great, we had to stop and give an account of ourselves. They had raised the alarm in Detroit and she had furnished her quota of colored men for the emergency. The excitement had helped the ferry business a little. We found ourselves surrounded by a large concourse of people. I told them, that I did not know anything about the woman nor of Kentucky. Some of them wouldn't believe but what there was actually a woman in the carriage and they had to step up and look in and examine it, in order to satisfy themselves. Luckily, some of those who came across from Detroit knew me and knew that I was no Southerner. Campbell was my main spokesman. He was a very sensible man and more than an average talker. He said: "Why gemman, I know this man well; he libs in Dearbu'n. I worked for him heaps of times, often been to his house. We're goin to Detroit wid him to see 'bout a job." One colored man, more suspicious than the rest, crowded his way through up to the carriage, opened the door, took Obadiah by the arm and told him to get out, that he wouldn't let him go across; he said he was a young man and it was dangerous for him to go over. Obadiah said that he knew "Misser Nowlin fust rate," that he had worked for him and that he had more work for him to do and he must go over. Other men, who knew me, reasoned the case with them, and they finally concluded it was a false alarm, closed the carriage door and we were permitted to drive on to the ferry. We soon crossed back to Detroit; to what some of the colored people considered so dangerous a place for their race. I had Campbell hold the horses while my friend, Mr. Tompkins, and I consulted together concerning Obadiah. I told my friend, that I hadn't been able to detect any guilt in Obadiah from the first to the last. I thought if he had been guilty he would have been alarmed, and have allowed himself to have been taken out of the carriage in Windsor, and would not have crossed the river with us. Mr. Tompkins had made up his mind to the same thing. T stepped back to them and said, that I had consulted with my friend and changed my mind, that I wouldn't do anything about the job then. I have no doubt, they thought the colored people had raised such an excitement it had discouraged me and cheated them out of a job. (It is seen that the job I wished done just then, was to get my watch, and I had thought that Obadiah was the one who could help me accomplish it.) I told them, some other time when I had work I would employ them, and I did employ Campbell a number of times after that. I gave them money to get them some dinner and to pay their passage back, as I had paid it over. I left them feeling first rate; they never knew the object of my visit. They must have thought that I treated them with a great deal of respect. When I reached home at night my pocket book was a little lighter, my trip had cost me something. I told my folks that if they had made out in Canada, that I was a southern man and that I was after that woman, it would have been doubtful about my ever getting home and that it would have taken three hundred Michigan troops to have gotten us out of Windsor, dead or alive. But I do say to exonerate those colored people from all suspicion, in the affair, that, some time after, the watch was found, nicely wrapped up in a piece of cloth and in a bureau drawer, where it had been laid away carefully and forgotten. CHAPTER XXX. MOTHER'S VISIT TO THE EAST--1861. I go with her, accompanied by my wife and brother John S. As the train we wished to take did not stop at Dearborn I had a hired man, with my team, take us to Detroit. Father went with us to Detroit and to the Michigan Central Depot. We went aboard the railroad ferry boat and were soon across the river and on the cars on the "Great Western Railway." We were soon receding very fast from Michigan; going across lots and down through the woods of Upper Canada. I tried to see as much as I could of the country, while we were swiftly passing through it. I told mother we would manage it so as to see the whole route, either going or coming, by daylight. I didn't see anything in particular to admire in Canada until we got down near London and beyond. Then I saw some good country and I thought it would compare favorably with Michigan land. Just before sundown we got to the swinging bridge, which hangs over and across Niagara River. We crossed it very carefully. Just as the sun was about half hid beyond the Western horizon our car reached terra-firma in the state of New York. I felt a little more secure and at home, than I felt when leaving Canada, when we had reached our native state. In a little while we were aboard the cars of the "New York Central Railroad" and making our way through the darkness rapidly, toward the east. I told mother we must try and get a good rest, that night, on the way to Albany. We located ourselves the best we could for the night. We had only gone a little ways when, all at once, there was a terrible rattling and jingling, made by the passing of another train. It made a noise something like the shelf of a crockery store tumbling down and breaking in pieces glass ware, earthen ware and all. This noise was accompanied with a heavy rumbling sound which shook the ground and the car we were in and caused them to tremble. The flash of the light of the passing train, as it sped on its way, was so quick by us that it was impossible to see whether it was a light or not. It appeared like the ghost of a light or a spectre in its flight through the darkness, for a moment and it was gone. It left no trace behind that I could see. There had two or three of those trains of cars passed us before I was able to make out what made the extra noise. Not having any knowledge that there was a double track there, and never having rode where there was one before, it took me a little while, to make up my mind in regard to it. Both trains going at full speed, in the night, the one we passed vanishing so quickly, yet not taking the impression it made on us with its whizzing, hissing, tearing sound, it seemed like some fierce demon from Tartarus bent on an errand of annihilation. But it was only another train, like unto the one we were enjoying, and, if as successful as the officers of the "New York Central Railroad" wished, it would only seem to annihilate time for its transient occupants. For the coal miner's invention seemed to make as much discount on time as any wonder of the last age except our American Morse' lightning talker. We found there was but very little sleep or rest for us that night. I could look out of the car window and peer into the darkness and see lights dotted along here and there; every once in a while, they seemed low down and looked some like the lights from the back windows of low log cabins. I made out that they were lights on board of canal boats. I recollected having passed along there about thirty years before, and that I jumped into the canal and got terribly wet. Now we were traveling at a more rapid rate; yes, as far in one hour as we did in all day then, with a large train of passengers. It was impossible for mother to get any rest that night. Just as it got nicely light, in the morning, we arrived at Albany. No doubt there were on that train, who rode through the night with us, the churchman, the statesman, the officer and men who would quickly dress themselves in blue and march, under the old flag to defend our country. Farmers and mechanics, men and women of almost every station in life were there. Some went one way and some another, each intent upon what they thought concerned them most at the time. We went to a restaurant for breakfast and especially to get a good cup of tea for mother. (It had been rather a tedious night for her.) Then we went on board a ferry boat and crossed over the North River, then took the "Harlem Railroad" for Pattison, where we arrived about noon. This was within three miles of where mother was brought up and I was born. We hired a livery team to take us to Uncle Allen Light's. In going we passed by a school house where I learned my "A, B, Abs." Mother's heart beat high with emotions of joy as she neared her much beloved brother's dwelling. She had always thought of him as the young man she left thirty years before; but she found that the frosts of thirty winters had changed his locks as well as hers. I asked the driver if Allen Light was much of a farmer; he said that he was. I asked him if he kept a good many cattle; he said he did. I told him when he got there to let the valises remain in the carriage, and to cover them up, after we got out, with the robes so they would not be seen, and that I wanted him to wait a little while, and I would try and buy uncle's fat cattle. At least, I would sound him a little and see what kind of mettle he was made of, and he would see the result. I made a special bargain with mother and she promised to keep still and keep her veil over her face until I introduced her. She told me afterward, she never would make another such a bargain as that with me. She said, it was too hard work for her, when she saw them to keep from speaking. Just before we made this visit, my brother and I went to see friends west, and viewed some prairies of Illinois. We visited Chicago, the great city of the West, went through it where we saw a great deal of it. We went into the City Hall, or Court House, and up its winding stairs to a height so great, that we could overlook most of the city. I saw that the city covered a good deal of ground. From the elevated position we were occupying, we looked down and saw men and women walking, in the street below us, and they looked like a diminutive race. As I looked I thought the ground was rather flat and level for a city, but we made up our minds it was a, great place. Some of the merchandise of all the world was there. We came home feeling very well satisfied with our own city, Detroit. For the beauty of its scenery and the location of the city I should give my preference to the "City of the Straits." Now I had gotten away down east. I had rode a little ways on the outside of Cowper's wheel. We had all got out of the carriage, in front of uncle's house, went up to the door and knocked and all went in. I asked if Mr. Light lived there. Uncle said he was the man. Aunt brought chairs for the ladies and they sat down. She asked them if they would take off their things, they refused, as much as to say, they were not going to stop but a few minutes. I asked uncle immediately, if he had some fat cattle to sell. He said he had some oxen that he would sell, and we went out to look at them. Of course I was more anxious to see how uncle appeared than I was to see the cattle. They were in the barnyard near the house. I tried to make uncle think, that I had cattle on the brain the most of anything. I walked around them, viewed them, felt of them, started them along, asked uncle how much they would weigh, &c. I kept a sly eye on uncle, to see how much in earnest he was and how he looked. He was a portly, splendid looking man. He appeared, to me, to be a good, hale, healthy, honest farmer, well kept and one who enjoyed life. He would sell his property if he got his price, not otherwise. He was rather austere and independent about it. He asked me my name and where I was from. (This is a trait of eastern men, down near Connecticut, to ask a man his name and where he lives and, sometimes, where he is going.) I saw that uncle was getting me in rather close quarters, but I talked away as fast as possible, walking around and looking at the cattle. I asked him what he would take for them, by the lump, I was trying to evade the questions, that he had asked me. I told him that my home was wherever I happened to be, that I paid the cash for every thing which I bought, that I had just come from Illinois, where I had relatives, and down through Michigan. I told him that I was very well acquainted in some parts of Michigan, that I had been in Canada and that a great many people there called me a "Kentuckian;" and I didn't know as it mattered what I was called so long as I was able to pay him for his cattle. I wanted to know the least he would take for them; he told me. Then I said, I would consider it, we would go to the house and see how the ladies were getting along. Going along I made up my mind that uncle thought I was rather an eccentric drover. He seemed to be interested in what I had said about Michigan and wanted to know something about the country. When we went into the house, I saw that mother was getting impatient and our livery driver sat there yet, waiting to hear how it came out and to deliver our satchels. Mr. Light, your name sounds very familiar to me, I have heard the name, Light, often before. Have you any relatives living in the West? He said he had two sisters living in Michigan, in the town of Dearborn. Why, said I, I have been in the town often and am well acquainted there I know a good many of the people. It is ten miles west of Detroit on the Chicago road. I saw he began to take great interest in what I said. I asked if he thought he would know one of his sisters if she were present. He said he thought he would. I told him there was one there. Then they threw off all restraint and met as only loved ones can after so long a separation. Uncle was overjoyed to see her again, upon earth, and mother was delighted to see him and Aunt Betsey. The light of other days, youth and happy associations of life flashed up before them in memory clear and vivid, which touched the most sensitive chord of their hearts and caused them to vibrate, in love for one another. They visited as only two who love so well and have been separated so long can visit. Minds less sensitive, than theirs, cannot imagine with what degree of intensity of spirit and feeling, they told over to each other, first some of the scenes of their youth, which they enjoyed together so many years before, then the absence of loved ones dear to them both. A father, two brothers and a sister had departed their life since mother moved to Michigan. Ah! what changes thirty years had produced! Their voices, which mother had heard so often there, she never would hear again and the smile of their countenances would never greet her more. They were gone and their places left vacant. A great many former acquaintances of mother had also disappeared. They talked about the hardships they had endured while apart and of some things they had enjoyed which were as bright spots, or oases, in the desert of their separation. Now as I was there, I wished to visit the place where I had been in days of yore, in my childhood. The places had changed some but I could go to every place I remembered. The distance, from one place to another, didn't seem more than half as far as I had it laid out in my mind. The country appeared very rough to me. What we used to call hills, looked to me like small mountains. I supposed the reason was because I had been living so long in a level country. The rocks and stones appeared larger and the stones seemed to lie thicker on the ground than I had supposed. The ledges and boulders appeared very strange to me I had been gone so long. I found that the land was very natural for grass, where it wasn't too stony. It produced excellent pasture upon the hillsides, good meadow on the bottom and ridges, where it was smooth enough and not so stony but that it could be mowed. I went to see our old spring. It was running yet. Uncle had plenty of fruit. I looked for the apple trees that I used to know and they had almost entirely disappeared. I saw where they had raised good corn and potatoes on uncle's place. Oats, that season, had been a very poor crop. Wheat, uncle said they couldn't raise, but they could raise good crops of rye. I passed by another school house where I had attended school. The same building where I got one pretty warm whipping for failing to get a lesson. The school buildings which I saw there both looked old and dilapidated. I thought they looked poor in comparison to our common school houses in Michigan. I had a good many cousins, who lived there; scattered around. I went to see as many of them as I could. I had one cousin, who lived off about four or five miles. I wished very much to see her for I remembered her quite well, we were young together. Uncle's folks said she was married and lived on a ridge that they named. Cousin Allen said he would go with me to see her, so we started. Before we got there we had about a mile to go up hill. Cousin got along very well and didn't seem to mind it, but it was up hill business for me to climb that ridge. I wondered how teams could get up and down safely; they must have understood ascending and descending better than our Michigan teams or, it seemed to me, they would have got into trouble. We finally got on to the top of what they called a ridge. I found some pretty nice table land up there, for that country, and two or three farms. After we reached the highest part of the ridge we stopped and I looked off at the scenery, it appeared wild and strange. I could look north and see miles beyond where uncle lived and see hills and ridges. I could look in every direction and the same strange sights met my view. I think my cousin told me, that to the southwest of us, we could see some of the mountains near the North river. While I looked at the rugged face of the country, it didn't seem hardly possible that that could be so old a country, and Michigan so new. West of us we could look down into a hollow or valley. The flat appeared to be about eighty rods wide, on the bottom between the ridges. West of the hollow there arose another great ridge, like unto the one on which we stood. Along this hollow there was a creek and a road running lengthwise with the hollow. I saw a man, with a lumber wagon and horses, driving along the road; from where I stood, and looked at them, they didn't appear larger than Tom Thumb and his Shetland ponies. We finally got to my cousin's, I found that she had changed from a little girl to an elderly woman. She was very glad to see me and wanted me to stay longer than I felt inclined to, for I wanted to be back to the old home again, viewing the scenes of my childhood as, to me, there was a sort of fascination about them. Up there I noticed a small lake, near the top of the ridge. I thought it a strange place for a lake. I asked cousin if there were fish in it, he said there were, that they caught them there sometimes. I asked if the lake was deep; he said in some parts of it they could not find bottom. I looked over it away down into the hollow beyond, and thought there might be room enough below for it to be bottomless; it might head in China for all I knew. As I gazed I thought, can it be possible that this country appears so much rougher, to me, than it used to, and yet be the same? As I stood and peered away from one mountain and hill to another, at the gray and sunburnt rocks, jagged ledges, precipices and the second growth of scrubby timber, that dotted here and there and grew on the sides of hills, where it was too stony and steep for cultivation, it astonished me. My friends appeared well pleased with their native hills and vales and I have no doubt they thought, as they expressed it to me, that they lived near the best market and that New York was ahead. But the place how changed to me! If I could have seen some wigwams and their half nude inhabitants, on the hill sides, in the room of the houses of white men, and have witnessed the waving of the feathery plume of the red man, above his long black hair, I should have thought, from the view and the face of the land, that that old country was very new and wild and that Michigan, where I lived at least, was the old country after all. Nature seemed to be reversing the two countries. It appeared to me like the wild--wild--west Yosemite valley and mountains, or some other place. How strange! Here I am standing upon my native soil. I used to think it was the brightest spot upon this dim place men call earth. In coming down the hill, I had to be cautious how far I stepped, in order to keep upright, as I was liable to move too fast, get up too much motion, I had to hold back on myself and keep one knee at a time crooked. In that way I got safely down. I was a little cautious, for I had on me scars made by falling on stones and cutting myself, when near that place long years before, when I was a little boy driving father's cows, to and fro, night and morning, from the new place he bought, (the buying of which was one great reason of our going to Michigan to find a new home and live where white men had never lived before.) I went back to uncle's and told him, that I had made him a pretty good visit. I tried to get him and some of the rest of my friends to promise me to go west and see our country and judge of it for themselves. They said we western men had to bring our produce, and whatever we had to sell, down to the New York market, in order to dispose of it. I made up my mind, if New York was the head and mouth of Uncle Sam, that his body and heart were in the great central West, his hands upon the treasury at Washington and his feet were of California, like unto polished gold, washed by the surf of the Pacific Ocean. When Uncle Sam wished them wiped he could easily place them on his snow topped foot-stool, the Rocky mountains, and Miss Columbia, with a smile would wipe them with the clouds and dry them in the winds of the Nevada, while she pillowed his head softly on the great metropolis, New York, where the Atlantic breeze fans his brow and lets him recline in his glory, the most rapidly risen representation of a great nation that the world has ever seen. When Uncle Sam brings his hand from Washington it is full of green backs and gold, which he scatters broadcast among his subjects. Here and there across the continent it flies, like the leaves in autumn, so that it can be gathered by persevering men, who till the soil or follow other pursuits of industry. It is free for all who will get it honestly. A little east and north of the garden city, is Michigan, one of Uncle Sam's gardens. I think it is a beautiful place, dotted here and there and nearly surrounded by great fountains that sparkle, glimmer and shine, in the sun, like the rays of the morning--beautiful garden. It is interspersed, here and there, with groves of primeval evergreens and crossed now and then by beautiful valleys and dotted by flowery walks and pleasant homes of the gardeners. It abounds in picturesque scenery, has a very productive soil and helps to furnish some of Uncle Sam's family, of about forty millions, with many of the good things of life, even down in "Gotham." So we get some of their money, from down there, if they are ahead of us and the head of America. I am satisfied for one, to live in one of the peninsula gardens of the West. As my wife wished to visit her native place on the Hudson River, we would have to stop there a short time, and as my wife and brother wished to visit the city of New York we bade good by to uncle and his family and started. Took the "Harlem Railroad" and in a short time were in the city. We put up at the "Lovejoy Hotel" opposite the City Hall. We had rooms and everything comfortable. We visited the Washington market and some of the ships that lay in the harbor. We went on board one ocean steamer, went through it and examined it. We crossed the river to Brooklyn. Visited Greenwood Cemetery and saw all the sights we could conveniently, on that side of the river. One night we visited Barnum's American Museum, after this we went to see the Central Park and other places. We made up our minds that we had seen a good deal and that New York was an immense city. CHAPTER XXXI. LEAVING NEW YORK CITY FOR HOME. We thought it was about time we started for home. We began to want to get back to Michigan, so we agreed to start. Brother J. S. was to take the "Harlem Railroad," go to uncle's, stop and visit, get mother and meet us, on a certain day at Albany. My wife and I took the "Hudson River Railroad" and came as far as Peekskill. We visited together the place of her nativity, where she lived until she was twelve years old. She found many very warm friends there among her relatives. We passed through Peekskill hollow to visit some of her friends. There I saw some beautiful land. It looked nice enough for western land, if it had not been for the rugged scenery around it. When the day came, that we were to meet mother at Albany, we took the cars and started. When we passed Fishkill I knew the place well. I had been there a number of times before, when I was a boy. Newburg, on the opposite side of the river, appeared the most natural of any place I had seen. Along the river it appeared beautiful, and the mountains grand. It was the first time I had been there since we moved to Michigan. We soon passed Poughkeepsie, the place where we took the night boat, so many years before, bound for the territory of Michigan. As we approached the Catskill mountains, I should say ten or fifteen miles away, they looked like a dark cloud stretched across the horizon; and when we came nearer and nearer the highest one, and it was in plain sight, it appeared majestic and grand. From the car window, we could see the mountain house that stood upon its towering summit. We could see small clouds, floating along by the top of the mountain. That was the greatest mountain I had ever seen; yet it is small in comparison to some in our own country. Not one third so high in the world as Fremont's peak, where he unfurled the banner of our country, threw it to the breeze and it proudly floated in the wind, higher than it had ever been before. We soon got to Albany, went to a hotel near the railroad depot, called for a room and told the landlord that we would occupy it until the next morning. As mother could not rest on the cars, I thought it would be easier for her to stay there over night, and we would see some of the western part of the state of New York the next day. After dinner we locked up our room and Mrs. Nowlin and I went out to take a look at Albany. We went up to the state house, the capitol, and visited the room, where the legislators of the "Empire state" meet to make laws for her people. There we saw the statue of the extraordinary man, Secretary of State and statesman, William H. Seward. He, who shortly after, was attacked by an assassin, where he lay sick upon his bed, in his room at Washington and was so severely wounded, that the nation despaired of his life for some time. We went back to the hotel, and as the time was nearly up for the Harlem train from New York City, I went back across the river to meet mother and brother John Smith. The train shortly came in and they had come. Brother had mother upon his arm. She was very glad to see me. I got hold of her and she had two strong arms of her boys to lean upon. I told her we had a room over in Albany and were keeping house; that we would stop there all night and start again in the morning. It would make it more easy for her, and we would not have those jingling, rattling cars passing in the night, to keep us awake. We crossed over the river and went to our quarters. We four were all together again and had some new things to tell each other as we had been apart a few days. We passed the night very comfortably. Early the next morning a regiment of soldiers, from the west, came hurrying on to the seat of war to defend the flag of our Country and the glorious Union. It rained very hard, I stood one side and noticed the "Boys in Blue" as they came pouring out of the depot. Their officers did not seem to have them under very good control. Their discipline wasn't very good yet; after they got out, there were several of them who seemed to be inclined to go on their own hooks. The officers had about all they could do to keep them along. One physically powerful, hardy looking man passed near me. He said, he thought it was a little hard, early in the morning, after a fellow had been jammed and bruised all night and it rained that he couldn't be allowed to stop and take a drop. The officer told him to keep in the ranks. I felt interested to know if they were Michigan men, but was not able to learn where they were from. In a few minutes we were aboard of our train and started again for Michigan. The prospect of getting home soon elated mother very much. She had lost most of her attachment for her native place, and it was no comparison, in her mind, to her Michigan. She said uncle offered to give her a farm, if she would move back there and spend the remainder of her days by him. But it was nothing in comparison to Michigan, it was an inducement far too small for her to consider favorably. We were coming home as fast as steam could bring us and it was raining all the time. I told mother I thought we should run out from under the rain clouds before night, but that was a mistake. It rained all day long and was dark when we got to the suspension bridge. When we got off the cars, the runners were a great annoyance to mother. I told her not to pay any attention to them, we would find a good place. There was a gentleman standing near us, who heard what I said. He told me that there was a good house, the "New York Hotel," which stood close by. Said he was not interested for any, but that that house was a good one. I told mother we would go there and we started. I was helping mother along and told my wife and brother to follow us. It was hard work for them to get away from the runners. They hated very much to give them up, and they were making as much noise over them as a flock of wild geese. But my wife and brother left them and followed us. We got to the "New York House" and called for a room. We found it to be a very good house. We wanted to stay over night there, as it would be better for mother and we wished to go up and see the Falls next day. The next morning after breakfast my wife, brother and I went up to the Falls. As it was still raining mother stayed in her room, she didn't wish to go. We went up on the American side and went down three hundred steps of stairs to the foot of the Falls. After this we viewed Goat Island, went across it to the stone tower, went up its rickety winding stairs to the top and looked upon the majestic scenery of nature, which was spread out before us there. I saw no place there where it appeared so terribly grand to me as it did when I stood at the foot of the Falls. There we went out on the rocks as far as we could, and not get too wet with the spray, and viewed the water as it poured over the cataract and plunged into the abyss below, beat itself into foam and spray, which settled together again and formed the angry waves that went rolling and tumbling away to the sea. There I heard the sound of many waters thundering in their fall and I thought, while looking at that sublime and wonderful display of nature, that the waters of the river and creeks of my own "Peninsula State," after turning hundreds of mills, slaking thirst and giving life to both man and beast, came there for an outlet. It plunges into Niagara River and goes gliding away to the ocean; some of it to be picked up by the wind and rays of the sun and rise in vapor. When formed into clouds in the atmosphere it is borne back on the wings of the wind, condensed by the cold air and falls in copious showers of rain upon the earth, to purify the atmosphere, moisten and fertilize the fields and cause vegetation to spring forth in its beauty. The rain falling upon the just and the unjust makes the heart of the husbandman leap for joy, at the prospect of a bountiful harvest, causes the foliage and the gardens to put on a more beautiful green, the lilies of the valley and the rose in the garden ("the transient stars of earth") to unfold themselves more beautifully. Then the cloud passes away, bearing and sprinkling the limpid fluid upon other lands, and the sun looks out upon the cool, healthful, invigorating and refreshing scene. The beautiful rainbow, in its splendor, seems to span the arch of heaven, placed there as a token of remembrance, so long before. It lasts but a little while and then disappears, the cloud also passes away. In this and similar ways the rivers and creeks are kept supplied with water and the Falls of Niagara kept continually roaring. We went back to the "New York House" and shortly after took the cars for Dearborn. We arrived there about ten o'clock in the evening. Mother walked home, to the "Castle," a mile, very spryly. She seemed to feel first rate. She was pleased to get home. Father and the family had retired for the night when we got there, but father soon had a light and a fire and was ready to listen to our stories. We told him how near we had come losing mother. That uncle had offered to give her a farm if she would come back, live on it and spend her days by him. We told him what farm it was; he knew the place as he was well acquainted in that country. We told him if she went back they could go together and he could carry on the farm. But the inducement was far too small for them to entertain the thought of going, for a moment. Michigan was their home, had won their affections and was their favorite place. I told father, that he must go and visit his native place, see how rough it was and I would go with him. I thought it would appear rougher to him than he expected or could imagine. He said he would like to go back sometime and see the country once more. He kept putting it off from year to year. It is said, "Procrastination is the thief of time." He never went. He bought him eight acres more land joining his two places. He paid for it seventy dollars an acre and had some money left. Part of the eight acres was a ridge covered with chestnut trees. Father enjoyed himself there very much, a few of the last falls of his life, picking up chestnuts. He was a man a little over six feet tall. He walked straight and erect until the sickness, which terminated his existence in time, at the age of seventy-six years, in the year 1869. He went the way of all the earth. The rest of the family and I, missed him very much. Our counselor and one of our best friends was gone. He had fought his last battle and finished his course. Mother survived him. She gave each of the children a silver piece (they were all old coins of different nations and times, each worth a dollar or more) which father had saved in an early day. They were in mother's work basket in the dark room at Buffalo, were brought in it, through the fearful storm on Lake Erie, to Michigan and saved through all of our hard times in the wilderness. I have my piece yet, as a keepsake, and I think my brother and sisters have theirs. After father's death, mother still lived at the "Castle" and my sister Bessie, who took all the care of her in her old age that was possible, stayed with her. All the rest of the children did every thing they could for her comfort. She felt lonesome without father, with whom she had spent nearly fifty years of her life. She lived a little over three years after he was gone and followed him. She was seventy-one years old, in 1873, when her voice was hushed in death and mother too was gone. We laid her by father's side in a place selected by himself for that purpose. It is a beautiful place, about a mile and a half southwest of where they lived and in plain sight of what was their home. Long before this there was a voice of one often heard in prayer in the wilderness, where we first settled, and that voice was mother's. Father and mother believed in one faith and mother from her youth. For years they tried to walk hand in hand, in the straight and narrow path, looking for and hastening to a better country than they had been able to find on this mundane sphere. 
29608	----	[Illustration: THE AUTHOR] PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF A CAVALRYMAN WITH CUSTER'S MICHIGAN CAVALRY BRIGADE IN THE CIVIL WAR BY J.H. KIDD FORMERLY COLONEL SIXTH MICHIGAN CAVALRY AND BREVET BRIGADIER GENERAL OF VOLUNTEERS IONIA, MICHIGAN SENTINEL PRINTING COMPANY 1908 COPYRIGHTED 1908 BY JAMES H. KIDD (All rights reserved) THE SENTINEL PRESS IONIA, MICHIGAN TO MY WIFE AND SON AND TO MY COMRADES OF THE MICHIGAN CAVALRY BRIGADE THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED PREFACE In preparing this book it has not been the purpose of the author to write a complete historical sketch of the Michigan cavalry brigade. Such a history would require a volume as large for the record of each regiment; and, even then, it would fall short of doing justice to the patriotic services of that superb organization. The narrative contained in the following pages is a story of the personal recollections of one of the troopers who rode with Custer, and played a part--small it is true, but still a part--in the tragedy of the civil war. As such it is modestly put forth, with the hope that it may prove to be "an interesting story" to those who read it. The author also trusts that it may contribute something, albeit but a little, toward giving Custer's Michigan cavalrymen the place in the history of their country which they so richly earned on many fields. Doubtless many things have been omitted that ought to have been included and some things written in that it might have been better to leave out. These are matters of personal judgment and taste, and no man's judgment is infallible. The chapters have been written in intervals of leisure during a period of more than twenty years. The one on Cedar Creek appeared first in 1886; the Gettysburg campaign in 1889; Brandy Station, Kilpatrick's Richmond expedition, the Yellow Tavern campaign, Buckland Mills, Hanovertown and Haw's Shop, The Trevilian Raid and some other portions have been prepared during the current year--1908. While memory has been the principal guide, the strict historical truth has been sought and, when there appeared to be a reasonable doubt, the official records have been consulted, and the writings of others freely drawn upon to verify these "recollections." The Memoirs of P.H. Sheridan and H.B. McClellan's Campaigns of Stuart's Cavalry have been of especial value in this respect; the latter helping to give both sides of the picture, particularly in the accounts of the battles of Buckland Mills and Yellow Tavern. Wade Hampton's official reports were put to similar use in describing the battle of Trevilian Station. So far as mention is made of individual officers and men there is no pretense that the list is complete. Those whose names appear in the text were selected as types. Hundreds of others were equally deserving. The same remark applies to the portraits. These are representative faces. The list could be extended indefinitely. It was intended to include in an appendix a full roster of all the men who served in the Sixth Michigan cavalry and in the other regiments as well; but this would have made the book too bulky. By applying to the adjutant general of Michigan the books published by the state giving the record of every man who served in either of the regiments in the brigade can be obtained. The Roll of Honor--a list of all those who were killed in action, or who died of wounds received in action--is as complete as it was possible to make it from the official records. In a very few cases, men who were reported "missing in action," and of whom no further record could be found, were assumed to have belonged in the list, but these are not numerous enough to materially affect the totals. For the rest, the author cannot claim that he has done justice to either of these organizations, but he has made an honest effort to be fair and impartial, to tell the truth as he saw it, without prejudice. How well he has succeeded is not for him to say. "It is an interesting story," said an officer who served with distinction in the Fifth Michigan cavalry. If that shall be the verdict of all the comrades who read it, the writer will be satisfied. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I A NATIONAL AWAKENING 1 II AN EVENTFUL WINTER 12 III RECRUITING IN MICHIGAN 23 IV THE SUMMER OF 1862 29 V JOINING THE CAVALRY 35 VI IN THE REGIMENTAL RENDEZVOUS 46 VII THE DEPARTURE FOR WASHINGTON 69 VIII THE ARRIVAL IN WASHINGTON 72 IX THE STAY IN WASHINGTON 79 X FIELD SERVICE IN VIRGINIA 87 XI IN THE GETTYSBURG CAMPAIGN 113 XII FROM GETTYSBURG TO FALLING WATERS 161 XIII FROM FALLING WATERS TO BUCKLAND MILLS 191 XIV THE BATTLE OF BUCKLAND MILLS 212 XV WINTER QUARTERS IN STEVENSBURG 227 XVI THE WILDERNESS CAMPAIGN 261 XVII THE YELLOW TAVERN CAMPAIGN 278 XVIII YELLOW TAVERN TO CHESTERFIELD STATION 307 XIX HANOVERTOWN AND HAW'S SHOP 318 XX THE TREVILIAN RAID 337 XXI IN THE SHENANDOAH VALLEY 373 XXII THE BATTLE OF CEDAR CREEK 403 XXIII A MYSTERIOUS WITNESS 434 XXIV A MEETING WITH MOSBY 444 LIST OF MAPS 1. ROUTE OF THE MICHIGAN CAVALRY BRIGADE IN THE GETTYSBURG CAMPAIGN _Opposite Page 113_ 2. BATTLEFIELD OF TREVILIAN STATION JUNE 11-12, 1864 _Opposite Page 337_ 3. BATTLEFIELD OF WINCHESTER SEPTEMBER 19, 1864 _Opposite Page 385_ ILLUSTRATIONS PORTRAIT OF AUTHOR _Frontispiece_ AUSTIN BLAIR _Opposite Page 18_ THORNTON F. BRODHEAD 24 JAMES H. KIDD (in 1864) 37 JACOB O. PROBASCO 41 GEORGE GRAY 51 RUSSELL A. ALGER (in 1862) 54 GEORGE A. CUSTER (in 1863) 129 GEORGE A. CUSTER (in 1864) 132 DAVID MCMUTRIE GREGG 139 WILLIAM D. MANN 148 GEORGE G. BRIGGS 150 LUTHER S. TROWBRIDGE 153 CHARLES H. TOWN 156 JUDSON KILPATRICK 165 AARON CONE JEWETT 175 PETER A. WEBER 187 CHARLES E. STORRS 201 GEORGE A. CUSTER (about 1872) 211 DON G. LOVELL 219 WESLEY MERRITT 237 LEVANT W. BARNHART AND WILLIAM HULL 253 A.C. LITCHFIELD 258 ANGELO E. TOWER 291 PHILIP H. SHERIDAN 297 FITZHUGH LEE AND STAFF (in Cuba) 313 M.C. BUTLER 323 THOMAS W. HILL 334 WADE HAMPTON 345 MANNING D. BIRGE 357 SERGEANT AVERY 362 MELVIN BREWER 395 CHARLES R. LOWELL 411 THOMAS C. DEVIN 428 WITH CUSTER'S MICHIGAN CAVALRY BRIGADE PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF A CAVALRYMAN CHAPTER I A NATIONAL AWAKENING The war cloud that burst upon the country in 1861 was no surprise to sagacious observers. For many years it had been visible, at times a mere speck in the sky, again growing larger and more angry in appearance. It would disappear, sanguine patriots hoped forever, only to come again, full of dire portent and evil menacings. All men who were not blind saw it, but most of them trusted, many believed, that it would pass over and do no harm. Some of those high in authority blindly pinned their faith to luck and shut their eyes to the peril. Danger signals were set, but the mariners who were trying to steer the Ship of State, let her drift, making slight, if any, efforts to put her up against the wind and keep her off the rocks. It is likely, however, that the Civil War was one of those things that had to be; that it was a means used by destiny to shape our ends; that it was needed to bring out those fine traits of National character which, up to that time, were not known to exist. Southern blood was hot and Northern blood was cold. Though citizens of one country, the people of the North and the people of the South were separated by a wide gulf in their interests and in their feelings. Doubt had been freely thrown upon the courage of the men who lived north of Mason and Dixon's line. The haughty slave owners and slave dealers affected to believe, many of them did believe, that one southern man could whip five "yankees." It took four years of war to teach them a different lesson. It was the old story of highland and lowland feud, of the white rose and the red rose, of roundhead and cavalier, of foemen worthy of each other's steel fighting to weld "discordant and belligerent elements" into a homogeneous whole. But war is not always an unmixed evil. Sometimes it is a positive good, and the Nation emerged from its great struggle more united than ever. The sections had learned to respect each other's prowess and to know each other's virtues. The cement that bound the union of states was no longer like wax to be melted by the fervent heat of political strifes. It had been tested and tempered in the fiery furnace of civil war. The history of that war often has been written. Much has been written that is not history. But whether fact or fiction, the story is read with undiminished interest as the years rush by. One story there is that has not been told, at least not all of it; nor will it be until the last of those who took part in that great drama shall have gone over to the silent majority. It is the story of the individual experiences of the men who stood in the ranks, or of the officers who held no high rank; who knew little of plans and strategy, but bore their part of the burden and obeyed orders. There was no army, no corps, no division, brigade, or regiment, scarcely a battery, troop, or company, which went through that struggle, or a soldier who served in the field "for three years or during the war," whose experiences did not differ from any other, whose history would not contain many features peculiar to itself or himself. Two regiments in the same command, two soldiers in the same regiment, might get entirely different impressions of the battle in which both participated. Two equally truthful accounts might vary greatly in their details. What one saw, another might not see, and each could judge correctly only of what he, himself, witnessed. This fact accounts, in part, for the many contradictions, which are not contradictions, in the "annals of the war." The witnesses did not occupy the same standpoint. They were looking at different parts of the same panorama. Oftentimes they are like the two knights who slew each other in a quarrel about the color of a shield. One said it was red, the other declared it was green. Both were right, for it was red on one side and green on the other. On such flimsy pretexts do men and nations wage war. Why then wonder if historians differ also? In the "Wilderness," each man's view was bounded by a very narrow horizon and few knew what was going on outside their range of vision. What was true of the "Wilderness" was true of nearly every battle fought between the union and confederate forces. No picture of a battle, whether it be painted in words or in colors, can bring into the perspective more than a glimpse of the actual field. No man could possibly have been stationed where he could see it all. Hence it came to pass that many a private soldier knew things which the corps commander did not know; and saw things which others did not see. The official reports, for the most part, furnish but a bare outline and are often misleading. The details may be put in by an infinite number of hands, and those features that seen separately appear incongruous, when blended will form a perfect picture. But it must be seen, like a panorama, in parts, for no single eye could take in, at once, all the details in a picture of a battle. In the winter of 1855-56, while engaged as assistant factotum in a general lumbering and mercantile business in the pine woods of Northern Michigan, one of my functions was that of assistant postmaster, which led to getting up a "club" for the New York Weekly Tribune, the premium for which was an extra copy for myself. The result was that in due time my mind was imbued with the principles of Horace Greeley. The boys who read the Tribune in the fifties were being unconsciously molded into the men, who, a few years later, rushed to the rescue of their country's flag. The seed sown by Horace Greeley, and others like him, brought forth a rich crop of loyalty, of devotion and self-sacrifice that was garnered in the war. In the latter part of the year 1860, the air was full of threatenings. The country was clearly on the verge of civil war, and the feeling almost as intense as it was in the following April, after the flash of Edmund Ruffin's gun had fired the Northern heart. In October, I came a freshman into the University of Michigan, in Ann Arbor. That noble institution was, even then, the pride of the Peninsula state. A superb corps of instructors, headed by Henry P. Tappan, the noblest Roman of them all, smoothed the pathway to learning which a thousand young men were trying to tread. These boys were full of life, vigor, ambition and energy. They were from various parts of the country, though but few were from the Southern States. The atmosphere of the place was wholesome, and calculated to develop a robust, courageous manhood. The students were led to study the best antique models, and to emulate the heroic traits of character in the great men of modern times. It may be said that nowhere in the land did the fires of patriotism burn with more fervent heat, during the eventful and exciting period that preceded by a few months the inauguration of Abraham Lincoln. The young men took a deep interest in the political campaign of that year, and watched with eager faces for every item of news that pertained to it. The nomination of Abraham Lincoln was a bitter disappointment to the young Republicans of Michigan. Seward was their idol and their ideal, and when the news came of his defeat in the Chicago convention, many men shed tears, who later learned to love the very ground on which the Illinois "Railsplitter" stood; and who today cherish his memory with the same reverential respect which they feel for that of Washington. During that memorable campaign, Seward spoke in Detroit and scores of students went from Ann Arbor to hear him. He did not impress one as a great orator. He was of slight frame, but of a noble and intellectual cast of countenance. His arguments were convincing, his language well-chosen, but he was somewhat lacking in the physical attributes so essential to perfect success as a public speaker. His features were very marked, with a big nose, a firm jaw, a lofty forehead, and a skin almost colorless. He had been the choice of Michigan for president and was received with the warmest demonstrations of respect and enthusiasm. Every word that fell from his lips was eagerly caught up by the great multitude. It was a proud day for him, and his heart must have been touched by the abounding evidences of affection. Seward was looked upon as the embodiment of sagacious statesmanship and political prescience, but how far he fell short of comprehending the real magnitude of the crisis then impending, was shown by his prediction that the war would last but ninety days. His famous dictum about the "irrepressible conflict" did him more credit. That same year, Salmon P. Chase also spoke in Michigan. There were giants in those days. Chase was not at all like Seward in his appearance. Tall and of commanding figure, he was a man of perfect physique. He had an expressive face and an excellent voice, well adapted to out-door speaking. In manner, he appeared somewhat pompous, and the impression he left on the mind of the listener was not so agreeable as that retained of the great New Yorker. At some time during the summer of 1860, Stephen A. Douglas passed through Michigan over the Central Railroad. His train stopped at all stations and hundreds of students flocked to see and hear him. He came off the car to a temporary platform, and for twenty minutes, that sea of faces gazing at him with rapt attention, talked with great rapidity, but with such earnestness and force as to enchain the minds of his hearers. His remarks were in part stereotyped, and he made much of his well-worn argument about the right of the territories to "regulate their own domestic institutions in their own way, subject only to the constitution." In manner, he was easy and graceful, in appearance, striking. He spoke with no apparent effort. Of massive frame, though short in stature, after the manner of General Sheridan, his head was large and set off by a luxuriant growth of hair that served to enhance its apparent size. His face was smooth, full and florid, the hue rather suggestive. His countenance and bearing indicated force, courage and tenacity of purpose. I was not surprised when he announced that he was on the side of the Union, and believe that, had he lived, he would have been, like Logan, a great soldier and a loyal supporter of Lincoln. He was a patriot of the purest type and one of the ablest men of his time. A significant incident of the winter of 1860-61, seems worth recalling. That period was one of the most intense excitement. What with the secession of the Southern States, the resignation of Senators and Members of Congress, and the vacillating course of the Buchanan administration, the outlook was gloomy in the extreme. There were in the University a number of students from the South, and they kept their trunks packed ready to leave at a moment's notice. Party feeling ran high, and the tension was painful. William Lloyd Garrison came to Ann Arbor to speak and could not get a hall, but finally succeeded in securing a building used for a school-house, in the lower part of the town. Here he was set upon by a lot of roughs, who interrupted him with cat-calls and hisses, and made demonstrations so threatening, that, to avoid bodily injury, he was compelled to make his exit through a window. The affair was laid to the students, and some of them were engaged in it, to their discredit, be it said. It was not safe for an "Abolitionist" to free his mind even in the "Athens" of Michigan. Harper's Weekly published an illustrative cut of the scene, and Ann Arbor achieved an unenviable notoriety. One day all hands went to the train to see the Prince of Wales, who was to pass through, on his way to Chicago. There was much curiosity to see the queen's son. He had been treated with distinguished consideration in the East and was going to take a look at the Western metropolis. There was a big crowd at the station, but his royal highness did not deign to notice us, much less to come out and make a speech, as Douglas did, who was a much greater man. But the "Little Giant" was neither a prince nor the son of a prince, though a "sovereign" in his own right, as is every American citizen. Through the open window, however, we had a glimpse of the scion of royalty, and saw a rather unpretentious looking young person, in the garb of a gentleman. The Duke of Newcastle stood on the platform, where he could be seen, and looked and acted much like an ordinary mortal. The boys agreed that he might make a very fair governor or congressman, if he were to turn Democrat and become a citizen of the land of the free and the home of the brave. The faculty in the University of Michigan, in 1860, was a brilliant one, including the names of many who have had a world-wide reputation as scholars and savants. Andrew D. White, since President of Cornell University and distinguished in the diplomatic service of his country, was professor of history. Henry P. Tappan, President of the University, or "Chancellor," as he was fond of being styled, after the manner of the Germans, was a magnificent specimen of manhood, intellectually and physically. Tall and majestic in appearance, he had a massive head and noble countenance, an intellect profound and brilliant. No wonder that he was worshiped, for he was god-like in form and in mind. Like many another great man, however, it was his fate to incur the enmity of certain others too narrow and mean to appreciate either his ability or his nobility of character. Being on the Board of Regents they had the power, and used it relentlessly, to drive him out of the seat of learning which he had done more than all others to build up and to honor. The University was his pride and glory and when he was thus smitten in the house of his friends he shook the dust from his feet and went away, never to return. It is a sad story. He died abroad, after having been for many years an exile from his native land. The feeling against these men was bitter in the extreme. The students hung one of them in effigy and marched in a body to the house of the other and assailed it with stones and missiles, meantime filling the air with execrations on his head. Both long since ceased to be remembered, even by name, but the memory of Tappan remains as one of the choicest traditions of the University, and it will be as enduring as the life of the institution itself. CHAPTER II AN EVENTFUL WINTER It was an eventful winter that preceded the breaking out of the war between the states. The salient feature of the time, apart from the excitement, was the uncertainty. War seemed inevitable, yet the temporizing continued. The South went on seizing forts and plundering arsenals, terrorizing union sentiment, and threatening the federal government. The arming of troops proceeded without check, and hostile cannon were defiantly pointed at federal forts. Every friend of his country felt his cheek burn with shame, and longed for one day of Andrew Jackson to stifle the conspiracy while it was in its infancy. One by one the states went out, boldly proclaiming that they owed no allegiance to the government; but the leaders in the North clung to the delusion that the bridges were not all burned and that the erring ones might be coaxed or cajoled into returning. Concessions were offered, point after point was yielded, even to the verge of dishonor, in an idle attempt to patch up a peace that, from the nature of the case, could have been but temporary, if obtained on such terms. The people of the Northern States had set their faces resolutely against secession and, led by Lincoln, had crossed the Rubicon and taken up the gage of battle, which had been thrown down by the South. There was, then, no alternative but to fight. All other schemes were illusive. The supreme crisis of the Nation had come, and there was no other way than for the loyalty of the country to assert itself. The courage of the people had to be put to the proof, to see whether they were worthy of the heritage of freedom that had been earned by the blood of the fathers. For fifty years there had been no war in this country, except the affair with Mexico, so far away that distance lent enchantment to the view. The Northern people had not been bred to arms. The martial spirit was well-nigh extinct. Men knew little of military exercises, except such ideas as had been derived from the old militia system, that in many states was treated by the people rather with derision than respect, and in most of them was, in the impending emergency, a rather poor reliance for the national defense. Southerners, trained in the use of firearms and to the duello, did not attempt to conceal their contempt for their Northern brethren, and feigned to believe that north of Mason and Dixon's line lived a race of cowards. It did not take long to demonstrate that the descendants of the Green Mountain Boys and of the western pioneers were foes worthy of the mettle of the men who came from the states of Sumter and Marion, and "Light Horse Harry Lee." The blood of their heroic ancestry ran in their veins, and they were ready and willing to do or die when once convinced that their country was in deadly peril. The people, indeed, were ready long before their leaders were. Some of the ablest men the North had produced were awed by their fear of the South--not physical fear, for Webster and Douglas and Cass were incapable of such a thing--but fear that the weight of Southern political influence might be thrown against them. Many of the party leaders of the North had come to be known as "dough-faces," a term of reproach, referring to the supposed ease with which they might be kneaded into any form required for Southern use. They might have been styled very appropriately "wax-nosed politicians," after the English custom, from the way they were nosed around by arrogant champions of the cause of slavery. Conciliation was tried, but every effort in that direction failed. A tempest of discussion arose over the "Crittenden compromise resolutions," the last overture for peace on the part of the North. It was generally conceded that it would be better to have war than to give up all for which the North had been contending for so many years. There was a feeling of profound indignation and disgust at Buchanan's message to Congress, in which he virtually conceded the right of secession and denied the power of the federal government to coerce a state. The course of General Cass in resigning from the Cabinet, rather than be a party to the feeble policy of the President, was applauded by all parties in Michigan, and the venerable statesman resumed his old-time place in the affections of the people of the Peninsula state. Governor Blair voiced the sentiments of Democrats and Republicans alike, when he practically tendered the whole power of the state to sustain the federal government in its determination to maintain the Union. All the utterances of the "War Governor" during that trying period breathed a spirit of devoted patriotism and lofty courage. The people were with him and long before the call to arms was sounded by President Lincoln, the "Wolverines" were ready to do their part in the coming struggle. In the evening of the day when Fort Sumter was fired upon, the students marched in a body to the house of Chancellor Tappan and called him out. His remarks were an exhortation to duty, an appeal to patriotism. He advised against haste, saying that the chances were that the country would be more in need of men in a year from that time than it was then. The University would put no hindrance in the way of such students as might feel impelled by a sense of duty to respond to the call for troops, but, on the contrary, would bid them God speed and watch their careers with pride and solicitude. The speech was calm but filled with the loftiest sentiments. Professor Andrew D. White was also visited and made a most memorable and significant speech. Standing on the porch of his house, in the presence of several hundred young men, he declared his opinion that one of the greatest wars of history was upon us, which he believed would not end in a day, but would be a protracted and bloody struggle. "I shall not be surprised," said he, "if it turns out to be another 'Thirty Years War,' and no prophet can predict what momentous consequences may result from it, before a Gustavus Adolphus shall arise to lead the armies of the Union to victory." He made a rousing union speech that was loudly cheered by the throng of young men who heard it. Dr. Tappan also addressed an immense mass meeting, and all things worked together, to arouse the entire people to a high pitch of enthusiastic ardor for the cause of the Union. At once, the town took on a military air. The state militia companies made haste to respond to the first call for three months' service and were assigned to the First regiment of Michigan infantry, stationed in Detroit. The ranks were filled to the maximum, in an incredibly short space of time. Indeed, there were more men than munitions for the service, and it was more difficult to equip the troops than to enlist them. The "position" of private in the ranks was much sought. As an illustration of this: On the afternoon before the First regiment of Michigan three-months men was to leave Detroit to march to Washington, my room-mate, William Channing Moore, a member of the Freshman class, came hurriedly into the room and, aglow with excitement, threw down his books, and extending his hand, said: "Good-by, old boy; there is a vacant position in the Adrian company. I have accepted it and am off for the war. I leave on the first train for Detroit and shall join the company tomorrow morning." "What is the position?" I asked. "High private in the rear rank," he laughingly replied. Moore was in the Bull Run battle, where he was shot through the arm and taken prisoner. He was exchanged and discharged and came back to his class in 1862. His sense of duty was not satisfied, however, for he enlisted again in the Eighteenth Michigan infantry, in which regiment he rose to be a captain. He survived the war and returned to civil life, only to be drowned several years later while fording a river in the South. "Billy" Moore, as he was affectionately called, was a young man of superb physique, an athlete, a fine student, and as innocent of guile as a child. He is mentioned here as a typical student volunteer, one of many, as the record of the Michigan University in the war amply proves. Two other University men, worthy to be named in the list with Moore, were Henry B. Landon and Allen A. Zacharias. Landon was graduated from the literary department in 1861. He immediately entered service as adjutant of the Seventh Michigan infantry--the regiment which led the advance of Burnside's army across the river in the battle of Fredericksburg. He was shot through the body in the battle of Fair Oaks, the bullet, it was said, passing through both lungs. This wound led to his discharge for disability. Landon returned to Ann Arbor and took a course in the medical department of the University, after which he reentered service as assistant surgeon of his old regiment. He survived the war, and became a physician and surgeon of repute, a pillar in the Episcopal church, and an excellent citizen. Landon was a prince of good fellows, always bubbling over with fun, drollery, and wit; and, withal, a fine vocalist, with a rich bass voice. In the winter of 1863-64, he often came to see me in my camp on the Rapidan, near Stevensburg, Virginia, and there was no man in the army whose visits were more welcome. [Illustration: AUSTIN BLAIR] Zacharias was graduated in 1860. He went to Mississippi and became principal of a military institute. Military schools were numerous in the South. It will be remembered that General W.T. Sherman was engaged in similar work in Louisiana. "Stonewall" Jackson was professor of military science in Virginia. The South had its full share of cadets in West Point, so that the opening of hostilities found the two sections by no means on an equality, in the matter of educated officers. Zacharias came north, and went out in the Seventh Michigan infantry, in which he was promoted to captain. He was mortally wounded in the battle of Antietam. When his body was recovered on the field, after the battle, a letter addressed to his father was found clasped in his hand. It read as follows: "I am wounded, mortally, I think. The fight rages around me. I have done my duty; this is my consolation. I hope to meet you all again. I left not the line until nearly all had fallen and the colors gone. I am weak. My arms are free, but below my chest all is numb. The enemy is trotting over me. The numbness up to my heart. Good-by to all. ALLAN."[1] The reference, in a previous paragraph, to General Cass, recalls the name of Norval E. Welch, a student of law, who was remarkable for his handsome face and figure. It is related of him that on an occasion when he was in Detroit, he happened to walk past the residence of General Cass, who was then, I believe, one of the United States senators from Michigan. The latter was so much impressed with the appearance of Welch, that he called him back and inquired his name, which was readily given. After a few moments' conversation, Cass asked Welch how he would like to be his private secretary, and, receiving a favorable response, tendered him the appointment on the spot. Welch served in that capacity until Cass went into the Cabinet of President Buchanan, when he came to Ann Arbor and took up the study of the law. When the Sixteenth Michigan infantry was organized, he was commissioned major, and was killed when leaping, sword in hand, over the confederate breastworks at Peebles's Farm, September 30, 1864. He had, in the meantime, been promoted to the colonelcy of his regiment. Morris B. Wells was a graduate of the law department. He went into the war as an officer of the same regiment with Welch, but was subsequently promoted to be lieutenant colonel of the Twenty-first Michigan infantry. He was killed at Chickamauga. No two men could be less alike in appearance than Norval Welch and Morris Wells. One was the embodiment of physical beauty, ruddy with health, overflowing with animal spirits, ready for a frolic, apt with the foils, dumb-bells or boxing gloves, but not particularly a student; the other, tall, rather slender, with an intellectual cast of countenance, frank and manly in his bearing, but somewhat reserved in manner and undemonstrative. Both were conspicuous for their gallantry, but the one impelled by that exuberant physical courage which is distinctive of the leonine type; the other an exemplar of that moral heroism which leads men to brave danger for a principle. They gave everything--even their lives--for their country. The list might be indefinitely extended, but more is not needed to illustrate the spirit of the college boys of 1861-62. But the students did not all go. Many remained then, only to go later. The prospect of danger, hardship, privation, was the least of the deterrent forces that held them back. To go meant much in most cases. It was to give up cherished plans and ambitions; to abandon their studies and turn aside from the paths that had been marked out for their future lives. Some had just entered that year upon the prescribed course of study; others were half way through; and others still, were soon to be graduated. It seemed hard to give it all up. But even these sacrifices were slight compared to those made by older men and heads of families. And there was no need to depopulate the University at once. The first call filled, those who were left behind began to prepare for whatever might come. The students organized into military companies. Hardee's tactics became the leading text-book. There were three companies or more. These formed a battalion and there was a major to command it. One company was styled "The Tappan Guard," after the venerable President, and it was made up of as fine a body of young men as ever formed in line. Most of them found their way into the federal army and held good positions. The captain was Isaac H. Elliott, of Illinois, the athlete, par excellence, of the University, a tall, handsome man and a senior. "Tom" Wier, a junior, was first lieutenant and the writer second lieutenant. Elliott went to the war as colonel of an Illinois regiment of infantry and was afterwards, for many years, adjutant general of that state. Wier went out in the Third Michigan cavalry and became its lieutenant colonel. At the close of the war he was given a commission as second lieutenant in the Seventh United States cavalry, Custer's regiment, was brevetted twice for gallantry, and after escaping massacre with his chief at Little Big Horn, died of disease in New York City in 1876. CHAPTER III RECRUITING IN MICHIGAN Ann Arbor was not the only town where the fires of patriotism were kept burning. It was one of many. "From one learn all." The state was one vast recruiting station. There was scarcely a town of importance which had not a company forming for some one or other of the various regiments that were organizing all through the year. Before the close of the year, aside from the three months men, three regiments of cavalry, eleven regiments of infantry, and five batteries were sent out, all for three years. There was little difficulty in getting recruits to fill these organizations to their maximum standard. No bounties were paid, no draft was resorted to. And, yet, the pay for enlisted men was but thirteen dollars a month. The calls of the President, after the first one for seventy-five thousand, were generally anticipated by the governor, and the troops would be in camp before they were called for, if not before they were needed. The personnel was excellent, and at first great pains were taken to select experienced and competent officers. Alpheus S. Williams, Orlando B. Wilcox, Israel B. Richardson, John C. Robinson, Orlando M. Poe, Thornton F. Brodhead, Gordon Granger, Phillip H. Sheridan and R.H.G. Minty were some of the names that appeared early in the history of Michigan in the war. Under their able leadership, hundreds of young men were instructed in the art of war and taught the principles of tactics, so that they were qualified to take responsible positions in the regiments that were put in the field the following year. I remember going to see a dress parade of the First Michigan cavalry at Detroit in August. It was formed on foot, horses not having yet been furnished. It was a fine body of men, and Colonel Thornton F. Brodhead impressed me greatly because of his tall, commanding figure and military bearing. He distinguished himself and was killed at Second Bull Run. Among the other officers was a spare, frail looking man named Town. He was at that time major and succeeded to the colonelcy after the death of Brodhead. He always sought death on the battle field, but never found it, and came home to die of consumption after the war was over. He was a modern Chevalier Bayard, and led his regiment at Gettysburg in the grandest cavalry charge of the war. I have no doubt that Meade's right was saved, July 3, 1863, by the superb courage of Charles H. Town and his brave followers. History is beginning to give the cavalry tardy justice for the part it played in that, one of the few great, decisive battles. [Illustration: THORNTON F. BRODHEAD] One of the most interested spectators of the parade was the venerable statesman and Democratic leader, Lewis Cass. He was then seventy-nine years of age, and few men had occupied a more conspicuous place in State and Nation. He was not without military experience, having been prominent in the frontier war of 1811, and in the war of 1812 he served as an aid to General Harrison. Soon thereafter, he was appointed brigadier general in the United States army, and was Secretary of War in the Cabinet of President Jackson. He also served as Territorial governor of Michigan, under the administrations of Madison, Monroe and John Quincy Adams. The fact of his resignation from the Cabinet of James Buchanan has already been referred to. I confess that I was, for the time being, more interested in that quiet man, standing there under the shadow of a tree, looking on at the parade, than in the tactical movements of the embryotic soldiers. There was, indeed, much about him to excite the curiosity and inflame the imagination of a youngster only just turned twenty-one. Obtaining a position near where he stood, I studied him closely. He was not an imposing figure, though of large frame, being fat and puffy, with a heavy look about the eyes, and a general appearance of senility. He wore a wig. The remarks he made have gone from my memory. They were not of such a character as to leave much of an impression, and consisted mostly of a sort of perfunctory exhortation to the troops to do their duty as patriots. It was with something of veneration that I looked at this man (standing on the verge of the grave he appeared to be), and, yet, he outlived many of the young men who stood before him in the bloom of youth. He did not seem to belong to the present so much as to the past. Fifty years before I was born, he had been a living witness of the inauguration of George Washington as first President of the United States. He had watched the growth of the American Union from the time of the adoption of the Constitution. He had been a contemporary of Jefferson, Madison, the Adamses, Burr and Hamilton. He had sate in the Cabinets of two different Presidents, at widely separated periods. He had represented the government in the diplomatic service abroad, and had served with distinction against the enemies of his country. He had seen the beginning of political parties in the United States and had been a prominent actor through all the changes. He was a youth of twelve when the Reign of Terror in France was in full blast, and thirty-three years of age when Napoleon Bonaparte was on the Island of St. Helena. He had witnessed the downfall of Pitt and the partition of Poland. He was, indeed, a part of the dead past. His work was done, and it seemed as if a portrait by one of the great masters had stepped down from the canvas to mingle with living persons. When the young men from the South, who were in the University felt compelled to return to their homes, to cast in their lots with their respective states, the students in a body escorted them to their trains, and bade them good-by with a sincere wish for good luck to attend them wherever they might go, even though it were into the confederate military service. The parting was rather with a feeling of melancholy regret that the fates cruelly made our paths diverge, than one of bitterness on account of their belief in the right of states to secede. There was a humorous, as well as a pathetic side to the war. Soldiers or students, young men were quick to see this. The penchant which boys have to trifle with subjects the most grave, gave rise to a funny incident in Ypsilanti (Michigan). There were two rival schools in that town--the "State Normal" and the "Union Seminary." The young men in these two flourishing institutions were never entirely at ease except when playing practical jokes upon each other. Soon after the secession of South Carolina, some of the Seminary boys conceived the idea of compelling the Normal people to show their colors. The first-named had put up the stars and stripes, a thing that the latter had neglected to do. One morning when the citizens of the town arose and cast their eyes toward the building dedicated to the education and training of teachers, they were astonished to see, flying from the lightning rod on the highest peak of the cupola, a flag of white, whereon was painted a Palmetto tree, beneath the shade of which was represented a rattle snake in act to strike. How it came there no one could conjecture, but there it was, floating impudently in the breeze, and how to get it down was the question. I believe that the authorities of the school never learned who it was that performed this daring feat, but it will be violating no confidence, at this late day, to say that the two heroes of this daring boyish escapade, which was at the time a nine-days' wonder, served in the war, one of them in what was known as the "Normal" company, and are now gray-haired veterans, marching serenely down the western slope, toward the sunset of their well-spent lives. CHAPTER IV THE SUMMER OF 1862 The summer of 1862 was one of the darkest periods of the war. Though more than a year had elapsed since the beginning of hostilities, things were apparently going from bad to worse. There was visible nowhere a single ray of light to illumine the gloom that had settled down upon the land. All the brilliant promise of McClellan's campaign had come to naught, and the splendid army of Potomac veterans, after having come within sight of the spires of Richmond, was in full retreat to the James. The end seemed farther away than in the beginning. Grant's successful campaign against Forts Henry and Donelson had been succeeded by a condition of lethargy in all the Western armies. Notwithstanding the successes at Pittsburg Landing and at Corinth, and the death of Albert Sidney Johnston, who had been regarded as the ablest of all the officers of the old army who had taken service with the confederates, there had been a total absence of decisive results. McClellan had disappointed the hopes of the people; Grant was accused of blundering and of a fondness for drink; the great ability of Sherman was not fully recognized; and the country did not yet suspect that in Sheridan it had another Marlborough. Stonewall Jackson was in full tilt in Virginia, and Robert E. Lee had given evidence that he could easily overmatch any leader who might be pitted against him. With more of hope than of confidence, the eyes of the Nation were turned towards Halleck, Buell, and Pope. It was a dismal outlook. Union commanders were clamoring for more men and the Union cause was weak, because of the lack of confidence which Union generals had in each other. The patriotism of the volunteers, under these most trying and discouraging circumstances, was still the only reliance. Big bounties had not been offered and the draft had not yet been thought of, much less resorted to. War meetings were being held all over the state, literally in every school house, and recruiting went on vigorously. During the year 1862, Michigan equipped three regiments of cavalry, four batteries, two companies of sharpshooters, and fifteen regiments of infantry, which were mustered into the service of the United States. About the time that the college year closed, President Lincoln issued a call for 300,000 more. This call was dated July 2, 1862, the last previous one having been made on July 25, 1861--almost a year before. Under this call, Congressman Francis W. Kellogg, of the then Fourth congressional district of Michigan, came home from Washington with authority to raise two more regiments of cavalry. This authority was direct from Secretary Stanton, with whom, for some reason, Mr. Kellogg had much influence, and from whom he received favors such as were granted to but few. He looked like Mr. Stanton. Perhaps that fact may have accounted, in part at least, for the strong bond of friendship between him and the great War Secretary. Under similar authority he had been instrumental, during the year 1861, in putting into the field the Second and Third regiments of Michigan cavalry. They had made an excellent record and that, likewise, may have counted to his credit with the War Department. Be that as it may, Mr. Kellogg went at this work with his accustomed vigor and, in a very short space of time, the Sixth and Seventh regiments were ready for muster, though the latter did not leave the state until January, 1863. The Fourth and Fifth regiments had been recruited under a previous call. To show how little things often change the course of men's lives, an incident of personal experience is here related. The Fifth Michigan cavalry was recruited under the title of "Copeland's Mounted Riflemen." One of the most picturesque figures in America before the war was John C. Fremont, known as "The Pathfinder," whose "Narrative," in the fifties, was read by boys with the same avidity that they displayed in the perusal of the "Arabian Nights." Fremont had a regiment of "Mounted Riflemen" in the Mexican war, though it served in California, and the youthful imagination of those days idealized it into a corps d'elite, as it idealized the Mexican war veterans, Marion's men, or the Old Guard of Napoleon Bonaparte. The name had a certain fascination which entwined it around the memory, and when flaming posters appeared on the walls, announcing that Captain Gardner, of the village of Muir, was raising a company of "Mounted Riflemen" for Copeland's regiment, four young men, myself being one of them, hired a livery team and drove to that modest country four-corners to enlist. The "captain" handed us a telegram from Detroit saying that the regiment was full and his company could not be accepted. The boys drove back with heavy hearts at the lost opportunity. That is how it happened that I was not a private in the Fifth Michigan cavalry instead of a captain in the Sixth when I went out, for, in a few days from that time, Mr. Kellogg authorized me to raise a troop, a commission as captain being conditional on my being in camp with a minimum number of men, within fifteen days from the date of the appointment. The conditions were complied with. Two of the other boys became captains in the Sixth Michigan cavalry; the other went out as sergeant-major of the Twenty-first Michigan infantry and arose in good time to be a captain in his regiment. The government, during the earlier period of the war, was slow to recognize the importance of the cavalry arm of the service. It was expensive to maintain, and the policy of General Scott and his successors was to get along with as small a force of mounted men as possible, and these to be used mostly for escort duty and for orderlies around the various infantry headquarters. There was, consequently, in the cavalry very little of what is known as "esprit de corps." In the South, the opposite policy prevailed. At the First Bull Run, the very name of the "Black Horse cavalry" struck terror into the hearts of the Northern army, though it must be confessed that it was rather moral influence than physical force that the somewhat mythical horsemen exerted. Southern men were accustomed to the saddle, and were as a rule better riders than their Northern brethren. They took naturally to the mounted service, which was wisely fostered and encouraged by the Southern leaders, and, under the bold generalship of such riders as Ashby, Stuart, Hampton, Fitzhugh Lee, Rosser, Mosby, and others, the cavalry of the army of Northern Virginia surpassed that of the army of the Potomac both in numbers and in efficiency. McClellan says in his book that he often thought he made a mistake in not putting "Phil" Kearney in command of the cavalry. There is no doubt about it. Kearney had just the right sort of dash. If he had been given a corps of horse, with free rein, as Sheridan had it later on, "Phil" Kearney might have anticipated by at least two years the brilliant achievements of "Cavalry Phil" Sheridan. But the dashing one-armed hero was fated to be killed prematurely, and it was not until 1863, that Pleasanton, Buford, Gregg, Kilpatrick, and Custer began to make the Union troopers an important factor in the war; and Sheridan did not take command of the cavalry corps, to handle it as such, until the spring of 1864. Even then, as we shall see later, he had to quarrel with the commander of the army in order to compel recognition of its value as a tactical unit upon the field of battle. It was to Hooker, and not to Meade, that credit was due for bringing the cavalry into its proper relation to the work of the Northern army. Under the able leadership of such officers as those mentioned, the Federal cavalry took a leading part in the Gettysburg campaign and those which succeeded it, and was able to meet the flower of the South on equal terms and on its own ground. There will be no more honorable page in the history of our country than that on which will be written the record of the cavalry of the armies of the Potomac and of the Shenandoah. CHAPTER V JOINING THE CAVALRY I finished my sophomore year in June, 1862, and returned to my home full of military spirit and determined to embrace the first favorable opportunity to enter the volunteer service. As second lieutenant of the "Tappan Guard," I had acquired a pretty thorough knowledge of Hardee's tactics and a familiarity with the "school of the soldier" and "school of the company" which proved very useful. Most of the summer was given up to drilling the officers and men in one of the companies of the Twenty-first Michigan infantry, which was in camp near the town, fitting for the field. The officers were new to the business, without training or experience, as volunteer officers were apt to be, and gladly availed themselves of my help, which was freely given. I was offered a commission as first lieutenant in that regiment, but my ambition was to go in the cavalry and it was soon to be gratified. Late in the month of August my father, coming home from Grand Rapids, met an old friend on the train who told him of Congressman Kellogg's arrival in that place and what his mission was. I wanted to be a second lieutenant and told my father that I preferred that to higher rank in the infantry. So, the next day, he went down to see the Congressman. His application for my appointment was heartily seconded by a number of influential men in the "Valley City," who knew nothing of me, but did it through their friendship for my father, whom they had known for many years as one of the most energetic and honorable business men in the Grand River valley. From 1848, he had been a familiar figure in lumbering circles and during that period there had been no year when, from May 1 till snow flew, his fleets of rafts of pine lumber were not running over the dam at Grand Rapids. With the business men along the river his relations had been close and friendly. They were, therefore, not reluctant to do him a favor. Among these I will mention but two, though there were many others who were equally zealous in the matter. Wilder D. Foster and Amos Rathbun were two of the best known men in the metropolis of western Michigan. Mr. Foster was a hardware merchant who had built up a splendid business from small beginnings in the pioneer days. He succeeded Thomas White Ferry in the United States Congress, after Mr. Ferry had been elected to the Senate. Mr. Rathbun, "Uncle Amos" he was called, was a capitalist who had much to do with the development of the gypsum or "plaster" industry in his section of the state. Their influence with Mr. Kellogg was potent, and my father obtained more than he asked for. He came home with a conditional appointment which ran thus: "Headquarters 6th Regt. of Mich. Cavalry. Grand Rapids, Aug. 28, 1862. "To Captain James H. Kidd: "You are hereby authorized to raise a company of mounted riflemen for this regiment on condition that you raise them within fifteen days from this date, and report with them at the rendezvous in this city. "F.W. KELLOGG, Colonel Commanding." My surprise and gratification can better be imagined than described. To say that I was delighted would be putting it mildly. But the document with the Congressman's signature attached to it was not very much of itself. I was a captain in name only. There was no "company" and would not be unless a minimum of seventy-eight men were recruited, and at the end of fifteen days the appointment would expire by limitation. On the original document which has been carefully preserved appears the following endorsement in Mr. Kellogg's handwriting: "The time is extended for raising this company until Tuesday of next week." The fifteen days expired on Saturday and Mr. Kellogg kindly gave us four days extra time to get into camp. It was, however, no easy task to get the requisite number of men in the time allowed, after so many men had been recruited for other regiments. The territory which we could draw upon for volunteers had been very thoroughly canvassed, in an effort to fill the quota of the state under Lincoln's last call. But it was less difficult to raise men for cavalry than for infantry and I was hopeful of succeeding. I soon learned that three others had received appointments for commissions in the same troop--one first, one second, and one supernumerary second lieutenant. The same conditions were imposed upon them. Thus, there were four of us whose commissions hinged upon getting a minimum number of men into camp within fifteen days. The man designated for first lieutenant was Edward L. Craw. Some of Craw's friends thought he ought to be the captain, as he was a much older man than myself, though he had no knowledge of tactics and was in every sense a novice in military affairs. In a few days word came that Mr. Kellogg wanted to see me. He had been told that I was a "beardless boy" and he professed to want men for his captains. My friends advised me not to go--to be too busy recruiting, in fact--and I followed their advice. Had I gone, the "colonel" would, doubtless, have persuaded me to change with Craw, since I would have been more than satisfied to take second place, not having too high an opinion of my deserts. But there was no time to waste and recruiting was strenuously pushed. Kellogg must have been stuffed pretty full of prejudice, for I never came to town that I did not hear something about it. My friends seemed beset with misgivings. One of them called me into his private office and inquired if I could not manage to raise a beard somehow. I am not sure that he did not suggest a false mustache as a temporary expedient. I told him that it would have to be with a smooth face or not at all. It would be out of the question to make a decent show in a year's time and with careful nursing. Finally, "Uncle Amos" Rathbun heard of it and told Kellogg to give himself no concern about "the boy," that he would stand sponsor for him. "Uncle" Amos, though long ago gathered to his fathers, is alive yet in the memory of hundreds of Union soldiers whom he never failed to help as he had opportunity. And he did not wait for the opportunity to come to him. He sought it. He had a big heart and an open hand, and no man ever had a better friend. As for myself, I recall his name and memory with a heart full of gratitude for, from the moment I entered the service, he was always ready with the needed word of encouragement; prompt with proffers of aid; jealous of my good name; liberal with praise when praise was deserved; appreciative and watchful of my record till the end. If he had faults they were overshadowed by his kindness of heart and his unaffected virtues. When the record is made up, it will be found with "Uncle Amos" as it was with "Uncle Toby," when he uttered that famous and pardonable oath: "The accusing angel flew to heaven with the oath, blushed as he handed it in. The recording angel, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon it and blotted it out forever." I was the first man to enlist in the embryotic troop and take the oath. The first recruit was Angelo E. Tower, a life long friend, who entered service as first sergeant and left it as captain, passing through the intermediate grades. His name will receive further mention in the course of this narrative. The method of obtaining enlistments was to hold war meetings in schoolhouses. The recruiting officer accompanied by a good speaker would attend an evening meeting which had been duly advertised. The latter did the talking, the former was ready with blanks to obtain signatures and administer the oath. These meetings were generally well attended but sometimes it was difficult to induce anybody to volunteer. Once, two of us drove sixteen miles and after a fine, patriotic address of an hour, were about to return without results, when one stalwart young man arose and announced his willingness to "jine the cavalry." His name was Solomon Mangus and he proved to be a most excellent soldier. [Illustration: JACOB O. PROBASCO] On one of my trips, having halted at a wayside inn for lunch, I was accosted by a young man not more than seventeen or eighteen years of age, who said he had enlisted for my troop and, if found worthy, he would be much pleased if he could receive the appointment of "eighth corporal." I was amused at the modesty of the request, which was that he be placed on the lowest rung of the ladder of rank. The request did not appear unreasonable, and when the enrolment of troop "E" Sixth Michigan cavalry was completed, he appeared on the list as second corporal. From this rank he rose by successive steps to that of captain, winning his way by merit alone. For a time he served on the brigade staff, but, whether as corporal, sergeant, lieutenant, captain or staff officer, he acquitted himself with honor and had the confidence of those under whom he served as well as of those whom he commanded. His name was Jacob O. Probasco. In the western part of the county our meetings collided with those of "Captain" Pratt, who had an appointment similar to mine and for the same regiment. Pratt was a big man--a giant almost--full of zeal and enthusiasm. He was a Methodist preacher--a revivalist--and did his own exhorting. He was very fatherly and patronizing and declared that he would not interfere with my work; that he had plenty of men pledged--more than he needed--and would cheerfully aid in filling my quota, in addition to his own. His promise was taken with a grain of salt and, in the end, I mustered more men than he did, and he had none to spare. Both troops were accepted, however, and both of us received our commissions in due time, as the sequel will show. There was that about "Dominie" Pratt that impressed people with the idea that he would be a great "fighting parson." He was so big, burly and bearded, fierce looking as a dragoon, and with an air of intense earnestness. He was very pious and used to hold prayer meetings in his tent, conducted after the manner of the services at a camp meeting. His confidence in himself, real or assumed, was unlimited. Several of the officers who had seen no service in the field, were talking it over one evening in the colonel's tent, and conjecturing how they would feel and act when under fire. Most of them were in anything but a boastful mood, contenting themselves with modestly expressing the belief that when the ordeal came and they were put to the proof, they would stand up to the work and do their duty like officers and gentlemen. Captain Pratt said little, but, as we were walking away after the conference had broken up, he placed his arm around my waist, in his favorite, affectionate way (he had known me from boyhood) and in his most impressive pulpit manner, said: "Jimmie," (he always addressed me thus) "Jimmie, let others do as they may, I want to say to you, that the men who follow me on the field of battle go where death reigneth." As he neared the climax of this dire prediction, he unwound the arm with which he held me to his side and, raising it, emphasized his words with a fierce gesture. I confess that I drew back a step, and felt a certain sensation of awe and respect, as I beheld in him the incarnation of courage and carnage. It may or may not be pertinent to mention that the intrepid captain never led his troop to slaughter; never welcomed the enemy "with bloody hands to hospitable graves." On account of ill health, he was compelled to resign in February, 1863, before the regiment marched from Washington into Virginia. I have always regretted that necessity, because, notwithstanding his apparent bravado, the captain was really a brave man, and there was such a fine opportunity in the "Old Dominion," in those days, for one who really hungered for gore to distinguish himself. It would have been a glorious sight to see the gigantic captain, full of the fiery spirit that animated Peter the Hermit when exhorting his followers to the rescue of the holy sepulcher, charging gallantly at the head of his men into the place "where death reigneth." There were several of those places in the southern country. At the period of the civil war the word "company" was applied indiscriminately to cavalry or infantry. The unit of formation was the company. At the present time there is a distinction. A captain of cavalry commands a "troop." A captain of infantry commands a "company." A troop of cavalry corresponds to a company of infantry. For the sake of convenience and clearness this classification will henceforth be observed in the course of this narrative. The troop, then, the raising of which has been thus briefly sketched, was ready on Tuesday, September 16, 1862, to begin its career as a military unit in the great army of union volunteers. It is known in the history of the civil war as Troop E, Sixth Michigan cavalry (volunteers). It was originally constituted as follows: James H. Kidd, captain; Edward L. Craw, first lieutenant; Franklin P. Nichols, second lieutenant; Ambrose L. Soule, supernumerary second lieutenant. Angelo E. Tower, first sergeant; James L. Manning, quartermaster sergeant; Amos T. Ayers, commissary sergeant; William H. Robinson, William Willett, Schuyler C. Triphagen, Marvin E. Avery, Solon H. Finney, sergeants. Amos W. Stevens, Jacob O. Probasco, Isaac R. Hart, Benjamin B. Tucker, George I. Henry, David Welch, Marvin A. Filkins, James W. Brown, corporals. Simon E. Allen, William Almy, Eber Blanchard, Heman S. Brown, Shuman Belding, Lester A. Berry, George Bennett, George Brown, John Cryderman, Edward H. Cook, William B. Clark, James H. Corwin, Eugene C. Croff, William W. Croff, Randall S. Compton, Manley Conkrite, William H. Compton, Seth Carey, Marion Case, Amaron Decker, Daniel Draper, Rinehart Dikeman, Thomas Dickinson, Orrin W. Daniels, Matthias Easter, Francis N. Friend, Ira Green, James Gray, George I. Goodale, Eli Halladay, Luther Hart, Elias Hogle, George E. Halladay, Robert Hempstead, Edmond R. Hallock, Henry M. Harrison, Warren Hopkins, John J. Hammel, Miles E. Hutchinson, Luther Johnson, Searight C. Koutz, Louis Kepfort, Archibald Lamberton, Martin Lerg, David Minthorn, Solomon Mangus, Andrew J. Miller, Jedediah D. Osborn, Timothy J. Mosher, Gershom W. Mattoon, Moses C. Nestell, George W. Marchant, Edwin Olds, Walter E. Pratt, Albert M. Parker, George W. Rall, Frederick Smith, Jesse Stewart, Josiah R. Stevens, David S. Starks, Orlando V.R. Showerman, David Stowell, James O. Sliter, Jonathan C. Smith, Meverick Smith, Samuel J. Smith, Josiah Thompson, William Toynton, John Tunks, Mortimer Trim, Albert Truax, Oliver L. VanTassel, Byron A. Vosburg, John VanWagoner, Sidney VanWagoner, Erastus J. Wall, Charles Wyman, Harvey C. Wilder, Israel Wall, Lewis H. Yeoman.[2] The troop that thus started on its career was a typical organization for that time--that is it had the characteristics common to the volunteers of the early period of the civil war. When mustered into the service it numbered one hundred and five officers and men. Though for the most part older than the men who went out later, the average age was but twenty-eight years. Nineteen were twenty or under; twenty-nine were thirty or under; eighteen were thirty-one or under. Only nine were over forty. For personnel and patriotism, for fortitude and endurance, they were never excelled. But they were not professional soldiers. At first, they were not soldiers at all. They were farmers, mechanics, merchants, laboring men, students, who enlisted from love of country rather than from love of arms, and were absolutely ignorant of any knowledge of the technical part of a soldier's "business." The militia had been mostly absorbed by the first calls in 1861 and the men of 1862 came from the plow, the shop, the schoolroom, the counting room or the office. With few exceptions, they were not accustomed to the use of arms and had everything to learn. The officers of this particular organization had no advantage over the others in this respect, for, save myself, not one of them knew even the rudiments of tactics. Indeed, at the date of muster, there were but three officers in the entire regiment who had seen service. These were Lieutenant Colonel Russell A. Alger, Captain Peter A. Weber and Lieutenant Don G. Lovell. CHAPTER VI IN THE REGIMENTAL RENDEZVOUS It was a raw, rainy day when we took up the march from the railroad station to the ground whereon had been established the rendezvous for the regiment. It was a motley collection of soldiers, considering the record they were to make during the coming years of active service in the field. All were in citizens' clothes, and equipped with neither uniforms nor arms. Assembled in haste for the journey, there had been no opportunity even to form in line or learn to keep step. No two of them were dressed alike. They were hungry and wet. Few had overcoats, none ponchos or blankets. Quarters were provided for the night in a vacant store where the men were sheltered from the rain, but had to sleep on the bare floor without cots or comforts of any kind. But, notwithstanding the gloomy conditions that attended this introduction to the volunteer service, they, in the main, kept up their good spirits, though some were visibly depressed and looked as if they were sorry they had come. In less than a year from that time, they had learned to endure a hundred-fold greater deprivations and hardships with equal minds. The next morning, breakfast was served in an improvised dining-hall on the bank of the river which ran hard by. Then there was another march to "camp," the captain reported for duty to the "commandant," and a sort of routine of military exercises was entered upon. The officer in command and his adjutant were also new to the business and haste was made very slowly while they felt their way along. After a few days the camp was removed to better ground, which was high and dry, and overlooked the town. Here the real work of equipping, organizing and training began. There were twelve troops, each composed of about one hundred officers and men. The officers were quartered in "wall" tents, but there were not tents enough, so wooden barracks were built for the men. A hospital was established in a house near by. This was pretty well patronized, at first, the exposure making many men ill. There was a guardhouse, also, but not much use for it. A large portion of each day was given up to drill. The rivalry among the captains was spirited, for they had been called together soon after reporting for duty, and informed that they would be given their respective places in line, by letter, from "A" to "M," consecutively, according to proficiency in drill upon a certain date, the two highest places barred, the assignments having been made previously. As the relative rank of these officers depended upon the letter given, it may be imagined that they spared no effort of which they were severally capable. They became immediate students, both in theory and in practice, of Philip St. George Cooke's cavalry tactics wherein the formation in single rank was prescribed. Soon after going into this camp, uniforms were issued and horses also. The uniform for the enlisted men, at that time, consisted of a cavalry jacket, reinforced trousers, forage cap, and boots which came to the knee. Arms, except sabers, were not supplied until after leaving the state. The horses were purchased in Michigan, and great care was taken through a system of thorough inspection to see that they were sound and suitable for the mounted service. In the end, the regiment had a most excellent mount, both the horses and horse equipments being of the best that could be procured. The horses were sorted according to color, the intention being that each unit should have but one color, as near as practicable. Thus, as I remember it, troop "A" had bays; "B" browns; "C" greys; "D" blacks; and so on. This arrangement did not last long. A few months' service sufficed to do away with it and horses thereafter were issued indiscriminately. The effect, however, so long as the distinction could be kept up, was fine. It was a grand sight when the twelve hundred horses were in line, formed for parade or drill in single rank, each troop distinguishable from the others by the color of the horses. When the Fifth Michigan cavalry was mustered into the United States service at Detroit there was one supernumerary troop. This was transferred to the Sixth Michigan, then forming in Grand Rapids, and given the letter "A" without competition. This entitled it to the position on the right flank in battalion formations, and made its commanding officer the senior captain of the regiment. The officers were, captain, Henry E. Thompson; first lieutenant, Manning D. Birge; second lieutenant, Stephen H. Ballard; supernumerary second lieutenant, Joel S. Sheldon. Before they left the service, Thompson was lieutenant colonel; Birge, major; Ballard, captain; and Sheldon, regimental commissary. This troop attracted a great deal of attention from the time of its arrival in camp for, having been organized some two or three months, it was fairly well drilled and disciplined, fully uniformed, and the officers were as gay as gaudy dress and feathers could make them. They wore black hats with ostrich plumes, and presented a very showy as well as a soldierly appearance. The plumes, like the color arrangement of horses, did not last long. Indeed, few if any of the officers outside of "A" troop, bought them, though they were a part of the uniform prescribed in the books. Two officers who came to the regiment from the Second Michigan cavalry, and who had had over a year's experience in the field, gave the cue that feathers were not a necessary part of the equipment for real service and served no useful purpose. One of these two officers I met on the day of my arrival in the temporary camp. It was that wet, drizzly day, when I was sitting in the tent of the "commandant" awaiting orders. With a brisk step and a military air a young man of about my own age entered, whose appearance and manner were prepossessing. He looked younger than his years, was not large, but had a well-knit, compact frame of medium height. He was alert in look and movement, his face was ruddy with health, his eyes bright and piercing, his head crowned with a thick growth of brown hair cut rather short. He wore a forage cap, a gum coat over his uniform, top boots, and appeared every inch the soldier. He saluted and gave the colonel a hearty greeting and was introduced to me as Captain Weber. Peter A. Weber was clerking in a store when the war broke out and entered service as a corporal in the Third Michigan infantry. When the Second Michigan cavalry was organized he was commissioned battalion adjutant and had been called home to take a captaincy in the Sixth. By reason of his experience, he was given the second place, "B". Weber was a rare and natural soldier, the embodiment of courage and, had not death interrupted his career, must have come near the head of the list of cavalry officers. The battle in which he distinguished himself and lost his life will be the theme of a future chapter. [Illustration: GEORGE GRAY] In troop "F", commanded by Captain William Hyser, was Second Lieutenant Don G. Lovell, one of the three veteran officers. He went out as corporal in the Third Michigan infantry, was wounded at Fair Oaks, and again at Trevillian Station while serving in the cavalry. He was one of the bravest of the brave. Along in September, before the date of muster, I received a letter from a classmate in Ann Arbor asking if there was an opening for him to enlist. I wrote him to come and, soon after joining, he was appointed troop commissary sergeant. At that time, Levant W. Barnhart was but nineteen years of age and a boy of remarkable gifts. He was one of the prize takers in scholarship when he entered the University in 1860, in the class of 1864. His rise in the volunteers was rapid. Passing successively through the grades of first sergeant, second and first lieutenant, he in 1863 was detailed as acting adjutant. While serving in this position he attracted the notice of General Custer who secured his appointment by the War Department as assistant adjutant general with the rank of captain. He served on the staff of General Custer till the war closed--succeeding Jacob L. Greene. For one of his age his record as scholar and soldier was of exceptional brilliancy. He was barely twenty-one when he went on Custer's staff, who was himself not much more than a boy in years. (Custer was but twenty-six when Lee surrendered at Appomattox.) George Gray, "lieutenant colonel commanding," was a lawyer of brilliant parts, a good type of the witty, educated Irishman, a leader at the bar of Western Michigan who had no equal before a jury. He had much reputation as an after-dinner speaker, and his polished sentences and keen sallies of wit were greatly enjoyed on occasions where such gifts were in request. Though generally one of the most suave of men, he had an irascible temper at times. The flavor of his wit was tart and sometimes not altogether palatable to those who had to take it. In discipline he was something of a martinet. He established a school of instruction in his tent, where the officers assembled nightly to recite tactics, and no mercy was shown the luckless one who failed in his "lessons." Many a young fellow went away from the "school" smarting under the irony of the impatient colonel. Some of his remarks had a piquant humor, others were characterized by the most biting sarcasm. "Mr. ----," said he one morning when the officers were grouped in front of his tent in response to 'officers' call,' "Mr. ----, have you gloves, sir?" "Yes, sir," replied the lieutenant, who had been standing with hands in his trousers pockets. "Well, then, you had better put them on and save your pockets." It is needless to say that the young officer thereafter stood in position of the soldier when in presence of his commander. Nothing was so offensive to Colonel Gray as untidy dress or shabby habiliments on a member of the guard detail. One morning in making his usual inspection, he came upon a soldier who was particularly slovenly. Ordering the man to step out of the ranks, the colonel surveyed him from head to foot, then, spurning him with his foot, remarked: "That is a--pretty looking thing for a soldier; go to your quarters, sir." Once or twice I felt the sting of his tongue, myself, but on the whole he was very kind and courteous, and we managed to get along together very well. For a time it was supposed that the colonelcy would go to an army officer, and it may be recalled as an interesting fact that George A. Custer was at that very time a lieutenant on McClellan's staff and would have jumped at the chance to be colonel of a Michigan cavalry regiment. As has been shown, Philip H. Sheridan, Gordon Granger, O.B. Wilcox, I.B. Richardson, and other regulars, began their careers as officers in the volunteer service by accepting commissions from Governor Blair. Custer was never a colonel. He was advanced from captain in the Fifth United States cavalry to full brigadier general of volunteers and his first command was four Michigan regiments, constituting what was known as "Custer's Michigan cavalry brigade"--the only cavalry brigade in the service made up entirely of regiments from a single state. A petition was circulated among the officers, asking the governor to appoint Gray colonel. We all signed it, though the feeling was general that it would be better for him to retain the second place and have an officer of the army, or at least one who had seen service, for our commander. The petition was forwarded, however, and Gray was commissioned colonel. Soon thereafter, it was announced, greatly to the satisfaction of all concerned, that the vacancy caused by Gray's promotion was to be filled by an officer of experience. Major Russell A. Alger of the Second Michigan cavalry, who had seen much service in the southwest, was made lieutenant colonel. Major Alger had gone out in 1861 as captain of troop "C", of the Second Michigan and had earned his majority fighting under Granger and Sheridan. In April, 1861, he was engaged in the lumbering business in Grand Rapids, Michigan, to which place he had removed from Cleveland, Ohio. He had been admitted to the bar in Cleveland but, even at that early day, his tastes and inclinations led him in the direction of business pursuits. He, therefore, came to Grand river and embarked in lumbering when but just past his majority and unmarried. The panic of 1857 depressed the lumber industry, in common with all other kinds of business, and the young Buckeye met with financial reverses, as did nearly everybody in those days, though it is agreed that he showed indications of the dash and self-reliance that were marked features of his subsequent career both in the army and in civil life. Doubtless, had not the war come on he would have achieved success in his business ventures then, as he did afterwards. [Illustration: RUSSELL A. ALGER (IN 1862)] When Lieutenant Colonel Alger reported to Colonel Gray for duty he appeared the ideal soldier. Tall, erect, handsome, he was an expert and graceful horseman. He rode a superb and spirited bay charger which took fences and ditches like a deer. Though not foppish, he was scrupulous to a degree about his dress. His clothes fitted, and not a speck of dust could be found on his person, his horse, or his equipments. The details of drill fell largely to him--Colonel Gray attending to the general executive management. As a battalion commander Colonel Alger had few equals and no superiors. He was always cool and self-poised, and his clear, resonant voice had a peculiar, agreeable quality. Twelve hundred horsemen formed in single rank make a long line but, long as it was, every man could hear distinctly the commands that were given by him. Weber's voice had the same penetrating and musical quality that made it easy to hear him when he was making no apparent effort to be heard. At that time it was the custom to give the commands with the voice and not by bugle calls. Under such competent handling the regiment soon became a very well drilled organization. The evolutions were at first on foot, then on horseback, and long before the time when it was ready to depart for the front, the officers and men had attained the utmost familiarity with the movements necessary to maneuver a regiment on the field. On Sundays it was customary to hold religious services in the camp, and many hundreds of the "beauty and the chivalry" of the town came to see the soldiers and hear the chaplain preach. The regiment would be formed in a hollow square, arms and brasses shining, clothes brushed, and boots polished. The chaplain was a good speaker and his sermons were always well worth listening to. Chaplain Stephen S.N. Greeley was a unique character. Before enlisting he had been pastor of the leading Congregational church of the city. He was a powerful pulpit orator, a kind-hearted, simple-minded gentleman of the old school, not at all fitted for the hardships and exposure that he had to undergo while following the fortunes of General Custer's troopers in Virginia. Army life was too much for him to endure, and it was as much as he could do to look after his own physical well-being, and the spiritual condition of his flock was apt to be sadly neglected. He stayed with the regiment till the end but, in the field he was more like a child than a seasoned soldier and needed the watchful care of all his friends to keep him from perishing with hunger, fatigue, and exposure. I always forgot my own discomforts in commiseration of those of the honest chaplain. When in camp, and the weather suitable, I always endeavored to assemble the command for Sunday services, so pleased was he to talk to his "boys." I believe every surviving Sixth Michigan cavalryman has in his heart a warm corner for Chaplain Greeley who returned to Gilmartin, New Hampshire, the place where he began his ministerial work, and died there many years ago. While noting in this cursory way the personnel of the regiment it may be proper to mention the other members of the field and staff. Cavalry regiments were divided into three battalions, each consisting of four troops and commanded by a major. Two troops were denominated a squadron. Thus there were two troops in a squadron, two squadron in a battalion, three battalions in a regiment. The first major was Thaddeus Foote, a Grand Rapids lawyer. He served with the Sixth about a year and was then promoted to be colonel of the Tenth Michigan cavalry. Under President Grant he held the position of pension agent for Western Michigan. Elijah D. Waters commanded the Second battalion. He resigned for disability and died of consumption in 1866. He did not serve in the field at all. Simeon B. Brown, of the Third battalion was called to the command of the Eleventh Michigan cavalry, in 1863. The Tenth and Eleventh were raised by Congressman Kellogg in that year in the same manner in which he had organized the Second and Third in 1861, and the Sixth and Seventh in 1862. Speaking of Major Waters, recalls how little things sometimes lead on to fortune. After leaving the service he and his brother started a "box factory," on the canal in Grand Rapids. In the winter of 1865-66 he took me over to see it. It was a small affair run by water power. The "boxes" which they manufactured were measures of the old-fashioned kind like the half-bushel and peck measures made of wood fifty years ago. They were of all sizes from a half-bushel down to a quart and used for "dry measure." Before the top rim was added and the bottom put in it was customary to pile the cylindrical shells one on top of another in the shop. Looking at these piles one day Waters saw that three of them, properly hooped, would make a barrel. Why not put hoops on and make them into barrels? No sooner said than done. A patent was secured, a stock company organized and the sequel proved that there were "millions in it." The major did not live to enjoy the fruits of his invention but it made of his brother and partner a millionaire. The latter is today one of the wealthiest men in Michigan--all from that lucky beginning. The first adjutant of the regiment was Lyman E. Patten, who resigned to become a sutler and was succeeded by Hiram F. Hale who, in turn, left the cavalry to become a paymaster. Sutlers were an unnecessary evil; at least, so it seems to me. They were in some cases evil personified. Many of them went into the business solely "for the money there was in it," and did not hesitate to trade on the necessities of the "boys in blue," so that as a rule there was no love lost, and enlisted men would raid a sutler with as little compunction as the sutler would practice extortion on them. The sutler's tent was too often the army saloon where "S.T.--1860--X bitters" and kindred drinks were sold at inflated prices. There were exceptions to the rule, however, and Mr. Patten was one of these. The whole sutler business was a mistake. The government should have arranged for an issue, or sale at cost through the commissary and quartermaster departments, of such articles as were not regularly furnished and were needed by the officers and men. Sutlers sold a thousand and one things that were not needed and that the men would have been better without. Spirits and tobacco could have been issued as a field or garrison ration, under proper restrictions. This was done at times but, whether a good thing or a bad thing, depends altogether upon the point of view. To take up the discussion would be to enter into the controversy as to the army canteen, which is not my purpose. The medical department of the regiment was in good hands. No officer or enlisted man of the Sixth Michigan ever wanted for kind and sympathetic care when ill or wounded. The position of army surgeon in the field was no sinecure. He had to endure the same privations as the other officers. He was not supposed to be on the fighting line, to be sure, but had to be close at hand to assist in the care of those who were, and oftentimes got into the thickest of it whether he would or not. To the credit of the profession, be it said, no soldier was ever sick or wounded who did not, unless a prisoner of war, find some one of the green-sashed officers ready to minister to his needs. And it often happened that army surgeons permitted themselves to fall into the enemy's hands rather than to desert those who were under their care and treatment. The surgeon was Daniel G. Weare, who gave up a lucrative practice to put on the uniform of a major in the medical department of the volunteer army. He was an elderly man with iron grey hair and beard which became towards the last almost as white as snow. This gave him a venerable look, though this evidence of apparent age was singularly at variance with his fresh countenance, as ruddy as that of youth. He looked like a preacher, though he would swear like a pirate. Indeed, it would almost congeal the blood in one's veins to hear the oaths that came hissing from between the set teeth of that pious looking old gentleman, from whom you would look for an exhortation rather than such expletives as he dealt in. But it was only on suitable provocation that he gave vent to these outbursts, as he was kind of heart, a good friend, and a capable physician and surgeon. The assistant was David C. Spaulding who remained with us but a short time when he was made surgeon of the Tenth Michigan cavalry--that is to say, in 1863. Weare staid till the war closed and settled in Fairport, New York, where he died. Spaulding was surgeon in charge of the regimental hospital in Grand Rapids, and on one occasion came to my aid with some very scientific practice. It happened in this way: It came to my knowledge that a man who had enlisted with one of the lieutenants and mustered in with the troop, was not in the service for the first time; that he had enlisted twice before and then succeeded in getting discharged for disability. The informant intimated that the fellow had no intention of doing duty, would shirk and sham illness and probably get into the hospital, where the chances were he would succeed in imposing on the surgeons and in getting discharged again; that it was pay he was after which he did not propose to earn; least of all would he expose his precious life, if by any possibility he could avoid it. A close watch was put upon the man, and sure enough, just before the regiment was to leave the state, he demurred to doing duty, pleading illness as an excuse. I sent him to the hospital but gave Dr. Spaulding a hint as to the probable nature of the man's illness, and he promised to give his best endeavors to the case. About a week, thereafter, the man came back, and whatever might have been his real condition when he went away, he was unmistakably ill. His pale face and weak voice were symptoms that could not be gainsaid. "Well," said I, "have you recovered and are you ready for duty?" "No, I am worse than ever." "Why do you leave the hospital, then?" "My God, captain," whined the man, "they will kill me, if I stay there." "But if you are sick you need treatment." "I cannot enter that place again." "You prefer to perform your duties as a good soldier, then?" "I will do anything rather than go there." He was directed to go about his business and, soon thereafter, I inquired about the case. Dr. Spaulding said: "I discovered there was nothing the matter with the man, only that he was playing off, and when he described his alleged symptoms, I began a course of heroic treatment. He was purged, cupped, blistered, given emetics, until life really became a burden and he ran away from the 'treatment.'" This man never went to the regimental hospital again, but he made no end of trouble. He was a chronic shirk. He would not work, and there were not men enough in the regiment to get him into a fight. Soon after the campaign of 1863 opened in Virginia he was missing, and the next thing heard from him was that he had been discharged from some hospital for disability. He never smelt powder, and years after the war, he was to all appearance an able-bodied man. I believe the Sixth was the third regiment which he had gone into in the same way. When he enlisted, the surgeon who examined him pronounced him a sound man, and it was a mystery how he could be physically sound or physically unsound, at will, and so as to deceive the medical examiners in either event. He died long ago and his widow drew a pension after his death as he did before it, but he never did a day's honest military duty in his life. Peace to his ashes! He may be playing some useful part in the other world, for all that I know. At all events, I am glad that his widow gets a pension, though as a soldier he was never deserving of anything but contempt, for he would desert his comrades when they needed aid and never exposed his precious carcass to danger for his country or for a friend. That is not an attractive picture which I have drawn. I will paint another, the more pleasing by reason of the contrast which the two present. One day a party of sixteen men came into camp and applied for enlistment. A condition of the contract under which they were secured for my troop was that one of their number be appointed sergeant. They were to name the man and the choice, made by ballot, fell upon Marvin E. Avery. At first blush, he was not a promising candidate for a non-commissioned office. Somewhat ungainly in figure, awkward in manners, and immature in mind and body, he appeared to be; while he seemed neither ambitious to excel nor quick to learn. He certainly did not evince a craving for preferment. In the end it was found that these were surface indications, and that there were inherent in him a strength of character and a robust manliness that only awaited the opportunity to assert themselves. He was appointed sergeant but, at first, manifested so little aptitude for the work, that it was feared he would never become proficient in his duties, or acquire a sufficient familiarity with tactics to drill a squad. No one could have been more willing, obedient, or anxious to learn. He was a plodder who worked his way along by sheer force of will and innate self-reliance, and governed in all that he did by a high sense of duty. He never attained first rank as a sergeant while in camp, but in the field, he sprang to the front like a thoroughbred. From the moment when he first scented battle, he was the most valuable man in the troop, from the captain down. In this, I am sure, there is no disparagement of the scores of fearless soldiers who followed the guidon of that troop from Gettysburg to Appomattox. Avery was a hero. In the presence of danger he knew no fear. The more imminent the peril, the more cool he was. He would grasp the situation as if by intuition and I often wondered why fate did not make him colonel instead of myself, and honestly believe that he would have filled the position admirably, though he reached no higher rank than that of sergeant. He had, however, made of himself the trusted assistant and adviser of the commanding officer of his regiment and would have received a commission, had he lived but a few days longer. From the day of his enlistment to the day of his death he was not off duty for a single day; and the command to which he belonged, was in no battle when he was not at the front, in the place of greatest risk and responsibility, from the beginning to the end. He was killed by a shell which struck him in the head, in the battle of Trevillian Station, June 12, 1864. A braver or a truer soldier never fell on the field of battle. Another excellent soldier was Solon H. Finney, who entered service as sergeant. He rose to be second lieutenant and was killed at Beaver Mills, Virginia, April 4, 1865, just five days before Lee surrendered. Finney was a modest, earnest, faithful man, attentive to his duties, not self-seeking, but contented with his lot and ambitious only to do a man's part. It seemed hard for him to go through so near to the end only to be stricken just as the haven of peace was in sight; but his friends have the satisfaction of knowing that Solon Finney never failed to do that which was right and, though he gave his life, it was surrendered cheerfully in the cause of his country and its flag. He was one of those who would have given a hundred lives rather than have his country destroyed--a genuine patriot and a noble man. With the Washtenaw contingent of troop "F" came Aaron C. Jewett, of Ann Arbor. Jewett was a leading spirit in University circles. His parents were wealthy, he an only son to whom nothing was denied that a doting father could supply. Reared in luxury, he was handsome as a girl and as lovable in disposition. It was current rumor that one of the most amiable young women in the college town--a daughter of one of the professors--was his betrothed. He was graduated with the senior class of that year and immediately enlisted. Notwithstanding his antecedents and his station in life he performed his humble duties in the ranks without a murmur, thus furnishing one more illustration of the patriotism that animated the best type of young men of that day. Ah! He was a comely soldier, with his round, ruddy face, his fresh complexion, his bright black eyes, and curling hair the color of the raven--his uniform brushed and boots polished to the pink of neatness. These things together with his modest mien and close attention to his duties made of him a marked man and, in a short time, regimental headquarters had need of him. He was detailed as clerk, then as acting sergeant major and, when early in the year 1863, it was announced that Hiram F. Hale was to be appointed army paymaster, Jewett was chosen to succeed him as adjutant, but had not received his commission when death overtook him at Williamsport, Maryland, July 6. There was grief in the Sixth of Michigan on that fateful night when it was known that Aaron Jewett lay within the enemy's lines smitten by a fragment of a shell while faithfully delivering the orders of his colonel to the troops of the regiment as they successively came into line under a heavy fire of artillery. Weber and myself with our men tried to recover the body, but were unable to do so, a force of confederates having gained possession of the ground. In a week from that time, Weber himself lay cold in death, only five miles distant, with a bullet through his brain. That was in Maryland, however, north of the Potomac and, after we had crossed into Virginia, Jewett's father succeeded in finding the body of his son and performed the sad duty of giving it proper sepulture. All the members of the field and staff of the regiment have been mentioned, except Quartermaster Charles H. Patten and Commissary Jacob Chapman. The latter soon resigned. Patten stuck to it till there was no more clothing to issue. He was a good quartermaster, honest, energetic and capable, and that is saying a good deal for him. There has been much uncalled for satirical comment at the expense of the quartermasters. They were really among the most useful of officers--indispensable in fact. The man who handled the transportation for a cavalry command had a position requiring tact, nerve, energy, endurance and ability of a high order. Mr. Patten was such a man. His wagon trains never failed to reach the front with needed supplies when it was possible to get them there. The white canvas of the army wagon was a pleasant sight to the soldier worn out with marching and fighting; and the quartermaster could always count on a cordial welcome when he appeared. October 11, 1862, the regiment was mustered into the United States service. The mustering officer was General J.R. Smith of the regular army, a veteran of the Mexican war, in which he received a wound in one arm, disabling it. He had a slit in his sleeve tied with ribbons--a way he had, it was thought, of calling attention to his disability, and sort of a standing apology for being back in Michigan while his associates of the army were fighting at the front. It was an amiable and pardonable weakness, if such it may be called, and everybody had a liking for the old Mexican war officer. One of my first acts after reaching the rendezvous had been to call on Colonel Kellogg, who was in his room, up to his eyes in papers and correspondence. He greeted me cordially, congratulated me on my success, and assured me that he was my friend, which he proved to be. "Order your uniform at once," said he, "and go to work without delay." The result of this interview was that a tailor took my measure for a suit and, in due time, I was arrayed in Union blue, with shining brass buttons, bright yellow facings, and the shoulder straps of a captain of cavalry. No boy in his first trousers ever felt happier or prouder. Before the brasses had become tarnished or the trimmings soiled I took a run to Ann Arbor to say good-by to the boys. They were glad to see me, and the welcome I had was something to remember. They were like a band of brothers and showed the same interest as if we had been of one family. I think the students felt a sort of clannish pride when one of their number enlisted and thought that the alma mater was doing the correct and patriotic thing in sending her sons into the army. It was plainly to be seen that many of them were holding back unwillingly. Indeed, it was not long till some of them dropped their studies abruptly and followed the example of those who had already gone. Everybody gave me an affectionate Godspeed and I was surprised at the number of my friends. CHAPTER VII THE DEPARTURE FOR WASHINGTON It was on a bright moonlight night in December, 1862, that the Sixth cavalry of Michigan left its rendezvous in Grand Rapids and marched to the station to take the cars for Washington. It was like tearing asunder the ties of years, for those whose lines had been cast even for a brief time only, in the "Valley City."[3] The hospitality of the people had been unbounded. Many of the officers and men had their homes there. Those who had not, took short leaves and made flying visits to their families to say good-by and arrange their affairs for what might be a final farewell. The scenes of our sojourn for a few months, where we had engaged in daily drills and parades, in the pomp and circumstance of mimic warfare, were to know us no longer. The time for rehearsal had passed. We were about to enter upon the real stage of action, and do our part in the mighty tragedy then enacting. The camp was broken. Tents were struck. Preparations for departure were made. Adieus were said. Horses were sent away in charge of a detail. The quartermaster took possession of the equipments. The regiment was not yet armed, but was to be supplied with all the needed munitions on arrival in the Capital City. For some reason, it was deemed best to make a night march to the station. No notice of this was given to the citizens. The result was that when we left camp, at 2 a.m., the streets were deserted. The town was wrapped in slumber. No sound was heard, except the tramp, tramp of the soldiers, and the roar of the river as it plunged over the dam, which only served to intensify the stillness. Through Michigan was a memorable trip. The same scenes with but slight variation, were enacted at each station. Officers and men alike, were warmed by the hearty and affectionate greetings, the memory of which followed them through all the days, and months, and years of their service. On to Detroit, Toledo, Pittsburg, Harrisburg, Baltimore, quickly whirled. Flowers, music, words of cheer, everywhere. "God bless you, boys," was the common form of salutation. "Three cheers for the old flag," and "Three cheers for 'Abe Lincoln,'" were sentiments offered amidst the wildest enthusiasm, to which the twelve hundred Michigan throats responded with an energy that bespoke their sincerity. Baltimore was reached in the night, and when marching through the streets, from one station to the other, the strains of "John Brown's body lies mouldering in the ground," awoke the echoes in the city that had mobbed a Massachusetts regiment, and through which Abraham Lincoln on the way to his inauguration had to pass in disguise to escape assassination. "We'll hang Jeff. Davis on a sour apple tree," was a refrain in which all joined, and there was a heartiness about it that none can understand who did not pass through those troublous times. But Baltimore was as peaceful as Pittsburg, and no mob gathered to contest the right of Michigan men to invade southern soil. It was quiet. There was no demonstration of any kind. The passage of troops had become a familiar story to the citizens of the Monumental city. It was the thunder of Burnside's guns at Fredericksburg that welcomed us to the army of the east. The same sun that saw us bivouac beneath the dome of the Capitol, shone down upon the Army of the Potomac, lying once again beaten and dispirited, on the plains of Falmouth. Burnside had run his course, and "Fighting 'Joe' Hooker" was in command. CHAPTER VIII THE ARRIVAL IN WASHINGTON There was little about Washington in 1862 to indicate that a great war was raging. The reference in the previous chapter to the "thunder of Burnside's guns" was figurative only. No guns were heard. It was Sunday morning. Church bells pealed out the call for divine worship and streams of well-dressed people were wending their way to the sanctuaries. The presence of uniformed troops in such a scene appeared incongruous, and was the only thing that spoke of war, if we except the white tents and hospital buildings that abounded on every side. Rest was welcomed after the long jaunt by rail, and the day was given up to it, except for the necessary work of drawing and issuing rations. It was historic ground, made doubly so by the events then transpiring. Few realized, however, that we actually were engaged in making the history of the most eventful epoch in the career of the Republic, and the chief interest of the place seemed to lie in its associations with the past. The Capitol, with its great unfinished dome, towered above us. The White House, the Treasury building, the Patent office, Arlington, the former home of the Lees, Long bridge, Pennsylvania avenue, the Smithsonian institute, the tree where Sickles killed Key. These and other points of interest were quickly seen or visited. And the Washington of 1862 was a very different city to the Washington of recent years. Where now are broad avenues of concrete pavement, were then wide streets of mud, through which teams of army mules, hauling heavy wagons, tugged and floundered. A dirty canal, full of foul smells, traversed the city where now are paved streets and fine buildings. Where then were waste places, now are lovely parks, adorned with statues. Rows of stately trees fringe the avenues, and green lawns dot the landscape, where in 1862 was a vast military camp, full of hospitals and squalid in appearance. The man who saw Washington then and returns to it for the first time, would be as much astonished as was Aladdin at the creations of his wonderful lamp. Certain salient features remain, but there has been on the whole a magical change. Camp was pitched on Meridian Hill, well out on Fourteenth street, near Columbia college, then used for a hospital, and preparations were made to spend the winter there. The Fifth Michigan, which had reached Washington before us, was located on "Capitol Hill," at the opposite end of the city. We had a fine campground, stretching from Fourteenth street through to Seventh, well adapted to drill and parade purposes. A few days after their arrival in Washington, the officers of the Sixth, under the escort of Congressman Kellogg, went in a body to pay their respects to President Lincoln, several members of the cabinet and the general of the army. Full dress was the proper "caper," they were told, and accordingly they were arrayed in their finest. The uniforms were new and there is no doubt that they were a gorgeous looking party as they marched up Pennsylvania avenue wearing shining brasses, bright red sashes, buff gauntlets, and sabres glittering in their scabbards. Mr. Kellogg pronounced the "Open Sesame" which caused the doors of the White House to open and secured admission to the presence of the President. After being ushered into the "Blue Parlor" we were kept waiting for some time. Expectancy was on tip-toe, for few if any of the officers had seen Mr. Lincoln. But no introduction was needed when the door opened and the President stood before us. That was to me a memorable moment, for it was the first and last time that I saw Abraham Lincoln. There was no mistaking the tall, gaunt figure, the thin, care-worn face, the slovenly gait, as he entered the room. In appearance he was almost as unique as his place in history is unexampled. But spare, haggard and bent as he looked, he was yet a strikingly handsome man, for there was on his brow the stamp of greatness. We saw him as in a halo, and looked beyond the plain lineaments and habiliments of the man to the ideal figure of the statesman and president, struggling for the freedom of his country and the unity of his race, whom we all saw in the "Railsplitter" from Illinois; and he seemed, in his absent-minded way, to be looking beyond those present to the infinite realm of responsibility and care in which he dwelt. It is the misfortune of Lincoln that his portraits have not been idealized like those of Julius Cæsar, Napoleon Bonaparte, and Washington. It remains for some great artist, inspired by the nobility of his subject, to make those homely features so transparent that his reverent and grateful countrymen may look through them and see a presentment of the great soul and beautiful character that irradiated and glorified them in his life, and which will grow brighter and more lovely as the fugitive ages glide away. The officers were introduced, one by one, and Mr. Lincoln gave each hand a shake as he uttered a perfunctory, but kindly, "How do you do?" and then turned quickly toward the door, as though his mind was still on the work which he had left in order to grant the interview, which must have trenched sadly upon his time. But he was not to escape so easily, for the Congressman, rising to the occasion, said: "Mr. President, these are the officers of a regiment of cavalry who have just come from my state of Michigan. They are 'Wolverines' and are on the track of 'Jeb' Stuart, whom they propose to pursue and capture if there is any virtue in a name." "Gentlemen," said the President, with a twinkle of the eye, and the first and only indication of humor that he gave, "I can assure you that it would give me much greater pleasure to see 'Jeb Stuart' in captivity than it has given me to see you," and with a bow and smile he vanished. Although we remained in Washington for about two months, I did not see him again. He never saw "Jeb Stuart" in captivity, but it was in a fight with the Michigan cavalry brigade that the dashing raider was killed. So the remark of the Congressman was not such an idle boast, after all. When the Seventh Michigan arrived it was put in camp on the Seventh street side. Colonel J.T. Copeland, of the Fifth Michigan, was promoted to brigadier general of volunteers and assigned to the command of the three regiments. The brigade was attached to the division of General Silas Casey, all under General S.P. Heintzelman, who was in charge of the Department of Washington, with headquarters in the city. Freeman Norvell succeeded Copeland as colonel of the Fifth. The department extended out into Virginia as far as Fairfax Court House, and there was a cordon of troops entirely around the city. The prospect was that the brigade would see little, if any fighting, for a time, as it was not to be sent on to the army at Falmouth. The work of drilling and disciplining went on without relaxation throughout the winter months, and when arms were issued, it was found, to the delight of all concerned, that we were to have repeating rifles. The muskets or rifles issued to the United States infantry, during the civil war, were inferior weapons, and a brigade of Michigan militia of the present period would make short work of a military force of equal numbers so armed. It is one of the strange things about that war that the ordnance department did not anticipate the Austrians, Germans and French, in the employment of the fire-arm loaded at the breech which was so effective in the Franco-Prussian conflict and, if I am not mistaken, in the war between Prussia and Austria in 1866, also. This made of the individual soldier a host in himself. The old muzzle-loader, with its ramrod and dilatory "motions," ought to have been obsolete long before Grant left the West to lead the Army of the Potomac from the Wilderness to Appomattox. The Michigan cavalry brigade, armed as it was with repeating carbines, was never whipped when it had a chance to use them. In arming the infantry the government was fifty years behind the times. Possibly the same thing might be said truthfully of the artillery also, though the union artillerists, notwithstanding the handicap, did such effective work as would have delighted the "Little Corporal," himself. The "Spencer" rifle was an invention brought to the notice of the Ordnance Department about that time. Among the numerous "charges" brought against James G. Blaine was one that he was interested in the manufacture of this arm and in the contract for furnishing it to the government. How much truth there may have been in the assertion I do not know, but if Mr. Blaine was instrumental in bringing about the adoption of the "Spencer" for the use of the Federal cavalry, he ought to have had a vote of thanks by Congress, for a better gun had never been issued, and if the entire army had been supplied with it the war could not have lasted ninety days and Mr. Seward would have been a prophet. The "Spencer" was a magazine gun carrying eight cartridges, all of which could be discharged without taking the arm from the shoulder. It was loaded at the breech and the act of throwing out an empty shell replaced it with a fresh cartridge. Against such arms the old-fashioned muzzle-loaders, with which the infantry was equipped, were ineffective. The Michigan men were fortunate in being among the very first to receive these repeating rifles which, after the first year in the field, were exchanged for the carbine of the same make, a lighter arm and better adapted for the use of cavalry. CHAPTER IX THE STAY IN WASHINGTON The stay in Washington though brief, was monotonous. Time hung heavily on our hands. And yet, it was not devoid of incident. There is, perhaps, little of this that is worth recounting, of those things, at least, that appeared on the surface. Had one been able to reach the penetralia--the inmost recesses--of official and military life, he might have brought away with him reminiscences that would make racy reading. But this privilege was vouchsafed to but few, and they the elect. The logic of war is, learn to obey and ask no questions. One thing happened which came very near breaking up my troop, and threatened to destroy the regiment itself. It was at that time difficult to get recruits for the regulars. Citizen-soldiers preferred the volunteers. But it was considered important to keep the regiments in the regular army recruited up to the minimum, at least, and an order was issued from the War Department permitting regular officers to recruit from the ranks of the volunteers. It was a bad order, and, as soon as tested, was rescinded. I had the misfortune first to experience its effects, and the good fortune to secure its abrogation. There was in the troop a man who fancied he was slighted when the non-commissioned officers were appointed and, always thereafter, nursed his wrath to keep it warm. He was well-educated, but of a surly disposition and insubordinate. He was made a corporal, but thought his merits entitled him to something better and never got over the feeling. Had he gone on and done his duty, like General Grant, in the station to which he was assigned, he might have risen much higher. As it was, he never did. This man made the discovery of the War Department order, and soon there was a cabal which was constantly giving out that they were independent of my authority and could shake themselves free at any moment. At first, we did not know what this meant, but it soon leaked out, though they intended to keep it secret. It was ascertained, not only that they had the right to go, but that while down town on passes, eleven men actually had enlisted in the regular army. The recruiting officer had ordered them to report to him on a certain day which they arranged to do, thinking that they would be sent to New York harbor, to garrison forts and escape duty in the field. When this became known, there was no time to be lost, and Colonel Gray drew up a paper setting forth that if these men were allowed to go it would be the end of all discipline in his command and asking that they be ordered to report back for duty. He well understood the art of putting things and the petition was brief, pointed and convincing. It was addressed to the adjutant general of the army, but had to go through the regular channels and, to save time, he gave me a letter directing that I take it up in person. In two days, it had been approved by Generals Copeland, Casey and Heintzelman,--and there was a delay of one day at that,--due to a staff officer, who acted as a buffer at Heintzelman's headquarters. Proceeding then at once to the adjutant general's office, I was referred to Major Williams,[4] assistant adjutant general, one of the most polished and courteous gentlemen it was ever my fortune to meet. He was most gracious and kind, assured me that the request would be granted at once, and told me to go back and dismiss all further uneasiness about the matter. The next day, the order was rescinded, once and for all. The eleven men were ordered to report back for duty, and the regulars did no more recruiting in the volunteers. The men were ignorant of what had been done, and on the morning when they were to leave, they called on me in a body to say good-by. One of the number, acting as spokesman, assured me that it was on account of no ill-will toward captain or troop that they had taken the step. It was done because they believed it would be better for them and, as the act was authorized, begged that I would not think hard of it, at the same time assuring me of their lasting friendship. The speaker doubtless voiced the honest sentiments of all, for it is probable that they themselves had begun to suspect that they were making a mistake. In reply, they were assured that no ill-will was harbored, unless it would be in the "harbor" to which they were going, and they were urged to write and let us know how they liked New York Harbor, as we would always feel a warm interest in their welfare. Then they started, but were halted at the "sallyport," and when they exhibited to the officer-of-the-day their passes from the regular army lieutenant, he presented to them the order from the adjutant general. They came back, looking crest-fallen enough. Thinking that they had been punished sufficiently, I assured them that if they would do their duty like men, the matter would be forgotten. It was a good lesson and, from that time on, no officer ever had the honor to command men braver, more faithful, or more loyal, than were the regular army contingent of Troop "E" Sixth Michigan cavalry. They never had reason to regret the fate that kept them in the volunteers. Several of them are still living and among my most devoted friends. At some time during that winter, the Michigan men in Washington had a banquet in one of the rooms or long hall-ways in the Capitol. It was a fine affair. There were long tables loaded with viands and decorated with flowers. The Michigan Senators--Chandler and J.M. Howard--and the Members of Congress were present, and there was speech-making and music. Among those who responded to toasts was Schuyler Colfax, afterwards vice-president, then, I believe, Speaker of the House. Colfax's remarks, alone, left much of an impression, but I wondered why he was regarded as a great man. He had a pleasant, smiling face and very white teeth, but his speech did not strike one as brilliant in any way. The singing was led by Doctor Willard Bliss, surgeon-in-charge of Armory Square hospital, located on Fourteenth street, opposite the then unfinished Washington monument. Bliss went out as surgeon of the "Old Third,"[5] had already made a place for himself as one of the leading army surgeons, and his hospital was a model of good management. He was at Bull Run with his regiment and it was said that he sent a telegram from Washington to a relative in Michigan, saying: "A great battle fought; 'Zene' (meaning his brother) 'Zene' and I are safe." The wags were accustomed to figure out what extraordinary time he must have made in order to reach Washington in time to send that telegram. But it was the fashion to guy everybody who was in that battle, unless he was either wounded or taken prisoner. Bliss, as most men are apt to do, "went with the crowd." He remained in Washington after the war, making much money and spending it freely, and achieved notoriety, if not fame, through his connection with the case of President Garfield, after he was shot by the assassin, Guiteau. The camp on Meridian Hill was a pleasant one, and enlivened at times by the presence of several ladies, among whom were Mrs. Gray, Mrs. Alger, and Mrs. Sheldon, wives of the colonel, lieutenant colonel and commissary, respectively. These ladies spent much time in camp, and when the weather was pleasant lived in tents, which always were delightfully homelike, and often crowded with visitors. 'Twas but a year or two since Mrs. Alger's soldier-husband led her to the altar as a bride and they were a handsome couple, not less popular than handsome. She was a decided favorite in camp, winning the affections of all by her gracious manners and kind heart, as she has done since, when presiding over her hospitable home in Detroit or the mansion of the War Secretary in Washington. Mrs. Sheldon, who was a niece of Dr. Willard Bliss, followed her husband to the field and was a ministering angel to many a sick or wounded soldier in hospital and in camp. One day a man came to me and wanted to enlist. He said his home was in the State of New York, but he liked the Michigan men and desired to join them. He was a bright-looking, active young man and, as the numbers of the troop had been somewhat reduced by sickness and death, he was accepted and mustered in as a private. He remained with us until the morning of the third day at Gettysburg, when, about daylight, he gathered up a lot of canteens and went, ostensibly, to get them filled. We never saw him again, and many times when thinking of the circumstances, I wondered if he was a confederate spy. He was a good soldier and did not leave to shirk danger, for he had been under fire and demonstrated his courage. He could hardly have disappeared so completely unless he went into the enemy's lines, and, if he did that, must have done it purposely.[6] There is no doubt that in the early years of the war the enemy's means of getting information were far superior to ours and there is still less doubt that not only the army, but Washington, and even the War Department were filled with spies. Probably no union general ever succeeded in outwitting these confederate emissaries so completely as did General Sheridan. He told me in Petersburg, after the fall of Richmond, that he had Early's spies at his headquarters in Winchester all through the winter of 1864-65--they having come to him under the pretense of being deserters--knowing them to be such, but pretending that he did not distrust them, and in the spring, before the grand forward movement, he sent them off on a false scent, with wrong information for their chief--Early. With two of these, in order to keep up the deception, he was obliged to send one genuine union scout, who was arrested as a spy, in Lynchburg, and would have been hung, if the sudden closing of hostilities had not suspended sentence. This man's name was M.B. Medes, a trooper of the Sixth Michigan cavalry, then on detached service as a scout at Sheridan's headquarters, and never, since his miraculous escape, has he been able to talk about the experiences of that last scout without a fit of nervous prostration. In a letter written to me several years ago, he said: "I don't know why it is, but I can never talk of my adventures and narrow escapes while acting as scout and spy, that I do not break down completely and shake as though I had a hard chill." CHAPTER X FIELD SERVICE IN VIRGINIA It was toward the last of February, 1863, that the first order to move came. I had been down to the city and, returning about ten o'clock in the evening, not dreaming of any change from the usual order of things, was surprised to find all bustle and confusion, where a few hours before it had been quiet and serene. The regiment was to march at two o'clock in the morning, and preparations for departure were well under way. Three days' cooked rations and forty rounds of ammunition to the man were to be taken, the sick men and unserviceable horses to remain in camp, and the tents to remain standing as they were until our return. By this it appeared that it was to be a raid or reconnoissance, not a permanent change of station. Everyone was busy getting ready for the march. Rations were issued, cooked and put in the haversacks; ammunition was distributed and placed in the cartridge boxes; a small bag of oats was strapped to each saddle; horses were fed and the men took a midnight lunch. As for myself, I had the foresight to have a tin cup tied to the cantle of my saddle and, in addition to the cooked meat and hard bread, put into the saddle-bags some sugar, and a sack of coffee that my good mother had sent from home and which was received only a few days before. It was about as large as a medium-sized shot bag, and the coffee was browned and ground ready for use. I also took a supply of matches. These things were of inestimable value during the next few days. Promptly at the appointed hour, two o'clock a.m., "boots and saddles" and "to horse" were sounded; twelve troops led their horses into line; twelve first sergeants called the roll, to which every man not excused from duty responded; and twelve troop commanders gave the order to mount; when the regiment, responsive to the bugle call, "forward," broke into column of fours, moved out into Fourteenth street and headed for Long Bridge. The night was dark and dismal. The rain began to fall. It was cold and raw, the air surcharged with moisture, chilling one to the marrow. But as the troopers wore gum coats or "poncho" blankets and top boots, they were measurably sheltered from the storm at the same time that they were exposed to it. Down through the silent, slumbering city the multitudinous tread of the iron-shod horses awoke strange echoes, while the splashing rain-drops and lowering clouds did not serve to raise the spirits. It was an inauspicious beginning of active service, and typical of the many long and weary weeks of wet discomfort that the Sixth of Michigan was destined to experience before the summer solstice had fairly passed. The points of interest,--the public buildings, the white house, the massive Greek architecture of the Treasury building, the monument, all these as they glided like phantoms, through the mist, attracted scarcely a casual glance. Indeed, it is probable that few in that long column took note that these had passed at all, so deeply were they absorbed in the reflections that the time and circumstances produced. Thus on to the Long Bridge that spans the great water highway between the Nation's Capital and the "Old Dominion." The tread of a thousand cavalry horses did not serve to shake its mile of solid superstructure. It seemed a long journey from one end to the other. Above, the scurrying clouds, below, the angry river, all around, the drizzling storm, it was a sorry scene; and a sullen welcome to the soil of Virginia, that was then as often before and afterwards, a slippery, sticky mud. Halting at daylight, the column was reinforced a few miles out, by the Fifth Michigan cavalry. Resuming the march, the two regiments passed through Alexandria, looking with interest, of course, at the spot where the chivalric Ellsworth was shot the year before. What a dilapidated town, its whole face marred and scarred by the ravages of war! It took till dusk to reach Centerville, and the rain never stopped long enough to catch its breath, but kept at it, all day long. Such a first night out as that was! The men slept, or rather stood in the rain all night for sleep was out of the question. No wood could be procured, so no fires were built and there was no hot coffee. It was a unique experience for cavalrymen and they had not yet learned how to forage. I wandered around in the rain and finally stumbled upon the quarters of some infantry officers who were stationed near and had a tent and a fire. They kindly permitted me to stay with them till morning. But for this, it seemed to me that I should have perished, though the sequel proved that it was possible to get through a worse night without food or shelter. In the morning at six o'clock, three more regiments, the Fifth New York, the First Virginia, and the Eighteenth Pennsylvania, joined, and the force, thus augmented to about two thousand men, pushed on towards Warrenton, Sir Percy Wyndham in command. This officer was an Englishman, an alleged lord. But lord or son of a lord, his capacity as a cavalry officer was not great. He had been entrusted with one or two independent commands and was regarded as a dashing officer. He had no sooner assumed command of our force than he started off at a rapid pace through that part of Virginia that was between Washington and Falmouth--that is, in rear of Hooker's army, and where there was no enemy, unless it might have been small bands of guerrillas. During the day he charged through the town of Warrenton and a few confederate scouts coolly watched the column from the neighboring hills. They were well mounted and evidently did not fear capture. Indeed, no attempt was made to capture them, but away rode Wyndham, as if riding for a wager, or to beat the record of John Gilpin. He seemed bent on killing as many horses as possible, not to mention the men. The fact was the newspapers were in the habit of reporting that Colonel or General so-and-so had made a forced march of so many miles in so many hours, and it is probable that "Sir Percy" was in search of some more of that kind of cheap renown. It was a safe pastime, harmless to the enemy and not dangerous to himself, though hurtful to horse-flesh. That night we camped beyond Warrenton and had the first taste of picket duty. My troop was sent out about a mile beyond the camp and kept on picket until morning. A line of videttes was posted along the front, and so keenly did the officers feel the responsibility, that they made no attempt to sleep but were in the saddle constantly. It would have been a smart confederate who could have surprised the Michiganders that night. Every faculty was on the alert. Often we fancied that an enemy was approaching the line; a foe lurked behind every tree and bush; each sound had an ominous meaning and the videttes were visited at frequent intervals to see if they had discovered anything. In that way the night passed. In the morning everybody was exhausted and, to make matters worse, many of the men ran short of provisions. Some of them had neglected to bring the amount ordered; others had been improvident and wasted their rations. So to the discomforts of cold and wet, were added the pangs of hunger. The little bag of coffee had proven a precious boon. Whenever the column would halt for a few minutes, and it was possible to find anything that would burn, a handful of the coffee was put into a tin cup of water and boiled. It was surprising how quickly this could be done, and the beverage thus brewed was "nectar fit for the gods." When the flavor of that coffee, as it tasted on that trip more than forty years ago, is recalled, it is with a smack of the lips. The bare remembrance is more grateful to the palate than is the actual enjoyment of the most delicate product of the culinary art today. There were times early in the war when spirits were issued to the soldiers as an army ration. Though personally I never took a drop of liquor when on duty during the entire of my army service, yet I am confident that there were times when a reasonable amount of stimulant was a good thing. Indeed, there were times when a man was a fool if he did not take it, assuming that he could get it. Coffee was, however, a very good substitute, and to the credit of the government be it said the coffee issued to the Union troops was almost invariably of excellent quality. They always had it and plenty of it. Such a solace as it was! There was nothing like it. On the march, when there was a temporary halt, a thousand fires would quickly blaze alongside the weary column, and a thousand tin cups would soon be steaming with the fragrant and delicious beverage. Veterans could build a fire and make a cup of coffee almost as quickly, and under as discouraging environments, as the traditional Irishman can light his pipe. It seemed to be done by magic, and there was no time and no place where the cup of coffee was not welcome and appreciated. There is a song, much affected by members of the Grand Army of the Republic. It is styled "The Army Bean." I could never quite make out whether it was not intended as a burlesque. There may be enough of sentiment attached to the army bean to entitle it to the honor of being immortalized in song, but to me it was an abomination, less poetic in name and association than the proverbial "sow-belly" bacon, so dear to the heart of the soldier. Why does not some poet, filled with the divine afflatus, sing the praise of the army tin cup and its precious contents--the fragrant coffee of the camp, and march, and bivouac? Ambrosial nectar fit for the gods. The everyday and grateful beverage of heroes. Here is a theme for some modern Horace, as inspiring as the fruity and fragrant wine of which his ancient namesake so eloquently sang. I doubt if the red wine of the Horatian odes was more exhilarating to the Roman legionary than the aroma from his tin cup to the soldier of the Union. Oh, brimming, steaming, fragrant cup! Never-failing friend of the volunteer! His solace in fatigue, and his strength in battle. To thee, I sing. To resume the story at the point at which this digression left it: On the day following the night tour of picket duty, after having ridden from one o'clock in the morning till after eight o'clock in the evening, and the march not yet ended, I became so famished that a piece of raw fat pork was devoured with more relish than ever before I had eaten an orange. Our valiant commander, finding that morning that rations and forage were both exhausted, started for Falmouth, the nearest point at which supplies could be obtained. Late that Saturday night we bivouaced with the camp fires of Hooker's army all around. But no forethought had been taken; no rations were drawn or issued; no wood was supplied; and after three days' ride through the rain, many not having had a morsel of food for twenty-four hours, the entire command was forced to lie on the ground, in pools of water, in the midst of a drenching rain without food, or fire, or shelter of any kind whatever. It was dreadful, and the experiences of that night are recalled even now with a shudder. It was like lying down in the middle of a river. There was no place big enough to spread a blanket, where there was not a puddle of water, and, all the time, the rain fell pitilessly, in torrents. The solace of hot coffee was denied, for there was no fuel. Food was gone. The minutes were hours. While hunger gnawed at the vitals, a clammy chilliness seized upon one, making him feel as if every vital organ was in a state of congestion. How daylight was longed for, and soon after the first streaks of dawn began to appear, I deserted my watery couch and made straight across the country toward some infantry camps, and actually hugged every fragment of an ember that could be found. After a while I found some soldiers cooking coffee. One of them was taking a cup off the fire for his breakfast. I asked him for a drink which he surlily refused. "How much will you take for all there is in the cup?" said I. He did not want to sell it, but when I took out a half dollar and offered it to him, he took it and gave up the coffee, looking on with astonishment, while I swallowed it almost boiling hot and without taking breath. This revived me, and soon after, I found a place where a meal consisting of ham, eggs, bread and coffee, was served for a big price and took about a dollar's worth for breakfast. By eight o'clock, rations and forage were drawn and issued and men and horses were supplied with the much needed food. All of Sunday was spent in Falmouth and the "fresh" cavalrymen took a good many observations as to how real soldiers conducted and took care of themselves. Monday morning Sir Percy started by the nearest route, via Acquia Creek, Stafford Court House and Fairfax, for Washington, arriving there at eight o'clock Tuesday evening, having been absent just six days, accomplishing nothing. It was a big raid on government horses, ruining a large number. Beside that, it made many men ill. It was a good thing though, after all. The men had learned what campaigning meant and, thereafter, knew how to provide themselves for a march, and how important to husband their rations so as to prevent waste at first and make them last as long as possible. Some idea of the damage done to horses by such raids as that of Sir Percy Wyndham, may be gained from the morning reports of officers on the day after the return to camp in Washington. I find that out of eighty horses in my troop only twenty were fit for duty, part of which had been left in camp and did not accompany the expedition. However, they quickly recuperated, and on the eleventh of March following, we were off into Virginia once more, this time bringing up at Fairfax Court House, where we remained a week, encamping by the side of the First Michigan, Fifth New York, and several other veteran regiments, from whom by observation and personal contact, much information was gained that proved of great value during the following months. In the meantime, the camps in Washington were broken up and all the regiments were sent across the Potomac. A division of cavalry was organized, consisting of two brigades. Wyndham was sent to Hooker and Julius Stahel, a brigadier general who had been serving in Blenker's division, of Sigel's corps, in the army of the Potomac, was assigned to command of all the cavalry in the Department of Washington, with headquarters at Fairfax Court House. Stahel was a Hungarian, and it was said had been on the staff of Kossuth in the Hungarian army. He was a "dapper little Dutchman," as everybody called him. His appearance was that of a natty staff officer, and did not fill one's ideal of a major general, or even a brigadier general by brevet. He affected the foreign style of seat on horseback, and it was "as good as a show" to see him dash along the flank of the column at a rattling pace, rising in his stirrups as he rode. I have always believed that had he remained with the Third Cavalry division long enough to get into a real charge, like the one at Gettysburg, he would have been glad enough to put aside all those "frills" and use his thighs to retain his seat in the saddle while he handled his arms. He took great pride in his messing arrangements and gave elegant "spreads" to invited guests at his headquarters. I was privileged to be present at one of these dinners and must say that he entertained in princely style. His staff were all foreigners, and would have been "dudes," only there were no "dudes" in those days. Dudes were types of the genus homo evolved at a later period. They were dandies and no mistake, but in that respect had no advantage over him, for he could vie in style with the best of them. One member of his staff was a Hungarian who answered to the name of Figglemezzy, and only the other day I read a notice of his death recently in New York. Stahel is still living--one of the very few surviving major generals of the civil war.[7] It is a pity we did not have a chance to see Stahel in a fight, for I have an idea he was brave, and it takes away in an instant any feeling of prejudice you may have against a man on account of his being fussy in dress, when you see him face death or danger without flinching. Fine clothes seem to fit such a man, but upon one who cannot stand fire they become a proper subject for ridicule. Custer with flashing eye and flowing hair, charging at the head of his men, was a grand and picturesque figure, the more so by reason of his fantastic uniform, which made him a conspicuous mark for the enemy's bullets, but a coward in Custer's uniform would have become the laughing stock of the army. So Stahel might, perhaps, have won his way to confidence, had he remained with the cavalry division which afterwards achieved fame under Kilpatrick and Custer but, at the first moment when there was serious work ahead for his command, he was relieved, and another wore the spurs and received the laurels that might have been his. Leaving Washington at daylight, we went into camp about five miles out, expecting to remain there for a time, but had just time to prepare breakfast when an order came to report to Lieutenant Colonel Alger who, with the four largest troops in the regiment, was going off on an independent expedition. That evening we reached Vienna, a little town on the Loudoun railroad, where we found a small force, including two troops of the First Vermont cavalry, already on duty. This was our first acquaintance with the Green Mountain boys, and the friendship thus begun was destined to last as long as there was an enemy in arms against the Union. The First Vermont was sometimes referred to as the "Eighth Michigan," so close were the ties which bound it to the Michigan brigade. And they always seemed to be rather proud of the designation. Assuming command of all the forces there, Colonel Alger informed us that General Stahel had information that the place was to be attacked that night and that we were there to defend it. Selecting a strong position on a hill, a camp was started, but no fires were allowed after dark. Vigilance was not relaxed, but no enemy appeared, and on the following day we went on a scout through all the region roundabout without encountering a single armed confederate. The air was full of rumors. Nobody could tell their origin. Fitzhugh Lee was a few miles away, coming with a big force. "Stonewall" Jackson had started on another raid, and any moment might see his gray "foot-cavalry" swarming into the vicinity. Such stories were poured into our ears at Vienna, but a couple of days' duty there demonstrated their falsity and we were hurried back to Fairfax Court House and sent off on a day and night march through the Loudoun Valley to Aldie, Middleburg and Ashby's Gap in the Blue Ridge mountains. Two entire regiments, the Fifth Michigan under Colonel Alger and the Sixth under Colonel Gray, went on this expedition, reaching Aldie at midnight, in a blinding snow-storm. Remaining out in it all night without shelter or fire, the next day we made a gallant "charge" through Middleburg, finding no enemy there but a few of Mosby's men who fled at our approach. During the day some of them were captured and one man of troop "C," Sixth was killed. It was evident that Lee's army, no portion of it, had begun a movement northward, and the two regiments returned to Fairfax, making a night march while the snow continued to fall and mud and slush made the going as bad as it could be. At two o'clock in the morning the column halted and an attempt was made to build camp-fires, but the logs and rails were so wet that they would not burn, and all hands stood around in the snow, stamping their feet and swinging their arms, in a futile effort to keep warm. The march was resumed at daylight. We were more comfortable when in the saddle, on the march, than during that early morning bivouac. It was possible to sleep, when snugly settled in the capacious McClellan saddles, but when dismounted, sleep was out of the question. There was no place to lie down and to stand in the snow only aggravated the discomfort. But when mounted, the men would pull the capes of their overcoats over their heads, drop their chins upon their breasts and sleep. The horses plodded along and doubtless were asleep too, doing their work as a somnambulist might, walking while they slept. Soon thereafter, Colonel Alger with five troops (troop "B," commanded by Captain Peter A. Weber, having been added to the four that were with him at Vienna) was sent to a place called "Camp Meeting Hill," where a camp was established that proved to be a permanent one. At least, we remained there until Hooker's army moved northward. This was a delightful place. The tents were pitched in a grove of large timber on a piece of ground that was high and dry, sloping off in every direction. It was by the side of the pike running south from Vienna, two miles from that place, close to the Leesburg pike and the Loudoun railroad. A semi-circular line of pickets was established in front of Washington, the right and left resting on the Potomac, above and below the city respectively. Our detachment guarded the extreme right of the line. Colonel Gray was five miles to the left, with the remainder of the Sixth, and the Fifth still farther away in that direction. About two miles in front of our camp ran the "Difficult" Creek, a small, deep stream with difficult banks, that rises somewhere in the Bull Run country, and empties into the Potomac near the Great Falls above Washington. A line of videttes was posted along this creek. An enemy could not easily surprise them, as the stream was in their front. Well out toward this line from the main camp, two reserves were established, commanded by captains, and still farther out smaller reserves, under charge of the lieutenants and sergeants. Each troop had a tour of this duty, twenty-four hours on and forty-eight off. The "off" days were given to reading, writing and exploring the country on horseback. It was a charming region, not much desolated by the war, being rather out of the beaten track of the armies. Parties of officers often used to take a run across country to Gray's camp, clearing fences and ditches as they went. In these expeditions, Colonel Alger was always the leader with Captain Weber a close second. On one of these gallopades, he and Weber, who were riding in advance, cleared a stream full of water and about eight or nine feet wide, but when I tried to follow, my horse jumped into instead of across the ditch, the water coming up to the saddle-girths. The two lucky horsemen on the other side halted and had a good laugh at my expense while steed and I were scrambling out the best way we could. My horse was a noble fellow and jumped with all his might when called upon, but lacked judgment, and would leap twice as high as was necessary, while falling short of making his distance. He rarely failed at a fence, but ditches were a source of dread to horse and man. The Difficult Creek duty was a sort of romantic episode in our military experience--a delightful green oasis in the dry desert of hard work, exposure, danger and privation. Many pleasant acquaintances were made and time passed merrily. Just across the pike was a spacious farm house, occupied by a family who were staunch unionists, and who had been made to pay well for their loyalty when the confederates were in the neighborhood. It was said that Lord Fairfax, the friend of Washington, had at one time lived there. The place had about it an air of generous hospitality that would have become Colonial days. The officers were always welcomed, and it was a favorite resort for them when off duty, partly because the people were unionists, and partly for the reason that there were several very agreeable young ladies there. One of these, who lived in Connecticut, was the fiancee of a captain in the First Vermont cavalry, whose command was stationed there. Another was at home and it may be surmised that these ladies received the assiduous attentions of half a score, more or less, of the young fellows, who proved themselves thorough cavaliers in gallantry as well as in arms. There was no day when the two ladies might not be seen under the escort of half a dozen cavalrymen, exploring the country on horseback. On all these excursions Weber, handsome as he was brave, was a leading spirit, and succeeded in captivating the ladies with the charm of his manners, his good looks, his splendid horsemanship and his pleasing address. It was enough to make one forget the mission that brought him into the South to see him with two or more ladies by his side galloping gaily over the magnificent roads for which that part of Virginia was remarkable. Then there were picnics, lunches, dancing parties and other diversions to fill in the time. Once one of these parties ventured across the Difficult Creek and rode "between the lines," going as far as Drainesville--eight miles distant--in Mosby's own territory. When the lieutenant colonel commanding learned of this, he reprimanded the officers concerned for what he was pleased to term an act of "foolhardiness." While stationed at this place one of the young officers was taken ill with fever, and our friends across the way had him brought to the house, where everything that good nursing and kind attention could suggest was done for him. He was reported very ill and the surgeon said that he was threatened with typhoid fever. A day or two after his removal to the house, I called upon him expecting to find him very low. What was my surprise, on being ushered into a spacious, well-furnished apartment, to find him propped up on a bed, with a wealth of snowy pillows and an unmistakable look of convalescence, while two good-looking ladies sat, one on either side of his couch, each holding one of his hands in hers, while he was submitting to the "treatment" with an air of undisguised resignation. It may be noted that this was before the days of "Christian Science." I felt no anxiety about him after that, and returning immediately to camp, wrote to his father stating that if he should hear any rumors that his son was not doing well, to place no reliance upon them, for he was doing very well indeed. This young officer had the good fortune to survive the war, and is still living. During the sojourn at Difficult Creek Governor Blair visited the camp. He rode over in the morning on horseback and made an odd-looking appearance in his citizen's suit and well-worn silk hat. He remained all day, made a speech to the soldiers and after supper took an ambulance and was escorted by Colonel Alger and myself back to Washington, fourteen miles away. It was a very enjoyable and memorable ride. The war governor was full of anecdote and a good talker and his companions listened with the liveliest interest to what he had to say about Michigan, her people and her soldiers. He was very solicitous about the welfare of the troops, and impressed one as an able, patriotic man, who was doing all he possibly could to hold up the hands of the government and to provide for the Michigan men in the field. We left him at the National hotel and early the next morning returned to our posts of duty. About this time, rumors were rife of a projected movement of Lee's army northward. Washington and Alexandria alternated in spasms of fear. Twice, what seemed like well-authenticated reports came from the former place that Stuart had passed through our lines. Chain Bridge was torn up and all the negroes in Alexandria were out digging rifle-pits. Our force was captured repeatedly (without our knowledge) and awful dangers threatened us, according to Washington authority. These, and many other equally false reports filled the air. They were probably the result of logical inferences from the actual situation. The time had arrived when active hostilities must soon begin, and what more natural than to suppose that Lee would inaugurate the fray by another invasion of the North? Among the letters that I wrote to my parents about that time one or two were preserved, and under date of June 1, 1863, I wrote to my mother a note, the following extract from which will serve to show that there was in our minds a sort of prophetic intuition of what was going to happen. Referring to the false rumors that were not only coming to our ears from these various sources, but even appearing in the Northern papers, I said: "That Lee will attempt to raid into the North, after the manner of 'Stonewall' Jackson, is possible, perhaps probable, but when he comes we shall hear of it before he wakes up President Lincoln to demand that the keys to the White House be turned over to 'Jeff' Davis. Besides having an efficient and perfect line of pickets, scouts are out daily in our front, so that the idea of the rebel army reaching Washington without our knowledge is preposterous. Lee may make a rapid march through the Shenandoah Valley, and thence into Pennsylvania and Maryland, but nothing would please the Union army more than to have him make the attempt." Three weeks after the date of that letter, Hooker's army was in motion to head off Lee, who had started to do the very thing thus hinted at, and there was not a soldier in the federal army of Virginia who did not feel, if he gave the matter any thought, that the confederate chief had made a fatal mistake, and rejoice at the opportunity to meet him, since meet him we must, outside his intrenchments and the jungles of Virginia. That Stahel's men were willing to do their part was proven by their conduct in the campaign that followed. Early in June a thing happened that brought a feeling of gloom into the little camp. Colonel Norvell of the Fifth having resigned, the officers of that regiment united in a petition to the governor to appoint an outsider to the vacancy. Governor Blair selected Lieutenant Colonel Alger. Indeed, that was probably part of his business on the occasion of his recent visit. Colonel Alger was ordered to report immediately for duty with his new command, and left, taking with him the hearty congratulations and good wishes of all his comrades of the Sixth. But their regret at losing him was profound. They did not know how to spare him. It gave him more rank and a larger field of usefulness. Major Thaddeus Foote assumed command of the detachment. This reference to the Fifth reminds me of Noah H. Ferry and a night ride in his company, about the time of Colonel Alger's promotion. I had been over to Colonel Gray's camp with some message to him from Colonel Alger, and meeting Major Ferry, who was field officer of the day, he said he was to start that night and inspect the entire picket line of the brigade, about fourteen or fifteen miles long and invited me to accompany him. He would reach the Difficult outpost in the morning, making an all night ride. I gladly accepted the invitation, both for the ride and to see the country. Major Ferry then in his prime, was a strong, vigorous, wholesome-looking man, with a ruddy complexion and bright eye, a man of excellent habits and correct principles. He told me that night what sacrifices he had made to go into the army. His business had cleared that year, $70,000, and with the right sort of management ought to go on prosperously. His leaving it had thrown the entire burden, his work as well as their own, upon the shoulders of his brothers. He had everything to make life desirable,--wealth, social position, youth, health,--there was nothing to be desired, yet he felt it to be his duty to give it all up to enter the service of his country. He talked very freely of his affairs, and seemed to be weighing in the balances his duty to himself and family. His patriotic feelings gained the mastery, however, every time, and he talked earnestly of the matter,--protesting that our duty to the government in its sore strait ought to outweigh all other considerations. It was clear that a struggle had been going on in his mind, and that he had resolutely determined to go on and meet his fate, whatever it might be, and when he was killed a few weeks afterwards at Gettysburg, I recalled the conversation of that night and wondered if he had not a presentiment of his coming fate, for he seemed so grave and preoccupied, and profoundly impressed with a sense of the great sacrifice he was making. A soldier neither by profession nor from choice, he wore the uniform of the Union because he could not conscientiously shirk the duty he felt that he owed the government, and relinquished fortune, home, ambition, life itself, for the cause of the Union. Some time about the middle of June, the picket line was taken up. Major Foote's detachment was ordered to report to Colonel Gray, and Stahel's division was concentrated at Fairfax Court House. The rumors of the movements of armies had become realities. Lee was in motion. The army of Northern Virginia was trying to steal a march on its great adversary. Long columns of gray were stealthily passing through the Shenandoah Valley to invade the North, and to be on hand to help the farmers of Pennsylvania and Maryland reap their golden harvests. But the alert federal commander, gallant "Fighting 'Joe' Hooker," was not caught napping. Lee did not escape from Fredericksburg unobserved. The army of the Potomac cavalry was sent to guard the passes in the mountains and see to it that Jackson's and Longstreet's maneuvers of the previous summer were not repeated, while six corps of infantry marched leisurely toward the fords of the Potomac, ready to cross into Maryland as soon as it should appear that Lee was actually bent on invasion of Northern soil. Hooker's opportunity had come and he saw it. For Lee to venture into Pennsylvania, was to court destruction. All felt that, and it was with elastic step and buoyant spirits, that the veterans of Williamsburg and Fair Oaks, of Antietam and Chancellorsville, kept step to the music of the Union, as they moved toward the land where the flag was still honored, and where they would be among friends. All the troops in the Department of Washington were set in motion by Hooker as soon as he arrived where they were. His plan was to concentrate everything in front of Lee, believing that the best way to protect Washington was to destroy the confederate army. Stahel was ordered to report to General Reynolds, who commanded the left grand division of Hooker's army, and who was to have the post of honor, the advance, and to lose his life while leading the vanguard of the federal army in the very beginning of the battle of Gettysburg. Thus it happened that we were at last, part and parcel of that historic army whose fame will last as long as the history of heroic deeds and patriotic endeavor. Hooker's policy did not coincide with the views of the slow and cautious Halleck, and so the former resigned, thus cutting short a career of extraordinary brilliancy just on the eve of his greatest success. It was a fatal mistake for Hooker. I have always believed that, had he remained in command, the battle of Gettysburg would have been the Appomattox of the Civil War. Such an opportunity as was there presented, he had never had before. Even in the wilderness around Chancellorsville, where his well laid plans miscarried through no fault of his own, he was stopped only by a series of accidents from crushing his formidable adversary. The dense woods prevented the cooperation of the various corps; the audacity of Jackson turned defeat for Lee into temporary victory; and to crown this chapter of accidents, Hooker himself was injured so as to be incapacitated for command, at the very moment when quick action was indispensable. Now the conditions were changed. Jackson, the ablest of all the confederate generals, was dead, and the army of the Potomac, greatly reinforced, was to meet the army of Northern Virginia, materially weakened, where they could have an open field and a fair fight. Every step that Hooker had taken, from the time when he broke camp in Falmouth until he, in a fit of disgust at Halleck's obstinacy, tendered his resignation at Frederick, Maryland, had shown a comprehensive grasp of the situation that inspired the whole army with confidence. The moment that Lee decided to fight the army of the Potomac on grounds of its own choosing, and to fight an offensive battle, he was foredoomed to defeat, no matter who commanded the federal army. Hooker possessed the very qualifications that Meade lacked--the same fierce energy that characterized Sheridan--the ability to follow up and take advantage of a beaten enemy. With Hooker in command, Gettysburg would have been Lee's Waterloo. Sunday, June 21, heavy cannonading in the direction of the passes in the Blue Ridge mountains, proclaimed that the battle was raging. Pleasanton's cavalry had encountered Stuart and Fitzhugh Lee at Middleburg and a fierce engagement resulted. Our division left Fairfax at an early hour, and all supposed that it would go towards the sound of battle. Not so, however. Stahel, with as fine a body of horse as was ever brought together, marched to Warrenton, thence to Fredericksburg, scouting over the entire intermediate country, encountering no enemy, and all the time the boom of cannon was heard, showing plainly where the enemy was. We were out three days on this scout, going to Kelly's Ford, Gainesville, Bealton Station, and traversing the ground where Pope's battle of the Second Bull Run was fought, returning by the most direct route to the right of Warrenton. The march was so rapid that the trains were left behind and a good portion of the time we were without forage or food. The horses were fed but once on the trip. Rains had fallen, laying the dust, the weather was charming and it was very enjoyable. One road over which we passed was lined with old cherry trees of the "Black Tartarian" and "Morello" varieties, and they were bowing beneath their loads of ripe and luscious fruit with which the men supplied themselves by breaking off the limbs. We passed over much historic ground and were greatly interested in the points where the armies had contended at different times. [Illustration: ROUTE OF THE MICHIGAN CAVALRY BRIGADE IN THE GETTYSBURG CAMPAIGN] CHAPTER XI IN THE GETTYSBURG CAMPAIGN After one day of rest from the fatigues of the reconnoissance referred to in the previous chapter, at two o'clock Thursday morning, June 25, the bugles sounded "To Horse," and we bade a final adieu to the places which had known us in that part of the theater of war. The division moved out at daylight. The head of column turned toward Edwards Ferry, on the Potomac river, where Baker fell in 1861. The Sixth was detailed as rear guard. The march was slow, the roads being blocked with wagons, artillery, ambulances, and the other usual impedimenta of a body of troops in actual service, for it was then apparent that the whole army was moving swiftly into Maryland. At Vienna the regiment stopped to feed, not being able to move while "waiting for the wagon;" in other words, until all other troops had cleared the way for the rear guard. Vienna was not far from Camp-meeting Hill, so Captain Weber and I obtained permission to ride over and call on our friends in that neighborhood, intending to overtake the regiment at noon. This ride took us two or three miles off the road on which the various commands were marching. Camp-meeting Hill looked like a deserted village, with no soldiers near and no sign of war. We found our friends rather blue at the thought of being abandoned and, as good-by was said, it was with a feeling that we might never meet again. Weber, gallant as ever, waved his hand to the ladies as he rode away, calling back in a cheery voice that he would come again, "when this cruel war is over." Resuming our journey, a little apprehensive of encountering some of Mosby's men, we were fortunate enough to meet ten troopers of the First Michigan going across the country to join the division. Hurrying on through Dranesville, at a little before noon we overtook the Fifth Michigan cavalry, from whom we learned that we were up with the advance and that our own regiment was far in rear. Selecting a comfortable place, we unsaddled our horses and lighting our pipes, threw ourselves down on the green grass, and for hours sat waiting while mile after mile of army wagons and artillery passed. Most of the infantry had gone on the day before, but I remember distinctly seeing a portion of the Twelfth corps, en route. I recall especially General A.S. ("Pap") Williams and General Geary, both of whom commanded divisions in that corps. At six o'clock in the evening we went to a farm house and had a supper prepared but had not had time to pay our respects to it when by the aid of my field glass I saw the advance of the regiment coming. It was the rear guard of a column that was seven hours passing a given point. It was after dark when the regiment reached the ford at Edwards Ferry. The night was cloudy and there was no moon. The river was nearly, if not quite, a mile wide, the water deep and the current strong. The only guide to the proper course was to follow those in advance; but, as horse succeeded horse, they were gradually borne farther and farther down the stream, away from the ford and into deeper water. By the time the Sixth reached the river the water was nearly to the tops of the saddles. Marching thus through the inky darkness, guided mostly by the sound of plashing hoofs in front, there was imminent danger of being swept away and few, except the most reckless, drew a long breath until the distance had been traversed and our steeds were straining up the slippery bank upon the opposite shore. Safely across the river, the column did not halt for rest or food, but pushed on into Maryland. To add to the discomfort, a drizzling rain set in. The guide lost his way, and it was two o'clock in the morning when the rear guard halted for a brief bivouac in a piece of woods, near Poolesville. Wet, weary, hungry and chilled, as they were, it was enough to dispirit the bravest men. But there was no murmuring, and at daylight, the march was resumed. That day (26) we passed the First army corps, commanded by the lamented Reynolds, and reached the village of Frederick as the sun was setting. The clouds had cleared away, and a more enchanting vision never met human eye than that which appeared before us as we debouched from the narrow defile up which the road from lower Maryland ran, on the commanding heights that overlooked the valley. The town was in the center of a most charming and fertile country, and around it thousands of acres of golden grain were waving in the sunlight. The rain of the early morning had left in the atmosphere a mellow haze of vapor which reflected the sun's rays in tints that softly blended with the summer colorings of the landscape. An exclamation of surprise ran along the column as each succeeding trooper came in sight of this picture of Nature's own painting. But more pleasing still, were the evidences of loyalty which greeted us on every hand, as we entered the village. The stars and stripes floated above many buildings, while from porch and window, from old and young, came manifestations of welcome. The men received us with cheers, the women with smiles and waving of handkerchiefs. That night we were permitted to go into camp and enjoy a good rest, in the midst of plenty and among friends. On Saturday morning (27) much refreshed, with horses well fed and groomed and haversacks replenished, the Fifth and Sixth moved on toward Emmittsburg, the Seventh having gone through the Catoctin Valley by another road. The march was through the camps of thousands of infantry just starting in the same direction. Among the distinguished generals who were leading the advance, I remember, particularly, Reynolds and Doubleday. During the day it was a constant succession of fertile fields and leafy woods. Commodious farm-houses on every hand and evidences of plenty everywhere, we reveled in the richness and overflowing abundance of the land. There were "oceans" of apple-butter and great loaves of snow-white bread that "took the cake" over anything that came within the range of my experience. These loaves were baked in brick ovens, out of doors, and some of them looked as big as peck measures. A slice cut from one of them and smeared thick with that delicious apple-butter, was a feast fit for gods or men. And then the milk, and the oats for the horses, and everything that hungry man or beast could wish for. Those were fat days and that was a fat country, such as the Iraelitish scouts who went over into the land of Canaan never looked upon or dreamed of. To be sure we had to pay for what we had. Especially after we crossed over into Pennsylvania among the frugal Dutch was this the case. But their charges were not exorbitant, and so long as we had a dollar, it was cheerfully parted with for their food. But it seemed a little hard for the Michiganders to be there defending the homes of those opulent farmers, while they, so far from taking up the musket to aid in driving out the army that was invading their soil, were seemingly unwilling to contribute a cent, though I may have misjudged them. It looked odd, too, to see so many able-bodied men at home, pursuing their ordinary avocations, with no thought of enlisting, while a hostile army was at their very doors. It looked so to the soldiers who had been serving in Virginia, and who knew that in the South, every man able to bear arms was compelled to do so, and that within the lines of the confederacy, the cradle and the grave were robbed to fill the ranks. Lee, with a hundred thousand men was somewhere in that region, we knew and they knew. We were searching for him and the time was close at hand when the two armies must come into contact, and oceans of blood would flow, before the confederates could be driven from Northern soil. The government was calling loudly for reinforcements of short time men to serve for the immediate emergency. Yet, these selfish farmers would drive as sharp a bargain, and figure as closely on the weight and price of an article supplied to the federal troops, as though they had never heard of war. Indeed, I believe many of them knew little about what was going on. Their world was the little Eden in which they passed their daily lives--the neighborhood in which they lived. They were a happy and bucolic people, contented to exist and accumulate, with no ambition beyond that; and while loyal to the government, in the sense that they obeyed its laws and would have scorned to enter into a conspiracy to destroy it, yet they possessed little of that patriotism which inspires men to serve and make sacrifices for their country. On Sunday morning, June 28, 1863, the two regiments, having passed the night in camp near the Pennsylvania line, resumed the march and passed through the town of Emmittsburg. It was a little place, with scarce more than a thousand inhabitants, but with several churches, an academy, an institute for girls, and a little to the northeast Mount St. Mary's college, a Catholic institution, founded in 1808. Like everything else, thereabouts, it had a solid, substantial appearance. So quiet was it, that it seemed like sacrilege to disturb the serenity of that Sabbath day. The sanctuaries stood invitingly in the way, and one could in fancy, almost hear the peal of the organ, as the choir chanted, "Gloria in excelsis"--Glory be to God on high and on earth peace, good will to men--and the voice of the preacher, as he read: "And they shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning-hooks." But our mission was, if possible, to find out what Lee and Longstreet, Ewell and Stuart were doing on that holy day. It required no prophet to predict that it would not be to them a day of rest, but that they would be more than ever active to carry out the schemes that for the federal army meant great hurt and mischief. Little that was positive was known of Lee's movements, but it was reported that he had pushed on north with his whole army, and was now in dangerous proximity to Harrisburg. His line of march had been to the west of Hooker's and as he was so far north, it was evident that we were making directly for his communications, in rear of his army. A tyro in the art of war could see that much of the strategy that was going on. Would Lee allow that and go on to Baltimore, or turn and meet the army that Hooker was massing against him? That was the question. Taking the Emmittsburg pike, Copeland with the two regiments pushed on to Gettysburg. Thus it was, that the Fifth and Sixth Michigan regiments of cavalry had the honor of being the first Union troops to enter the place that was destined so soon to give its name to one of the great battles of history. The road from Emmittsburg to Gettysburg ran between Seminary Ridge on the left and Cemetery Ridge and Round Top on the right. It was a turnpike, and as we marched over it one could not help noticing the strategic importance of the commanding heights on either side. I remember well the impression made on my mind at the time by the rough country off to the right. This was Round Top and Little Round Top where such desperate fighting was done three days later. We passed close to the historic "Peach Orchard" and over the fish-hook shaped Cemetery Hill at the bend; then descended into the town which nestled at the foot of these rocky eminences. Before we reached the town it was apparent that something unusual was going on. It was a gala day. The people were out in force, and in their Sunday attire to welcome the troopers in blue. The church bells rang out a joyous peal, and dense masses of beaming faces filled the streets, as the narrow column of fours threaded its way through their midst. Lines of men stood on either side, with pails of water or apple-butter, and passed a "sandwich" to each soldier as he passed. At intervals of a few feet, were bevies of women and girls, who handed up bouquets and wreaths of flowers. By the time the center of the town was reached, every man had a bunch of flowers in his hand, or a wreath around his neck. Some even had their horses decorated, and the one who did not get a share was a very modest trooper, indeed. The people were overjoyed, and received us with an enthusiasm and a hospitality born of full hearts. They had seen enough of the gray to be anxious to welcome the blue. Their throats grew hoarse with the cheers that they sent up in honor of the coming of the Michigan cavalrymen. The freedom of the city was extended. Every door stood open, or the latch-string hung invitingly out. Turning to the right, the command went into camp a little outside the town, in a field where the horses were up to their knees in clover, and it made the poor, famished animals fairly laugh. That night a squadron was sent out about two miles to picket on each diverging road. It was my duty with two troops ("E" and "H") to guard the "Cashtown" pike, and a very vivid remembrance is yet retained of the "vigil long" of that July night, during which I did not once leave the saddle, dividing the time between the reserve post and the line of videttes. No enemy appeared, however, and on Monday (June 29) the Michigan regiments returned to Emmittsburg, the first cavalry division coming up to take their place in Gettysburg. In this way it came to pass that heroic John Buford, instead of the Fifth and Sixth Michigan, had the honor of meeting the confederate advance on July first. Before leaving Gettysburg it was learned that many changes had taken place.[8] Hooker had been succeeded in command of the army by Meade, one of the best and most favorably known of the more prominent generals. It looked like "swapping horses when crossing a stream." Something that touched us more closely, however, was the tidings that Stahel and Copeland had been relieved and that Judson Kilpatrick, colonel of the Second New York (Harris Light) cavalry had been promoted to brigadier general and assigned to command of the Third division, by which designation it was thenceforth to be known. He was a West Pointer, had the reputation of being a hard fighter, and was known as "The hero of Middleburg." Captain Custer of Pleasanton's staff had also received a star and was to command the Michigan brigade, to be designated as the Second brigade, Third division, cavalry corps, army of the Potomac. Of him we knew but little except that he hailed from Monroe, Michigan, was a graduate of West Point, had served with much credit on the staffs of McClellan and Pleasanton, and that he, too, was a "fighter." None of us had ever seen either of them. General Copeland turned the two regiments over to Colonel Gray and went away with his staff. I never saw him afterwards. The Michigan brigade[9] had been strengthened by adding the First Michigan cavalry, a veteran regiment that had seen much service in the Shenandoah valley under Banks, and the Second Bull Run campaign with Pope. It was organized in 1861, and went out under Colonel T.F. Brodhead, a veteran of the Mexican war, who was brevetted for gallantry at Contreras and Cherubusco, while serving as lieutenant in the Fifteenth United States infantry. He was mortally wounded August 30, 1862, at Bull Run. His successor was C.H. Town, then colonel of the regiment. He also was severely wounded in the same charge wherein Brodhead lost his life. There had also been added to the brigade light battery "M", Second United States artillery, consisting of six rifled pieces, and commanded by Lieutenant A.C.M. Pennington. The Third division was now ordered to concentrate in the vicinity of Littlestown, to head off Stuart, who, having made a detour around the rear of the army of the Potomac, crossed the river below Edwards Ferry on Sunday night, June 28, and with three brigades under Hampton, Fitzhugh Lee and Chambliss, and a train of captured wagons, was moving northward, looking for the army of Northern Virginia, between which and himself was Meade's entire army. On Monday night he was in camp between Union Mills and Westminster, on the Emmittsburg and Baltimore pike, about equidistant from Emmittsburg and Gettysburg. Kilpatrick at Littlestown would be directly on Stuart's path, the direction of the latter's march indicating that he also was making for Littlestown, which place is on a direct line from Union Mills to Gettysburg. All day of Monday, June 29, the two regiments (Fifth and Sixth Michigan) were scouting south and east of Gettysburg. Nor did the march end with the day. All night we were plodding our weary way along, sleeping in the saddle or, when the column in front would halt, every trooper dismounting, and thrusting his arm through the bridle rein, would lie down directly in front of his horse, in the road, and fall into a profound slumber. The horses too would stand with drooping heads, noses almost touching their riders' faces, eyes closed, nodding, but otherwise giving no sign, and careful not to step on or injure the motionless figures at their feet. The sound of horses' hoofs moving in front served to arouse the riders when they would successively remount and move on again. On the morning of June 30, Kilpatrick's command was badly scattered. A part of it, including the First and Seventh Michigan and Pennington's battery, was at Abbottstown a few miles north of Hanover; Farnsworth's brigade at Littlestown, seven miles southwest of Hanover. The Fifth and Sixth Michigan arrived at Littlestown at daylight. The early morning hours were consumed in scouring the country in all directions, and information soon came in to the effect that Stuart was moving toward Hanover. Farnsworth with the First brigade left Littlestown for that place at about nine or ten o'clock in the forenoon. The portion of the division that was in the vicinity of Abbottstown was also ordered to Hanover. The Fifth and Sixth Michigan were left, for a time, in Littlestown, troop "A" of the Sixth, under Captain Thompson, going on a reconnoissance toward Westminster, and Colonel Alger with the Fifth on a separate road. The Sixth remained in the town until a citizen came running in, about noon, reporting a large force of the enemy, about five miles out toward Hanover. This was Fitzhugh Lee's brigade, and to understand the situation, it will be necessary briefly to describe how Stuart was marching. When he turned off the Baltimore pike, some seven miles southeast of Littlestown, he had ten miles due north to travel before reaching Hanover. From Littlestown to Hanover is seven miles, the road running northeasterly, making the third side of a right-angled triangle. Thus, Stuart had the longer distance to go, and Kilpatrick had no difficulty in reaching Hanover first. Stuart marched with Chambliss leading, Hampton in rear, the trains sandwiched between the two brigades, and Fitzhugh Lee well out on the left flank to protect them. Farnsworth marched through Hanover, followed by the pack trains of the two regiments that had been left in Littlestown. The head of Stuart's column arrived just in time to strike the rear of Farnsworth, which was thrown into confusion by a charge of the leading confederate regiment. The pack trains were cut off and captured. Farnsworth, however, dashing back from the head of the column, faced the Fifth New York cavalry to the rear, and by a counter charge, repulsed the North Carolinians and put a stop to Stuart's further progress for that day. In the meantime, when the citizen came in with the news of Fitzhugh Lee's appearance, "To Horse" was sounded and Colonel Gray led the Sixth Michigan on the Hanover road toward the point indicated. Several citizens, with shot guns in their hands, were seen going on foot on the flank of the column, trying to keep pace with the cavalry, and apparently eager to participate in the expected battle. When within a mile of Hanover, the regiment turned off into a wheatfield and, mounting a crest beyond, came upon Fitzhugh Lee's brigade, with a section of artillery in position, which opened upon the head of the regiment (then moving in column of fours) with shell, wounding several men and horses. Lieutenant Potter, of troop "C" had his horse shot under him. Had Gray attacked vigorously he would have been roughly handled, probably, as Fitzhugh Lee was on the field in person with his choice brigade of Virginians. I have always believed, however, that a larger force with the same opportunity might have made bad work for Lee. Colonel Gray, seeing that the force in front of him were preparing to charge, and aware that one raw regiment would be no match for a brigade of veteran troops, made a detour to the left, and sought by a rapid movement to unite with the command in Hanover, Major Weber with troops "B" and "F" being entrusted with the important duty of holding the enemy in check while the others effected their retreat. Right gallantly was this duty performed. Three charges upon the little band were as often repulsed by the heroic Weber, and with such determination did he hold to the work, that he was cut off and did not succeed in rejoining the regiment until about three o'clock the next morning. Colonel Alger with the Fifth and troop "A" of the Sixth, under Captain H.E. Thompson, also had a smart encounter with the same force, holding their own against much superior numbers by the use of the Spencer repeating rifles with which they were armed. By noon, or soon after, the entire division united in the village of Hanover. The First, Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Michigan regiments and Pennington's battery were all on the ground near the railroad station. The confederate line of battle could be distinctly seen on the hills to the south of the town. The command to dismount to fight on foot was given. The number one, two and three men dismounted and formed in line to the right facing the enemy. The number four men remained with the horses which were taken away a short distance to the rear. It was here that the brigade first saw Custer. As the men of the Sixth, armed with their Spencer rifles, were deploying forward across the railroad into a wheatfield beyond, I heard a voice new to me, directly in rear of the portion of the line where I was, giving directions for the movement, in clear, resonant tones, and in a calm, confident manner, at once resolute and reassuring. Looking back to see whence it came, my eyes were instantly riveted upon a figure only a few feet distant, whose appearance amazed if it did not for the moment amuse me. It was he who was giving the orders. At first, I thought he might be a staff officer, conveying the commands of his chief. But it was at once apparent that he was giving orders, not delivering them, and that he was in command of the line. [Illustration: GEORGE A. CUSTER (IN 1863)] Looking at him closely, this is what I saw: An officer superbly mounted who sat his charger as if to the manor born. Tall, lithe, active, muscular, straight as an Indian and as quick in his movements, he had the fair complexion of a school girl. He was clad in a suit of black velvet, elaborately trimmed with gold lace, which ran down the outer seams of his trousers, and almost covered the sleeves of his cavalry jacket. The wide collar of a blue navy shirt was turned down over the collar of his velvet jacket, and a necktie of brilliant crimson was tied in a graceful knot at the throat, the long ends falling carelessly in front. The double rows of buttons on his breast were arranged in groups of twos, indicating the rank of brigadier general. A soft, black hat with wide brim adorned with a gilt cord, and rosette encircling a silver star, was worn turned down on one side giving him a rakish air. His golden hair fell in graceful luxuriance nearly or quite to his shoulders, and his upper lip was garnished with a blonde mustache. A sword and belt, gilt spurs and top boots completed his unique outfit. A keen eye would have been slow to detect in that rider with the flowing locks and gaudy tie, in his dress of velvet and of gold, the master spirit that he proved to be. That garb, fantastic as at first sight it appeared to be, was to be the distinguishing mark which, during all the remaining years of that war, like the white plume of Henry of Navarre, was to show us where, in the thickest of the fight, we were to seek our leader--for, where danger was, where swords were to cross, where Greek met Greek, there was he, always. Brave but not reckless; self-confident, yet modest; ambitious, but regulating his conduct at all times by a high sense of honor and duty; eager for laurels, but scorning to wear them unworthily; ready and willing to act, but regardful of human life; quick in emergencies, cool and self-possessed, his courage was of the highest moral type, his perceptions were intuitions. Showy like Murat, fiery like Farnsworth, yet calm and self-reliant like Sheridan, he was the most brilliant and successful cavalry officer of his time. Such a man had appeared upon the scene, and soon we learned to utter with pride the name of--Custer. George A. Custer was, as all agree, the most picturesque figure of the civil war. Yet his ability and services were never rightly judged by the American people. It is doubtful if more than one of his superior officers--if we except McClellan, who knew him only as a staff subaltern--estimated him at his true value. Sheridan knew Custer for what he was. So did the Michigan brigade and the Third cavalry division. But, except by these, he was regarded as a brave, dashing, but reckless officer who needed a guiding hand. Among regular army officers as a class he cannot be said to have been a favorite. The meteoric rapidity of his rise to the zenith of his fame and success, when so many of the youngsters of his years were moving in the comparative obscurity of their own orbits, irritated them. Stars of the first magnitude did not appear often in the galaxy of military heroes. Custer was one of the few. The popular idea of Custer is a misconception. He was not a reckless commander. He was not regardless of human life. No man could have been more careful of the comfort and lives of his men. His heart was tender as that of a woman. He was kind to his subordinates, tolerant of their weaknesses, always ready to help and encourage them. He was brave as a lion, fought as few men fought, but it was from no love of it. Fighting was his business; and he knew that by that means alone could peace be conquered. He was brave, alert, untiring, a hero in battle, relentless in the pursuit of a beaten enemy, stubborn and full of resources on the retreat. His tragic death at the Little Big Horn crowned his career with a tragic interest that will not wane while history or tradition endure. Hundreds of brave men shed tears when they heard of it--men who had served under and learned to love him in the trying times of civil war. I have always believed that some of the real facts of the battle of the Little Big Horn were unknown. Probably the true version of the massacre will remain a sealed book until the dead are called upon to give up their secrets, though there are those who profess to believe that one man at least is still living who knows the real story and that some day he will tell it. Certain it is that Custer never would have rushed deliberately on destruction. If, for any reason, he had desired to end his own life, and that is inconceivable, he would not have involved his friends and those whose lives had been entrusted to his care in the final and terrible catastrophe. He was not a reckless commander or one who would plunge into battle with his eyes shut. He was cautious and wary, accustomed to reconnoiter carefully and measure the strength of an enemy as accurately as possible before attacking. More than once the Michigan brigade was saved from disaster by Custer's caution. This may seem to many a novel--to some an erroneous estimate of Custer's characteristics as a military man. But it is a true one. It is an opinion formed by one who had good opportunity to judge of him correctly. In one sense only is it a prejudiced view. It is the judgment of a friend and a loyal one; it is not that of an enemy or a rival. As such it is appreciative and it is just. Under his skilful hand the four regiments were soon welded into a coherent unit, acting so like one man that the history of one is oftentimes apt to be the history of the other, and it is difficult to draw the line where the credit that is due to one leaves off and that which should be given to another begins. [Illustration: GEORGE A. CUSTER (IN 1864)] The result of the day at Hanover was that Stuart was driven still farther away from a junction with Lee. He was obliged to turn to the east, making a wide detour by the way of Jefferson and Dover Kilpatrick, meanwhile, maintaining his threatening attitude on the inside of the circle which the redoubtable confederate was traversing, and forcing the latter to swing clear around to the north as far as Carlisle, where he received the first reliable information as to the whereabouts of Lee. It was the evening of July 2, when he finally reached the main army. The battle then had been going on for two days, and the issue was still in doubt. During that day (2) both Stuart and Kilpatrick were hastening to rejoin their respective armies, it having been decided that the great battle would be fought out around Gettysburg. Gregg's division had been guarding the right flank of Meade's army, but at nightfall it was withdrawn to a position on the Baltimore pike near the reserve artillery. Kilpatrick reached the inside of the union lines, in the vicinity of Gettysburg, late in the afternoon, at about the same hour that Hampton, with Stuart's leading brigade, arrived at Hunterstown, a few miles northeast of Gettysburg. It was about five o'clock in the afternoon when the Third division, moving in column of fours, was halted temporarily, awaiting orders where to go in, and listening to the artillery firing close in front, when a staff officer rode rapidly along the column, crying out: "Little Mac is in command and we are whipping them." It was a futile attempt to evoke enthusiasm and conjure victory with the magic of McClellan's name. There was scarcely a faint attempt to cheer. There was no longer any potency in a name. Soon thereafter, receiving orders to move out on the road to Abbottstown, Kilpatrick started in that direction, Custer's brigade leading, with the Sixth Michigan in advance. When nearing the village of Hunterstown, on a road flanked by fences, the advance encountered a heavy force of confederate cavalry. A mounted line was formed across the road, while there were dismounted skirmishers behind the fences on either side. The leading squadron of the Sixth, led by Captain H.E. Thompson, boldly charged down the road, and at the same time, three troops were dismounted and deployed on the ridge to the right, Pennington's battery going into position in their rear. The mounted charge was a most gallant one, but Thompson, encountering an overwhelmingly superior force in front, and exposed to a galling fire on both flanks, as he charged past the confederates behind the fences, was driven back, but not before he himself had been severely wounded, while his first lieutenant, S.H. Ballard, had his horse shot under him and was left behind a prisoner. As Thompson's squadron was retiring, the enemy attempted a charge in pursuit, but the dismounted men on the right of the road kept up such a fusillade with their Spencer carbines, aided by the rapid discharges from Pennington's battery, that he was driven back in great confusion. General Kilpatrick, speaking in his official report of this engagement, says: "I was attacked by Stuart, Hampton and Fitzhugh Lee near Hunterstown. After a spirited affair of nearly two hours, the enemy was driven from this point with great loss. The Second brigade fought most handsomely. It lost in killed and wounded and missing, 32. The conduct of the Sixth Michigan cavalry and Pennington's battery is deserving of the highest praise." On the other hand, General Hampton states that he received information of Kilpatrick's advance upon Hunterstown and was directed by Stuart to go and meet it. He says: "After some skirmishing, the enemy attempted a charge, which was met in front by the Cobb legion, and on either flank by the Phillips legion and the Second South Carolina cavalry." The position at Hunterstown was held until near midnight when Kilpatrick received orders to move to Two Taverns, on the Baltimore turnpike, about five miles southeast of Gettysburg, and some three miles due south from the Rummel farm, on the Hanover road, east of Gettysburg, where the great cavalry fight between Gregg and Stuart was to take place on the next day. It was three o'clock in the morning (Kilpatrick says "daylight") when Custer's brigade went into bivouac at Two Taverns. The Second cavalry division, commanded by General D. McM. Gregg, as has been seen, held the position on the Rummel farm on the second but was withdrawn in the evening to the Baltimore pike "to be available for whatever duty they might be called upon to perform on the morrow." On the morning of the third, Gregg was ordered to resume his position of the day before, but states in his report that the First and Third brigades (McIntosh and Irvin Gregg) were posted on the right of the infantry, about three-fourths of a mile nearer the Baltimore and Gettysburg pike, because he learned that the Second brigade (Custer's) of the Third division was occupying his position of the day before. General Kilpatrick, in his report says: "At 11 p.m. (July 2) received orders to move (from Hunterstown) to Two Taverns, which point we reached at daylight. At 8 a.m. (July 3) received orders from headquarters cavalry corps to move to the left of our line and attack the enemy's right and rear with my whole command and the reserve brigade. By some mistake, General Custer's brigade was ordered to report to General Gregg and he (Custer) did not rejoin me during the day." General Custer, in his report, gives the following, which is without doubt, the true explanation of the "mistake." He says: "At an early hour on the morning of the third, I received an order through a staff officer of the brigadier general commanding the division (Kilpatrick), to move at once my command and follow the First brigade (Farnsworth) on the road leading from Two Taverns to Gettysburg. Agreeably to the above instructions, my column was formed and moved out on the road designated, when a staff officer of Brigadier General Gregg, commanding the Second division, ordered me to take my command and place it in position on the pike leading from York[10] (Hanover) to Gettysburg, which position formed the extreme right of our line of battle on that day." Thus it is made plain that there was no "mistake" about it. It was Gregg's prescience. He saw the risk of attempting to guard the right flank with only the two decimated brigades of his own division. Seeing with him was to act. He took the responsibility to intercept Kilpatrick's rear and largest brigade, turn it off the Baltimore pike, to the right, instead of allowing it to go to the left, as it had been ordered to do, and thus, doubtless, a serious disaster was averted. It makes one tremble to think what might have been, of what inevitably must have happened, had Gregg, with only the two little brigades of McIntosh and Irvin Gregg and Randol's battery, tried to cope single-handed with the four brigades and three batteries, comprising the very flower of the confederate cavalry and artillery, which those brave knights--Stuart, Hampton and Fitzhugh Lee--were marshaling in person on Cress's ridge. If Custer's presence on the field was, as often has been said, "providential," it is General D. McM. Gregg to whom, under Providence, the credit for bringing him there was due. Gregg was a great and a modest soldier and it will be proper, before entering upon a description of the battle in which he played so prominent a part, to pause a moment and pay to him the merited tribute of our admiration. In the light of all the official reports, put together link by link, so as to make one connected chain of evidence, we can see that the engagement which he fought on the right at Gettysburg, on July 3, 1863, was from first to last, a well planned battle, in which the different commands were maneuvered with the same sagacity displayed by a skilful chess player in moving the pawns upon a chessboard; in which every detail was the fruit of the brain of one man who, from the time when he turned Custer to the northward, until he sent the First Michigan thundering against the brigades of Hampton and Fitzhugh Lee, made not a single false move; who was distinguished not less for his intuitive foresight than for his quick perceptions at critical moments. That man was General David McMutrie Gregg. This conclusion has been reached by a mind not--certainly not--predisposed in that direction, after a careful study and review of all the information within reach bearing upon that eventful day. If, at Gettysburg, the Michigan cavalry brigade won honors that will not perish, it was to Gregg that it owed the opportunity, and his guiding hand it was that made its blows effective. It will be seen how, later in the day, he again boldly took responsibility at a critical moment and held Custer to his work on the right, even after the latter had been ordered by higher authority than himself (Gregg) to rejoin Kilpatrick and after Custer had begun the movement. [Illustration: DAVID McMUTRIE GREGG] Now, having admitted, if not demonstrated that Gregg did the planning, it will be shown how gallantly Custer and his Michigan brigade did their part of the fighting. Up to a certain point, it will be best to let General Custer tell his own story: "Upon arriving at the point designated, I immediately placed my command in a position facing toward Gettysburg. At the same time I caused reconnoissances to be made on my front, right and rear, but failed to discover any considerable force of the enemy. Everything remained quiet until 10 a.m., when the enemy appeared on my right flank and opened upon me with a battery of six guns. Leaving two guns and a regiment to hold my first position and cover the road leading to Gettysburg, I shifted the remaining portion of my command forming a new line of battle at right angles with my former position. The enemy had obtained correct range of my new position, and was pouring solid shot and shell into my command with great accuracy. Placing two sections of battery "M," Second regular artillery, in position, I ordered them to silence the enemy's battery, which order, notwithstanding the superiority of the enemy's position, was done in a very short space of time. My line as it then existed, was shaped like the letter "L." The shorter branch, supported by one section of battery "M" (Clark's), supported by four squadrons of the Sixth Michigan cavalry, faced toward Gettysburg, covering the pike; the long branch, composed of the two remaining sections of battery "M," supported by a portion of the Sixth Michigan cavalry on the left, and the First Michigan cavalry on the right--with the Seventh Michigan cavalry still further to the right and in advance--was held in readiness to repel any attack on the Oxford (Low Dutch) road.[11] The Fifth Michigan was dismounted and ordered to take position in front of my center and left. The First Michigan was held in column of squadrons to observe the movements of the enemy. I ordered fifty men to be sent one mile and a half on the Oxford (Low Dutch) road, and a detachment of equal size on the York (Hanover) road, both detachments being under the command of the gallant Major Weber (of the Sixth) who, from time to time, kept me so well informed of the movements of the enemy, that I was enabled to make my dispositions with complete success." General Custer says further, that at twelve o'clock he received an order directing him, on being relieved by a brigade of the Second division, to move to the left and form a junction with Kilpatrick; that on the arrival of Colonel McIntosh's brigade he prepared to execute the order; but, to quote his own language: "Before I had left my position, Brigadier General Gregg, commanding the Second division, arrived with his entire command. Learning the true condition of affairs, and rightly conjecturing the enemy was making his dispositions for vigorously attacking our position, Brigadier General Gregg ordered me to remain in the position I then occupied." So much space has been given to these quotations because they cover a controverted point. It has been claimed, and General Gregg seems to countenance that view, that Custer was withdrawn and that McIntosh, who was put in his place, opened the fight, after which Gregg brought Custer back to reinforce McIntosh. So far from this being true, it is quite the reverse of the truth. Custer did not leave his position. The battle opened before the proposed change had taken place, and McIntosh was hurried in on the right of Custer. The latter was reluctant to leave his post--knew he ought not to leave it. He had already been attacked by a fire from the artillery in position beyond the Rummel buildings. Major Weber, who was out on the crossroad leading northwest from the Low Dutch road had observed the movement of Stuart's column, headed by Chambliss and Jenkins, past the Stallsmith farm, to the wooded crest behind Rummel's, and had reported it to Custer. Custer did, indeed, begin the movement. A portion of the Sixth Michigan and, possibly, of the Seventh, also, had begun to withdraw when Custer met Gregg coming on the field and explained to him the situation--that the enemy was "all around" and preparing to "push things." Gregg told him to remain where he was and that portion of the brigade which was moving away halted, countermarched, and reoccupied its former position. The Fifth Michigan had not been withdrawn from the line in front, and Pennington's guns had never ceased to thunder their responses to the confederate challenge.[12] Custer says that the enemy opened upon him with a battery of six guns at ten a.m. Stuart on the contrary, claims to have left Gettysburg about noon. It is difficult to reconcile these two statements. A good deal of latitude may be given the word "about," but it is probable that the one puts the hour too early, while the other does not give it early enough; for, of course, before Custer could be attacked, some portion of Stuart's command must have been upon the field. Official reports are often meagre, if not sometimes misleading, and must needs be reinforced by the memoranda and recollections of actual participants, before the exact truth can be known. Major Charles E. Storrs, of the Sixth Michigan, who commanded a squadron, was sent out to the left and front of Custer's position, soon after the brigade arrived upon the ground. He remained there several hours and was recalled about noon--he is positive it was later than twelve m.--to take position with the troops on the left of the battery. He states that the first shot was not fired until sometime after his recall, and he is sure it was not earlier than two o'clock.[13] When Stuart left Gettysburg, as he says about noon, he took with him Chambliss's and Jenkins's brigades of cavalry and Griffin's battery. Hampton and FitZhugh Lee were to follow; also Breathed's and McGregor's batteries, as soon as the latter had replenished their ammunition chests. Stuart moved two and a half miles out on the York turnpike, when he turned to the right by a country road that runs southeasterly past the Stallsmith farm. (This road intersects the Low Dutch road, about three-fourths of a mile from where the latter crosses the Hanover pike.) Turning off from this road to the right, Stuart posted the brigades of Jenkins and Chambliss and Griffin's battery on the commanding Cress's ridge, beyond Rummel's and more than a mile from the position occupied by Custer. This movement was noticed by Major Weber, who with his detachment of the Sixth Michigan cavalry, was stationed in the woods northeast of Rummel's, where he could look out on the open country beyond, and he promptly reported the fact to Custer. The first shot that was fired came from near the wood beyond Rummel's. According to Major McClellan, who was assistant adjutant general on Stuart's staff, this was from a section of Griffin's Battery, and was aimed by Stuart himself, he not knowing whether there was anything in his front or not. Several shots were fired in this way. Major McClellan is doubtless right in this, that these shots were fired as feelers; but it is inconceivable that Stuart was totally unaware of the presence of any federal force in his immediate front; that he did not know that there was stationed on the opposite ridge a brigade of cavalry and a battery. Gregg had been there the day before, and Stuart at least must have suspected, if he did not know, that he would find him there again. It is probable that he fired the shots in the hope of drawing out and developing the force he knew was there, to ascertain how formidable it might be, and how great the obstacle in the way of his farther progress toward the rear of the union lines. The information he sought was quickly furnished. It was then that Custer put Pennington's battery in position, and the three sections of rifled cannon opened with a fire so fast and accurate that Griffin was speedily silenced and compelled to leave the field. Then there was a lull. I cannot say how long it lasted but, during its continuance, General Gregg arrived and took command in person. About this time, also, it is safe to say that Hampton and Fitzhugh Lee came up and took position on the left of Chambliss and Jenkins. The confederate line then extended clear across the federal front, and was screened by the two patches of woods between Rummel's and the Stallsmith farm. A battalion of the Sixth Michigan cavalry, of which mine was the leading troop, was placed in support and on the left of Pennington's battery. This formed, at first, the short line of the "L" referred to in Custer's report, but it was subsequently removed farther to the right and faced in the same general direction as the rest of the line, where it remained until the battle ended. Its duty there was to repel any attempt that might be made to capture the battery. The ground upon which these squadrons were stationed overlooked the plain, and the slightest demonstration in the open ground from either side was immediately discernible. From this vantage ground it was possible to see every phase of the magnificent contest that followed. It was like a spectacle arranged for us to see. We were in the position of spectators at joust or tournament where the knights, advancing from their respective sides, charge full tilt upon each other in the middle of the field. The lull referred to was like the calm that precedes the storm. The troopers were dismounted, standing "in place rest" in front of their horses, when suddenly there burst upon the air the sound of that terrific cannonading that preceded Pickett's charge. The earth quaked. The tremendous volume of sound volleyed and rolled across the intervening hills like reverberating thunder in a storm. It was then between one and two o'clock. (Major Storrs says after two.) It was not long thereafter, when General Custer directed Colonel Alger to advance and engage the enemy. The Fifth Michigan, its flanks protected by a portion of the Sixth Michigan on the left, by McIntosh's brigade on the right, moved briskly forward towards the wooded screen behind which the enemy was known to be concealed. In this movement the right of regiment was swung well forward, the left somewhat "refused," so that Colonel Alger's line was very nearly at right angles with the left of Stuart's position. As the Fifth Michigan advanced from field to field and fence to fence, a line of gray came out from behind the Rummel buildings and the woods beyond. A stubborn and spirited contest ensued. The opposing batteries filled the air with shot and shrieking shell. Amazing marksmanship was shown by Pennington's battery, and such accurate artillery firing was never seen on any other field. Alger's men with their eight-shotted carbines, forced their adversaries slowly but surely back, the gray line fighting well and superior in numbers, but unable to withstand the storm of bullets. It made a final stand behind the strong line of fences, in front of Rummel's and a few hundred yards out from the foot of the slope whereon, concealed by the woods, Stuart's reserves were posted. While the fight was raging on the plain, Weber with his outpost was driven in. His two troops were added to the four already stationed on the left of Pennington's battery. Weber, who had been promoted to major but a few days before, was ordered by Colonel Gray to assume command of the battalion. As he took his place by my side in front of the leading troop, he said: "I have seen thousands of them over there," pointing to the front. "The country yonder, is full of the enemy." He had observed all of Stuart's movements, and it was he who gave Custer the first important information as to what the enemy was doing; which information was transmitted to Gregg, and probably had a determining influence in keeping Custer on the field. Weber was a born soldier, fitted by nature and acquirements for much higher rank than any he held. Although but 23 years of age, he had seen much service. A private in the Third Michigan infantry in 1861, he was next battalion adjutant of the Second Michigan cavalry, served on the staff of General Elliott, in the southwest, and came home with Alger in 1862, to take a troop in the Sixth Michigan cavalry. The valuable service rendered by him at Gettysburg was fitly recognized by Custer in his official report. He was killed ten days later at Falling Waters, while leading his squadron in a charge which was described by Kilpatrick as "the most gallant ever made." Anticipating a spirited fight, he was eager to have a part in it. "Bob," he said to me a few days before, while marching through Maryland, "I want a chance to make one saber charge." He thought the time had come. His eye flashed and his face flushed as he watched the progress of the fight, fretting and chafing to be held in reserve when the bugle was summoning others to the charge. The Fifth Michigan, holding the most advanced position, suffered greatly, Hampton having reinforced the confederate line. Among those killed at this stage of the battle was Major Noah H. Ferry, of the Fifth. Repeating rifles are not only effective but wasteful weapons as well, and Colonel Alger, finding that his ammunition had given out, felt compelled to retire his regiment and seek his horses. Seeing this, the enemy sprang forward with a yell. The union line was seen to yield. The puffs of smoke from the muzzles of their guns had almost ceased. It was plain the Michigan men were out of ammunition and unable to maintain the contest longer. On from field to field, the line of gray followed in exultant pursuit. Breathed and McGregor opened with redoubled violence. Shells dropped and exploded among the skirmishers, while thicker and faster they fell around the position of the reserves. Pennington replied with astonishing effect, for every shot hit the mark, and the opposing artillerists were unable to silence a single union gun. But still they came, until it seemed that nothing could stop their victorious career. "Men, be ready," said Weber. "We will have to charge that line." But the course of the pursuit took it toward the right, in the direction of Randol's battery where Chester was serving out canister with the same liberal hand displayed by Pennington's lieutenants, Clark, Woodruff and Hamilton. Just then, a column of mounted men was seen advancing from the right and rear of the union line. Squadron succeeded squadron until an entire regiment came into view, with sabers gleaming and colors gaily fluttering in the breeze. It was the Seventh Michigan, commanded by Colonel Mann. Gregg seeing the necessity for prompt action, had given the order for it to charge. As the regiment moved forward, and cleared the battery, Custer drew his saber, placed himself in front and shouted: "Come on you Wolverines!" The Seventh dashed into the open field and rode straight at the dismounted line which, staggered by the appearance of this new foe, broke to the rear and ran for its reserves. Custer led the charge half way across the plain, then turned to the left; but the gallant regiment swept on under its own leaders, riding down and capturing many prisoners. [Illustration: WILLIAM D. MANN] There was no check to the charge. The squadrons kept on in good form. Every man yelled at the top of his voice until the regiment had gone, perhaps, five or six hundred yards straight towards the confederate batteries, when the head of column was deflected to the left, making a quarter turn, and the regiment was hurled headlong against a post-and-rail fence that ran obliquely in front of the Rummel buildings. This proved for the time an impassable barrier. The squadrons coming up successively at a charge, rushed pell mell on each other and were thrown into a state of indescribable confusion, though the rear troops, without order or orders, formed left and right front into line along the fence, and pluckily began firing across it into the faces of the confederates who, when they saw the impetuous onset of the Seventh thus abruptly checked, rallied and began to collect in swarms upon the opposite side. Some of the officers leaped from their saddles and called upon the men to assist in making an opening. Among these were Colonel George G. Briggs, then adjutant, and Captain H.N. Moore. The task was a difficult and hazardous one, the posts and rails being so firmly united that it could be accomplished only by lifting the posts, which were deeply set, and removing several lengths at once. This was finally done, however, though the regiment was exposed not only to a fire from the force in front, but to a flanking fire from a strong skirmish line along a fence to the right and running nearly at right angles with the one through which it was trying to pass. While this was going on, Briggs's horse was shot and he found himself on foot, with three confederate prisoners on his hands. With these he started to the rear, having no remount. Before he could reach a place of safety, the rush of charging squadrons from either side had intercepted his retreat. In the melee that followed, two of his men ran away, the other undertook the duty of escorting his captor back to the confederate lines. The experiment cost him his life, but the plucky adjutant, although he did not "run away," lived to fight again on many "another day." In the meantime, through the passage-way thus effected, the Seventh moved forward, the center squadron leading, and resumed the charge. The confederates once more fell back before it. The charge was continued across a plowed field to the front and right, up to and past Rummel's, to a point within 200 or 300 yards of the confederate battery. There another fence was encountered, the last one in the way of reaching the battery, the guns of which were pouring canister into the charging column as fast as they could fire. Two men, privates Powers and Inglede, of Captain Moore's troop, leaped this fence and passed several rods beyond. Powers came back without a scratch, but Inglede was severely wounded. These two men were, certainly, within 200 yards of the confederate cannon. [Illustration: GEORGE G. BRIGGS] But, seeing that the enemy to the right had thrown down the fences, and was forming a column for a charge, the scattered portions of the Seventh began to fall back through the opening in the fence. Captain Moore, in whose squadron sixteen horses had been killed, retired slowly, endeavoring to cover the retreat of the dismounted men but, taking the wrong direction, came to the fence about 100 yards above the opening, just as the enemy's charging column struck him. Glancing over his shoulder, he caught the gleam of a saber thrust from the arm of a sturdy confederate. He ducked to avoid the blow, but received the point in the back of his head. At the same time, a pistol ball crashed through his charger's brain and the horse went down, Moore's leg under him. An instant later, Moore avenged his steed with the last shot in his revolver, and the confederate fell dead at his side. Some dismounted men of the Thirteenth Virginia cavalry took Moore prisoner and escorted him back to the rear of their battery, from which position, during the excitement that followed, he made his escape. But now Alger who, when his ammunition gave out, hastened to his horses, had succeeded in mounting one battalion, commanded by Major L.S. Trowbridge, and when the Ninth and Thirteenth Virginia struck the flank of the Seventh Michigan, he ordered that officer to charge and meet this new danger. Trowbridge and his men dashed forward with a cheer, and the enemy in their turn were put to flight. Past the Rummel buildings, through the fields, almost to the fence where the most advanced of the Seventh Michigan had halted, Trowbridge kept on. But he, too, was obliged to retire before the destructive fire of the confederate cannon, which did not cease to belch forth destruction upon every detachment of the union cavalry that approached near enough to threaten them. The major's horse was killed, but his orderly was close at hand with another and he escaped. When his battalion was retiring it, also, was assailed in flank by a mounted charge of the First Virginia cavalry, which was met and driven back by the other battalion of the Fifth Michigan led by Colonel Alger. Then, as it seemed, the two belligerent forces paused to get their second breath. Up to that time, the battle had raged with varying fortune. Victory, that appeared about to perch first on one banner, and then on the other, held aloof, as if disdaining to favor either. The odds, indeed, had been rather with the confederates than against them, for Stuart managed to out-number his adversary at every critical point, though Gregg forced the fighting, putting Stuart on his defense, and checkmating his plan to fight an offensive battle. But the wily confederate had kept his two choicest brigades in reserve for the supreme moment, intending then to throw them into the contest and sweep the field with one grand, resistless charge. [Illustration: LUTHER S. TROWBRIDGE] All felt that the time for this effort had come, when a body of mounted men began to emerge from the woods on the left of the confederate line, northeast of the Rummel buildings, and form column to the right as they debouched into the open field. Squadron after squadron, regiment after regiment, orderly as if on parade, came into view, and successively took their places. Then Pennington opened with all his guns. Six rifled pieces, as fast as they could fire, rained shot and shell into that fated column. The effect was deadly. Great gaps were torn in that mass of mounted men, but the rents were quickly closed. Then, they were ready. Confederate chroniclers tell us there were two brigades--eight regiments--under their own favorite leaders. In the van, floated a stand of colors. It was the battle-flag of Wade Hampton, who with Fitzhugh Lee was leading the assaulting column. In superb form, with sabers glistening, they advanced. The men on foot gave way to let them pass. It was an inspiring and an imposing spectacle, that brought a thrill to the hearts of the spectators on the opposite slope. Pennington double-shotted his guns with canister, and the head of the column staggered under each murderous discharge. But still it advanced, led on by an imperturbable spirit, that no storm of war could cow. Meantime, the Fifth Michigan had drawn aside a little to the left, making ready to spring. McIntosh's squadrons were in the edge of the opposite woods. The Seventh was sullenly retiring with faces to the foe. Weber and his battalion and the other troops of the Sixth were on edge for the fray, should the assault take the direction of Pennington's battery which they were supporting. On and on, nearer and nearer, came the assaulting column, charging straight for Randol's battery. The storm of canister caused them to waver a little, but that was all. A few moments would bring them among Chester's guns who, like Pennington's lieutenants, was still firing with frightful regularity, as fast as he could load. Then Gregg rode over to the First Michigan, and directed Town to charge. Custer dashed up with similar instructions, and as Town ordered sabers to be drawn, placed himself by his side, in front of the leading squadron. With ranks well closed, with guidons flying and bugles sounding, the grand old regiment of veterans, led by Town and Custer, moved forward to meet that host, outnumbering it three to one. First at a trot, then the command to charge rang out, and with gleaming saber and flashing pistol, Town and his heroes were hurled right in the teeth of Hampton and Fitzhugh Lee. Alger, who with the Fifth had been waiting for the right moment, charged in on the right flank of the column as it passed, as did some of McIntosh's squadrons, on the left. One troop of the Seventh, led by Lieutenant Dan. Littlefield, also joined in the charge. Then it was steel to steel. For minutes--and for minutes that seemed like years--the gray column stood and staggered before the blow; then yielded and fled. Alger and McIntosh had pierced its flanks, but Town's impetuous charge in front went through it like a wedge, splitting it in twain, and scattering the confederate horsemen in disorderly rout back to the woods from whence they came. During the last melee, the brazen lips of the cannon were dumb. It was a hand-to-hand encounter between the Michigan men and the flower of the southern cavaliers, led by their favorite commanders. Stuart retreated to his stronghold, leaving the union forces in possession of the field. The rally sounded, the lines were reformed, the wounded were cared for, and everything was made ready for a renewal of the conflict. But the charge of the First Michigan ended the cavalry fighting on the right at Gettysburg. Military critics have pronounced it the finest cavalry charge made during that war. Custer's brigade lost one officer (Major Ferry) and 28 men killed; 11 officers and 112 men wounded; 67 men missing; total loss, 219. Gregg's division lost one man killed; 7 officers and 19 men wounded; 8 men missing; total, 35. In other words, while Gregg's division, two brigades, lost 35, Custer's single brigade suffered a loss of 219. These figures apply to the fight on July 3, only. The official figures show that the brigade, during the three days, July 1, 2 and 3, lost 1 officer and 31 men killed; 13 officers and 134 men wounded; 78 men missing; total, 257.[14] For more than twenty years after the close of the civil war, the part played by Gregg, Custer and McIntosh and their brave followers in the battle of Gettysburg received but scant recognition. Even the maps prepared by the corps of engineers stopped short of Cress's Ridge and Rummel's fields. "History" was practically silent upon the subject, and had not the survivors of those commands taken up the matter, there might have been no record of the invaluable services which the Second cavalry division and Custer's Michigan brigade rendered at the very moment when a slight thing would have turned the tide of victory the other way. In other words, the decisive charge of Colonel Town and his Michiganders coincided in point of time with the failure of Pickett's assault upon the center, and was a contributing cause in bringing about the latter result. [Illustration: CHARLES H. TOWN] About the year 1884, a monument was dedicated on the Rummel farm which was intended to mark as nearly as possible the exact spot where Gregg and Custer crossed swords with Hampton and Fitzhugh Lee in the final clash of the cavalry fight. This monument was paid for by voluntary contributions of the survivors of the men who fought with Gregg and Custer. Colonel George Gray of the Sixth Michigan alone contributed four hundred dollars. Many others were equally liberal. On that day Colonel Brooke-Rawle, of Philadelphia, who served in the Third Pennsylvania cavalry, of Gregg's division, delivered an address upon the "Cavalry Fight on the Right Flank, at Gettysburg." It was an eloquent tribute to Gregg and his Second division and to the Michigan brigade though, like a loyal knight, he claimed the lion's share of the glory for his own, and placed chaplets of laurel upon the brow of his ideal hero of Pennsylvania rather than upon that of "Lancelot, or another." In other words, he did not estimate Custer's part at its full value, an omission for which he subsequently made graceful and honorable acknowledgment. In this affair there were honors enough to go around. Subsequently General Luther S. Trowbridge, of Detroit, who was an officer in the Fifth Michigan cavalry, who like Colonel Brooke-Rawle fought most creditably in the cavalry fight on the right, wrote a paper on the same subject which was read before the Michigan commandery of the Loyal Legion. This very fitly supplemented Colonel Brooke-Rawle's polished oration. In the year 1889, another monument erected by the state of Michigan on the Rummel farm, and but a hundred yards or such a matter from the other, was dedicated. The writer of these "Recollections" was the orator of the occasion, and the points of his address are contained in the narrative which constitutes this chapter. Those three papers and others written since that time, notably one by General George B. Davis, judge advocate general, U.S.A., and one by Captain Miller, of the Third Pennsylvania cavalry, have brought the cavalry fight at Gettysburg into the limelight, so that there is no longer any pretext for the historian or student of the history of the civil war to profess ignorance of the events of that day which reflect so much luster on the cavalry arm of the service. To illustrate the point made in these concluding paragraphs that the part taken by the cavalry on the right is at last understood and acknowledged, the following extract from an address given before the students of the Orchard Lake military academy by General Charles King the gifted author of "The Colonel's Daughter," and many other writings, is herein quoted. General King is himself a cavalry officer with a brilliant record in the army of the United States. In that address to the students on "The Battle of Gettysburg," he said: "And so, just as Gettysburg was the turning point of the great war, so, to my thinking, was the grapple with and overthrow of Stuart on the fields of the Rummel farm the turning point of Gettysburg. Had he triumphed there; had he cut his way through or over that glorious brigade of Wolverines and come sweeping all before him down among the reserve batteries and ammunition trains, charging furiously at the rear of our worn and exhausted infantry even as Pickett's devoted Virginians assailed their front, no man can say what scenes of rout and disaster might not have occurred. Pickett's charge was the grand and dramatic climax of the fight because it was seen of all men. Stuart's dash upon the Second division far out on the right flank was hardly heard of for years after. It would have rung the world over but for the Michigan men. Pennsylvania and New Jersey, New York and the little contingent of Marylanders had been fighting for days, were scattered, dismounted and exhausted when the plumes of Stuart came floating out from the woods of the Stallsmith farm, Hampton and Fitzhugh Lee at his back. It was Custer and the Wolverines who flew like bull dogs straight at the throat of the foes; who blocked his headlong charge; who pinned him to the ground while like wolves their comrade troops rushed upon his flanks. "It may be, perhaps an out-cropping of the old trooper spirit now but, as I look back upon the momentous four years' struggle, with all its lessons of skill and fortitude and valor incomparable, it seems to me that, could I have served in only one of its great combats, drawn saber in just one supreme crisis on whose doubtful issue hung trembling the fate of the whole union, I would beg to live that day over again and to ride with Gregg and McIntosh and Custer; to share in the wild, fierce charge of the Michigan men; to have my name go down to posterity with those of Alger and Kidd, Town and Trowbridge, Briggs and gallant Ferry, whose dead hand gripped the saber hilt and the very grave. To have it said that I fought with the old Second division of the cavalry corps that day when it went and grappled and overwhelmed the foe in the full tide of his career, at the very climax of the struggle, and hurled him back to the banks of the Rubicon of the rebellion, to cross it then and there for the last time, to look his last upon the green hills of Maryland--nevermore to vex our soil until, casting away the sword, he could come with outstretched hand and be hailed as friend and brother." CHAPTER XII FROM GETTYSBURG TO FALLING WATERS When the battle of Gettysburg was ended and the shadows of night began to gather upon the Rummel fields, the troopers of the Michigan cavalry brigade had a right to feel that they had acted well their parts, and contributed their full share to the glory and success of the Union arms. They had richly earned a rest, but were destined not to obtain it until after many days of such toil and hardship as to surpass even the previous experiences of the campaign. After a brief bivouac on the battle field, the brigade was moved to the Baltimore pike whence, at daybreak, it marched to the vicinity of Emmittsburg. There, on the morning of July 4, the two brigades of the Third division reunited. The First brigade, under the lamented Farnsworth, it will be remembered had been engaged the previous day upon the left flank near "Round Top," under the eye of the division commander. Farnsworth, the gallant young officer who had been a brigadier general but four days, had been killed while leading a charge against infantry behind stone walls. His brigade was compelled to face infantry because all of the confederate cavalry had been massed under Stuart against Meade's right. It was intended that Custer should report to Kilpatrick on the left flank but, as we have seen, he was providentially where he was most needed, and where his presence was effective in preventing disaster. The charge in which Farnsworth lost his life was ordered by Kilpatrick and was unquestionably against the former's judgment. But he was too brave a man and too conscientious to do anything else than obey orders to the letter. His courage had been put to the proof in more than a score of battles. As an officer in the Eighth Illinois cavalry and as an aid on the staff of General Pleasonton, chief of cavalry, he had won such deserved distinction that he, like Custer, was promoted from captain to brigadier general on June 28 and assigned to command of the First brigade of Kilpatrick's division when Custer took the Second. This was done in spite of the fact that he was not a graduate of the military academy or even an officer of the regular army. I knew him before the war when he was a student in the University of Michigan, and a more intrepid spirit than he possessed never resided within the breast of man. It was but a day, it might be said, that he had worn his new honors. He was proud, ambitious, spirited, loyal, brave, true as steel to his country and his convictions of duty, and to his own manhood. He did not hesitate for one moment. Drawing his saber and placing himself at the head of his command, he led his men to the inevitable slaughter and boldly went to his own death. It was a pity to sacrifice such an officer and such men as followed him inside the confederate lines. The charge was one of the most gallant ever made, though barren of results. The little force came back shattered to pieces and without their leader. The cavalry corps had lost an officer whose place was hard to fill. Had he lived, the brave young Illinoisan might have been another Custer. He had all the qualities needed to make a great career--youth, health, a noble physique, courage, patriotism, ambition, ability and rank. He was poised, like Custer, and had discretion as well as dash. They were a noble pair, and nobly did they justify the confidence reposed in them. One lived to court death on scores of battle fields, winning imperishable laurels in them all; the other was cut down in the very beginning of his brilliant career, but his name will forever be associated with what is destined to be in history the most memorable battle of the war, and the one from which is dated the beginning of the downfall of the confederate cause, and the complete restoration of the union. Farnsworth will not be forgotten as long as a grateful people remember the name and the glory of Gettysburg. Although General Judson Kilpatrick had been in command of the division since the 30th of June, at Hanover, many of the Michigan men had never set eyes upon him until that morning, and there was much curiosity to get a sight of the already famous cavalryman. He had begun to be a terror to foes, and there was a well-grounded fear that he might become a menace to friends as well. He was brave to rashness, capricious, ambitious, reckless in rushing into scrapes, and generally full of expedients in getting out, though at times he seemed to lose his head entirely when beset by perils which he, himself, had invited. He was prodigal of human life, though to do him justice he rarely spared himself. While he was not especially refined in manners and in conversation, he had an intellect that would at times emit flashes so brilliant as to blind those who knew him best to his faults. He was the very type of one of the wayward cavaliers who survived the death of Charles the First, to shine in the court of Charles the Second. He was a ready and fluent speaker--an orator, in fact--and had the gift of charming an audience with his insinuating tongue. As closely as I can from memory, I will draw a pen-sketch of him as he appeared at that time: Not an imposing figure as he sat with a jaunty air upon his superb chestnut horse, for he was of slight build though supple and agile as an athlete; a small, though well-knit form, dressed in a close-fitting and natty suit of blue; a blouse with the buttons and shoulder straps of a brigadier-general; the conventional boots and spurs and saber; a black hat with the brim turned down on one side, up on the other, in a way affected by himself, which gave to the style his own name. This completed his uniform--not a striking or picturesque one in any respect. Save for the peculiar style of hat, there was nothing about it to distinguish him from others of like rank. But his face was a marked one, showing his individuality in every line. A prominent nose, a wide mouth, a firm jaw, thin cheeks set off by side whiskers rather light in color, and eyes that were cold and lusterless, but searching--these were the salient characteristics of a countenance that once seen, was never forgotten. His voice had a peculiar, piercing quality, though it was not unmusical in sound. In giving commands he spoke in brusque tones and in an imperious manner. It was not long till every man in the division had seen him and knew him well. In a few days he had fairly earned the soubriquet "Kill Cavalry," which clung to him till he left for the west. This was not because men were killed while under his command, for that was their business and every trooper knew that death was liable to come soon or late, while he was in the line of duty, but for the reason that so many lives were sacrificed by him for no good purpose whatever. [Illustration: JUDSON KILPATRICK] Well, on the morning of the Fourth, General Kilpatrick sent an order to regimental commanders to draw three days' rations and be prepared for a protracted absence from the army, as we were to go to the right and rear of Lee to try and intercept his trains, and in every way to harass his retreating columns as much as possible. We were all proud of our new commanders, for it was evident that they were fighting men, and that while they would lead us into danger, if we survived it there would be left the consciousness of having done our duty, and the credit of accomplishing something for the cause. It must also be said that a strong feeling of "pride in the corps" had taken root. Men were proud that they belonged to Kilpatrick's division and to Custer's brigade, for it must not be supposed that the above estimate of the former is based upon what we knew of him at that time. We were under him for a long time after that. This was the first day that we felt the influence of his immediate presence. When it was known that Kilpatrick was to lead a movement to the enemy's rear all felt that the chances were excellent for the country to hear a good deal about our exploits within the next few days, and nobody regretted it. But before the start it began to rain in torrents. It has been said that a great battle always produces rain. My recollection is not clear as to the other battles, but I know that the day after Gettysburg the flood-gates of heaven were opened, and as the column of cavalry took its way towards Emmittsburg it was deluged. It seemed as if the firmament were an immense tank, the contents of which were spilled all at once. Such a drenching as we had! Even heavy gum coats and horsehide boots were hardly proof against it. It poured and poured, the water running in streams off the horses' backs, making of every rivulet a river and of every river and mountain stream a raging flood. But Lee was in retreat and, rain or shine, it was our duty to reach his rear, so all day long we plodded and plashed along the muddy roads towards the passes in the Catoctin and South mountains. It was a tedious ride for men already worn out with incessant marching and the fatigues of many days. It hardly occurred to the tired trooper that it was the anniversary of the nation's natal day. There were no fireworks, and enthusiasm was quenched not by the weather only but by the knowledge that the confederate army, though repulsed, was not captured. The news of Grant's glorious victory in the west filled every heart with joy, of course, but the prospect of going back into Virginia to fight the war over again was not alluring. But possibly that might not be our fate. Vigorous pursuit might intercept Lee on this side of the Potomac. Every trooper felt that he could endure wet and brave the storm to aid in such strategy, and all set their faces to the weather and rode, if not cheerfully, at least patiently forward in the rain. I have said that on that memorable Fourth of July there were no fireworks. That was a mistake. The pyrotechnic display was postponed until a late hour, but it was an interesting and exciting exhibition, as all who witnessed it will testify. It was in the night and darkness lent intensity to the scene. Toward evening the flood subsided somewhat, though the sky was overcast with wet-looking clouds, and the swollen and muddy streams that ran along and across our pathway fretted and frothed like impatient coursers under curb and rein. Their banks could hardly hold them. During the afternoon and evening the column was climbing the South mountain. A big confederate wagon train was going through the gap ahead of us. If we could capture that, it would be making reprisal for some of Stuart's recent work in Maryland. Toward midnight we were nearing the top, marching along the narrow defile, the mountain towering to the right, and sloping off abruptly to the left, when the boom of a cannon announced that the advance guard had encountered the enemy. The piece of artillery was planted in the road, at the summit, near the Monterey house, and was supported by the confederate rearguard, which at once opened fire with their carbines. It was too dark to distinguish objects at any distance, the enemy was across the front and no one could tell how large a force it might be. The First Michigan had been sent to the right, early in the evening, to attack a body of the enemy, hovering on the right flank in the direction of Fairfield, and had a hard fight, in which Captain Elliott and Lieutenant McElhenny, two brave officers, were killed. The Fifth and Sixth were leading and at once dismounted and deployed as skirmishers. Generals Kilpatrick and Custer rode to the place where the line was forming, and superintended the movement. The Sixth, under Colonel Gray, was on the right of the line, the road to its left. At least the portion of the regiment to which my troop belonged was in that position. I think, perhaps, a part of the regiment was across the road. The Fifth formed on the left; the First and Seventh in reserve, mounted. There is a good deal of guess work about it, for in the darkness one could not tell what happened except in his immediate neighborhood. The order "Forward," finally came, and the line of skirmishers advanced up the slope, a column of mounted men following in the road, ready to charge when opportunity offered. Soon we encountered the confederate skirmishers, but could locate them only by the flashes of their guns. The darkness was intense and in a few moments we had plunged into a dense thicket, full of undergrowth, interlaced with vines and briars, so thick that it was difficult to make headway at all. More than once a trailing vine tripped me up, and I fell headlong. To keep up an alignment was out of the question. One had to be guided by sound and not by sight. The force in front did not appear to be formidable in numbers, but had the advantage of position, and was on the defensive in a narrow mountain pass where numbers were of little avail. We had a large force, but it was strung out in a long column for miles back, and it was possible to bring only a few men into actual contact with the enemy, whatever he might be. This last was a matter of conjecture and Kilpatrick doubtless felt the necessity of moving cautiously, feeling his way until he developed what was in his front. To the right of the road, had it not been for the noise and the flashing of the enemy's fire we should have wandered away in the darkness and been lost. The confederate skirmishers were driven back across a swollen stream spanned by a bridge. The crossing at this point was contested fiercely, but portions of the Fifth and Sixth finally forced it and then the whole command crossed over. In the meantime the rumbling of wagon wheels could be heard in the road leading down the mountain. It was evident we were being detained by a small force striving to hold us there while the train made its escape. A regiment was ordered up mounted to make a charge. I heard the colonel giving his orders. "Men," he said, "use the saber only; I will cut down any man who fires a shot." This was to prevent shooting our own men in the melee, and in the darkness. Inquiring, I learned it was the First (West) Virginia cavalry. This regiment which belonged in the First brigade had been ordered to report to Custer. At the word, the gallant regiment rushed like the wind down the mountain road, "yelling like troopers," as they were, and good ones too, capturing everything in their way. This charge ended the fighting for that night. It was one of the most exciting engagements we ever had, for while the actual number engaged was small, and the casualties were not great, the time, the place, the circumstances, the darkness, the uncertainty, all combined to make "the midnight fight at Monterey" one of unique interest. General Custer had his horse shot under him which, it was said and I have reason to believe, was the seventh horse killed under him in that campaign. The force that resisted us did its duty gallantly, though it had everything in its favor. They knew what they had in their front, we did not. Still, they failed of their object, which was to save the train. That we captured after all. The Michigan men brushed the rear guard out of the way, the First Virginia gave the affair the finishing touch. The fight over, men succumbed to fatigue and drowsiness. I had barely touched the saddle before I was fast asleep, and did not awake until daylight, and then looking around, could not see a man that I recognized as belonging to my own troop. As far as the eye could reach, both front and rear, was a moving mass of horses with motionless riders all wrapped in slumber. The horses were moving along with drooping heads and eyes half-closed. Some walked faster than others and, as a consequence, would gradually pull away from their companions through the column in front; others would fall back. So it came to pass that few men found themselves in the same society in the morning with which they started at midnight. As for myself, I awoke to wonder where I was and what had become of my men. Not one of them could I see. My horse was a fast walker, and I soon satisfied myself that I was in advance of my troop and, when the place designated for the division to bivouac was reached, dismounted and awaited their arrival. Some of them did not come up for an hour, and they were scattered about among other commands, in squads, a few in a place. It was seven o'clock before we were all together once more. Then we had breakfast, and the men had a chance to look the captures over and quiz the prisoners. The wagons were soon despoiled of their contents and such stuff as was not valuable or could not be transported was burned. Among the prisoners was Colonel Davis, of the Tenth Virginia cavalry, who claimed that he led the charge against our position on the third. He expressed himself very freely as having had enough, and said, "This useless war ought to be ended at once." During the day Stuart's cavalry appeared on our flank and we pushed on to Cavetown, thence to Boonsborough, harassed all the way by the enemy. We were now directly on Lee's path to the Potomac. At Smithburg there was quite a skirmish in which the Sixth had the duty of supporting the battery. My troop, deployed as skirmishers along the top of a rocky ridge, was forgotten when the division moved away after dark, and we lay there for an hour within sight of the confederate camp until, suspecting something wrong, I made a reconnoissance and discovered that our command had gone. I therefore mounted the men and followed the trail which led toward Boonsborough. At the latter place Kilpatrick turned over his prisoners and captured property. On the 6th, along in the afternoon, we arrived in the vicinity of Hagerstown. The road we were on enters the town at right angles with the pike from Hagerstown to Williamsport, on reaching which we turned to the left, the position being something like the following diagram: North Hagerstown Boonsborough East Williamsport South Lee's reserve wagon trains were at Williamsport under General Imboden. From Hagerstown to Williamsport was about five miles. We had Stuart's cavalry in our front, Lee's whole army on our right, and only five miles to our left the tempting prize which Kilpatrick was eager to seize. Besides, it was necessary for Lee to reach Williamsport in order to secure a crossing of the Potomac river. The advance of his army reached Hagerstown simultaneously with ourselves, but the skirmishers of the First brigade drove them back to the northward, and then the Michigan brigade passed through and turned southward on the pike toward Williamsport. The Fifth Michigan had the advance and the Sixth the rear. The latter regiment had hardly more than turned in the new direction when the boom of a cannon in front told the story that the battle had begun. General Kilpatrick had been attending to matters in Hagerstown. It was evident that there was considerable force there and that it was constantly augmenting. The opening gun at Williamsport called his attention to a new danger. It looked as though he had deliberately walked into a trap. In a moment I saw him coming, dashing along the flank of the column. He was urging his horse to its utmost speed. In his hand he held a small riding whip with which he was touching the flank of his charger as he rode. His face was pale. His eyes were gazing fixedly to the front and he looked neither to the right nor to the left. The look of anxiety on his countenance was apparent. The sound of cannon grew louder and more frequent; we were rushed rapidly to the front. The First brigade followed and to the officer in command of it was assigned the task of holding back Lee's army while the Michigan brigade tried titles with Imboden. Buford, with the First cavalry division, was fighting Stuart's cavalry to the left, towards Boonsborough, and on him it depended to keep open the only avenue of escape from the position in which Kilpatrick found himself. [Illustration: AARON CONE JEWETT] In a little time the two brigades were fighting back to back, one facing north and the other south, and each having more than it could attend to. Pretty soon we arrived on the bluff overlooking Williamsport. Imboden's artillery had the exact range and were pouring shell into the position where the brigade was trying to form. Just before arriving at the point where we were ordered to turn to the right through an opening in a rail fence, into a field, Aaron C. Jewett, acting adjutant of the regiment, rode along the column delivering the order from the colonel. During the Gettysburg campaign Jewett had been acting adjutant and would have received his commission in a short time. His modest demeanor and affable manners had won the hearts of all his comrades. He had made himself exceedingly popular, as well as useful, and was greatly beloved in the regiment. When he delivered the order the pallor of his countenance was noticeable. There was no tremor, no shrinking, no indication of fear; he was intent upon performing his duty; gave the order and, turning, galloped back to where the shells were flying thick and fast. When I arrived at the gap in the fence he was there; he led the way into the field; told me where to go in; there was no trepidation on his part but still that deathly pallor. As we passed into the field a shell exploded directly in front of us. It took a leg off a man in troop H which preceded us and had dismounted to fight on foot, and I saw him hopping around on his one remaining limb and heard him shriek with pain. A fragment of the same shell took a piece off the rim of Lieutenant E.L. Craw's hat. He was riding at my side. I believe it was the same shell that killed Jewett. He had left me to direct the next troop in order, and a fragment of one of these shells struck him in the throat and killed him instantly. As I moved rapidly forward after getting into the field I did not see him again, and did not know he was killed until after dark, when we had succeeded in making our escape by a very narrow chance. We were moved well over to the right--all the time under a furious fire of artillery--and kept there until almost dark, fighting all the time with the troops that were pushed out from Williamsport. In the meantime, the firing and yelling in rear could be heard distinctly and it seemed that at any moment the little force was to be closed in on and captured. Finally, just after dark, it was withdrawn. Those on the right of the road--the First and Sixth--the Fifth and Seventh being to the left, were obliged to reach and cross the pike to make their escape. Weber stealthily withdrew the battalion. He was the last man to leave the field. When we were forming in the road, after rallying the skirmishers, the enemy was in plain sight only a little way toward Hagerstown and it seemed as if one could throw a stone and hit them. We expected they would charge us, but they did not, and probably the growing darkness prevented it. In fact, there was manifest a disposition on their part to let us alone if we would not molest them. We then marched off into a piece of woods and, the regiment having all reunited, learned--those who had not known of it before--of Jewett's death. His body was still where it fell. The suggestion was made to go and recover it. Weber and his men made an attempt to do so, but by that time the enemy had come up and taken possession of the field. This was a terrible blow to all, to be obliged to leave the body of a beloved comrade; to be denied the privilege of aiding in placing him in a soldier's grave, and performing the last offices of affection for a fallen friend. The death of Jewett was a blow to the regiment the more severe because he was the first officer killed up to that time. A portion of the regiment had been roughly handled on the evening of July 2, at Hunterstown--where Thompson and Ballard were wounded--and the latter taken prisoner. A number of the rank and file were in the list of killed, wounded and missing. Enough had been seen of war to bring to all a realization of its horrors. Death was a familiar figure, yet Jewett's position as adjutant had brought him into close relations with both officers and men and his sudden death was felt as a personal bereavement. It was like coming into the home and taking one of the best beloved of the household. After getting out of the Williamsport affair most of the night was taken up in marching and on the morning of the 7th, the brigade was back in Boonsborough where, remaining in camp all day, it obtained a much needed rest, though the Fourth of July rain storm was repeated. Lee's army had reached the Potomac, and not being able to cross by reason of the high water, was entrenching on the north side. Meade's army was concentrating in the vicinity but seemed in no hurry about it. During the day some heavy siege guns, coming down the mountain road, passed through Boonsborough going to the front. A big battle was expected to begin at any moment, and we wondered why there was so much deliberation, when Lee's army was apparently in a trap with a swollen river behind it. It did not seem possible that he would be permitted to escape into Virginia without fighting a battle. To the cavalry of Kilpatrick's division, which had been marching and countermarching over all the country between the South mountain and the Potomac river, the delay was inexplicable. Every trooper believed that the Army of the Potomac had the confederacy by the throat, at last, and that vigorous and persistent effort would speedily crush the life out of it. But no battle took place and, on the morning of the 8th, Stuart's cavalry which was now covering Lee's front, was attacked in front of Boonsborough by Buford and Kilpatrick, and a hard battle resulted. Most of the fighting was done dismounted, the commands being deployed as skirmishers. Custer's brigade occupied the extreme left of the line, and I think the Sixth the left of the brigade. The enemy was also on foot, though many mounted officers could be seen on their line. We had here a good opportunity to test the qualities of the Spencer carbines and, armed as we were, we proved more than a match for any force that was encountered. The firing was very sharp at times, and took on the character of skirmishing, the men taking advantage of every cover that presented itself. The confederates were behind a stone fence, we in a piece of woods along a rail fence, which ran along the edge of the timber. Between was an open field. Several times they attempted to come over the stone wall, and advance on our position, but each time were driven back. Once an officer jumped up on the fence and tried to wave his men forward. A shot from a Spencer brought him headlong to the ground, and after that no one had the temerity to expose himself in that way. At this stage of the battle (it must have been about eleven o'clock in the forenoon) a singular thing happened. It is one of those numberless incidents that do not appear in official reports, and which give to individual reminiscences their unique interest. An officer, dressed in blue, with the regulation cavalry hat, riding a bay horse which had the look of a thoroughbred, rode along in rear of our line with an air of authority, and with perfect coolness said, as he passed from right to left, "General Kilpatrick orders that the line fall back rapidly." The order was obeyed promptly, though it struck us as strange that such a strong position should be given up without a struggle. We had not been under Kilpatrick long enough to recognize all the members of his staff on sight, and it did not occur to any one at the time to question the fellow's authority or make him show his credentials. The line left the woods and retreated to a good defensive position on a ridge of high ground facing the woods, the enemy meantime advancing with a yell to the timber we had abandoned. Then it was learned that Kilpatrick had given no such order, but the "staff officer" had disappeared and, when we came to think about it, nobody could describe him very closely. He had seemed to flit along the line, giving the order but stopping nowhere, and leaving no very clear idea as to how he looked. There is but little doubt that he was an audacious confederate, probably one of Stuart's scouts clothed in federal uniform, who made a thorough tour of inspection of our line, and then, after seeing us fall back, very likely led his own line to the position which he secured by this daring stratagem. The confederates were up to such tricks, and occasionally the yankees were smart enough to give them a Roland for their Oliver. It was presently necessary to advance and drive the enemy out of the woods, which was done in gallant style, the whole line joining. This time there was no stopping, but the pursuit was kept up for several miles. I can hear gallant Weber's voice now, as he shouted, "Forward, my men," and leaping to the front led them in the charge. The Fifth Michigan was to our right, and Colonel Alger who was in command was wounded in the leg and had to leave the field. We did not see him again for some time, the command devolving upon Lieutenant Colonel Gould who, in turn, was himself wounded a day or two later, and Major Luther S. Trowbridge, who did such gallant fighting at Gettysburg, succeeded to the command. From the night of the 8th to the morning of the 11th there was an interval of quietude. The cavalry was waiting and watching for Lee or Meade to do something and, to the credit of the union troopers, it must be said that they were eager for the conflict to begin believing, as they did, that the war ought to end in a day. July 11, early in the morning, an attack was made on the lines around Hagerstown, which developed a hornets' nest of sharpshooters armed with telescopic rifles, who could pick a man's ear off half-a-mile away. The bullets from their guns had a peculiar sound, something like the buzz of a bumble-bee, and the troopers' horses would stop, prick up their ears and gaze in the direction whence the hum of those invisible messengers could be heard. Unable to reach them mounted, we finally deployed dismounted along a staked rail fence. The confederates were behind trees and shocks of grain, at least half-a-mile away. They would get the range so accurately that it was dangerous to stand still a moment. It was possible, however, to dodge the bullets by observing the puffs of smoke from their guns. The distance was so great that the puff was seen some seconds before the report was heard, and before the arrival of the leaden missile. By moving to the right or left the shot could be avoided, which in many cases was so accurately aimed as to have been fatal, had it been awaited. Once I was slow about moving. The scamp in my immediate front had evidently singled me out and was sending them in so close as to make it sure that he was taking deadly aim. I took my eye off his natural fortress for an instant, when he fired, and before I could jump, the ball struck a rail in front of me, and passing through the rail, fell to the ground at my feet. Most of the men were content to keep behind the fence and try and give the confederates as good as they sent, aiming at the points whence the puffs of smoke came. But there was one daring fellow, Halleck by name, who climbed over the fence and amused himself shelling and eating the wheat while he dodged the bullets. So keen an eye did he keep out for the danger, that he escaped without a scratch. While he was there a man named Mattoon, a good soldier, came up, and seeing Halleck, jumped over with the exclamation, "What are you doing here?" "Just wait a minute and you will see," said Halleck. Mattoon was a fat, chubby fellow, and in just about "a minute" a bullet struck him in the face, going through the fleshy part of the cheek and making the blood spout. "I told you so," said Halleck, who kept on eating wheat and defying the sharpshooters, who were unable to hit him, though he was a conspicuous target. The secret of it was he did not stand still, but kept moving, and they had to hit him, if at all, like a bird on the wing which at the distance was a hard shot to make. The entire day was passed in this kind of skirmishing, and it was both dangerous and exciting. The men had lots of fun out of it, and only a few of them were shot, though there were many narrow escapes. On the morning of July 14, the Third cavalry division marched over the Hagerstown pike, into Williamsport. There was no enemy there. Lee had given Meade the slip. His army was across the Potomac, in Virginia once more, safe from pursuit. As he reined up his faithful steed upon the northern bank of the broad river, the union trooper looked wistfully at the country beyond. Well he knew that Lee had escaped, like a bird from the snare, and could march leisurely back to his strongholds. Visions of the swamps of the Chickahominy, of Bull Run, of Fredericksburg, of Chancellorsville, passed before his mind as with pensive thought he gazed upon the shining valley of the Shenandoah, stretching away to the southward in mellow perspective. He wondered how long the two armies were to continue the work of alternately chasing each other back and forth across this battle-ground of the republic. The wide, majestic river, no longer vexed by the splashing tread of passing squadrons, with smooth and tranquil flow swept serenely along, the liquid notes of its rippling eddies seeming to mock at the disappointment of the baffled pursuer. The calm serenity of the scene was in sharp contrast with the stormy passions of the men who sought to disturb it with the stern fatalities of war. The valley, rich with golden harvests, presented a charming dissolving view, melting away in the dim distance. On the left, the smoky summits of the Blue mountains marked the eastern limits of this "storehouse of the confederacy," the whole forming a picture in which beauty and grandeur were strikingly blended. But this reverie of the soldier was soon rudely disturbed. Word came that they were not all across after all. Five miles below, at Falling Waters, in a bend of the river, was a ford where a portion of Longstreet's corps was yet to cross on a pontoon bridge. Kilpatrick started off in hot haste for Falling Waters, determined to strike the last blow on northern soil. The Sixth Michigan was in advance, two troops--B and F--under Major Weber, acting as advance guard. Kilpatrick and Custer followed Weber; then came Colonel Gray with the remainder of the regiment. The march from Williamsport to Falling Waters was a wild ride. For the whole distance the horses were spurred to a gallop. Kilpatrick was afraid he would not get there in time to overtake the enemy, so he spared neither man nor beast. The road was soft and miry, and the horses sank almost to their knees in the sticky mud. For this reason the column straggled, and it was not possible to keep a single troop closed up in sets of fours. At such a rapid rate the column plunged through the muddy roads, Weber and his little force leading. On nearing Falling Waters, the column turned to the right through a wood, which skirted a large cultivated field. To the right and front, beyond the field, was a high hill or knoll on which an earthwork had been thrown up. Behind the earthwork a considerable force of confederate infantry was seen in bivouac, evidently taking a rest, with arms stacked. As a matter of fact, for it will be as well to know what was there, though the general in command made very little note of it at the time, there were two brigades--an entire division--commanded by General Pettigrew, one of the men who participated in Pickett's charge at Gettysburg. On sighting this force, Custer ordered Weber to dismount his men, advance a line of skirmishers toward the hill and ascertain what he had to encounter. Kilpatrick however ordered Weber to remount and charge the hill. At that time no other portion of the regiment had arrived so as to support the charge. Weber, knowing no law for a soldier except implicit obedience to orders, first saw his men well closed up, then placed himself at their head and giving the order "Forward," emerged from the woods into the open field, took the trot until near the top of the slope, close to the earthworks, and then with a shout the little band of less than a hundred men charged right into the midst of ten times their number of veteran troops. The first onset surprised and astonished the enemy, who had mistaken Weber's force for a squadron of their own cavalry. The audacity of the thing dazed them for a minute, and for a minute only. Weber, cutting right and left with his saber, and cheering on his men, pierced the first line, but there could be but one result. Recovering from their surprise, the confederate infantry rallied, and seizing their arms, made short work of their daring assailants. In a few minutes, of the three officers in the charge, two--Weber and Bolza--lay dead on the field, and the other--Crawford--had his leg shattered so it had to be amputated. The two brave troops were more than decimated, though a considerable number succeeded in escaping with their lives. This charge which Kilpatrick in his official report characterized as "the most gallant ever made," was described by a confederate eye-witness who was on the hill with Pettigrew and who wrote an account of the affair for a southern paper several years ago, as "a charge of dare-devils." [Illustration: PETER A. WEBER] In the meantime, just as Weber's command was repulsed, the other squadrons of the regiment began to arrive, and were hurried across the field to the foot of the hill, and there dismounted to fight, dressing to the left as they successively reached the alignment and opening fire with their Spencers at once. But having disposed of the two mounted troops, the confederates filled the earthworks, and began to send a shower of bullets at those already formed or forming below. My troop was the fourth from the rear of the regiment, and consequently several preceded it on the line. When I reached the fence, along the side of the field next the woods, I found Lieutenant A.E. Tower, who since the death of Jewett had been acting adjutant, at the gap giving orders. He directed me to take my command across the field, and form on the right of that next preceding. I had ridden so rapidly that only a few men had kept up the pace, and the remainder were strung out for some distance back. But taking those that were up, and asking the adjutant to tell the others to follow, I dashed into the field, and soon found that we were the targets for the enemy on the hill, who made the air vibrant with the whiz of bullets. It was hot, but we made our way across without being hit, and reached the place where the regiment was trying to form, under fire of musketry from the hill, and getting badly cut up. Reining up my horse, I gave the order, "Dismount, to fight on foot" and, glancing back, saw my men coming in single file, reaching to the fence--probably an eighth of a mile--and the rear had not yet left the woods. The two leading sets of fours which alone were closed up obeyed the order and, dismounting to direct the alignment, I stepped in front of my horse, still holding the bridle rein in my right hand, when a minie bullet from the hill in front with a vicious thud went through my right foot, making what the surgeon in Washington afterwards said was the "prettiest wound I ever saw." I tried to stand but could not. The foot was useless. Private Halleck--the same who was eating wheat at Hagerstown a few days before--jumped to my rescue and helped me off the field. Back of our position some distance, say 500 yards, was a log house in an orchard. To this we directed our steps, I leaning on Halleck's shoulder, and hopping along on the unhurt foot. The most uncomfortable experience I had during the war I believe was during the passage across the open field to the orchard. Our backs were to the foe and the whistling bullets which came thick and fast all about served to accelerate our speed. I expected every moment to be shot in the back. One poor fellow, already wounded, who was trying to run to the rear, was making diagonally across the field from the right. As he was about to pass us a bullet struck him and he fell dead in his tracks. Halleck succeeded in getting to the house, where he left me with the remark: "You are all right now, captain, the boys need me and I will go back on the line." And back he went into the thickest of it, and fought gallantly to the end of the engagement, as I learned by inquiry afterwards. After a little, the confederates drove our line back beyond the house, and it was, for perhaps an hour, on the neutral ground between friends and foes. Shells from the opposing batteries hurtled around, and I did not know what moment one of them would come crashing through the building. A hospital flag had been displayed above it, which saved it. Finally, sufficient force arrived to give our people the best of it, and the enemy was driven in confusion to the river, losing about 1,500 prisoners, one or two pieces of artillery and many small arms. General Pettigrew was killed by Weber or one of his men. Until the battle was over I did not know what fearful losses had befallen the regiment. The total casualties were 33 killed and 56 wounded. The loss in officers was heavy: Major Weber, killed; Lieutenant Bolza, commanding troop B, killed; Lieutenant Potter, troop C, wounded and prisoner; Captain Royce, troop D, killed; Captain Kidd, troop E, wounded; Lieutenant Crawford, troop F, lost a leg; Lieutenant Kellogg, troop H, wounded and a prisoner. The story of "The Michigan Cavalry Brigade in the Gettysburg Campaign," properly ends with the death of General Pettigrew and Major Weber at Falling Waters. No more brilliant passage at arms took place during the war for the union, and it is a pity that some more able historian could not have written the story and immortalized the men, both dead and living who had a part in it.[15] CHAPTER XIII FROM FALLING WATERS TO BUCKLAND MILLS The night following the battle of Falling Waters, July 14, 1863, was a memorable one to the Michigan cavalry brigade, especially to those who like myself passed it in the field hospital. The log house into which the wounded were taken was filled with maimed and dying soldiers, dressed in union blue. The entire medical staff of the division had its hands full caring for the sufferers. Many were brought in and subjected to surgical treatment only to die in the operation, or soon thereafter. Probes were thrust into gaping wounds in search of the deadly missiles, or to trace the course of the injury. Bandages and lint were applied to stop the flow of blood. Splintered bones were removed and shattered limbs amputated. All night long my ears were filled with the groans wrung from stout hearts by the agonies of pain, and the moans of the mortally hurt as their lives ebbed slowly away. One poor fellow, belonging to the First Michigan cavalry, was in the same room with me. He had a gun-shot wound in the bowels. It was fatal, and he knew it, for the surgeon had done his duty and told him the truth. He was a manly and robust young soldier who but a few hours before had been the picture of health, going into battle without a tremor and receiving his death wound like a hero. For hours, I watched and wondered at the fortitude with which he faced his fate. Not a murmur of complaint passed his lips. Racked with pain and conscious that but a few hours of life remained to him, he talked as placidly about his wound, his condition and his coming dissolution, as though conversing about something of common, everyday concern. He was more solicitous about others than about himself, and passed away literally like one "who wraps the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams." He died about three o'clock in the morning and I could almost feel the reality of the flight of his tranquil spirit. In striking contrast to the picture thus presented, was one in the room adjoining. Another trooper also fatally wounded, suffered so keenly from shock and pain that his fortitude gave way. He could not bear the thought of death. His nerve appeared to have deserted him and his anguish of mind and body, as he saw the relentless approach of the grim monster and felt his icy breath, will haunt my memory till I myself shall have joined the great army of union veterans who are beyond the reach of pain and the need of pensions. My own wound gave little annoyance except when the surgeon ran an iron called a probe into it, which attempt met with so vigorous a protest from his patient that he desisted and that form of treatment stopped right there, so far as one cavalryman was concerned. The wound was well bandaged and plentiful applications of cold water kept out the inflammation. Many of the officers and men came in to express their sympathy. Some of them entertained me with the usual mock congratulations on having won a "leave" and affected to regard me as a lucky fellow while they were the real objects of sympathy. But the circumstances were such as to repress mirth or anything of that semblance. The regiment was in mourning for its bravest and best. The Sixth, having been the first regiment to get into the fight, had suffered more severely than any other. The losses had been grievous, and it seemed hard that so many bright lights of our little family should be so suddenly extinguished. At daylight I was still wide awake but, even amidst such scenes as I have described, fatigue finally overcame me and I sank into dreamland only to be startled, at first, by the fancied notes of the bugle sounding "to horse" or the shouts of horsemen engaged in the fray. At last, however, "tired nature's sweet restorer" came to my relief and I fell into a dreamless sleep that lasted for several hours. When I awoke it was with a delightful sense of mind and body rested and restored. The wounded foot had ceased its pain. A gentle hand was bathing my face with cold water from the well, while another was straightening out the tangled locks which, to tell the truth, were somewhat unkempt and overgrown from enforced neglect. Two ladies full of sympathy for the youthful soldier were thus kindly ministering to his comfort. As soon as fully awake to his surroundings, he opened his eyes and turned them with what was meant for a look of gratitude upon the fair friends who seemed like visiting angels in that place of misery and death. It was an incongruous picture that presented itself--a strange blending of the grewsome sights of war with the beautiful environments of peace. The wonted tranquility of this rural household had been rudely disturbed by the sudden clangor of arms. A terrible storm of battle--the more terrible because unforeseen--had broken in upon the quietude of their home. In the early hours of the morning it had raged all around them. At the first sound of its approach the terrified inmates fled to the cellar where they remained till it passed. They had come forth to find their house turned into a hospital. The kindness of those ladies is something that the union trooper has never forgotten, for they flitted across his pathway, a transient vision of gentleness and mercy in that scene of carnage and suffering. It was with a melancholy interest that I gazed upon the pallid face of my dead comrade of the First, who lay, a peaceful smile upon his features which were bathed in a flood of golden light, as the hot rays of the July sun penetrated the apartment. The man in the hall was also dead. Others of the wounded were lying on their improvised couches, as comfortable as they could be made. In the afternoon the ambulance train arrived. The wounded were loaded therein, and started for Hagerstown, bidding farewell to those who remained on duty, and who had already received marching orders which would take them back into "Old Virginia." The journey to Hagerstown was by way of Williamsport and the same pike we had marched over on the 6th of the month when Jewett was killed, and on the morning of the 14th when Weber was riding to "one more saber charge" at Falling Waters. Nothing is more depressing than to pass over ground where a battle has recently been fought. Any veteran will say that he prefers the advance to the retreat--the front to the rear of an army. The true soldier would rather be on the skirmish-line than in the hospital or among the trains. Men who can face the cannon's mouth without flinching, shrink from the surgeon's knife and the amputating-table. The excitement, the noise, the bugle's note and beat of drum, the roar of artillery, the shriek of shell, the volley of musketry, the "zip" of bullet or "ping" of spent ball, the orderly movement of masses of men, the shouting of orders, the waving of battle-flags--all these things inflame the imagination, stir the blood, and stimulate men to heroic actions. Above all, the consciousness that the eyes of comrades are upon him, puts a man upon his mettle and upon his pride, and compels him oftentimes to simulate a contempt for danger which he does not feel. The senses are too, in some sort, deadened to the hazards of the scene and, in battle, one finds himself doing with resolute will things which under normal conditions would fill him with abhorrence. Men fight from mingled motives. Pride, the fear of disgrace, ambition, the sense of duty--all contribute to keep the courage up to the sticking point. Few fight because they like it. The bravest are those who, fully alive to the danger, are possessed of that sublime moral heroism which sustains them in emergencies that daunt weaker men. But, when the excitement is over, when the pomp and circumstance are eliminated, when the unnatural ardor has subsided, when the tumult and rush have passed, leaving behind only the dismal effects--the ruin and desolation, the mangled corpses of the killed, the saddening spectacle of the dying, the sufferings of the wounded--the bravest would, if he could, blot these things from his sight and from his memory. The night in the field hospital at Falling Waters did more to put out the fires of my military spirit and to quench my martial ambition than did all the experiences of Hunterstown and Gettysburg, of Boonsborough and Williamsport. And, as the ambulance train laden with wounded wound its tortuous way through the theater of many a bloody recent rencounter, it set in motion a train of reflections which were by no means pleasing. The abandoned arms and accouterments; the debris of broken-down army wagons; the wrecks of caissons and gun-carriages; the bloated carcasses of once proud and sleek cavalry chargers; the mounds showing where the earth had been hastily shoveled over the forms of late companions-in-arms; everything was suggestive of the desolation, nothing of the glory, of war. It was nearly dark when the long train of ambulances halted in the streets of Hagerstown. Some large buildings had been taken for hospitals and the wounded were being placed therein as the ambulances successively arrived. This consumed much time and, while waiting for the forward wagons to be unloaded, it occurred to me that it would be a nice thing to obtain quarters in a private house. Barnhart, first sergeant of the troop, who accompanied me, proposed to make inquiry at once, and ran up the stone steps of a comfortable-looking brick house opposite the ambulance and rang the bell. In a moment the door opened and a pleasant voice inquired what was wanted. "A wounded officer in the ambulance yonder wants to know if you will take him in for a day or two until he can get ordered to Washington. He has funds to recompense you and does not like to go to the hospital." "Certainly," replied the voice, "bring him in." And Barnhart, taking me in his arms, carried me into the house and, guided to the second floor by the same lady who had met him at the door, deposited his burden on a couch in a well furnished apartment and we were bidden to make ourselves at home. In a little while, a nice hot supper of tea, toast, eggs and beefsteak, enough for both, was brought to the room by our hospitable hostess, who seemed to take the greatest pleasure in serving her guests with her own hands. Later in the evening, she called with her husband and they formally introduced themselves. They were young married people with one child, a beautiful little girl of six or eight summers. He was a merchant and kept a store in an adjoining building. They spent the evening in the room, chatting of the stirring events of the month and, indeed, their experiences had been scarcely less exciting than our own. Hagerstown had been right in the whirl of the battle-storm which had been raging in Maryland. Both armies had passed through its streets and bivouacked in its environs. More than once the opposing forces had contended for possession of the town. Twice the union cavalry had charged in and driven the confederates out, and once had been forced, themselves, to vacate in a hurry. It was almost inside its limits that Captain Snyder, of the First Michigan cavalry, serving on Kilpatrick's staff, had with the saber fought single-handed five confederate horsemen and he was lying wounded mortally in a neighboring building. Our kind host and hostess entertained us until a late hour with interesting recitals of what they had seen from the inside or "between the lines." That night after a refreshing bath, with head pillowed in down, I stowed myself away between snowy sheets for a dreamless sleep that lasted until the sun was high up in the eastern heavens. Barnhart was already astir and soon brought a surgeon to diagnose the case and decide what disposition should be made of the patient. Then the L--s and their little daughter came in with a cheery "good morning" and a steaming breakfast of coffee, cakes and other things fragrant enough and tempting enough to tickle the senses of an epicure. And, not content with providing the best of what the house afforded, Mr. L. brought in the choicest of cigars by the handful, insisting on my finding solace in the fumes of the fragrant weed. "Do not be afraid to smoke in your room," said the sunny Mrs. L., "my husband smokes and I am not the least bit afraid that it will harm the furnishings." I glanced with a deprecatory gesture at the lace curtains and other rich furniture of the room, as much as to say, "Could not think of it," and in fact, before lighting a cigar, I took a seat by the open window where I sat and puffed the blue smoke into the bluer atmosphere, beguiling the time the while, talking with these good friends about the war. That was the very poetry of a soldier's life. For the better part of a week the two cavalrymen were the guests of that hospitable family who, at the last, declined to receive any remuneration for their kindness. The journey to Washington was by rail. In the cars groups of interested citizens, and soldiers as well, questioned us eagerly for the latest news from the front, and our tongues were kept busy answering a steady fire of questions. No incident of the campaign was too trivial to find willing ears to listen when it was told. The operations of Kilpatrick's division seemed to be well known and there was much complimentary comment upon his energy and his dash. The name of Custer, "the boy general," was seemingly on every tongue and there was no disposition on our part to conceal the fact that we had been with them. Arriving at the capital in the middle of the day, we were driven to the Washington house, at the corner of Pennsylvania avenue and Four-and-one-half street, where a room was engaged and preparations were made to remain until the surgeon would say it was safe to start for home. [Illustration: CHARLES E. STORRS] The Washington house was a hotel of the second class but many nice people stopped there. Among the regular guests was Senator Henry Wilson, of Massachusetts, afterwards elected vice-president on the ticket with Grant. He was a very modest man, plain in dress and unassuming in manner. No one would have suspected from his bearing that he was a senator and from the great commonwealth of Massachusetts. The colleague of Charles Sumner, Henry Wilson was at that time one of the ablest, most widely-known and influential statesmen of his day. Conspicuous among the anti-slavery leaders of New England, his voice always had been heard in defense of human rights. His loyalty to the union was equaled only by his devotion to the interests of the soldiers. He lived a quiet, unostentatious life, at the hotel, where his well-known face and figure could be seen when the senate was not in session. He was a man of strong mentality, of sturdy frame and marked individuality. As chairman of the committee on military affairs he had been able to make himself extremely useful to the government in the prosecution of the war, and the soldiers found in him always a friend. He was very agreeable and companionable, and did not hold himself aloof from the common herd, as smaller men in his position might have done. He was seen often chatting with other guests of the house, when they were gathered in the parlors, after or awaiting meals. Once, I met him at an impromptu dancing party, and he entered into the amusement with the zest of youth. A month in Washington, and a surgeon's certificate secured the necessary "leave" when, accompanied by Lieutenant C.E. Storrs of troop "B," who had been severely wounded in one of the engagements in Virginia, after Falling Waters, I started by the Pennsylvania line, for the old home in Michigan, stopping a couple of days, en route, at Altoona, to breathe the fresh mountain air. Resuming the journey, we reached Pittsburg, to be met at the station by a committee stationed there for the purpose of looking out for the comfort of all soldiers who passed through the city, either going or coming. We were conducted to a commodious dining hall, where a free dinner, cooked and served by the fair hands of the patriotic ladies of the "Smoky City," was furnished. It was an experience which left in our minds a most grateful appreciation of the noble spirit that actuated the Northern women in war times. It was scarce two-thirds of a year since, as schoolboys innocent of war, though wearing the union blue, we had gone forth to try our mettle as soldiers, and it needs not to be said that there was a warm welcome home for the veterans fresh from one of the most memorable military campaigns in all the history of the world. The greetings then and there received were ample compensation for all that we had done and dared and suffered. I can never forget how kind the people were; how they gathered at the railroad station; how cordially they grasped us by the hand; how solicitous they were for our comfort; how tenderly we were nursed back to health and strength; how fondly an affectionate mother hung upon every word as we told the story of the exploits of the boys in the field; how generously the neighbors dropped in to offer congratulations; how eagerly they inquired about absent friends; how earnestly they discussed the prospect of ultimate victory; how deep and abiding was their faith in the justice of the cause and in the ability of the government to maintain the union; and how determined that nothing must be held back that was needed to accomplish that result. For some days there was a regular levee beneath my father's roof and the good people of the town gave the union soldier much cause to remember them with gratitude as long as he lives. Only in a single instance was anything said that seemed obnoxious to a nice sense of propriety, or that marred the harmony of an almost universally expressed sentiment of patriotic approval of what was doing to preserve the life of the nation--a sentiment in which partisanism or party politics cut no figure whatever. One caller had the bad taste to indulge in severe and unfriendly criticism of "Old Abe," as he called the president. That was going too far and I defended Mr. Lincoln against his animadversions with all the warmth, if not the eloquence, of the experienced advocate--certainly with the earnestness born of a sincere admiration for Abraham Lincoln and love of his noble traits of character, his single-hearted devotion to his country. I had seen him in Washington weighed down with a tremendous load of responsibility such as few men could have endured. I had noted as I grasped his hand the terrible strain under which he seemed to be suffering; the appearance of weariness which he brought with him to the interview; the pale, anxious cast of his countenance; the piteous, far-away look of his eyes; and by all these tokens he said, as plainly as if he had put it into words; "Love and solicitude for my country are slowly, but surely, wearing away my life." I saw shining through his homely features the spirit of one of the grandest, noblest, most lovable of the characters who have been brought by the exigencies of fate to the head of human affairs. The soldiers loved him and they idealized him. He was to them the personification of the union cause. The day for the discussion of abstract principles had long gone by. Their ideal had ceased to be an impersonal one. All the hope, the faith, the patriotism of the soldiers centered around the personality of the president. In their eyes and thoughts, he stood for the idea of nationality, as Luther stood for religious liberty, Cromwell for parliamentary privilege, or Washington for colonial independence. To blame him, was to censure the boys in blue and the cause for which they fought. No man whose heart was not wholly with the Northern armies in the struggle, could rise to an appreciation of the character of Lincoln. But the great heart of the North never ceased to beat in harmony with the music of the union. The exceptions to the rule were so rare as to scarcely merit notice. The "copperheads" and "knights of the golden circle" will hardly cut so much of a figure in history as do the tories of the Revolution. On the 11th day of October, 1863, after an absence of three months duration, during which time I had been commissioned major to fill the vacancy caused by the death of Weber, I took passage at Washington on a ramshackle train over the Orange and Alexandria railroad to go to the front again. Storrs, whose wound had healed, joined me and we made the journey together. The train reached Bealton Station, north of the Rappahannock river, a little before dark. The harbingers of a retreating army were beginning to troop in from the front. The army of the Potomac was falling back toward the fastnesses of Centerville, the army of Northern Virginia in close pursuit. Meade, who in July was chasing Lee across the Potomac back into Virginia, was himself now being hurried by Lee over the Rappahannock. The tables had been completely turned. The pursued had become the pursuer. As usual, the flanking process had been resorted to. Using his cavalry as a screen, Lee was attempting to maneuver his infantry around Meade's right and, after the manner of Stonewall Jackson in the Second Bull Run campaign of 1862, interpose between the federal army and Washington. Thanks to the vigilance of his outposts, the union commander detected the movement in time, and was able to thwart the strategy of his able adversary. Keeping his army well in hand, he retreated to Bull Run, Fairfax and Centerville. While this was going on, there was a series of spirited encounters between the union and confederate cavalry, commanded by Pleasonton and Stuart, respectively--the former bringing up the rear, and covering the retreat, the latter bold and aggressive as was his wont. These affairs, which began on the 9th, culminated on the 11th in one of the most exciting, if not brilliant, engagements of the war, Kilpatrick taking a prominent part, second only to that performed by the heroic John Buford and his First cavalry division. When the movement began, on the evening of the 9th, Fitzhugh Lee was left to hold the line along the south bank of the Rapidan river, Buford's cavalry division confronting him on the north side. Stuart, with Hampton's division of three brigades, Hampton being still disabled from the wounds received at Gettysburg, spent the 10th swarming on the right flank of the confederate army, in the country between Madison Court House and Woodville on the Sperryville pike. Kilpatrick was in the vicinity of Culpeper Court House. Stuart succeeded not only in veiling the movements of the confederate army completely, but on the morning of the 11th, found time to concentrate his forces and attack Kilpatrick at Culpeper. Buford crossed the Rapidan to make a reconnoissance, and encountering Fitzhugh Lee, recrossed at Raccoon Ford, closely followed by the latter. The pursuit was kept up through Stevensburg, Buford retreating toward Brandy Station. When Stuart heard Fitzhugh Lee's guns, he withdrew from Kilpatrick's front and started across country, intending to head off the federal cavalry and reach Fleetwood, the high ground near the Brandy Station, in advance of both Buford and Kilpatrick. The latter, however, soon discovered what Stuart was trying to do, and then began a horse race of three converging columns toward Brandy Station, Stuart on the left, Buford followed by Fitzhugh Lee on the right, and Kilpatrick in the center. Buford was in first and took possession of Fleetwood. Rosser with one of Lee's brigades, formed facing Buford, so that when the head of Kilpatrick's column approached, Rosser was across its path, but fronting in the direction opposite to that from which it was coming. Kilpatrick, beset on both flanks and in rear, and seeing a force of the enemy in front also, and ignorant of Buford's whereabouts, formed his leading regiments and proceeded to charge through to where Buford was getting into position. This charge was led by Pleasonton, Custer and Kilpatrick, in person. Rosser, seeing what was coming, and caught between two fires, dextrously withdrew to one side, and when the rear of Kilpatrick's division was opposite to him, charged it on one flank while Stuart assaulted it on the other, and there was a general melee, in which each side performed prodigies of valor and inflicted severe damage on the other. The First and Fifth Michigan regiments were with the advance, while the Sixth and Seventh helped to bring up the rear. The rear of the column had the worst of it and was very roughly handled. The two divisions having united, Pleasonton took command and, bringing his artillery hurriedly into position, soon had Stuart whipped to a standstill. All the fighting in this battle was done on horseback, and no more daring work was done by either side, on any of the battle fields of the war, than was seen at Brandy Station. Those who were in it, describe it as the most stirring and picturesque scene that they ever witnessed; especially when the three long columns, one of blue and two of gray, were racing on converging lines toward the objective point on Fleetwood hill. It must have been a pretty picture: Buford hurrying into line to face to the rear; the federal batteries unlimbering and going into position to resist the coming attack; Rosser galloping front into line, to find himself attacked front and rear; Kilpatrick, with Rosser in his front, Fitzhugh Lee and Stuart on his flanks; detachments breaking out of the confederate columns to attack the flanks and rear of Kilpatrick's flying division; federal regiments halting and facing toward the points of the compass whence these attacks came; then falling back to new positions, stubbornly contesting every inch of ground; the fluttering of guidons and battle-flags, the flash of sabers and puffs of pistol shots--altogether a most brilliant spectacle. Stuart was kept at bay until after nightfall, when Pleasonton withdrew in safety across the river. It has been claimed that Brandy Station was the greatest cavalry engagement of the war. Sheridan, who was then still in the west, and consequently not "there" awards that honor to Yellow Tavern, fought the following season. Doubtless he was right, for the latter was a well planned battle in which all the movements were controlled by a single will. But most of the fighting at Yellow Tavern was done on foot, though Custer's mounted charge at the critical moment, won the day. Brandy Station was a battle in which all the troopers were kept in the saddle. It was, however, a battle with no plan, though it is conceded that Pleasonton handled his command with much skill after the two divisions had united. His artillery was particularly effective. Captain Don G. Lovell, of the Sixth Michigan, the senior officer present with the regiment, greatly distinguished himself in the difficult duty of guarding the rear, meeting emergencies as they arose with the characteristic courage and coolness which distinguished him on all occasions on the field of battle. The battle ended about the time our train reached Bealton, so Storrs and I missed the opportunity of taking part in one of the most memorable contests of the civil war. After a night on the platform of the railroad station, we started at dawn to find the brigade. From wounded stragglers the salient events of the previous day were learned and the inference drawn from the information which they were able to give was that the cavalry must be encamped somewhere not far away. All agreed that it was having a lively experience. Everything, however, was at sixes and sevens and it was only after a long and toilsome search, that the regimental quartermaster was located among the trains. My horse, equipments and arms had disappeared, but fortunately Storrs found his outfit intact and, having two mounts, he loaned me one. Selecting from the quartermaster's surplus supplies a government saber, revolver and belt, thus equipped and mounted on Storrs's horse, I rode in search of the regiment, which we ascertained to be in camp in the woods, some distance away from the trains. When at last found, it proved to be a sorry looking regiment, but a wreck and remnant of its former self. With two troops ("I" and "M") absent on detached service in the Shenandoah valley, the Sixth Michigan started in the Gettysburg campaign, June 21, with between 500 and 600 troopers in the saddle. When Storrs and I rode into that silvan camp, on that bright October morning, there were less than 100 men "present for duty" including not a single field officer. Many of the troops were commanded by lieutenants, some of them by sergeants, and one had neither officer nor non-commissioned officer. They had been fighting, marching and countermarching for months, and had a jaded, dejected appearance, not pleasant to look upon, and very far removed indeed from the buoyant and hopeful air with which they entered upon the campaign. At one point, during the retreat of the day before, it had been necessary to leap the horses over a difficult ditch. Many of them fell into it, and the riders were overtaken by the enemy's horse before they could be extricated. Among these was Hobart, sergeant major, who was taken to Libby prison, where he remained until the next year, when he was exchanged. [Illustration: GEORGE A. CUSTER (ABOUT 1870)] The next thing, was to report to General Custer for duty. It was my first personal interview with the great cavalryman. He was at his headquarters, in the woods, taking life in as light-hearted a way as though he had not just come out of a fight, and did not expect others to come right along. He acted like a man who made a business of his profession; who went about the work of fighting battles and winning victories, as a railroad superintendent goes about the business of running trains. When in action, his whole mind was concentrated on the duty and responsibility of the moment; in camp, he was genial and companionable, blithe as a boy. Indeed he was a boy in years, though a man in courage and in discretion. After drawing rations and forage, the march was resumed and, little of incident that was important intervening, on the 14th the division was encamped on the north side of Bull Run, near the Gainesville or Warrenton turnpike, where we remained undisturbed until the evening of the 18th, when the forward movement began which culminated on the 19th in the battle of Buckland Mills, which will be the theme of the next chapter. CHAPTER XIV THE BATTLE OF BUCKLAND MILLS Buckland Mills was, in some sort, a sequel to Brandy Station. The latter battle was a brilliant passage at arms, in which neither side obtained a decisive advantage. Kilpatrick was still pugnacious and both willing and anxious to meet Stuart again. That his mind was full of the subject was evinced by a remark he was heard to make one morning at his headquarters on the Bull Run battle ground. He was quartered in a house, his host a Virginian too old to be in the army, and who remained at home to look after the property. It was a clear day, and when the general came out on the porch, the old gentleman accosted him with a cheery: "A fine day, general!" "Yes, a--fine day for a fight;" was the instant reply. In most men this would have sounded like gasconade. In Kilpatrick's case, it was not so considered. He was credited with plenty of pluck, and it was well understood that he was no sooner out of one action, than he was planning to get into another. He ran into one, a day or two later, which furnished him all the entertainment of that kind that he wanted, and more too. Reconnoissances across Bull Run on the Gainesville road disclosed a considerable force of mounted confederates. When their pickets were driven in by the Sixth Michigan on the 15th and again by the First Michigan on the 16th strong reserves were revealed. As a matter of fact, Stuart was at Buckland Mills with Hampton's division, and Fitzhugh Lee was at or near Auburn, but a few miles away. They had their heads together and devised a trap for Kilpatrick, into which he rode with his eyes shut. Sunday evening, October 18, the Third division moved out across Bull Run, Kilpatrick in command, Custer's brigade leading, Davies[16] with the First brigade bringing up the rear. Stuart's cavalry was attacked and driven rapidly until dark by the First Vermont cavalry[17] under Lieutenant Colonel Addison W. Preston, acting as advance guard. Early on Monday morning, October 19, the march was resumed, the Sixth Michigan in advance. About midway between Bull Run and Broad Run the confederate rear guard, a regiment of Young's brigade of Hampton's division, was encountered which fell back before the advance of the Sixth Michigan making but slight resistance and retreating across Broad Run, where it was found that Stuart had taken up a strong position, forming the three brigades of Gordon, Rosser and Young in line on the opposite side, as if to contest the crossing. The stream was deep and difficult, spanned at the pike by a stone bridge. Its banks were wooded. Stuart stationed a piece of artillery on the high ground so as to command the bridge and its approaches. A portion of the regiment was dismounted and advanced to engage the dismounted confederates across the stream. Captain George R. Maxwell of the First Michigan, whose regiment was at the time in the rear, rode up and asked permission to take a carbine and go on foot with the men of the Sixth who were in front. The permission was granted and, giving his horse into the charge of an orderly, he was in a few moments justifying his already well established reputation as a man of courage, by fighting like an enlisted man, on the skirmish line of a regiment not his own, thus voluntarily exceeding any requirements of duty. Custer rode up with his staff and escort, and halted in the road, making a conspicuous group. Stuart's cannoneers planted a shell right in their midst, which caused a lively scattering, as they had no desire to be made targets of for that kind of artillery practice. Fortunately no one was killed. Custer then brought up his entire command and formed a line of battle, the Sixth Michigan in the center across the pike, the Fifth Michigan on the right, the Seventh Michigan on the left, the First Michigan and First Vermont in reserve, mounted. After a somewhat stubborn resistance. Stuart apparently reluctantly withdrew, permitting Custer to cross though he could have held the position easily against ten times his number whereas, as the sequel proved, he greatly outnumbered Kilpatrick. The Seventh crossed at a ford about a mile below, the other regiments at the bridge. Stuart retreated toward Warrenton. It was then about noon, perhaps a little later than that. Kilpatrick came up and ordered Custer to draw in his skirmishers and allow Davies to pass him and take the advance. Custer massed his command on some level ground, behind a hill, beyond the bridge, and adjacent to the stream. Davies crossed the bridge, passed the Michigan brigade, and took up the pursuit of Stuart. Kilpatrick, with his staff, followed along the pike in rear of Davies's brigade. As he was moving off, Kilpatrick directed Custer to follow the First brigade and bring up the rear. This was the very thing that Stuart was waiting for. It had been arranged between him and Fitzhugh Lee that he, with his three brigades,[18] was to fall back without resistance before the two brigades of the Third division, until they were drawn well away from the bridge, when Lee, who was coming up from Auburn through the woods to the left, with the brigades of Lomax, Chambliss and Wickham and Breathed's battery would swing in across the pike, cut Kilpatrick off from the bridge, and then, at the first sound of Lee's guns, Kilpatrick was to be attacked simultaneously by Stuart in front and by Lee in rear, and thoroughly whipped. It was a very pretty bit of strategy and came very near being successful. The plan was neatly frustrated by one of those apparent accidents of war which make or unmake men, according as they are favorable or unfavorable. Custer respectfully but firmly demurred to moving until his men could have their breakfast--rather their dinner, for the forenoon was already spent. Neither men nor horses had had anything to eat since the night before, and he urged that the horses should have a feed and the men have an opportunity to make coffee before they were required to go farther. Custer was a fighting man, through and through, but wary and wily as brave. There was in him an indescribable something--call it caution, call it sagacity, call it the real military instinct--it may have been genius--by whatever name entitled, it nearly always impelled him to do intuitively the right thing. In this case it seemed obstinacy, if not insubordination. It was characteristic of him to care studiously for the comfort of his men. And he did not believe in wasting their lives. It is more than probable that there was in his mind a suspicion of the true state of things. If so, he did not say so, even to the general commanding the division. He kept his own counsel and had his way. The delay was finally sanctioned by Kilpatrick, and the brigade remained on the bank feeding their horses and making coffee, Davies meanwhile advancing cautiously on the Warrenton road to a point within about two or three miles of Warrenton. Stuart made slight if any attempt to resist his progress. The Gainesville-Warrenton pike, after crossing Broad Run, is bounded on both sides by cleared farm lands, fringed about one-third of a mile back by woods. From the place of Custer's halt it was not more than 500 or 600 yards to these woods. The road runs in a westerly direction and the brigade was on the south side of it. There is very little of record from which to determine the time consumed by Custer's halt. It is a peculiar circumstance that not a single report of this battle made by a regimental commander in Custer's brigade appears in the official war records. A similar omission has been noted in the battle of Gettysburg. Custer made a report and so did Kilpatrick and Davies, but they are all deficient in details. There is no hint in any of them as to the duration of the delay. The confederate chronicles are much more complete. From them it would appear that the stop was made about noon and that the real battle began at 3:30 in the afternoon. Memory is at fault on this point for the reason that after coffee and while the horses were feeding I lay down upon the ground and fell asleep. Before that some of the men had gone into the adjacent fields in search of long forage. It was understood that the Seventh Michigan after crossing at the lower ford was scouting through the country toward Greenwich and there was no hint or suspicion that an enemy could approach from that direction without being discovered by this scouting party. Finally Custer was ready to move. Awakened by a staff officer I was directed to report to the general. "Major," said he, "take position with your regiment about 500 yards toward those woods remain there until the command is in column on the pike, then follow and bring up the rear." The order was given with a caution to be careful, as the Seventh Michigan had been scouting near Greenwich and might be expected to come in from that direction. Greenwich is almost due south from Buckland Mills, whereas Auburn, from which place Fitzhugh Lee was approaching, lay considerably west of south. The movement of the two commands began simultaneously. The Fifth Michigan, Pennington's battery, the First Michigan and First Vermont, with Custer and his staff leading, were in a few moments marching briskly in column on the Warrenton pike, which was not very far away from the starting point. The Sixth Michigan meantime proceeded in column of fours toward the place designated by General Custer, close up to the woods. Nothing had been seen or heard of Davies for some time. Everything was quiet. Nothing could be heard except the tramp of the horses' feet and the rumble of the wheels of Pennington's gun carriages, growing more and more indistinct as the distance increased. [Illustration: DON G. LOVELL] The Sixth had gone about 250 or 300 yards and was approaching a fence which divided the farm into fields, when Captain Don G. Lovell, who was riding by the side of the commanding officer of the regiment,[19] suddenly cried out: "Major, there is a mounted man in the edge of the woods yonder," at the same time pointing to a place directly in front and about 200 yards beyond the fence. Captain Lovell was one of the most dashing and intrepid officers in the brigade. He was always cool and never carried away with excitement under any circumstances. It is perhaps doubtful whether he could have maintained his customary imperturbability, if he had realized, at the moment, just what that lone picket portended. A glance in the direction indicated, revealed the truth of Captain Lovell's declaration but, recalling what General Custer had said, I replied: "The general said we might expect some mounted men of the Seventh from that direction." "But that vidette is a rebel," retorted Lovell, "he is dressed in gray." "It can't be possible," was the insistent reply, and the column kept on moving. Just then, the man in the woods began to ride his horse in a circle. "Look at that," said Lovell; "that is a rebel signal; our men don't do that." The truth of the inference was too evident to be disputed. Things were beginning to look suspicious, and in another instant all doubt, if any remained, was set at rest. The horseman, after circling about a time or two, brought his horse to a standstill facing in the direction from which we were approaching. There was a puff of smoke from the muzzle of his revolver or carbine, and a bullet whizzed by and buried itself in the breast of one of the horses in the first set of fours. "There,--it," exclaimed Lovell. "Now you know it is a rebel, don't you?" The information was too reliable not to be convincing, and the regiment was promptly brought front into line, which had hardly been accomplished, when shots began to come from other points in the woods, and no further demonstration was needed that they were full of confederates. The fence was close at hand, and the command to dismount to fight on foot was given. The Sixth deployed along the fence and the Spencers began to bark. The horses were sent back a short distance, under cover of a reverse slope. The acting adjutant was dispatched to overtake Custer and report to him that we were confronted by a large force of confederates and had been attacked. Before he had started, the confederates displayed a line of dismounted skirmishers that extended far beyond both flanks of the regiment and a swarm of them in front. A Michigan regiment, behind a fence, and armed with Spencer carbines, was a dangerous antagonist to grapple with by a direct front assault, and Fitzhugh Lee's men were not eager to advance across the open field, but hugged the woods, waiting for their friends on the right and left to get around our flanks, which there was imminent danger of their doing, before relief could come. It did not, however, take Custer long to act. Putting the Fifth Michigan in on the right of the Sixth, he brought back Pennington's battery, and stationed the First Vermont mounted to protect the left flank, holding the First Michigan mounted in reserve to support the battery and to reinforce any weak point, and proceeded to put up one of the gamiest fights against odds, seen in the war. Opposed to Custer's five regiments and one battery, Fitzhugh Lee had twelve regiments of cavalry, three brigades under Lomax, Owen and Chambliss and as good a battery--Breathed's--as was in the confederate service. Before the dispositions described in the foregoing had been completed, Breathed's battery, which had been masked in the woods to the right and front of the position occupied by the Sixth Michigan, opened fire with shell. But Pennington came into position with a rush, and unlimbering two pieces, in less time than it takes to tell it, silenced the confederate artillery, firing over the heads of the Sixth Michigan skirmishers. Fitzhugh Lee pressed forward his dismounted line, following it closely with mounted cavalry, and made a desperate effort to cut off Custer's line of retreat by the bridge. This he was unable to do. The Sixth held on to the fence until the confederates were almost to it, and until ordered by Custer to retire, when they fell back slowly, and mounting their horses, crossed the bridge leisurely, without hurry or flurry, the battery and the other regiments, except the First and Fifth Michigan, preceding it. The First Michigan brought up the rear. Fitzhugh Lee was completely foiled in his effort to get in Custer's rear, or to break up his flanks. Unfortunately, a portion of one battalion of the Fifth Michigan, about fifty men, under command of Major John Clark, with Captain Lee and Adjutant George Barse was captured. Being dismounted in the woods on the right, they were not able to reach their horses before being intercepted by the enemy's mounted men. Custer, on the whole, was very fortunate and had reason to congratulate himself on escaping with so little damage. Davies did not fare so well. When Kilpatrick found that Custer was attacked, he sent orders to Davies to retreat. But the sound of firing which gave this notice to Kilpatrick was also the prearranged signal for Stuart, and that officer immediately turned on Davies with his entire division, and Davies though he put up a stout resistance had no alternative finally but to take to the woods on the north side of the pike and escape, "every man for himself." Fitzhugh Lee was between him and the bridge, he was hemmed in on three sides, and in order to escape, his men had to plunge in and swim their horses across Broad Run. The Fifth Michigan, except Major Clark's command, escaped in the same way. The wagons, which followed Davies, including Custer's headquarters wagon containing all his papers, were captured. At first blush, it may appear that, if the vidette who fired the first shot, thus divulging the fact of the enemy's presence, had not done so, the Sixth Michigan would have gone on and marched right into Fitzhugh Lee's arms. It is not likely, however, that such would have been the result. Captain Lovell had already seen and called attention to the picket, declaring that he was a "rebel." The obvious course, under the circumstances, before taking down the fence and advancing to the woods, would have been to deploy a skirmish line and feel of the woods instead of blundering blindly into them. Fitzhugh Lee made a mistake in halting to dismount. He should have charged the Sixth Michigan. Had he charged at once mounted as Rosser did in the Wilderness, with his overwhelmingly superior force at the moment of his arrival he must certainly have interposed between Custer and the bridge. He allowed one regiment to detain his division until Custer could bring back his brigade, and get his regiments into position to support each other. Major H.B. McClellan, Stuart's adjutant general, commenting in his book[20] on this battle, says that "Custer was a hard fighter, even on a retreat." He also says: "Fitzhugh Lee had come up from Auburn expecting to gain, unopposed, the rear of Kilpatrick's division, but he found Custer's brigade at Broad Run ready to oppose him. A fierce fight ensued." Major McClellan also quotes Major P.P. Johnston, who commanded a section of Breathed's battery in the fight, as saying: "My battery was hotly engaged. The battle was of the most obstinate character, Fitz. Lee exerting himself to the utmost to push the enemy, and Custer seeming to have no thought of retiring." The battle was opened by Wickham's brigade of Virginians commanded by Colonel T.H. Owen of the Third Virginia cavalry. It was the First, Second and Third Virginia that led the advance. Pennington gave Breathed's battery much the worst of it. The truth is that Fitz. Lee did not find Custer ready to oppose him, though it did not take him long to get ready, after he was attacked. Custer with most of his command was well on his way to follow Kilpatrick. Only one regiment was left behind, and that one regiment--the Sixth Michigan cavalry--was taken entirely by surprise when fired upon by the vidette, and was all that Colonel Owen had in front of him when he arrived and began the attack. It is possible that ignorance of what it was facing helped the Sixth Michigan to hold on till Custer could be notified and brought back. And again, it is possible that Custer was marching more slowly than the writer wots of; that he suspected the ruse which was being played by his old West Point instructor,[21] and sent the regiment out there for the express purpose of developing the enemy, if enemy there was, making a feint of moving away so as to deceive, but keeping an ear to windward to catch the first sound of danger. It has always seemed to the writer that General Custer must have had a motive which did not appear on the surface, in giving that order. His order was to go 500 yards. Five hundred yards would have brought us to the woods. If he suspected that there might be an enemy there, no surer way to find out whether his suspicions were well founded or not could have been chosen. One thing is certain. He was back in an incredibly short space of time. It may be that he heard the sound of firing and was on his way when the adjutant found him. Fitzhugh Lee followed Custer half way to Gainesville and then withdrew. Near that place was found a line of federal infantry sent out to support the cavalry, but it did not advance far enough to get into the fight. That night, Kilpatrick invited all the officers of the division to his headquarters and made a sorry attempt at merry-making over the events of the day. There were milk-punch and music, both of very good quality, but the punch, palatable as it undeniably was, did not serve to take away the bad taste left by the affair, especially among the officers of the First brigade. Custer's men did not feel so badly. They had saved their bacon and their battery, and the wariness, prudence and pluck of their young commander had prevented a much more serious disaster than had actually happened. It may be of interest enough to mention that Fitz. Lee told the writer, in Yorktown, in 1881, that Stuart was at fault in stopping to fight at Buckland Mills; that, under the arrangement with him (Lee) Stuart should have fallen back very rapidly, without making any resistance whatever, until he had lured Kilpatrick with his entire division some distance beyond the bridge. In that event, General Lee would have found the opportunity he was seeking. But he did not know about Custer's action in insisting on stopping there. He was much surprised when informed of the true state of things, since he had felt that Stuart was blameworthy in the matter. He had supposed that it was Stuart's resistance to the federal advance which kept Custer's brigade back until his arrival, and foiled his well planned attempt. CHAPTER XV WINTER QUARTERS IN STEVENSBURG In the month of November, 1863, the army of the Potomac recrossed the Rappahannock and the army of Northern Virginia retired behind the Rapidan. General Meade took up the line through Culpeper, placing the Third division on the left flank with headquarters at Stevensburg. The advance into Stevensburg was stoutly contested by Hampton's division, and the confederate cavalry showed that it had not lost any of its fighting qualities, if its dash and spirit had been somewhat dampened by the sturdy resistance put up in the recent campaign by the federal troopers led by Pleasonton, Buford, Gregg, Kilpatrick and Custer. At the time of the "Mine Run" affair, the Michigan cavalry crossed the Rapidan at Morton's Ford and attacked Ewell's infantry, falling back after dark to the old position on the north side of the river. After that episode, the army went into winter quarters. The three generals--Kilpatrick, Custer and Davies--had quarters in houses, the rest for the most part lived in tents or huts. The Sixth was hutted in temporary structures built of logs surmounted by tents. They were fitted with doors, chimneys and fireplaces--some of them with sashes and glass and were very comfortable. The winter was a very cold one. There was some snow, even in Virginia, and the first day of January, 1864, is still remembered as noteworthy for its extremely low temperature throughout the country. While in this camp the Michigan regiments had a visit from Jacob M. Howard, the colleague of Zachariah Chandler in the United States senate. He was one of the ablest men who ever represented the state in the national congress. He had served with high distinction as attorney general of the state before being elected to the senate. As chairman of the senate committee on Pacific railroads, he had much to do with piloting the country through the many difficulties which stood in the way of the accomplishment of the great enterprise of laying tracks for the iron horse across the American desert--spanning the continent with railroads--and reducing the journey from the Missouri river to the Pacific ocean from one of months to one of days--the most important of the achievements that followed close on the heels of the civil war. The senator made a patriotic speech to the soldiers and was cordially cheered. The cavalry picket line was twenty-five miles long, and it was no child's play to serve as field officer of the day, when every picket post and every vidette had to be visited at least once each twenty-four hours. The outer line was along the Rapidan river. The confederate pickets on the other side were infantry. The union pickets were mounted and the duty was very wearing on both men and horses. Stuart's cavalry performed comparatively but little picket duty, and was kept back in comfortable quarters, recruiting and fitting for the coming spring campaign. During the winter there was very little firing between the pickets. There was a sort of tacit understanding that they were not to molest each other. Indeed, officers could ride along the line without fear of being shot at. When on inspection duty, they at times rode down to the bank and conversed with the enemy on the other side. The pickets were suspected of crossing and recrossing and exchanging civilities--trading tobacco for papers and the like. The word of honor would be given to allow the federal or confederate, as the case might be, to return in safety and it was never violated when given. These visits were always in the daytime, of course, for at night vigilance was never relaxed, and a vidette was not supposed to know anybody or permit even his own officers to approach without the proper countersign. Life in winter quarters was at best dull and it relieved the monotony to go on picket. The detail as field officer of the day was welcomed, although it necessitated a ride of forty or fifty miles and continuous activity for the entire of the tour of duty, both night and day. On these rides I made the acquaintance of a number of Virginia families, who lived near the river and within our lines. Of these I can now recall but two. On the banks of the Rapidan, directly in front of Stevensburg, lived a man named Stringfellow, who owned a large plantation, which had been despoiled of everything of value, except the house and a few outbuildings. Every fence was gone, and not a spear of anything had been permitted to grow. Mr. Stringfellow was a tall man, with gray hair, and clerical in garb and aspect. He was, in fact, a clergyman, and the degree of doctor of divinity had been conferred upon him--a thing that in those days meant something. Degrees, like brevets, were not so easily obtained before the civil war period as they have been since. Mr. Stringfellow was a gentleman of culture, a scholar and profound student of Biblical literature. He had written a book, a copy of which was to be seen in his house, in which he had demonstrated, to his own satisfaction, at least, that the "institution of slavery" was of divine origin. It was said that he was a brother of the Stringfellow who became so notorious during the Kansas troubles, as a leader of the "border ruffians," who tried to force slavery into that territory, before the breaking out of hostilities between the states. Living at home with this Virginia doctor of divinity, was a married daughter, whose husband was an officer in the confederate army. They were people of the old school, cultured, refined, and hospitable, though hard put to it to show any substantial evidences of their innate hospitality, on account of their impoverished condition, which they seemed to feel keenly, but were too proud to mention, except when driven to it by sheer necessity. The federal cavalrymen were always welcome in that house and the officers in many instances were very kind to them. Indeed, I suspect that more than once they were spared the pangs of hunger by the thoughtful kindness of officers who had found shelter in their home and had broken bread at their table, only to suspect that the family larder had been stripped of the last morsel, in order to keep up the reputation for Virginia hospitality. About five miles farther down the river, in a lonely spot, where a small tributary of the Rapidan tumbled down a decline, was a water-power on which was a rude sawmill, where a single old-fashioned "sash saw" chewed its way lazily through hardwood logs. The mill was tended by its owner who, with his wife, lived in a house hard by the mill, the only occupants of the dwelling and the only inhabitants of the immediate neighborhood. They led a lonely life, and when its monotony was broken by the arrival of the officer of the day upon his tour of duty, extended a quiet, but what appeared to be a not over cordial welcome. The man was a dwarf. He was so low in stature that when he stood, his head came just above the top of the dining room table. His diminutive stature was due to a strange malformation. His legs looked as if they had been driven up into his body, so that there was little left but the feet. Otherwise, he was like another, with well formed head and trunk. His wife was a comely lady both in form and in feature, rather above than below medium height. Both were intelligent and well read, pleasant people to visit with; but when this man, with the head and trunk of an adult, the stature of a child and, to all intents and purposes, no legs at all, toddled across the floor the effect was queer and, taken in connection with his somewhat solitary environment, it suggested a scene from the "Black Dwarf." But when one was seated as a guest of these good people at their hospitable board his physical deformity was lost sight of in the zest of his conversation. The winter of 1863-64 was one of hard work for the federal cavalry. In addition to their other duties, the Michigan regiments were required to change their tactical formation and learn a new drill. Up to that time, Philip St. George Cooke's single rank cavalry tactics had been used. The tactical unit was the set of fours and all movements were executed by wheeling these units. There was but one rank. For some reason, it was decided to substitute the old United States cavalry tactics and form in double ranks. The utility of the change was, to say the least, an open question, and it necessitated many weeks of hard and unremitting toil on the part of both officers and men. There was little time for rest or recreation. Long and tiresome drills and "schools of instruction" made up the daily routine. In one respect, however, these drills of troop, regiment and brigade were a good thing. Many hundreds of new recruits were sent on from Michigan and, being put in with the old men, they were worked into good soldiers before the campaign opened, and proved to be as reliable and efficient as the veterans with whom they were associated. The Sixth Michigan received over two hundred of these recruits at one time. They were fine soldiers and on the march from the Wilderness to the James, no inspecting officer could have picked out the recruits of 1863-64 from those who enlisted in 1862. At division and brigade headquarters alone was there time for play. Generals Custer and Kilpatrick had a race course where they used to devote some time to the sport of horse racing. There were in the division a number of blooded and speedy animals, and not a little friendly rivalry was developed in the various commands when the merits of their respective favorites were to be tested on the turf. It was while at Stevensburg that General Custer obtained leave of absence and went home to Michigan to claim his bride. He was married in February, 1864, to Miss Elizabeth B. Bacon, daughter of Judge Bacon, of Monroe, Michigan. Mrs. Custer accompanied him when he came back and from that time on till the end of the war, whenever the exigencies of the service would permit, she was by his side. He was then but two months past twenty-four years of age, though he had already achieved fame as a cavalry officer and general of brigade. He was the youngest officer of his rank who won any great measure of success. Kilpatrick was more than three years his senior, although both were graduated from West Point in 1861. Some time after the beginning of the year 1864, there began to be rumors of some daring expedition that was on foot, to be led by the dashing general commanding the division. It was about the middle of February, when a number of statesmen of national prominence came to Stevensburg, and it did not take a prophet to tell that something of unusual importance was in the wind, though nothing very definite leaked out as to what it was. Among the visitors referred to, were Senators Chandler ("Zach."), of Michigan, and Wilkinson, of Minnesota. During their stay, there was a meeting in a public hall in Culpeper at which speeches were made by both these gentlemen and where General Kilpatrick demonstrated that he was no less an orator than a fighter. His speech was the gem of the evening and stirred up no end of enthusiasm. Hints were thrown out of an indefinite something that was going to happen. It is now known, as it was soon thereafter, that Kilpatrick had devised a daring scheme for the capture of Richmond, which had been received with so much favor by the authorities in Washington, that he was then awaiting only the necessary authority from the war department before setting out on what proved to be an ill-fated expedition. Late in the month, permission was given and he proceeded to organize a force of picked men and horses, selected with great care from the various regiments. The Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Michigan and First Vermont were represented, the Sixth furnishing about three hundred men. The First Michigan had just re-enlisted at the expiration of its three years' term of service and was absent on "veteran furlough," so did not take part, as the officers and men of that fine regiment would have been only too glad to do, had they been given the opportunity. It was a small division, divided into two brigades. General Davies led one of them, but General Custer was taken away and entrusted with the command of an important diversion designed to attract the attention of the enemy by an attack on his left flank, while Kilpatrick passed around his right and by a quick march reached the confederate capital. That portion of Custer's brigade which went on the raid, as it was called, was commanded by Colonel Sawyer, of the First Vermont cavalry. Detachments from the Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Michigan were commanded by Captain Hastings, Major Kidd and Lieutenant Colonel Litchfield respectively; the First Vermont by Lieutenant Colonel Preston. Custer's part of the work was successfully accomplished. He created so much commotion in the direction of Charlottesville, that Kilpatrick was across the Rapidan and well on his way before his purpose was either discovered or suspected. It was, however, a fatal mistake to leave Custer behind. There were others who could have made the feint which he so brilliantly executed, but in a movement requiring perfect poise, the rarest judgment and the most undoubted courage, Kilpatrick could illy spare his gifted and daring subordinate; and it is no disparagement to the officer who took his place to say that the Michigan brigade without Custer, at that time, was like the play of Hamlet with the melancholy Dane left out. With him the expedition as devised might well have been successful; without him it was foredoomed to failure. At the Culpeper meeting there was a large gathering of both officers and enlisted men, attracted thither from various arms of the service by a natural curiosity to hear what the speakers had to say. There were also several ladies in the audience. On the platform sat many officers of high rank. I do not remember who presided, but recall distinctly the glitter of rich uniforms. After the speaking had begun, an officer wearing the overcoat of an enlisted man came in from the wings and modestly took a seat at the back of the stage. "Not obvious, not obtrusive, but retired," he seemed to shun observation. When, later, he removed his overcoat it was seen that he wore the dress uniform of a brigadier general. Inquiry disclosed that he was Wesley Merritt, commander of the Reserve brigade of the First cavalry division. His brigade consisted of three regiments of regulars--the First, Second and Fifth United States cavalry--and two regiments of volunteers--the First New York dragoons and the Sixth Pennsylvania cavalry. This was a crack brigade and after the opening of the spring campaign it was closely associated with the Michigan brigade for the remaining period of the war. [Illustration: WESLEY MERRITT] Wesley Merritt, whom I saw then for the first time, was one of the "youngsters" who received their stars in June, 1863. He was graduated from the West Point military academy in 1860, at the age of twenty-four, and made such rapid progress in rank and reputation that he was a brigadier at twenty-seven. As a cavalry commander he was trained by John Buford. The latter was rightly called, "Old Reliable," not because of his age, but for the reason that he rarely if ever failed to be in the right place at the right moment--solid rather than showy, not spectacular but sure. His courage and ability were both conspicuous. He belonged to the school of officers of which Thomas, Meade, Sedgwick and Gregg were exemplars, rather than to that of which Kearney, Sheridan and Custer were preeminent types. Such also was Merritt, an apt pupil of an illustrious teacher, the lineal successor of Buford. He came by natural selection to be commander of the First division, and at the last was chief of cavalry of the army of the Potomac, the capable successor of Pleasonton and Sheridan, a position for which he was peculiarly fitted by nature, by acquirements, and by experience. Modesty which fitted him like a garment, charming manners, the demeanor of a gentleman, cool but fearless bearing in action, were his distinguishing characteristics. He was a most excellent officer, between whom and Custer there was, it seemed, a great deal of generous rivalry. But, in the association of the two in the same command there was strength, for each was in a sort the complement of the other. Unlike in temperament, in appearance, and in their style of fighting, they were at one in the essentials that go to make a successful career. But, to return to the point in the narrative from whence this digression strayed, the force that was thus assembled in Stevensburg, somewhat against the protests, but in compliance with orders from army and corps headquarters, was brought together with much show of secrecy, albeit the secret was an open one. As has been seen, the rumor of the projected movement had been for some time flying about from ear to ear, and from camp to camp. Its flight, however, must have been with heavy pinions, for it did not extend beyond the river, where the confederates were resting in fancied security, innocent of the hatching of a plot for sudden mischief to their capital. The composition of the Second brigade has already been given. Its numerical strength was about 1,800 officers and men. The First brigade consisted of nine regiments of cavalry and one battery of artillery. That is to say there were detachments from that number of regiments. These were distributed equally among the three divisions, as follows: From the First division, the Third Indiana, Fourth New York and the Seventeenth Pennsylvania; from the Second division, the First Maine, the Fourth Pennsylvania, and Sixteenth Pennsylvania; from the First brigade, Third division, Davies's own command, the Second New York, the Fifth New York, and Eighteenth Pennsylvania. Ransom's regular battery was assigned to duty with this brigade. The detachments from the First division were all consolidated under Major Hall of the Sixth New York; those from the Second division under Major Taylor of the First Maine. The aggregate strength of Davies's command was 1,817 officers and men, exclusive of the artillery. The total strength of Kilpatrick's command was about 3,500. The expedition started after dark Sunday evening, February 28, 1864, with three days' rations. The route selected led toward the lower fords of the Rapidan. The advance guard consisted of 600 picked men from the various commands, all under Colonel Ulric Dahlgren, an officer of Meade's staff who had established a reputation for extraordinary daring and dash. He had been especially designated from army headquarters to accompany the expedition. Davies followed with the main body of his brigade including Ransom's battery. To Colonel Sawyer with the Vermont and Michigan men fell the irksome duty of bringing up the rear of the column, the chief care being to keep up the pace, not losing sight of those in front, of which for a good part of the night there was much danger. The crossing was made a little before midnight at Ely's Ford, Dahlgren taking the confederate picket post by surprise and capturing every man. No alarm was given. The start was thus auspicious. We were within the enemy's lines and they were not yet aware of it. There was no halt. The rapid march was continued throughout the night. It was clear and cold. The order for the march was "at a fast walk," but every experienced cavalryman knows that the letter of such an order can be obeyed only by those in advance. The rear of the column kept closed up with great difficulty. The sound of hoofs in front was the only guide as to the direction to be taken. Often it was necessary to take the trot, sometimes the gallop, and even then the leaders were at times out of sight and out of hearing. At such times, there was an apprehensive feeling after the touch, which had to be kept in order to be sure that we were on the right road. This was especially true of the heads of subdivisions--the commanders of regiments--who were charged with the responsibility of keeping in sight of those next in front. The march was not only rapid but it was continuous. There was an air of undue haste--a precipitancy and rush not all reassuring. Only the stoical were entirely free from disquietude. Those of us who were with the extreme rear, and who had not been admitted to the confidence of the projectors and leaders of the expedition, began to conjecture what it all meant, where we were going and, if the pace were kept up, when we would get there, and what would be done when the destination was reached. All the excitement and enjoyment were Dahlgren's; all the dull monotony and nerve-racking strain ours. The head of column reached Spottsylvania Courthouse at daylight. The tail came trailing in as best it could, some time later. Here, in accordance with the prearranged plan, Dahlgren with his six hundred troopers separated from the main body, bearing to the westward and following the direct road to Frederickshall station on the Virginia Central railroad, his objective point being Goochland, about twenty miles above Richmond on the James river. The plan was for Colonel Dahlgren to cross the river at or near that place, move down on the south side, and be in position to recross by the main bridge into Richmond at ten o'clock, Tuesday morning, March 1, at the same moment when Kilpatrick would enter the city from the north by way of the Brook turnpike.[22] But, "the best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft a-gley." General Sheridan pointed out that such combinations rarely work out as expected, and that when an engagement with the enemy is liable to take place at any moment it is better to keep the whole force well together.[23] In this case for Kilpatrick to divide his force was a fatal error of judgment. In the light of what took place it is now clear, as it ought to have been at the time, that the entire command should have been kept together, on one road. General Custer made the same mistake when he went to his death at Little Big Horn, in 1876. The combination did not work out as he expected. It may be entirely safe and proper for detachments to be sent out to make diversions for the purpose of deceiving the enemy. This was done when, on approaching Ashland Station, Major Hall was despatched with a force of about five hundred men to drive in the pickets in front of that place and make a feint of attacking, leading the enemy to suppose that this was the main body, while Kilpatrick with most of his force proceeded without opposition on the road leading to Richmond. But care was taken that he could reunite at any moment. It would have been better had Dahlgren continued as the advance guard, going directly to Richmond by way of one of the bridges of the South Anna river and the Brook, the main column closely following. In that way, the general commanding might have had all the parts of his expeditionary force well in hand, under his own eye, and there need have been no halting, hesitation, or waiting one for the other. Dahlgren utterly failed to carry out to fulfilment the part of the plan prearranged for him to accomplish, and lost his life into the bargain. And the pity of it is that his life was wasted. Had he died leading a charge through the streets of Richmond, compensation might have been found in the glory of his achievement. But he died in an ambush, laid for him by a small force of home guards and furloughed confederate soldiers, who managed to throw themselves across his way when, after admitted defeat, he was trying to make his escape with only a small portion of his command. He deserved a better fate. The main body crossed the Po river in the morning of Monday, February 29, and made a halt of fifteen minutes to feed. Thence it pushed on, Davies's brigade still leading, by way of Newmarket, Chilesburg and Anderson's bridge across the South Anna river to Beaverdam Station on the Virginia Central railroad. This point was reached late in the afternoon, the rear guard not arriving until after dark. Here some buildings and stores were burned. A train coming into the station, warned by the reflection of the flames in the cloudy sky, backed out and escaped capture. A small force of confederates made its appearance but was easily brushed away. The brushing and burning, however, were done by Davies's men. The Michigan cavalrymen coming too late for the fair, were privileged to hover in the background and watch the interesting performance from a safe distance, leaving it for the imagination to picture what they would have done if they had had the chance. This night was cold, raw and rainy, the atmosphere full of moisture which gradually turned to an icy sleet. This added greatly to the discomfort of the march, which was resumed after tearing up the track and taking down the telegraph wires and poles in the neighborhood of the station. The stop at Beaverdam Station was not worth mentioning so far as it gave any opportunity to men or horses for rest or refreshment. Out into the dark night--and it was a darkness that could be felt--rode those brave troopers. On and on, for hours and hours, facing the biting storm, feeling the pelting rain, staring with straining eyes into the black night, striving to see when nothing was visible to the keenest vision, listening with pricked up ears for the sound of the well-shod hoofs which with rhythmical tread signaled the way. The night was well advanced when at last a halt was ordered to make coffee for the men and give the patient animals the modicum of oats that had been brought, strapped to the cantles of the saddles. The bivouac was in the neighborhood of the Ground Squirrel bridge. Davies in his official report said that he went into camp at eight o'clock in the evening. That may have been. Davies was at the head of column and, after the small advance guard, the first to reach the camp ground. It was fully two hours later when the last of the Second brigade reached the place. From seven o'clock Sunday evening, till ten o'clock Monday night there had been no stop to speak of--no chance to cook coffee or feed the horses--save the brief halt of barely fifteen minutes on the south bank of the Po river. The men were weary, wet, cold and hungry but there was no complaining, for they were all hardened veterans, accustomed to hardship and exposure. They had been schooled to endure the privations of campaigning with cheerful fortitude. When, at one o'clock, Tuesday morning, March 1, the march was once more resumed, it was found that the First brigade still had the lead. As on the previous day Michigan and Vermont were relegated to the rear. By the custom of the service it was our turn to be in the advance. The rule was for brigades and even regiments to alternate in leading. That is because it is much easier to march in front than in rear. On that morning Sawyer's command was entitled to be in front and the first in the fray. That may, however, be looked upon as a trifling matter and not worth mentioning. Veterans will not so consider it. It was but natural that Kilpatrick should before all others have confidence in his old brigade and those officers with whom he had personally served. Davies was a gallant officer and had some fine officers and regiments with him. There were none better. It was an inglorious part that was assigned to us. Still, there was as it turned out not much glory in the expedition for anybody, least of all for Kilpatrick himself. The march during the forenoon was along the Richmond and Potomac railroad, to and across the Chickahominy river, to the Brook turnpike. Davies advanced along the turnpike toward the city, driving in the pickets and capturing a few of them. He crossed the "Brook"[24] and succeeded in getting inside the outer entrenchments, within a mile of Richmond. From the high ground overlooking the intervening plain it was almost possible to look into the streets and count the spires on the churches. The time which it would take to make the ride from the Rapidan to the "Brook" had been closely calculated. Ten o'clock, Tuesday morning, March 1, had been the hour set when Kilpatrick would arrive and begin the assault upon Richmond from the north, while Dahlgren attacked it from the south. The former was on time to the minute. But where was Dahlgren? He made no sign. There was no way to determine whether he was or was not carrying out his part of the prearranged plan. Signals did not work. Kilpatrick was left to his own resources. A condition had developed in which prompt decision and action were imperatively demanded. There was no time for delay or careful deliberation. To do or not to do, that was the question. And there was but one man who could settle it. The rationale of the raid was a hurried ride, timely arrival, great daring, a surprise, a sudden charge without a moment's hesitation--success. Whatever was done must needs be done quickly. It was not conceivable that Kilpatrick with three thousand men and six pieces of artillery--Kilpatrick the bold, the dashing cavalryman, the hero of Middleburg and Aldie--the conceiver of the expedition, who knew in advance all about the perils he must meet, the chances he must take--that he would permit uncertainty as to what Dahlgren with but five or six hundred men and no artillery was doing to influence his own immediate action. For all that he knew, Dahlgren was already in position, ready to strike, but awaiting the sound of battle from the north as the signal to begin. And yet he hesitated. The object of the expedition, as has been shown, was to ride into Richmond and liberate the prisoners. It was a daring enterprise. A courage to execute commensurate to the ability to conceive was presupposed. So far everything had gone by the clock. Officers and men alike knew what that forced march of thirty-six hours, without pause, meant, if it had any rational meaning. Each one had screwed his courage to the sticking point to follow wherever our gallant commander led, prepared to share with him success or failure, according to the event. Indeed, there was safety in following rather than in falling back. We were far afield in an enemy's country. It was necessary to "hang together to avoid hanging separately." The goal was in sight. By a bold and quick forward movement alone could it be reached. An order to move up into a line of squadron columns was momentarily expected. That a dash into the city, or at least an attempt would be made nobody doubted. Anything short of that would be farcical, and the expedition that set out big with promise would be fated to return barren of results. The good beginning was worthy of a better ending than that. Well, some of Davies's advance regiments were dismounted and the men sent forward deployed as carbineers on foot to feel of the fortifications and make a tentative attack on their defenders. Some of Ransom's guns were unlimbered and opened fire at long range. Reply was made by the enemy's cannoneers, for some of the earthworks facing us were manned with artillerists. In the meantime, Sawyer's brigade held on the pike in column of fours, mounted, anxiously awaiting orders and developments, listened intently to the desultory firing of the carbineers and the occasional boom of the cannon in front. There was a growing feeling of uneasiness and incertitude which began to frame our minds for doubts and fears as to the outcome. At length, a staff officer was seen riding slowly from the front towards the rear. The thought that ran along the column was, "Now the order is surely coming to move forward at a trot." Not so, however. He had been directed by General Kilpatrick to notify commanding officers that in case any of their men should be wounded, they would be obliged to make their own arrangements for the transportation and care of them, since there were no ambulances available. Cheerful intelligence, surely, and well timed to put men and officers upon their fighting mettle! From that moment, the mental attitude of the bravest was one of apathetic indifference. Such an announcement was enough to dampen the ardor of men as brave as those who had been selected to make up the personnel of this expedition. Finally, anxious to get some idea of what was going on and what the outlook, I rode forward to a place overlooking the battle field. Away to the front, a thousand yards or more, was an open stretch of cleared fields, across which was a light line of dismounted cavalry skirmishers, firing away at the defenders of the earthworks. This defensive force did not appear to be formidable in numbers; nor was it particularly effective in its fire upon our troops. Along the union line rode Captain L.G. Estes, adjutant general of the division, his cape lined with red thrown back on one shoulder, making of him a conspicuous target. He was exposing himself in most audacious fashion, as was his wont. It looked like an act of pure bravado. It was not necessary for him to furnish evidence of his gallantry. His courage was proverbial among the cavalrymen of the Third division. They had seen him recklessly expose his life on many battle fields. This was as near as the expedition ever came to capturing Richmond. Kilpatrick who, at the start, was bold and confident, at the last when quick resolution was indispensable, appeared to be overcome with a strange and fatal irresolution. Davies was recalled and the entire force was directed to take the road to Meadow Bridge. It was after dark when we were ordered into camp somewhere between Mechanicsville and Atlee's Station. When I received the order I inquired if we were to picket our own camp but was informed that details for that purpose had been made and it would not be necessary. This quieted my fears somewhat but not entirely. Precautions were taken against possible surprise and to ensure speedy mounting and getting into position in the event of an emergency requiring it. The regiment went into bivouac in line, a little back in the shadow and away from the fires. Few camp fires were permitted. The saddle girths were loosened slightly but the saddles were not removed. Each trooper lay in front of his own horse, pulling the bridle rein over his horse's head and slipping his arm through it. In this way they were to get such sleep as they could. In case of a sudden alarm they were to stand to horse and be ready instantly to mount. Thinking that in any case it could be got ready while the regiment was being mounted, I allowed my own horse to be unsaddled and hitched him by the halter to a sapling in front of my shelter tent which was quickly pitched, Barnhart, the acting adjutant, and an orderly pitching theirs by the side of it. Then, removing sword and belt but keeping on overcoat, boots and spurs, I crawled in with a "poncho" under me, using the saddle for a pillow. It was a raw, rainy night, and snow was falling. The bad weather of the first night out was worse than repeated. It seemed more like Michigan than Virginia. It was very dark. I do not believe that any man living could make a map of the camps which the two brigades occupied that night--the exact locations or even the relative positions of the various commands. I doubt if the actual participants could point them out were they to visit the place. I know that at the time I had not the slightest knowledge on the subject and could not have told which way to go to find any one of them or even brigade or division headquarters. It looked like a case of "wisdom consists in taking care of yourself." We were on the north side of the Chickahominy and, with the bridges guarded, it would be difficult for the forces with which we had been contending during the day to get in on our night encampment. At least they could not well take us by surprise. But this made the position all the more vulnerable from the north. It was idle to suppose that Stuart's cavalry was doing nothing. It was as certain as anything could be that his enterprising horsemen were gathering on our track, urging their steeds to the death in an endeavor to stop the audacious career of the federal commander. During the early evening it was known throughout the command that the general had not given up the hope of capturing the city and liberating the prisoners. A body of five hundred men led by Lieutenant Colonel Addison W. Preston of the First Vermont cavalry was to start out from our camp by the Mechanicsville road, charge in, release the prisoners and bring them out, Kilpatrick covering the movement with his entire command. The latter's official report says there were two bodies, one to be led by Preston, the other by Major Taylor of the First Maine cavalry. The name of Preston was a guarantee that the dash, if made at all, would be bravely led. There was no more gallant officer in the whole cavalry corps. The conditions were such as to make one wakeful and alert, if anything could. But the danger of yielding for an instant to the allurement of the drowsiness produced by the long ride without sleep was overpowering. In an instant after getting under cover of the shelter tent I was emulating the seven sleepers. It is doubtful if the trump of Gabriel himself, had it sounded, could have awakened me. The assurance that we were protected by pickets, and the order to go into camp having been given unaccompanied by any warning to be alert and on the watch for danger, had lulled me into such an absolutely false sense of security that I was for the time dead to all the surroundings. There was firing among the pickets. I did not hear it. A cannon boomed. I did not hear it. A second piece of artillery added to the tumult. I did not hear it. Shells hurtled through the trees, over the camp and the waves of sound did not disturb my ear. At last partial consciousness returned. There was a vague sense of something out of the usual order going on. Then I found that Barnhart and the orderly were pulling me out of the "pup" tent by the heels. That sufficed. I was instantly wide awake. Barnhart was ordered to get his horse and mount the regiment. The orderly to saddle my horse and his own. In a few moments all hands were in the saddle. The regiment was wheeled by fours and moved a short distance to the right, more in the shadow and out of range of the shells, and formed in line facing toward where the enemy was supposed to be, and held there awaiting orders. No orders to advance came, nor was any brigade line of battle formed. In a very short time a staff officer came riding fast and directed me to move out by fours on the road in rear of the alignment and follow the command which he said had gone and was retreating. He did not say what road it was nor whither it led. He then rode away. Wheeling into column the regiment was moved out on the road and, greatly confused as to the points of the compass, and not hearing or seeing anything of the column, turned in the wrong direction. The same staff officer soon overtook the head of the regiment and set us right. We had to countermarch and, as a matter of fact, were going towards the enemy instead of joining in the retreat. It was by mistake, however. We had gone probably an eighth of a mile before being stopped. [Illustration: LEVANT W. BARNHART WILLIAM HULL] The march then led back within sight of the camp which had been vacated. As we passed that point, far away in the distance among the trees, by the light of the abandoned fires, could be seen men flitting like specters through the places where the camps had been. They were presumably the enemy and apparently bent on plunder rather than conquest. It was a good time to give them a Roland for their Oliver but there did not seem to be a disposition to make a concerted attack or, in fact, any attack at all. Kilpatrick was in full retreat toward Old Church, abandoning his plan of a midnight attack on Richmond. The force which made the attack on the camps was led by Wade Hampton who, as soon as he knew of the expedition, set out on the trail, picking up odds and ends of confederate cavalry when and where he could. He marched that day from Hanover Courthouse and says he came in sight of the camp fires near Atlee's Station and to his right on the Telegraph or Brook road. He must have been deceived as to the direction, for it is not possible that any portion of the main body could have been in camp on either of those roads. The camp he attacked was that of the Seventh Michigan which bore the brunt of it. This regiment lost a number of prisoners including the commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Litchfield. We must have marched at least a mile, perhaps more, when the column was overtaken. It was moving at a walk on the road leading to Old Church. Finding myself in rear with no rear guard I detached three troops (A, E and G) and held them with sufficient interval to cover the retreat. When there was a halt they were formed in line across the road and facing to the rear with carbines loaded and at a "ready" to repel any attack, should one be made. Once when halted the tread of horses could be heard approaching. "Halt! Who comes there?" was the challenge. "Major Wells and a portion of the First Vermont cavalry," was the reply. He advanced and was recognized and for the remainder of the night we jointly looked after the rear until a camping ground was found near Old Church about daylight the next morning. An amusing thing happened after Barnhart and the orderly pulled me out of the tent. The orderly saddled my horse and after buckling on sword and belt I put my foot in stirrup and proceeded to mount. The saddle slipped off to the ground. In the excitement he had neglected to fasten the girths. I put the saddle on again and, making all tight, mounted and gave the horse the spur, when to my dismay he proved to be still tied to the tree. It was necessary to dismount, untie and adjust the halter. By this time it is needless to say I was getting "rattled." But the precautions taken made it easy to get the regiment into shape and keep it well in hand. The most regrettable thing about it all was that Sawyer did not rush his entire brigade to the support of the picket line. Had that been done, it is more than likely that Litchfield and his men might have been saved from capture, though I do not know how Hampton found them when he stole into their camp. If they were scattered about and asleep it would have been impossible to rally them and get them into line for effective resistance. On the other hand, had Sawyer with his other regiments, or Davies with his brigade, or both of them together made a concerted attack Hampton might have been worsted. But there was no attempt to make a fight. Hampton's attack caused consternation, forced a precipitate retreat, and led to the final abandonment of the objects of the expedition. In a previous chapter I have sought to show that official reports are often meager, sometimes misleading. There has always been a good deal of mystery about this affair. There is mystery still, which careful reading of the official records does not dispel. Sawyer made no report; or, if he did it was not published. Few if any of the regimental commanders submitted reports. The Michigan brigade suffered its usual fate in that regard. Kilpatrick's report as published says: "The command was moved out on the road to Old Church, and placed in position and after considerable hard fighting repulsed the enemy and forced him back on the road to Hanover Courthouse." Davies in his official report said: "The enemy during the evening skirmished slightly with my pickets, and about 12 p.m., attacked the Second brigade in force. My command at once mounted and formed, but the Second brigade unassisted repulsed the attack and I moved to the vicinity of Old Church." Davies, it is seen, did not claim to have made any fight. He was ready and in position, but moved away to Old Church. Wade Hampton, who led the attack, says: "From Hanover Courthouse I marched to Hughes's Crossroads as I thought that would be the most likely place for the enemy to cross. From that place I could see their camp fires in the direction of Atlee's Station as well as to my right on the Telegraph or Brook road. I determined to strike at the party near Atlee's and with that view moved down to the station, where we met the pickets of the enemy. I would not allow their fire to be returned, but quickly dismounted 100 men and supporting them with the cavalry, ordered Colonel Cheek (of the North Carolina brigade) to move steadily on the camp while two guns were opened on them at very short range. * * * Kilpatrick immediately moved his division away at a gallop, leaving one wagon with horses hitched to it, and one caisson full of ammunition. The enemy was a brigade strong here with two other brigades immediately in their rear." From these extracts it will be seen how commanding officers, when they write their official reports of a night rencounter, are apt to draw on their imaginations for the facts. The stout fight put up by Kilpatrick, and the graphic account by Hampton of how he whipped three brigades with a handful of confederates hastily assembled, are equally mythical. Davies's report gives a very accurate description of the affair. From this we find that he picketed toward Richmond and the Meadow bridges, taking care of the flanks and rear. The slight skirmishing with his pickets, of which he speaks, must have been with small bodies that came out from Richmond or which followed him from his position of the day on the Brook pike. It had no relation to Hampton's attack which was from the opposite direction and entirely distinct. To Sawyer it was left, it would appear, to look out for the front--that is, toward Ashland and Hanover Courthouse. Sawyer sent the Seventh Michigan out on picket, the outer line advanced as far as Atlee's Station. When Hampton came in from Hughes's cross roads, he did not stop to skirmish with the videttes. He did not fire a shot but followed the pickets into the camp and opened with carbines and two pieces of artillery at close range. No arrangements appear to have been made to support the Seventh properly in the event of such an attack, which might have been foreseen. Sawyer should have reinforced the Seventh with his entire brigade. And it was equally incumbent on Kilpatrick to support Sawyer with Davies's brigade if he needed support. Neither of these things was done. Kilpatrick's artillery made no response to that of Hampton. The only order was to retreat. Hampton was not far away from the facts when he said that "Kilpatrick immediately moved his division off at a gallop." He did not move it "at a gallop." He moved it at a walk. But he moved "immediately." He did not stop to fight, and morning found him well on the way to the Pamunkey river. It was an unlucky event for poor Litchfield. He was held as a prisoner of war very nearly if not quite until the curtain had fallen on the final scene at Appomattox. I do not remember that he ever again had the privilege of commanding his regiment. [Illustration: A.C. LITCHFIELD] Kilpatrick's strategy was better than his tactics. His plan was bold in conception, but faulty in execution. It has been shown that he made a mistake in dividing his command; that he made another when he failed to order an immediate attack after his arrival before the city. His afterthought of sending Preston and Taylor, at midnight, in a snow storm, and on a night so dark that it would have been impossible to keep together, to be sure of the way, or to distinguish friend from foe, to do a thing which he hesitated to do in the daytime and with his entire force, would have been a more serious blunder than either. Of course, if Preston had started, it would have been with the determination to succeed or lose his life in the adventure. That was his reputation and his character as a soldier. But the services and lives of such men are too valuable to be wasted in futile attempts. It might have been glorious but it would not have been war. To conclude this rambling description. In October, 1907, while attending the Jamestown exposition I met Colonel St. George Tucker, president of the exposition company and a well known scion of one of the first families of Virginia. The conversation turned to certain incidents of the civil war, among others some of those pertaining to the Kilpatrick raid. Colonel Tucker was at the time a boy ten years of age. Armed with a gun he was at a window in the second story of his father's house ready to do his part in repelling the "vandals" should they invade the streets of the city. This circumstance sheds light on the real situation. With the schoolboys banded together to defend their homes, and every house garrisoned in that way, not to mention the regular soldiers and the men who were on duty, it is quite certain that Richmond would have been an uncomfortable place that night for Preston and his little band of heroes. A man's house is his citadel and boys and women will fight to defend it. From Old Church the command moved Wednesday to Tunstall's Station, and thence by way of New Kent Courthouse and Williamsburg to Yorktown. At Yorktown the various regiments took transports to Washington and from Washington marched back to their old camps around Stevensburg, no event of importance marking the journey. They arrived on the Rapidan about the middle of the month, having been absent two weeks. The men stood the experience better than the horses. The animals were weakened and worn out and the time remaining before the opening of active operations was hardly sufficient for their recuperation. CHAPTER XVI THE WILDERNESS CAMPAIGN In the spring of 1864, the cavalry of the army of the Potomac was thoroughly reorganized. Pleasonton, who had been rather a staff officer of the general commanding the army than a real chief of cavalry, was retired and Sheridan took his place. Kilpatrick was sent to the west and James H. Wilson, an engineer officer, succeeded him in command of the Third division. Buford's old division, the First, was placed under Torbert, an infantry officer whose qualifications as a commander of cavalry were not remarkable. There were several of his subordinates who were both more capable and more deserving, notably Custer, Merritt and Thomas C. Devin. John Buford, the heroic, one of the ablest of all the generals of division, had succumbed to the exposures of the previous campaign. His death befell in December, 1863, on the very day when he received his commission as major-general, a richly deserved reward for his splendid and patriotic services in the Gettysburg and other campaigns. His death created a void which it was hard to fill. Gregg was the only one of the three old and tried division commanders who remained with the corps. Of the generals of brigade, Merritt and Devin remained with their old division. Davies was transferred from the Third to the Second, and Custer's Michigan brigade became the First brigade of the First division, the general going with it. Pleasonton who was sent to Rosecrans, in Missouri, although perhaps not, like his illustrious successor, a cavalry chief of the first rank, had a brilliant record, and in the campaign of 1863 had performed most meritorious and effective service and certainly deserves a high place in the list of union leaders of that period. In all the campaigns of the year 1863, he acquitted himself with the highest credit and in many of the battles, notably at Chancellorsville, Middleburg and Brandy Station, he was an equal match for Stuart and his able lieutenants. If, in the readjustment incident to the assumption by General Grant of the chief command, Pleasonton could have been permitted to serve loyally under Sheridan, who was his junior in rank, it would, doubtless, have been better for both of them. He would have been obliged, to be sure, to crucify his ambition and waive his rank, but his name might have been linked with those of Gregg, and Merritt, and Custer in the record of "Little Phil's" picturesque marches from the Wilderness to the James; from Harper's Ferry to Cedar Creek; and from Winchester to Appomattox. He left the army in whose achievements he had borne so honorable a part, and no opportunities for distinction came to him afterwards. Others wore the laurels that might have been his. Soon after his arrival, General Sheridan reviewed the cavalry corps on the open ground near Culpeper. There were ten thousand mounted men in line, and when they broke into column to pass in review before the assembled generals of the army, it was a magnificent spectacle. To this day the writer's blood quickens in his veins and a flush of pardonable pride mantles his face whenever he recalls the circumstance of one of Custer's staff coming to his quarters after the parade, to convey with the general's compliments the pleasant information that General Sheridan had personally requested him to compliment the officers and men of the regiment, on its excellent appearance and soldierly bearing on the review. Only a short time before, General Kilpatrick had sent a similar message after seeing the regiment at brigade drill. How cheering these messages were; and how full of encouragement to the full performance of duty in the trying times that were close at hand! Life is not too full of such words of cheer, even when we do our best. It is not so much admiration as appreciation that one craves from his fellow men, especially from those who are by circumstance placed over him. But envy, and malice, and a mean, begrudging spirit often stand at the door to keep it out, when it would fain enter, bringing the sunshine with it. There was nothing narrow or mean about Sheridan. Conscious of his own greatness, he was too broad to begrudge recognition to others. When a subordinate deserved commendation and Sheridan knew it, he always gave it. Although the movement of the army of the Potomac, which initiated in Virginia the campaign of 1864 and resulted in the battle of the Wilderness, began on May 3, it was the morning of May 4, when the Wolverine troopers left their camp near Culpeper. The Second and Third divisions, as has been shown, had the honor of leading the advance and preceded the infantry, crossing at Ely's and Germanna fords, respectively, on the day before. The First division bivouacked on the north side of the river during the night of May 4. At three o'clock on the morning of May 5, the march was resumed and, crossing at Ely's ford, it moved to Chancellorsville, and was encamped that night at the "Furnaces," south of the Orange plank road, about midway between Wilderness Church and Todd's Tavern, in the rear of the left of the union lines. Early on the morning of May 6, "boots and saddles" and "to horse" summoned the brigade to arms; and at two o'clock a.m., it was on the march by the Furnace road toward the intersection of that highway with the Brock turnpike. Gregg was at Todd's Tavern, at the junction of the Catharpin and Brock roads. Custer was to be the connecting link between Gregg's division and Hancock's corps. Devin, with the Second brigade, was ordered to report to Custer. Wilson had been out the previous day on the Orange plank road and pike, beyond Parker's Store, where he encountered Stuart's cavalry and was roughly handled. While moving up in the darkness, we came upon the scattered troopers of the First Vermont cavalry, which for some time before the redistribution had been attached to the Michigan brigade, but was then in Chapman's brigade of Wilson's division. They were moving to the rear, and seemed much chagrined over their defeat and declared that they did not belong to the Third division, but were the "Eighth Michigan." "Come along with us," said their old Michigan companions-in-arms. "Wish we could," they replied. Arriving at his destination before daylight, Custer posted his troops so as to be ready to meet the expected attack. Two troops, one from the First Michigan the other from the Sixth, commanded by Captain George R. Maxwell and Captain Manning D. Birge, respectively, were sent well out on the Brock road to picket the front. The line of battle was formed in the woods, facing a cleared space, beyond which dense timber served as a screen to prevent the enemy's approach from being discovered. The right was held by the First and Sixth Michigan, formed in two lines, regimental front, the Sixth in rear, the men standing "in place, rest" in front of their horses. It was prolonged to the left by the Fifth and Seventh Michigan and Devin's brigade, composed of the Fourth, Sixth and Ninth New York and Seventeenth Pennsylvania regiments of cavalry. Devin, however, did not arrive on the ground until the battle was well under way. The right of the line was "in the air," so far as was at that time known, the infantry not being in sight. The open field directly in front extended some 200 yards beyond our position, to the right, and it was, perhaps, 500 yards across it to the woods. The timber in which we formed extended from the rear clear around the right and across the front. In other words, the patch of open ground was enclosed on three sides, at least, by dense woods. The alignment faced in a westerly direction, and was back in the timber far enough to be hidden from the approaching foe. To the right and as it turned out, somewhat to the rear, lay the army of the Potomac, which had been battling with Lee all the previous day; and orders had been issued for the fighting to be resumed at five o'clock in the morning. Thus we stood, prepared, in a state of expectancy, awaiting the sounds that were to summon us to battle. The brigade band was posted near the left flank of the First Michigan. General Custer, alert and wary, with a portion of his staff and escort, was out inspecting the picket line. The horse artillery had not yet arrived. Every trooper was alert and ready for whatever might come. The field, of which mention has been made, was bisected by a ravine, nearly diagonally from left front to right rear, the ground sloping into it from front and rear. This ravine was to play a prominent part in the battle that ensued. Suddenly, the signal came. A picket shot was heard, then another, and another. Thicker and faster the spattering tones were borne to our ears from the woods in front. Then, it was the "rebel yell;" at first faint, but swelling in volume as it approached. A brigade of cavalry, led by the intrepid Rosser, was charging full tilt toward our position. He did not stop to skirmish with the pickets but, charging headlong, drove them pell-mell into the reserves, closely following, with intent to stampede the whole command. It was a bold and brilliant dash, but destined to fall short of complete success. Rosser had met his match. When the confederate charge was sounded, Custer was near his picket line and, scenting the first note of danger, turned his horse's head toward the point where he had hidden his Wolverines in ambush and, bursting into view from the woods beyond the field, we saw him riding furiously in our direction. When he neared the edge of the woods, circling to the front and curbing the course of his charger as he rode, he bade the band to play and, with saber arm extended, shouted to the command, already in the saddle: "Forward, by divisions!" As the band struck up the inspiriting strains of "Yankee Doodle," the First Michigan broke by subdivisions from the right, the Sixth following in line, regimental front and the two regiments charged with a yell through the thick underbrush out into the open ground just as the confederate troopers emerged from the woods on the opposite side. Both commands kept on in full career, the First and Sixth inextricably intermingled, until they reached the edge of the ravine, when they stopped, the confederates surprised by the sudden appearance and audacity of the Michigan men and their gallant leader; Custer well content with checking Rosser's vicious advance. Some of the foremost of either side kept on and crossed sabers in the middle of the ravine. Among these was Lieutenant Cortez P. Pendill, of the Sixth Michigan, who was severely wounded among the very foremost. One squadron of the confederates, possibly a small regiment, charging in column of fours, went past our right flank, and then, like the French army that marched up a hill and then marched down again, turned and charged back, without attempting to turn their head of column towards the place where Custer was standing at bay, with his Michiganders clustered thick about him. Pretty soon the confederates ran a battery into the field and opened on us with shell. Every attempt to break Custer's line, however, ended in failure, the Spencer carbines proving too much of an obstacle to be overcome. Meanwhile, the Fifth and Seventh had been doing excellent service on the left, forging to the front and threatening the right of the confederate position. But it was evident that our own right was vulnerable, and Custer ordered Major Kidd to take the Sixth, move it by the rear to the woods on the right, dismount to fight on foot and, to use his own words: "Flank that battery." The regiment had become much scattered in the charge, but the "rally" was sounded, and as many men as could be quickly assembled on the colors, were withdrawn from the field and, obeying the order with as much alacrity as possible, in a few moments they were in position and moving forward briskly through the thick woods. But, they had not proceeded far, when a strong line of dismounted confederates was encountered. Both commanders seem to have ordered a simultaneous movement with a similar purpose, viz: To flank the other and attack his rear. The two forces met very nearly on the prolongation of the line held by the mounted men of the First, Fifth and Seventh Michigan, east of the ravine. The confederate line extended beyond the right of the Sixth as far as we could see, and it was at once evident that we were greatly outnumbered, and liable to have the right flank turned at any moment. The little force stood bravely up to their work, using the Spencers with deadly effect, and checking the advance of the confederates in their immediate front. Major Charles W. Deane who was helping to direct the movement, had his horse shot under him. Seeing that the left of the confederates were trying to pass around our right flank, the captain of the left troop was directed to hold on to his position and the right was "refused" to protect the rear. At the same time an officer was dispatched to General Custer with an appeal for reinforcements. The entire of the Second brigade was now up and a battery which arrived on the field after the withdrawal of the Sixth, had been placed in position and opened upon the enemy. The battle was still raging in the field, but General Custer sent the Fifth Michigan, Colonel Russell A. Alger commanding, and the Seventeenth Pennsylvania, Lieutenant Colonel J.Q. Anderson commanding, to the relief of the Sixth Michigan. The reinforcements came none too soon. The confederates, confident in their superior numbers, were pressing hard and threatening to envelop us completely. In a solid line of two ranks, with Spencer carbines full shotted, the two magnificent regiments deployed into line on our right. Then moving forward, by a left half wheel, turned the tables on the too exultant foe, and he was forced slowly but surely back. By virtue of his rank Colonel Alger was in command of the line and, in response to his clear-voiced order, "Steady men, forward," the three regiments, with a shout, swept on through the woods, driving everything before them. At the same time, the mounted men of the First and Seventh charged the force in their front. The enemy, thereupon, gave way in disorder, was routed and fled, leaving his dead and wounded in our hands. His repulse was complete and crushing and we saw no more of him that day. The Michigan men, with the aid of Devin's New York and Pennsylvania troopers, had won a signal victory, momentous in its consequences, for it saved the union left from a disaster much dreaded, the fear of which neutralized one-half of Hancock's corps during the entire day. No one who witnessed it, can ever forget the superb conduct of Colonel Alger and his men when they swung into line on the right of the Sixth Michigan and turned a threatened reverse into a magnificent victory. Among the wounded, besides Lieutenant Pendill, already mentioned, were Captain Benjamin F. Rockafellow, of the Sixth Michigan, and Lieutenant Alvin N. Sabin, of the Fifth Michigan. All of these officers were severely wounded and all behaved with the most conspicuous gallantry. In the meantime, what was the infantry doing? After Rosser was driven from the field, it was found that there was a line of infantry not far to the right and rear. Indeed, the left of the infantry line overlapped the right of the cavalry. Attention was called to the fact when, after the fight, some of the cavalrymen began to straggle to the rear and returning, said that the Twenty-sixth Michigan infantry was only a little way off, and a good many of the men went over for a brief hand-shake with friends therein. The Twenty-sixth Michigan was in Barlow's division. They had been interested listeners to, if not actual witnesses of the cavalry fight. The contest between the dismounted men of Rosser's and Custer's commands had been almost, if not quite, in their front and occasional shots had come their way. Why did not Barlow, or indeed, Gibbon's entire command, move up at the time when the Sixth Michigan cavalry was contending alone with a superior force directly in their front? The answer to that question is in the sealed book which contains the reason of Grant's failure in the "Wilderness." Let us see! Grant's orders to the corps commanders--Sedgwick, Warren and Hancock--were to attack Lee's army at five o'clock a.m., May 6. Longstreet had not arrived but was expected up in the morning, and prisoners said he would attack the union left. Hancock was directed to look out for the left. Barlow's division was posted for that purpose. Hancock's corps was divided into two wings, the right wing under Birney consisting of the three divisions of Birney, Mott and Getty; the left wing of Gibbon's and Barlow's divisions under Gibbon. Barlow, as has been seen, was to look out for the left. "The left" was well looked after by Sheridan's cavalry for, aside from Custer's two brigades which were directly in contact with Barlow's left flank, Gregg's division was posted at Todd's Tavern, still farther to the left. Sedgwick and Warren attacked Ewell at the hour, but were unsuccessful. Hancock's assault upon Hill was completely successful, although Longstreet arrived in the nick of time to save Hill. But Hancock's attack was with his right wing under Birney, and Longstreet struck the left of Birney's command. Where were the two divisions of Gibbon, posted for the very purpose of looking out for Longstreet? In General A.A. Humphrey's, "Virginia Campaigns," page 40, we read: "At seven a.m., General Hancock sent a staff officer to General Gibbon, informing him of the success of his right wing, and directing him to attack the enemy's right with Barlow's division. This order was only partially obeyed. Had Barlow's division advanced as directed, he (General Hancock) felt confident that the enemy's force would have been defeated. The cause of his failure was probably owing to the expected approach of Longstreet on his (Barlow's) left." Again: "At 8:30 a.m., Hancock began an attack with Birney's wing and Gibbon's division of the left wing." General Grant, in his memoirs, (pp. 196-197): "Hancock was ready to advance, but learning that Longstreet was threatening his left flank, sent a division of infantry, commanded by General Barlow, to cover the approaches by which Longstreet was expected." General Sheridan, (memoirs, vol. I, pp. 362-363): "On the sixth, General Meade became alarmed about his left flank and sent a dispatch, saying: 'Hancock has been heavily pressed and his left turned. You had better draw in your cavalry to protect the trains.'" And again: "On the morning of the sixth, Custer's and Devin's brigades had been severely engaged before I received the above note. They had been most successful in repulsing the enemy's attacks, and I felt that the line could be held. But the despatch from General Hancock was alarming, so I drew all the cavalry close in around Chancellorsville." Grant's memoirs, once more: "The firing was hardly begun when Hancock was informed that the left wing was seriously threatened so as to fully occupy Barlow. The enemy's dismounted cavalry opened on him (sic.) with artillery and pressed forward his skirmish line. The rapid firing of Sheridan's attack helped to confirm the impression that this was a serious flank attack by the enemy. These repeated reports prevented Hancock from throwing his full strength into the attack along the plank road." "The rapid firing of Sheridan's attack" is good. Sheridan is entitled to the credit of placing Custer where he was. But that is all. Sheridan was not on the ground to direct the attack in any way; nor was the division commander on the ground. It was Custer's attack and it was Custer's victory. The only dismounted cavalry that attacked Barlow was Rosser's cavalry, and Custer's cavalry was between Rosser and Barlow. The only artillery with which the dismounted cavalry opened on Barlow was Rosser's battery and Custer and his men were between Barlow and that battery. Had Barlow taken the trouble to ascertain what was really going on in his front, an easy matter, he would have found that, so far from this dismounted cavalry endangering his flank, they had been driven off the field in headlong flight, leaving their dead and wounded. There was never a moment during the entire day (May 6, 1864,) when Barlow was in the slightest danger of being flanked. His failure to advance, enabled Longstreet to swing across his front and attack Birney's left, thus neutralizing Hancock's victory over Hill. If Barlow and Gibbon had advanced as they were ordered to do, they would have struck Longstreet's flank and, probably, crushed it. All of which seems to demonstrate that, in battle, as in the ordinary affairs of life, imaginary dangers often trouble us more than those which are real. The fear of being flanked was an ever present terror to the army of the Potomac, and the apparition which appeared to McDowell at Manassas, to Pope at the Second Bull Run, to Hooker at Chancellorsville, flitted over the Wilderness also, and was the principal cause why that campaign was not successful. And then again, General Meade placed too low an estimate upon the value of cavalry as a factor in battle and failed utterly to appreciate the importance of the presence of Sheridan's troopers upon his left. Had Meade and Hancock known Sheridan then, as they knew him a year later, when he intercepted the flight of the army of Northern Virginia at Five Forks and Sailor's Creek, there would have been in their minds no nervous apprehension that Longstreet might reenact in the Wilderness the part played at Chancellorsville by Stonewall Jackson. As it was, Grant's strategy and Hancock's heroism were paralyzed by these false rumors about Longstreet's menacing the safety of the Potomac army by moving against its left and rear. If such a thing was seriously intended, it was met and thwarted by Custer and Gregg who, alone and unaided as at Gettysburg, successfully resisted every effort on the part of Stuart's cavalry to break through the union lines. The noise of the successful battle which the union cavalry was waging, instead of reassuring the federal commanders as it should have done, served only to increase the alarm which extended to General Hancock and to army headquarters, as well. If a proper rating had been placed upon the services of the cavalry all apprehension would have been quieted. Barlow and Gibbon would have moved promptly to the front as directed, and Hill and Ewell might have been crushed before Longstreet was in position to save them. General Sheridan's report gives a very meager and inadequate account of the cavalry fight in the Wilderness. In his book he dismisses it with a paragraph. Major McClellan, Stuart's adjutant general, in his "Campaigns of Stuart's Cavalry," makes no mention of it at all, though he devotes much space to Rosser's victory over Wilson, on the fifth. That is not strange, perhaps, in the case of the confederate chronicler, who set out in his book to write eulogiums upon his own hero, and not upon Sheridan or Custer. He has a keen eye for confederate victories and, if he has knowledge of any other, does not confess to it. As for Sheridan, his corps was scattered over a wide area, its duty to guard the left flank and all the trains, and he was not present in person when Custer put an abrupt stop to Rosser's impetuous advance. It is now known that he was so hampered by interference from army headquarters that his plans miscarried, and the relations between himself and his immediate superior became so strained that the doughty little warrior declared that he would never give the cavalry corps another order. By General Grant's intervention, however, these difficulties were so far reconciled that Sheridan was soon off on his memorable campaign which resulted in the bloody battle of Yellow Tavern and the death of the foremost confederate cavalier, General J.E.B. Stuart. CHAPTER XVII THE YELLOW TAVERN CAMPAIGN The sequel to the false alarm about Hancock's left flank being turned was that all the cavalry was drawn in to guard the trains and protect the rear of the army. Custer's brigade moved back to the furnaces where it remained during the night. The morning of the seventh he was ordered to resume his position of the day before. Gregg's division was returned to Todd's Tavern. Before the arrival of Gregg's command the First Michigan cavalry had a spirited encounter with Fitzhugh Lee, in which Captain Brevoort, in command of the mounted men, particularly distinguished himself. There was pretty sharp fighting during the entire day, mostly on foot, the nature of the ground practically precluding movements on horseback. The engagement of the cavalry on the seventh of May is known in history as the battle of Todd's Tavern. It was made necessary in order to retake the position surrendered by Meade's order of the sixth. Much blood was shed and many valuable lives were lost in retrieving the error. In the events of the two days may be found a good illustration of the rule that an officer (even a great soldier like Sheridan) must obey orders, right or wrong. Sheridan must have known that there was no need to withdraw his cavalry from the left of the army. On the contrary he knew that by all means it ought to remain where it was. Yet he obeyed and had to fight an offensive battle to regain what he was thus forced to give away. The conditions of the two days were reversed. On the morning of the sixth Sheridan was in possession and Stuart was trying to drive him out. On the morning of the seventh Stuart was in possession and Sheridan had to drive him out. The material difference was that Stuart failed, Sheridan succeeded. Sheridan outgeneraled Stuart in both offensive and defensive tactics. The names of the respective chiefs are given here but, on the sixth the actual fighting of the union forces was directed by Custer and Gregg, of the confederates by Rosser and Fitzhugh Lee; on the seventh, by Gregg, Merritt and Custer for the federal side, by Fitzhugh Lee on the part of the confederates. Gregg and Custer stood together in the Wilderness as they had done at Gettysburg. At Todd's Tavern Merritt, Davies and Devin were added to the combination. And it was one that neither Stuart, Fitzhugh Lee nor Hampton was ever able to match. At night the First and Second divisions were encamped in the open fields east of Todd's Tavern, and in front of the positions held by them during the previous two days. Mounted pickets and patrols guarded the front and it soon became apparent that a movement of both armies was in progress. From front and rear came significant sounds which the practiced ear had no difficulty in interpreting. Grant, breaking off successively from his right, was passing by the rear to the left, concentrating around Todd's Tavern for a forward movement in the morning towards Spottsylvania Courthouse. The principle involved was to maneuver Lee out of the Wilderness into more open country by threatening his communications. Once again his strategic plans were thwarted by the faulty manner in which the tactics of the movement were executed. Sheridan had planned to seize Spottsylvania with his cavalry and his orders were for all three divisions to move at daylight with that end in view. Wilson was to lead and be followed up and supported by Merritt and Gregg with the First and Second divisions. We shall see how Wilson was successful in carrying out his part of the plan, but how the others were stopped by orders from Meade, thus preventing the accomplishment of a well conceived enterprise and neutralizing two-thirds of the cavalry corps just when it was about to open the way to victory. By his peculiar tactical night movement Grant held his line of battle intact except as the various corps broke successively from right to rear to march to the left. Thus Hancock's corps, though on the extreme left, was the last corps to move. Lee, quick to divine the purpose of his adversary, moved his army by the right flank on a parallel line. All night long the ears of the alert cavalrymen could catch the indistinct murmur of troops moving with their impediments which, coming from both front and rear, bespoke the grand tactics of both commanders and presaged a great battle on the morrow. The "pop," "pop," "pop," of the carbines along the line of videttes was well nigh continuous, showing the proximity of the enemy's prowling patrols and scouts, and the necessity of constant vigilance. So closely did the confederates approach the outposts that there was unceasing fear of an attack and neither officers nor men were able to obtain much rest. To sleep was out of the question. The First Michigan was held in readiness to make a mounted charge, while the other regiments were under orders to deploy dismounted, in case the attack which was looked for should be made. The officers of the First could be heard encouraging and instructing their men, keeping them alert and prepared for battle. From the time of the organization of the Michigan brigade, the First regiment had been designated as distinctively a saber regiment, the Fifth and Sixth for fighting on foot, as they were armed with Spencer rifles, and the result was that with them, dismounting to fight when in contact with the enemy in the early part of their terms of service became a sort of second nature. The First had a year's experience with the cavalry before the others went out, and it was in a saber charge at the Second Bull Run battle that Brodhead its first colonel was killed. The First Vermont, like the First Michigan, was a saber regiment and went out in 1861. When this regiment was attached to the brigade, Custer had three saber regiments, and it fell to the lot of the Fifth and Sixth Michigan to be selected more often than the others, perhaps, for dismounted duty. It often happened, however, that the entire brigade fought dismounted at the same time; and sometimes, though not often, all would charge together mounted. Owing to the nature of the country, most of the fighting in Grant's campaign from the Wilderness to the James was done on foot. In the Shenandoah valley campaign in the latter part of the year 1864, the reverse was the case and at the battles of Tom's Brook, Winchester and Cedar Creek the troopers in the command for the most part kept to the saddle throughout the engagements. When Custer wanted to put a single regiment into a mounted charge he generally selected the First Michigan, because it was not only older and more experienced but had many officers who possessed both great personal daring and the rare ability to handle men in action, keeping them well together so as to support each other and accomplish results. This regiment was not excelled by any other in the army for that purpose. The Seventh was an under study for the First. The Fifth and Sixth worked well together on the skirmish line or dismounted line of battle and had no superiors in this kind of work. That they were pretty reliable when called upon mounted also, is shown by the conduct of the Sixth in the Wilderness and of the Fifth at Trevillian Station. It is only necessary to mention the gallantry of the Seventh at Hanovertown and at Yellow Tavern to demonstrate that it was an apt pupil of the First. All the officers and all the men of the Fifth, Sixth and Seventh took off their hats and gracefully yielded the palm to the First. It is doubtful if there was another regiment in the federal cavalry service which contained so many officers highly marked for their fearless intrepidity in action. The circumstance of their talking to their men before an expected engagement was characteristic. They were always ready to face the peril and lead their men. Later in the evening, away to the left where the infantry was going into bivouac a union band began to play a patriotic air. This was the signal for loud and prolonged cheering. Then a confederate band opposite responded with one of their southern tunes and the soldiers on that side cheered. Successively, from left to right and from right to left this was taken up, music and cheering alternating between federals and confederates, the sounds receding and growing fainter and fainter as the distance increased until they died away entirely. It was a most remarkable and impressive demonstration under the circumstances and lingered long in the memory of those who heard it. Though the fighting on the 5th, 6th and 7th had been for the most part favorable to the union troopers, it was disjointed and, therefore, neither decisive nor as effective as it might have been. Sheridan believed that the cavalry corps should operate as a compact organization, a distinct entity, an integral constituent of the army, the same as the other corps. He looked upon his relation to the general in command as being precisely the same as that of Hancock, Sedgwick or Warren, and insisted that orders to the cavalry should be given through the cavalry corps commander just as orders to the Second corps were given through General Hancock. He could not bring himself to consent to be a mere staff officer dangling at the heels of General Meade, but conceived himself to be an actual commander, not in name only but in fact. Proceeding on this theory he issued orders to the various division commanders to move at daylight on the morning of May 8, and cooperate with each other under his personal direction in a plan which he had devised to seize Spottsylvania Courthouse in advance of Lee's infantry. They were to advance on converging roads in such a manner as to arrive successively but to support each other and open a way for the infantry columns. Wilson crossed Corbin's bridge, charged through the town driving out some of Fitzhugh Lee's cavalrymen and pursuing them several miles beyond. Merritt and Gregg made a good start and if they had been allowed to proceed would have had no difficulty in accomplishing what Sheridan desired to have them do. But without notice to Sheridan, Meade countermanded the orders to those two officers directing them to halt at the bridges and not cross. The result was that Wilson was isolated, Merritt's cavalry became inextricably entangled with Warren's infantry, so that neither one of them reached Spottsylvania, as they were both expected to do, Gregg was neutralized, Wilson's safety jeoparded, Sheridan's combinations broken up without his knowledge, and the way was left open for Lee's infantry, so that Anderson with Longstreet's corps took advantage of the situation and drove Wilson out and took possession--thus paving the way for Lee to form a defensive line there instead of farther south, probably inside the defenses of Richmond. Then it befell that a series of bloody battles had to be fought to regain what was thus foolishly surrendered; to regain what indeed might have been held with slight loss, if Sheridan had been let alone, and permitted to have his way. If he had been given a free hand, and assuming that Warren, Burnside, Sedgwick and Hancock would have carried out their part of the program with the same zeal and skill displayed by Sheridan, it is certain that the battle of Spottsylvania with its "bloody angle" would never have taken place. The affair was a fiasco, but for that no blame can be attached to either Sheridan or Grant, unless the latter be considered blameworthy for not directing the movements in person instead of leaving the tactics of the battle to be worked out by Meade. Once more, as in the Wilderness, the cavalry was drawn in. The entire corps was massed in rear of the infantry and rendered inert. Sheridan with his ten thousand troopers was held idle and inactive while Warren, Sedgwick and Burnside were given the task of defeating Lee's veteran army without Sheridan's help. All his plans were rendered nugatory. He became satisfied that his efforts were useless. About noon he went to Meade's headquarters and they had an interview which is one of the famous historical episodes of the civil war. He told Meade that, inasmuch as his plans were to be interfered with, his orders countermanded, thus destroying the efficiency and usefulness of the cavalry corps, he must decline to give it further orders and General Meade could take it and run it himself, as he evidently desired to do. He kept his poise, however, sufficiently to intimate that he would like an opportunity to take his corps and go out after Stuart, since he believed he could whip Stuart in a fair fight if he could have a chance. Meade reported this conversation to Grant who told Meade to let him go and try. Grant had confidence enough in Sheridan to believe that he would make his word good. The outcome of this was that the entire corps was ordered that very afternoon to concentrate at Alrich's, on the plank road leading to Fredericksburg, and be prepared to start at daylight on an expedition around Lee's right flank, into the enemy's country. It was to be a second edition, only on a much larger scale, and under a very different commander, of the Kilpatrick raid, an account of which was given in a previous chapter. The route selected was very much the same. But, unlike Kilpatrick and others who had led cavalry expeditions up to that time, and whose idea was to ride rapidly through the country and avoid the enemy as much as possible, never fighting unless forced into it unwillingly, Sheridan went out with the utmost deliberation, looking for trouble--seeking it--and desiring before every other thing to find Stuart and fight him on his native heath. The confidence which he manifested in himself and in the prowess of his command was of its own kind, and a distinct revelation to the army of the Potomac, in which it had long been a settled article of belief that Stuart was invincible and, indeed, up to that time he had been well nigh so, as Sheridan points out in his memoirs. In the meantime, the battle was raging around Spottsylvania. Lee's army was getting into position, his various corps concentrating and intrenching, and making every preparation for a new base and a stout resistance. Grant's plans had all miscarried, thus far. Still, he had taken up his bridges and resolved to fight it out on that line. It was already evident that there was to be no more retreating. The officers and men of the army of the Potomac made up their minds that they had crossed the Rapidan and the Rappahannock for the last time and that Lee would never be permitted to make a permanent halt outside the intrenchments of Richmond. When the long column was marching along the rear of the army, the sounds of the battle going on could be distinctly heard. Hundreds of wounded men were coming from the front, mostly so slightly injured that they were helping themselves off the field to a place of safety where they could receive needed treatment. It filled us with astonishment to see the number of them. The official records show that Grant lost more than ten thousand men in the series of battles around Spottsylvania. It seemed wicked to take ten thousand men well mounted and equipped away from the army at such a time as that. Queer ideas Meade had. And queerer still that Grant should have yielded to him in a matter of such vital importance. And the men that Sheridan was taking away, were the very same troops with whom he broke Early's flank at Winchester; and who stood like a stone wall in the way of Early's advance at Cedar Creek after two corps of infantry had been routed, only a few months later. Just imagine for a moment what might have been the result if Sheridan had been permitted to make the same use of his cavalry in the Wilderness or at Spottsylvania which he made of it at Winchester and Cedar Creek. We camped at Alrich's for the night. And it was Sunday night. It will be remembered that the Kilpatrick expedition left Stevensburg on Sunday night. Three days' rations were drawn and issued to the men. There was but one-half of one day's ration of grain for the horses. So it was settled that our animals would have to depend on the country for their forage. The force thus assembled consisted of three divisions--about ten thousand troopers--under Merritt, Gregg and Wilson--seven brigades commanded by Custer, Devin, Gibbs, Davies, Irvin Gregg, McIntosh and Chapman. These were all veteran officers, often tried and never found wanting. Of these brigade commanders, two, Custer and Davies, held the rank of brigadier general; Devin was colonel of the Sixth New York; Gibbs of the First New York dragoons; Gregg of the Sixteenth Pennsylvania; McIntosh of the Third Pennsylvania; Chapman of the Third Indiana. There were six batteries of artillery, all regulars but one--the Sixth New York independent--Captain J.W. Martin. Pennington was still with the Third division, as was the First Vermont cavalry also. The four Michigan regiments were commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Peter Stagg, Colonel Russell A. Alger, Major James H. Kidd and Major Henry W. Granger, respectively. The movement began at an early hour. The start was made long before daylight. General Custer, who was to lead, ordered that the Sixth Michigan move out first and thus it fell to my lot to be in the van at the outset of that historic expedition. A guide was furnished, with directions that the route taken be by the plank road to Tabernacle church, thence to the Telegraph road running from Fredericksburg to Richmond, then due south toward Thornburg. The long column wound its way slowly out of the wilderness on a single road, marching by fours, Merritt in front, Gregg in rear, Wilson in the centre--seven brigades and six batteries--beyond doubt the most superb force of mounted men that ever had been assembled under one leader on this continent, and a more formidable body of horse than had been seen in that war on either side, up to that time, or was ever seen afterwards. The column when stretched out like a huge snake was thirteen miles in length, so that when the last of Gregg's regiments turned south on the Telegraph road, the head of Custer's brigade must have been nearing Chilesburg. The night was clear and quiet; the air was soft and refreshing. To the right the two great armies were sleeping. There was no note of bugle, no boom of cannon, no crack of rifle to disturb the tranquility of the night. As the dawn approached the baying of dogs in the distance gave notice that the echoes of the march would soon reach the ears of the enemy's outposts. But the morning was far advanced, the head of column well on its way past the right flank of Lee's army, when the first hostile patrols were encountered. At a crossroad leading to the right a small force of cavalry made its appearance. It was put to flight by Captain Birge with troop A. At this point troop E, Captain A.E. Tower, was sent to the front as advance guard, Sergeant M.E. Avery with eight men going ahead with orders to charge any enemy that appeared on the road, the troop to follow him closely and the regiment to support the troop. General Custer with his staff and escort rode close up to the rear of the regiment. Behind him came the other Michigan regiments, Devin's and Gibbs's brigades, then Chapman, McIntosh, Irvin Gregg, and Davies in succession. Davies was to look out for the rear. Thus the latter, who led the Kilpatrick expedition, found his position reversed on this. The responsibility was great and he met it with his accustomed courage and ability. Davies was one of the few men who early in the war found his niche and stuck to it. He was an ideal general of brigade; and he kept his place as such without a check until the war closed. [Illustration: ANGELO E. TOWER] To those of us who had been with Kilpatrick but a short two months before the contrast presented by a mental comparison of Sheridan's manner of conducting a march with that of his predecessor was most marked and suggestive. This movement was at a slow walk, deliberate and by easy stages. So leisurely was it that it did not tax the endurance of men or horses. There was a steadiness about it that calmed the nerves, strengthened self-reliance, and inspired confidence. It was a bold challenge for the confederates to come out and fight a duel to the finish. That they would be compelled to take up the gage thus thrown down there was no shadow of doubt. The advance guard was kept active in the pursuit of confederate scouts and pickets, small bodies of whom were constantly appearing in front or hovering on the flanks. Before reaching the point where the road leading to Beaver Dam was to be taken, the guide, either by ignorance or design, misled Avery and his men and took them to the eastward. Avery suspecting something wrong put a halter around the guide's neck and started to swing him up to the limb of a tree. He immediately discovered his mistake and a trooper was sent with word to take the other road, who reached the intersection just as the head of column did, so there was not a moment's delay. Avery soon came in with a squad of prisoners who with the guide were turned over to the provost guard. After reaching Chilesburg we were on the same road over which we marched with Kilpatrick and needed no guide. The confederate prisoners looked with astonishment upon this big body of cavalry which had stolen into their territory like a thief in the night, unexpected and unannounced. During the day, as long as I had the advance, Captain Craig Wadsworth of Sheridan's staff rode by my side to represent and report to his chief. No very important incident happened, but the weather was pleasant, the air was exhilarating, the companionship was congenial, and there was sufficient of excitement to make it interesting. Things were kept moving, and it was very enjoyable, as service with the advance of a marching column always is. Late in the afternoon we passed Chilesburg and the country began to have a familiar look. It was not yet dark when we crossed the North Anna river at Anderson's bridge and the First division prepared to bivouac on the south side. Gregg and Wilson went into camp for the night north of the river. After crossing the river, Custer was ordered to proceed with his brigade to Beaver Dam station. Here the First Michigan was given the advance, Major Melvin Brewer with one battalion as advance guard. The Sixth followed the First. Otherwise the order of march was the same as during the day. A mile or so before reaching Beaver Dam, Brewer came upon several hundred union prisoners who were being hurried under the escort of confederate infantry to the station, where trains were waiting to convey them to Richmond. His appearance, of course, resulted in the release of the prisoners, those of their guards who did not succeed in escaping by running away in the woods being captured. The engineers began to sound their locomotive whistles, as a signal for the confederate escort to hurry up with their prisoners, and Brewer followed by the First and Sixth dashed into the station before the presence of the Michiganders was suspected, taking them by surprise and capturing the two locomotives with their trains. In a few minutes Custer with the entire brigade was on the ground and it was found that, besides the trains, he had captured an immense quantity of commissary, medical, and other stores belonging to Lee's supply departments and which included nearly all his medical supplies. Everything that could not be carried away was destroyed. While this destruction was going on some confederates made their appearance in the adjacent woods and opened fire but they were driven away without much trouble. This must have been a very severe loss to the confederates. The brigade then marched away and rejoined the division, every trooper having his horse loaded to the limit with such supplies as he thought he could use. General Merritt in his official report refers to this destruction of property as a mistake and characterizes the action as "gaucherie." It is, however, quite certain that the only way to have saved the supplies for issue to the corps would have been to move the division to Beaver Dam that night, for Stuart was concentrating his force at that point and might have been able to reclaim a portion of them if they had not been destroyed. At all events, Custer was on the ground and Merritt was not. Custer's action must have been approved by his judgment. Early on the morning of May 10 the march was resumed by the Negrofoot road toward Groundsquirrel bridge across the South Anna river. It was even more leisurely than on the day before. Flankers were thrown out in both directions. The long column of fours thus proceeded slowly by the road while to the right and to the left, about 500 yards out, were parallel columns of flankers, marching by file, thus assuring that should the enemy attack either flank, it was only necessary to wheel by fours in that direction to be in line of battle with a very strong line of skirmishers well out in front. But Stuart did not attack. He seems on that morning to have begun to comprehend Sheridan's plan which was no doubt then sufficiently puzzling but, as we can see now, very simple. In a word, a slow and steady march, straight toward the confederate capital, all the time in position to accept battle should Stuart offer it. If he should not, to hold to the unyielding tenor of his purpose, and with exasperating persistence continue to invite it. Stuart had turned off toward the east and was making a forced march with Fitzhugh Lee's division, consisting of the brigades of Lomax and Wickham, Gordan's brigade still hanging on to the rear of Sheridan's column. Our column made the march of eighteen miles to Groundsquirrel bridge without molestation and camped there that night on the south side of the river. Stuart after a much longer march went into camp at Hanover Junction. At one o'clock in the morning May 11 he moved out toward Yellow Tavern, arriving there at about ten o'clock in the forenoon, before Sheridan's advance, which was headed in the same direction, made its appearance. Stuart had thus by a long and hard march brought his command where it could interpose between the Union cavalry and Richmond. He seems, however, to have been halting between two opinions--whether to form squarely across Sheridan's front or to hold his position on the flank until near enough to Richmond to be within reach of reinforcements from the troops that were being hurried into the city from the south to aid in the defense. He appears to have chosen the latter alternative, for he formed his command in a line running north and south, facing west, Wickham on the right, Lomax on the left with batteries near both his right and left flanks. The left of his line crossed the Telegraph road in front of Yellow Tavern where was quite an elevated piece of ground on which across the road was a battery well stationed and well manned. His men, however, must have been pretty well exhausted by the long march. Yellow Tavern, which gave its name to the battle that ensued, is a hamlet at the junction of the Telegraph and Old Mountain roads, about six miles north of Richmond, where the first named road coalesces and becomes the Brook Turnpike, as I understand it. The Old Mountain road comes down from the northwest, the Telegraph road from the east of north. Sheridan struck the former at Allen's Station on the Fredericksburg railroad and followed it to Yellow Tavern. The Reserve brigade reached that place a little before noon and finding Stuart in possession immediately began skirmishing. Devin came up next and was put on the line to reinforce Gibbs. When Custer's brigade came up pretty sharp skirmish firing could be heard in front. Merritt was in charge and the battle was on. Stuart had dismounted his entire force and formed them in a very strong defensive position on a commanding ridge beyond the tavern. Merritt had dismounted a portion of Gibbs's and Devin's commands and was feeling of Stuart's position. Custer's regiments as they successively arrived were massed mounted in column of battalions on the right of the road, in a field, thus clearing the road. The march that day had been an easy one, the rest the night before had been complete, and never were men and horses in better condition or spirits for battle than were Sheridan's troopers. [Illustration: PHILIP H. SHERIDAN] Then there was an anxious pause. Glancing back I saw that we were at the rear of the division. Down the road about 100 yards a column of cavalry was approaching very slowly. Something at the head of the column attracted my particular attention and in a moment I made out that it was a general's battle flag. But I did not recognize it as one that I had seen before. There were a good many staff officers and a pretty large escort. As they came opposite the regiment, the officer at the head looked back and saw that the flag was hanging limp around the staff, there not being air enough stirring to make it float out. He noted this and said to the color bearer, "Shake out those colors so they can be seen." The voice was mild and agreeable. The color-bearer did as directed and the general looked our way with a keen glance that was characteristic and took in every detail. Then instantly I knew who he was. I saluted and said, "Men, General Sheridan," and they gave him a cheer. That was the first time I had seen Sheridan except as I "looked toward" him when passing in review. One may do a good deal of service, even be in many skirmishes and battles without getting a good look at the corps commander, much less the commander of the army. There was nothing about Sheridan's appearance at first glance to mark him as the principal figure in the scene. Except for the fact that he rode in front one might have mistaken one of the other officers for chief. But close inspection easily singled him out. He was well mounted and sat his horse like a real cavalryman. Though short in stature he did not appear so on horseback. His stirrups were high up, the shortness being of leg and not of trunk. He wore a peculiar style of hat not like that of any other officer. He was square of shoulder and there was plenty of room for the display of a major general's buttons on his broad chest. His face was strong, with a firm jaw, a keen eye, and extraordinary firmness in every lineament. In his manner there was an alertness, evinced rather in look than in movement. Nothing escaped his eye, which was brilliant and searching and at the same time emitted flashes of kindly good nature. When riding among or past his troopers, he had a way of casting quick, comprehensive glances to the right and left and in all directions. He overlooked nothing. One had a feeling that he was under close and critical observation, that Sheridan had his eye on him, was mentally taking his measure and would remember and recognize him the next time. No introduction was needed. It would be as difficult to describe the exact physical traits that marked Sheridan's personality as to make a list of the characteristic mental attributes that distinguished him from others. There were perhaps no special, single, salient points. At least none were abnormally developed. In making an estimate of the man it was the ensemble of his qualities that had to be considered. He had to be taken "all in all." So taken, he was Sheridan. He was not another, or like another. There was no soldier of the civil war with whom he fairly can be compared with justice to either. As a tactician on the field of battle he had no equal, with the possible exception of "Stonewall" Jackson. In this respect he to my mind more nearly resembled John Churchill, the great duke of Marlborough, than any other historical character of modern times of whom I have any knowledge. If he had not the spark of genius, he came very near to having it. This is a personal judgment put down here, the writer trusts, with becoming modesty and with no desire to put himself forward as a military critic. Sheridan was modest as he was brave, reticent of his plans, not inclined to exploit his own merits, and he did not wear his heart or his mind upon his sleeve. His inmost thoughts were his own. What impressed us at this first sight of him was his calm, unruffled demeanor, his freedom from excitement, his poise, his apparently absolute confidence in himself and his troops, his masterful command of the situation. He rode away toward the front as quietly as he had come from the rear, with no blare of bugles, no brandishing of swords, no shouting of orders, no galloping of horses. In his bearing was the assurance that he was going to accomplish what he had pledged himself to do. He had found Stuart and was leisurely going forward to see for himself, to make an analysis of his adversary's position, and, so far as necessary, to give personal direction to the coming conflict. But he was in no hurry about it and there was in his face and manner no hint of doubt or inquietude. The outcome was to him a foregone conclusion. Such was our chief and such was the beginning of the battle from which dates his fame as a cavalry leader and independent commander of the first rank. Merritt and Custer were already at the front. Experience taught us that sharp work was at hand. It was not long delayed. The order came from General Custer for the Fifth and Sixth to dismount to fight on foot. The First and Seventh were held in reserve mounted. Not having visited this battle field since that day I am unable to give a very accurate description of its topographical features and shall not attempt to do so. The published maps do not throw a very clear light upon the matter, neither do the official reports. I am in doubt as to whether the Telegraph road and Brook turnpike are synonymous terms after passing Yellow Tavern or whether the former lies east of the latter. As I have shown, Stuart's line ran along the Telegraph road, the right north of Half Sink, the left on a hill near Yellow Tavern. My authority for this is McClellan. Lomax held the left and had two pieces of artillery posted "immediately in the road;" one piece behind them "on a hill on the left." This would make his line extend due north and south and our approach to attack it must have been from the west. Devin in his report says Stuart was driven off the Brook pike to a position 500 yards east of it. Whether that was at the beginning or near the close of the engagement is not quite clear. If the former, then the line referred to by Major McClellan could not have been on the Brook turnpike. I shall have to deal in general terms, therefore, and not be as specific and lucid as I would like to be in describing Custer's part in the battle. Just where the Michigan regiments were posted at the time they were ordered into the fight I cannot say. They came down toward Yellow Tavern on the Old Mountain road and I have no recollection of crossing the pike. It seems to me that they must have been west of it. We were moved across the road, from where stationed when Sheridan came up, and deployed in the woods, the Sixth on the right of the Fifth. The line advanced and presently reached a fence in front of which was a field. Beyond the field, and to the left of it were woods. In the woods beyond the field were the dismounted confederate cavalry. Skirmishing began immediately across the field, each line behind a fence. After a little, Captain Bayles of Custer's staff came from the right with an order to move the Sixth by the left flank and take position on the left of the Fifth. Just as he was giving this order a great shout arose to the left and, looking in that direction, we saw that the entire of the Fifth cavalry was climbing the fence and starting for a charge across the field. The Sixth instantly caught the infection and, before I could say "aye, yes or no," both regiments were yelling and firing and advancing on the enemy in the opposite woods. "You can't stop them," said Bayles. I agreed and in a moment had joined my brave men who were leading me instead of my leading them. The wisdom and necessity of Custer's order was, however, immediately apparent. Some confederates lurking in the woods to the left, opened fire into the flank of the Fifth Michigan, which for the moment threatened serious consequences. The line halted and there was temporary confusion. Quicker than it takes to tell it, Custer had appeared in the field mounted. One of Alger's battalions changed front and charged into the woods on the left and the two regiments advanced and drove the enemy clear through and out of the woods in front. Barring the temporary check, it was a most gallant and successful affair, for which Custer gave the two regiments full credit in his official report. The line was then reformed with the Sixth on the left of the Fifth. At that time this was the extreme left of the First division and of the line of battle as well, the Third division not yet having become engaged. It was then found that the force with which we had been fighting had retreated to their main line of battle, along a high ridge or bluff. In front of this bluff was a thin skirt of timber and a fence. Here Fitzhugh Lee's sharpshooters were posted in a very strong position indeed. Between the ridge and the edge of the woods where our line was halted was a big field not less than four hundred yards across, sloping down from their position to ours. To attack the confederate line in front it would be necessary to advance across that field and up that slope. It looked difficult. The confederate artillery was stationed to the right front on the extreme left of their line. We were confronted by Lomax's brigade. Beyond the right of the Fifth Michigan, Custer had the First Michigan, Colonel Stagg; the Seventh, Major Granger; and First Vermont, Lieutenant Colonel Preston; all mounted. They were across a road which ran at right angles with the line of battle, and in the direction of Lomax's battery. As soon as our line appeared in the open--indeed, before it left the woods the confederate artillery opened with shell and shrapnel; the carbineers and sharpshooters joined with zest in the fray and the man who thinks they did not succeed in making that part of the neighborhood around Yellow Tavern an uncomfortably hot place, was not there at the time. It was necessary to take advantage of every chance for shelter. Every Wolverine who exposed himself was made a target of. Many men were hit by bullets. The artillerists did not time their fuses right and most of the damage was done to the trees behind us, or they were on too high ground to get the range. The line gradually advanced, creeping forward little by little until it reached a partial shelter afforded by the contour of the ground where it sloped sharply into a sort of ditch that was cut through the field parallel with the line of battle. Here it halted and the battle went on in this manner for a long time, possibly for hours. In the meantime, Chapman's brigade, of Wilson's division, had come into position on the left of the Sixth Michigan, thus prolonging the line and protecting our flank which till then had been in the air and much exposed. Off to the left, in front of Chapman, the lay of the land was more favorable. There were woods, the ground was more nearly level. The confederate position was not so difficult of approach and gradually his left began to swing forward and threaten the right flank of Lomax's position or, more accurately, the confederate center. Thus for several hours the lines faced each other without decisive results. At length Sheridan determined upon an assault by mounted troops supported by those on foot. To Custer was assigned the important duty of leading this assault. It was toward four o'clock when Sergeant Avery who had as quick an intuitive perception in battle as any man I ever knew, and whose judgment was always excellent and his suggestions of great value, called my attention to what appeared to be preparations for a mounted charge over to the right where General Custer was with his colors. "They are going to charge, major," said Avery, "and the instant they start will be the time for us to advance." That is what was done. The regiment forming for the charge was the First Michigan. Two squadrons under Major Howrigan led the vanguard. The bugles sounded, "forward," "trot," "charge." Heaton's battery farther over was served with splendid effect. Custer's staff passed the word along for the entire line to advance. There was no hesitation. The Fifth and Sixth and Chapman's regiments sprang forward with a shout. There was a gallant advance up the slope. Fitzhugh Lee's men held on grimly as long as they could, but there was no check to the charge. Howrigan kept on till he was among the guns sabering the cannoneers, capturing the two pieces in the road with their limbers and ammunition. In a few minutes Custer and Chapman were in possession of the ridge and the entire line of the enemy was in full retreat. Back about 500 yards the enemy attempted to make a stand and the Seventh Michigan was ordered to charge. This charge led by Major Granger resulted in his death. He was killed just before he reached the enemy's position, causing a temporary repulse of the regiment, but the entire line came on and the enemy was put to flight in all directions. Stuart was mortally wounded while trying in person with a few mounted men of the First Virginia cavalry to stem the tide of defeat which set in when the First Michigan captured the battery. There is a controversy as to how he met his death. Colonel Alger claimed that Stuart was killed by a shot from one of the men on his dismounted line. Captain Dorsey, of the First Virginia, who was riding with Stuart at the time, quoted by Major McClellan, says that he was killed by a pistol shot fired by one of the men who had been unhorsed in the charge on the battery and who was running out on foot. In that case it must have been a First Michigan[25] man who, very likely, paid the penalty of his life for his temerity. It does not matter. One thing is certain. Stuart's death befell in front of Custer's Michigan brigade and it was a Michigan man who fired the fatal shot. Stuart was taken to Richmond, where he died, leaving behind him a record in which those who wore the blue and those who wore the gray take equal pride. He was a typical American cavalryman--one of the very foremost of American cavaliers and it is a privilege for one of those who stood in the line in front of which he fell in his last fight to pay a sincere tribute to his memory as a soldier and a man. It fell to that other illustrious Virginian--Fitzhugh Lee--to gather up the fragments and make such resistance as he could to the further march of the union cavalry. CHAPTER XVIII YELLOW TAVERN TO CHESTERFIELD STATION Daylight, May 12, found the entire corps concentrated south of the Meadow bridges, on the broad table-land between Richmond and the Chickahominy river. Sheridan still kept his forces well together. Having accomplished the main purpose of the expedition--the defeat of Stuart--it remained for him to assure the safety of his command, to husband its strength, to maneuver it so as to be at all times ready for battle, offensive or defensive as the exigency might demand. The next stage in the march of his ten thousand was Haxall's Landing, on the James river, where supplies would be awaiting him. By all the tokens, he was in a tight place, from which all his great dexterity and daring were needed to escape with credit and without loss. His plan was to pass between the fortifications and the river to Fair Oaks, moving thence to his destination. Its futility was demonstrated when Wilson's division attempted to move across the Mechanicsville road. It was found that all the ground was completely swept by the heavy guns of the defenses, while a strong force of infantry interposed. Reinforcements had been poured into Richmond, where the alarm was genuine, and it was clear that an attempt to enter the city or to obtain egress in the direction of Fair Oaks would bring on a bloody battle of doubtful issue. Either course would at least, invite discomfiture. To return by the Brook turnpike or Telegraph road, even if that course could have been considered as an alternative, was alike impracticable. The cavalry force which had been trailing the command all the way from the North Anna river still maintained a menacing attitude in that direction. The only gateway out, either to advance or retreat, was by the Meadow Bridge, over the Chickahominy, unless fords could be found. The river had to be crossed and, owing to the recent rains it was swollen. All the signs pointed to a sortie in force from the fortifications. The defenders emboldened by the hope, if not belief, that they had Sheridan in a trap; inspired by the feeling that they were fighting for their homes, their capital and their cause; and encouraged by the presence at the front of the president of the confederacy--Jefferson Davis--were very bold and defiant, and even the lower officers and enlisted men knew that it was a question of hours at most when they would march out in warlike array and offer battle. Sheridan decided to await and accept it. Indeed, he was forced to it whether he would or not, as the sequel proved. He sent for Custer and ordered him to take his brigade and open the way across the Chickahominy at the Meadow bridges. Where work was to be done that had to be done, and done quickly and surely, Custer was apt to be called upon. The vital point of the entire affair was to make absolutely sure of that crossing, and Sheridan turned confidently to the "boy general" as he had done before and often would do again. The Michigan men were just beginning to stretch their limbs for a little rest--having fought all day the day before and ridden all night--when called upon to mount. They had not had time to prepare their breakfast or cook their coffee, but they rode cheerfully forward for the performance of the duty assigned to them, appreciating highly the honor of being chosen. The road leading to Meadow bridge descended to low ground and across the river bottoms. The wagon road and bridge were at the same level as the bottoms. Some distance below was the railroad. The grade for the track must have been at least twenty feet above the level where it reached the bridge which spanned the river. So the approach by the railroad was along the embankment. When Custer reached the river he found that the bridge was gone. The enemy had destroyed it. The railroad bridge alone remained. A force of dismounted cavalry and artillery had taken a position on the other side which commanded the crossing. Their position was not only strong but its natural strength had been increased by breastworks. Two pieces of artillery were posted on a slight hill less than half a mile back. In front of the hill were the breastworks; in front of the breastworks woods. A line of skirmishers firing from the edge of the woods kept the pioneers from proceeding with the work. But Custer could not be balked. His orders were imperative. He was to make a crossing and secure a way for the entire corps to pass "at all hazards." He ordered the Fifth and Sixth Michigan to dismount, cross by the railroad bridge on foot and engage the enemy. The enemy's artillery swept the bridge, and as soon as it was seen that the Michigan men were climbing the railroad embankment to make the crossing they trained their pieces upon it. Yet the two regiments succeeded. The Fifth led, the Sixth followed. One man, or at most two or three, at a time, they tip-toed from tie to tie, watching the chance to make it in the intervals between the shells. Though these came perilously near to the bridge none of them hit it, at least while we were crossing. They went over and struck in the river or woods below. It looked perilous, and it was not devoid of danger, but I do not remember that a single man was killed or wounded while crossing. It may have been a case of poor ammunition or poor marksmanship or both. The worst of it was the nature of the ground was such that our artillerists could not bring their guns to bear. Once over, the two regiments deployed as skirmishers and advancing with their 8-shotted Spencers, drove the confederate skirmishers back through the woods and behind their breastworks, where we held them until a bridge was built, which must have been for two or three hours. The skirmishing in the woods was fierce at times, but the trees made good cover. It was here that Lieutenant Thomas A. Edie, troop A, Sixth, was killed by a bullet through the head. No attempt was made to assault the breastworks. The confederates behind them, however, were kept so fully occupied that they were unable to pay any attention to the bridge builders, who were left unmolested to complete their work. This was the work which the two Michigan regiments were sent over to do and they accomplished it successfully--something for which they never received full credit. At one stage of this fight my attention was attracted to the coolness of a trooper, troop A, Sixth, who was having sort of a duel with a confederate. The latter was lying down in his works, the former behind a tree. When either one exposed any portion of his anatomy the other would shoot. Some of the confederate's bullets grazed the tree. The Michigan man would show his cap or something and when the other fired, step out, take deliberate aim and return the shot, then jump behind his natural fortress and repeat the maneuver. Finally the confederate ceased firing and there was little doubt that a Spencer bullet had found its mark. Making my way to the tree I asked my man his name. His coolness and courage had much impressed me. "Charles Dean," he replied. "Report to me when the fight is over," I said. He did so, and from that day until the war ended he was my personal orderly. A better, braver soldier, or a more faithful friend no man ever knew than Charles Dean, troop A, Sixth Michigan cavalry. After the completion of the bridge the entire division crossed over. The Seventh Michigan, two regiments from Devin's brigade, two from Gibbs's--which with the Fifth and Sixth Michigan made seven in all were put on the line as reinforcements and an assault ordered. The entire line advanced and even then it was no child's play. The confederates fought well but were finally driven out of their works and routed. Pursuit with dismounted men was useless. As soon as the horses could be brought over the First Michigan and two of the Reserve brigade regiments were sent in pursuit mounted, but were too late, most of the confederates having made good their escape. While this was going on, Gregg had a hard fight with the strong force of infantry and artillery which came out full of confidence to crush Sheridan. By a brilliant ruse he took them by surprise and whipped them so thoroughly that they retreated within their inner fortifications, completely discomfited, and Sheridan remained on the ground most of the day with no one to molest or make him afraid. Gregg's fight was characteristic of that fine officer who never failed to fill the full measure of what was required of him. Indeed, it was one of the most creditable actions of the war and one for which he never received full credit. The feeling throughout the First division, at the time, I know, was that the superb courage and steadiness of Gregg and his division had extricated Sheridan from a grave peril. The same Gregg who, with the help of Custer's Michigan brigade, saved the Union right at Gettysburg, stood in the way and stopped a threatened disaster before Richmond. [Illustration: FITZHUGH LEE AND STAFF (IN CUBA)] After Gregg's repulse of the infantry, Custer's success in opening the way across Meadow bridge and Merritt's rout of Fitzhugh Lee's cavalry, the Second and Third divisions remained unmolested for the rest of the day on the ground of the morning's operations, the First division going to Gaines's Mills. General Sheridan tells a story of two newsboys who came out after the fight, with Richmond papers to sell. They did a thriving business and when their papers were disposed of desired to return to the city. But they were so bright and intelligent that he suspected their visit involved other purposes than the mere selling of papers, and held them until the command was across the river and then permitted them to go. There is an interesting coincidence between this story and the one told to the writer by St. George Tucker, of Richmond, and which appears on page 259 of this volume. Late in the afternoon the entire corps moved to Gaines's Mills and went into camp for the night. The march from Gaines's Mills to the James river was uneventful. When the head of the column, on the 14th, debouched on Malvern Hill, a gunboat in the river, mistaking us for confederate cavalry, commenced firing with one of their big guns, and as the huge projectiles cut the air overhead the men declared they were shooting "nail-kegs." The signal corps intervened and stopped this dangerous pastime. Three days were taken here for rest, recuperation, drawing and issuing forage and rations, shoeing horses, caring for and sending away the sick and wounded, and in every way putting the command on a field footing again. It was a brief period of placid contentment. Satisfaction beamed from every countenance. Complacency dwelt in every mind. The soldiers smoked their pipes, cooked their meals, read the papers, wrote letters to their homes, sang their songs and, around the evening camp fires, recalled incidents, humorous, thrilling or pathetic, of the march and battle-field. There was not a shadow on the scene. On the 17th the camp was broken and we marched by way of Charles City Courthouse, across the Chickahominy at Long bridge to Baltimore Crossroads, arriving there on the evening of the 18th when another halt was made. May 19, I was sent with the Sixth Michigan to destroy Bottom's bridge and the railroad trestle work near it. My recollection is that this was accomplished. The next morning General Custer was ordered with his brigade to Hanover Courthouse, the object being to destroy the railroad bridge across the South Anna river, a few miles beyond. This necessitating a ride of more than twenty miles, an early start was made. The Sixth was given the advance and it proved to be one of the most pleasant experiences of the campaign. The road led past Newcastle, Hanovertown and Price's; the day was clear, there was diversity of scenery and sufficient of incident to make it something worth remembering. No enemy was encountered until we reached the courthouse. A small body of cavalry was there, prepared to contest the approach of the advance guard. The officer in command of the advance did not charge, but stopped to skirmish and the column halted. Foght, Custer's bugler, rode up and offered to show me a way into the station from which the confederates could be taken in flank. Accepting his suggestion, I took the regiment and dashed through the fields to the left and captured the station, which brought us in on the left and rear of the force confronting the advance guard. Seeing this they took to flight, the advance guard pursuing them for some distance. A quantity of commissary stores were captured here, some of which were issued to the men, the balance destroyed. The railroad track was torn up and two trestles destroyed where the railroad crossed the creek near the station. Custer moved his brigade back to Hanovertown and encamped for the night. The next morning he returned to Hanover Courthouse and, sending the First and Fifth ahead, left the Sixth and Seventh to guard the rear. They advanced to near the South Anna river and found the bridge guarded by infantry, cavalry and artillery, which, en route from Richmond to Lee's army, had been stopped there for the exigency. Custer decided not to take the risk, as he learned that a force was also moving on his flank, and returned leisurely to Baltimore Crossroads. One incident of the first day seems to me worth narrating. The brigade bivouacked on a large plantation, where was a colonial house of generous proportions. It fronted on a spacious lawn, which sloped from the house to the highway and was fringed with handsome old spruce and Austrian pines. In front and rear the house had broad porches. A wide hall ran through the center of the house from one porch to the other and on either side of the hall were well furnished rooms of ample size. In rear, in an enclosure as broad as the house, was a well kept flower garden. It was a typical southern home of refinement and comfort. There were several ladies. The men were, of course, in the army. General Custer with several of his officers called upon the ladies to pay his respects and assure them of protection. He was received with quiet dignity and refined courtesy and for an hour chatted with them about the events then transpiring. They knew all the confederate cavalry leaders and he was greatly interested in what they had to say about them. Before his departure he left with one of the ladies a piquant and chivalric message for his "friend Rosser," which she promised to deliver faithfully. Custer and Rosser, in war and in peace, were animated by the same knightly spirit. Their friendship antedated and outlived the war. The message was received and provoked one of a similar tenor in reply. He took especial care that no harm was done to the place and marched away leaving it as good as he found it. Upon our return it was found that the Second and Reserve brigades by the most extraordinary activity and skill had succeeded in restoring the bridge across the Pamunkey at White House on which the entire corps crossed over May 22. May 24, Sheridan reported to General Meade at Chesterfield station, on the Richmond and Fredericksburg railroad, north of the North Anna river, opposite Hanover Station. The two days' march from Aylett's was hot and dusty, and marked by nothing worth recalling, unless it be that the road after the cavalry had passed over it was dotted at regular intervals with the bodies of dead horses, the order having been that when horses gave out and had to be abandoned they must be shot. CHAPTER XIX HANOVERTOWN AND HAW'S SHOP June 26 the First and Second divisions, followed by Russell's division of the Sixth corps started down the north bank of the Pamunkey river to secure the crossings, Grant having determined on another movement by the left flank, and to throw his entire army across into the territory between the Pamunkey and Chickahominy. Feints were made that day at the fords near Hanover Courthouse, but after dark both Torbert and Gregg, leaving a small force on duty at each of these fords respectively, quietly withdrew and made a night march to Dabney's Ferry opposite Hanovertown, the First division leading. At daylight Custer in advance reached the Ferry and the First Michigan under Colonel Stagg gallantly forced the passage, driving away about one hundred cavalrymen who were guarding it and making a number of them prisoners. The entire division then crossed and moved forward through the town. General Custer directed me to take the road from Hanovertown and push on in advance toward Hanover Courthouse. We had gone but a mile or so when, in the midst of a dense wood, a force which proved to be dismounted cavalry was encountered, strongly posted behind temporary earthworks hastily thrown up. The regiment was dismounted on the right of the road, the First Michigan, following closely, went in on the left and the two regiments made a vigorous attack, but met with a stubborn resistance and did not succeed in carrying the works at once. A band was playing in rear, indicating the presence of a brigade, at least. Noticing that a portion of the enemy's fire came from the right, I sent the sergeant major to the rear with word that the line ought to be prolonged in that direction. The non commissioned officer returned and reported that the message had been delivered to the brigade commander, but that it was overheard by the major general commanding the division, who exclaimed with a good deal of impatience: "Who in ---- is this who is talking about being flanked?" I was mortified at this and resolved never again to admit to a superior officer that the idea of being flanked had any terrors. But General Torbert, notwithstanding, did reinforce the line with a part of General Devin's brigade in exact accordance with my suggestion. Custer, however, did not wait for this, but, taking the other two regiments of his brigade (the Fifth and Seventh Michigan) made a detour to the left by way of Haw's Shop, and came in on the flank and rear of the force which the First and Sixth, with Devin's help were trying to dislodge from its strong position, and which held on tenaciously so long as it was subjected to a front attack only. But, as soon as Custer made his appearance on the flank, the enemy, Gordon's brigade of North Carolinians, abandoned the earthworks and fled, the First and Sixth with Devin's regiments promptly joining in the pursuit. Custer's approach was heralded by an amusing incident. The band that had been challenging us with its lips of brass stopped short in the midst of one of its most defiant strains, and the last note of the "Bonnie Blue Flag" had scarcely died on the air, when far to the left and front were heard the cheery strains of "Yankee Doodle."[26] No other signal was needed to tell of the whereabouts of our Michigan comrades, and it was then that the whole line moved forward, only to see as it emerged into the open, the Tar-heels of the South making swift time towards Crump's Creek, closely followed by Custer and his Michiganders. The latter had accomplished without loss by the flanking process what he had tried in vain to do by the more direct method. The charge of the Fifth and Seventh Michigan, commanded by Captain Magoffin and Major Walker respectively, and led by General Custer in person, was most brilliant and successful, the Seventh continuing the pursuit for about three miles. First Sergeant Mortimer Rappelye of troop C, Sixth, and one of his men were killed at the first fire. Rappelye was in command of the advance guard and had been slated for a commission which he would have received had he lived. That night the cavalry encamped on Crump's Creek. The next day the army was all over and Grant had taken up a new line extending from Crump's Creek to the Totopotomoy. Still, he was uncertain of what Lee was doing and it became necessary to find out. This led to what was one of the most sanguinary and courageously contested cavalry engagements of the entire war--the battle of Haw's Shop--in which Gregg and Custer with the Second division and the Michigan brigade, unassisted, defeated most signally, two divisions under the command of Wade Hampton in his own person. Indeed it is not certain that it was not even a more notable victory than that over Stuart on the right flank at Gettysburg. It was won at a greater sacrifice of life than either Brandy Station or Yellow Tavern. After the death of Stuart, though so short a time had elapsed, the confederate cavalry had been reorganized into three divisions, commanded by Wade Hampton, Fitzhugh Lee, and W.H.F. Lee, the first named being the ranking officer. His division had been largely reinforced, notably by a brigade of South Carolinians under M.C. Butler who, after the war, was the colleague of Hampton in the United States senate. This brigade consisted of seven large regiments, numbering in all about four thousand men. It was a brigade that honored the state which produced Sumter, Marion, the Rutledges and the Hamptons. All this cavalry had joined the army of Northern Virginia and was in position to cover the movements which Lee was making to confront the army of the Potomac. Sheridan's corps, now that it had returned to the army, was once more somewhat dispersed. Wilson was still north of the Pamunkey, covering the transfer of the several infantry corps and guarding the fords. The First division, as we have seen, led the crossing on the 27th and was covering the front and right of the infantry along Crump's Creek. Gregg, who had followed Torbert, was at Hanovertown. On the morning of May 28, Gregg was sent out by Sheridan to discover the movements of Lee, who was skilfully masking his designs behind his cavalry. Gregg had advanced but a short distance beyond Haw's Shop when, in a dense wood, protected by swamps, behind breastworks of logs and rails, and with batteries advantageously posted, he found the enemy's cavalry dismounted and disposed in order of battle. He promptly attacked, notwithstanding the disparity in numbers and in position, Davies going into action first, followed by Irvin Gregg, and the entire division was quickly engaged. Gregg was resolute, Hampton determined, and for hours the battle was waged with the most unyielding bravery on both sides. The list of killed and wounded was unexampled in any other cavalry contest of the Civil war, aggregating in the Second division alone two hundred and fifty-six officers and men. Davies's brigade lost twenty-three officers. The First New Jersey cavalry had two officers killed and nine wounded. The enemy's losses were even greater. [Illustration: M.C. BUTLER] It was an unequal contest--one division against two, two brigades against four--with the odds in favor of the confederates. Hampton who, in the beginning, maintained a posture of defense, began to assume a more aggressive attitude and showed a disposition to take the offensive. In the afternoon, towards four o'clock, he brought up Butler's brigade to reinforce the center of his line. These troops were armed with long range rifles and many of them had not been under fire before. This was their first fight. They came on the field with the firm purpose to win or die, and preferred death to defeat or surrender, as the sequel proved. Then, and not till then, it began to look as though the hitherto invincible Gregg might have the worst of it. There was danger that the center of his line would be compelled to yield. It was in front of this new and valorous foe that the First New Jersey suffered its fearful losses. The attack was such that only the bravest men could have withstood it. At this critical juncture, Sheridan ordered Custer to the front to reinforce Gregg. It was time. The Michigan men were having a rest, thinking it was their turn for "a day off." But, as in the "Wilderness" and at Meadow Bridge, they were instantly in the saddle and en route. Marching by fours along a country road, hearing the sounds, but not yet within sight of the conflict, lines of federal infantry were seen marshaled for action, and a knot of officers of high rank gazing toward the front. Passing to the right of these, the column turned to the right into the road leading past Haw's Shop, and through the woods where the two lines were fiercely contending, and which road bisected the battle-field. An impressive scene came into view. Beyond the wood, less than a mile away, which extended on both sides of the road, one of Hampton's batteries was firing shell with the utmost rapidity. These shells were exploding both in the woods and in a broad plain behind them and to the right of the column as it advanced. Hundreds of non combatants were fleeing to the rear across this open space. The woods, like a screen, hid the battery from view. Only the screaming and exploding shells could be seen. When the head of the Michigan column came into their line of vision, the confederate cannoneers trained one of their guns on the road and the shells began to explode in our faces. A right oblique movement took the column out of range. Gregg's men had been gradually forced back to the very edge of the woods, and were hanging on to this last chance for cover with bull dog tenacity. The enemy were pressing them hard and, apparently conscious that reinforcements for them were coming, seemed to redouble their fire both of artillery and small arms. It was a fearful and awe inspiring spectacle. Custer lost no time. Massing the brigade close behind Gregg's line of battle he dismounted it to fight on foot. Every fourth man remained with the horses which were sent back out of danger. The line formed in two ranks like infantry. The Sixth was to the right, its left resting on the road; the Seventh to the left, its right on the road. The First formed on the right of the Sixth, the Fifth on the left of the Seventh. The time for action had come. It was necessary to do one thing or the other. No troops in the world could have been held there long without going forward or back. Custer, accompanied by a single aide, rode along the line from left to right, encouraging the men by his example and his words. Passing the road he dashed out in front of the Sixth and taking his hat in his hand, waved it around his head and called for three cheers. The cheers were given and then the line rushed forward. Custer quickly changed to the flank but, though thus rashly exposing himself, with his usual luck, he escaped without a scratch. Christiancy, his aide, had his horse shot under him and received two wounds, one a severe one through the thigh. Gregg's men permitted the Michigan men to pass. In a moment the Wolverines and the Palmetto men were face to face and the lines very close. Michigan had Spencers. South Carolina, Enfields. Spencers were repeaters, Enfields were not. The din of the battle was deafening. It was heard distinctly back where the infantry was formed and where Grant, Meade, and Sheridan anxiously were awaiting the event. The Spencers were used with deadly effect. The South Carolinians, the most stubborn foe Michigan ever had met in battle, refused to yield and filled the air with lead from the muzzles of their long range guns as fast as they could load and fire. The sound of their bullets sweeping the undergrowth was like that of hot flames crackling through dry timber. The trees were riddled. Men began to fall. Miles Hutchinson, son of my father's foreman, who had left home to go to the war with me, fell dead at my side. "Jimmie" Brown, the handsome and brave sergeant, dropped his piece and falling, died instantly. Corporal Seth Carey met his fate like a soldier, his face to the foe. A member of troop H, shot through the breast, staggered toward me and exclaiming, "Oh, major," fell literally into my arms, leaving the stains of his blood upon my breast. This strenuous work did not last long. It may have been ten minutes from start to finish--from the time we received the South Carolinians' fire till the worst of it was over and they began to give way. But, in that brief ten minutes eighteen brave men in the ranks of the Sixth Michigan had been either killed or mortally wounded; and as many more were wounded but not fatally. The enemy suffered even more severely. The brigade lost forty-one killed--eighteen in the Sixth; thirteen in the Fifth; five in the First and five in the Seventh. The losses of the Fifth in officers and men wounded but not fatally were larger than those in the Sixth, the total of killed and wounded aggregating something like fifty in the regiment. The First, though it did not meet with so sturdy a resistance in its immediate front, was able to work around the flank of the enemy, thus materially aiding in breaking their spirit and putting them to rout. Some of the South Carolina men exhibited a foolhardy courage never seen anywhere else so far as my knowledge extends. "Surrender," said Sergeant Avery to one of them who had just discharged his piece and was holding it still smoking in his hands. "I have no orders to surrender, ---- you," returned the undaunted confederate. He surrendered, not his person, but his life. Such a fate befell more than one of those intrepid heroes. It was a pity but it was war and "war is hell." The enemy's line, at that time, had been driven beyond the woods into a clearing where was a house. While crossing a shallow ravine before reaching the house it was noticed that shots were coming from the rear. An officer with a troop was ordered back to investigate. It was found that at the first onset the regiment had obliqued slightly to the right, thus leaving an interval between the left flank and the road in consequence of which about fifteen confederates had been passed unnoticed. Some of them had the temerity to begin giving us a fire in the rear. They were all made prisoners. The force in front was driven from the field, leaving their dead and wounded. Eighty-three dead confederates were counted by those whose duty it was to bury the dead and care for the wounded in the field and woods through which the Michigan men charged. Those who were killed in front of the Sixth Michigan were South Carolinians from Charleston and evidently of the best blood in that historic city and commonwealth. They were well dressed and their apparel, from outer garments to the white stockings on their feet, was clean and of fine texture. In their pockets they had plenty of silver money. In this engagement, as well as in that at Hanovertown the day before, the Fifth Michigan was commanded by Captain Magoffin, Colonel Alger having remained at White House for a few days on account of illness. Colonel Stagg and Major Alexander Walker led the First and Seventh, respectively. General Sheridan narrates that when he called upon Mr. Lincoln in Washington the president made a facetious reference to General Hooker's alleged fling at the cavalry, when he asked: "Who ever saw a dead cavalryman?" It is perhaps doubtful whether Hooker uttered so pointless a saying, devoid alike of sense and of wit. If such a question was ever seriously propounded by him or by any one else, its sufficient answer could have been found upon the battle field of Haw's Shop. And not there alone. The First Michigan cavalry had sixteen killed including its colonel at the second Bull Run and twelve at Gettysburg. The Fifth Michigan lost fifteen killed at Gettysburg; the Sixth Michigan twenty-four at Falling Waters and the Seventh Michigan twenty-two at Gettysburg--all of these before General Sheridan had that interview with Mr. Lincoln in the White House. This record was enough of itself, to render the cavalry immune to ironical disparagement. If there were any honest doubts as to the efficiency and fighting qualities of the Potomac cavalry, they were dissipated by the campaign of 1864. After Todd's Tavern, Yellow Tavern, Haw's Shop, Cold Harbor and Trevilian Station no slurring remarks aimed at the cavalry were heard. Its prestige was acknowledged in and out of the army by all those who had knowledge of its achievements and were willing to give credit where credit was deserved. An all night march followed the battle, after the dead had been buried and the wounded cared for. The morning of May 29 found the two divisions in the neighborhood of Old Church and thence in the afternoon of May 30 Custer and Merritt marched out toward Cold Harbor, the Reserve brigade in advance, to reinforce Devin, who was having a hot fight at Matadequin Creek with Butler's South Carolinans, posted on the opposite side in a strong position. The entire division became engaged, the fighting being mostly dismounted and the opposing force was driven in great confusion from the field. The Sixth Michigan was held in reserve mounted and expected to be ordered in for a mounted charge but for some unexplained reason the order did not come. The First, Fifth and Seventh were in the thickest of it and rendered excellent service. The pursuit was kept up for several miles and the enemy retreated to Cold Harbor, leaving his dead and wounded on the field, as at Haw's Shop. Butler's men behaved with great gallantry, but were ready to surrender when the logic of the situation demanded it. They made no such resistance as in the former action. May 31, in the afternoon, the First division advanced on Cold Harbor, Merritt in advance, on the road leading from Old Church. Custer followed Merritt. Devin was sent by another road to the left with the intention of having him attack in flank the force which the other two brigades were engaging in front. The Sixth Michigan moved by a country road to make connection between the First and Second brigades. Gregg's division followed Torbert as a reserve and support but did not become engaged. Cold Harbor was a very important strategic point, as can be seen by a glance at the map, roads radiating from it in all directions. It was strongly held by Hampton's and Fitzhugh Lee's cavalry, supported by a brigade of infantry. They had thrown up breastworks of rails and logs, and made preparations for a stout resistance. I reached the intersection of the country road with the left hand road before Devin appeared. My orders being to connect with him, I awaited his arrival, sending a few men out to keep watch in both directions. When Devin's advance came up they saw these men and appeared to be suspicious of them, and did not advance very promptly. As soon as I could I gave them to understand who we were and what we were there for. Devin then moved along the main road and the Sixth deployed through the woods until touch with its own brigade was obtained. In the meantime, a hard fight was in progress. Torbert, not hearing from Devin, changed his plans and attacked the enemy's left flank with the Reserve brigade and the First and Fifth Michigan. This was most skilfully and successfully done. The flanking movement was led by the First and Second United States, and the Fifth Michigan, still under Captain Magoffin. The final blow was struck by Major Melvin Brewer with one battalion of the First Michigan, whose charge mounted at the critical moment decided the fate of the field. The enemy who had been putting up a very hard fight did not await this charge but threw down their arms and fled, the pursuit being followed up to a point a mile and a half beyond the town. The Sixth took little part except to fill the gap between Custer and Devin. The latter found the confederate right flank too strong to circumvent, and added one more to the long list of lost opportunities. Thus, Cold Harbor, the key to the maneuvers of the two armies, came into possession of the Union cavalry, but there was no infantry support within ten miles, the result having been unexpected by Meade, and Sheridan decided that it would not be safe for his command to try to hold it, unsupported. He, however, notified the general of the army what he had done and withdrew his cavalry after dark to the position of the night before. Grant, realizing the importance of the capture, directed Sheridan to return and hold Cold Harbor at all hazards, until the infantry could get up. The march was retraced and, reaching the position before daylight, the breastworks which the enemy had thrown up were brought into service, strengthened as much as possible and the division dismounted placed in line behind them. Ammunition boxes were distributed on the ground by the side of the men so they could load and fire with great rapidity. This was a strong line in single rank deployed thick along the barricade of rails. Behind the line only a few yards away were twelve pieces of artillery equally supplied with ammunition. The brigade was thus in readiness to make a desperate resistance to any attack that might be made. The only mounted man on the line was General Custer, who rode back and forth giving his orders. The Sixth was lying down behind the rails and directly in front of the artillery, the pieces being so disposed as to fire over our heads. I do not remember any other engagement in which so many pieces of artillery were posted directly on a skirmish line with no line of battle behind it and no reserves. It was an expedient born of a desperate emergency. In front of the line was open ground. Two hundred yards to the front were woods. In the woods the confederate infantry was in bivouac. Kershaw's division was in front of the Michigan brigade. Before the first streaks of dawn began to appear in the east, their bugles sounded the reveille, and there was immediate commotion in the confederate camps. So close to us were they that the commands of the officers could be heard distinctly. Soon after daybreak an attack was made on the right of the line. As soon as the enemy emerged from the woods General Custer ordered all the twelve pieces of artillery to fire with shell and canister which they did most effectively. So furious was the fire that the confederate infantry did not dare to come out of the woods in front of Custer's left where the Sixth was, the artillery and the fire from the Spencers from behind the rails keeping them back. An attempt was made to charge the part of the line where the First Michigan was posted but each time it was repulsed. Here Captain Brevoort, one of the bravest and best officers in the brigade, was killed. Captain William M. Heazlett, another fine officer, was wounded. They both belonged to the First Michigan. During the progress of the engagement, when the first attempt of Kershaw's infantry to come out of the woods had been repulsed, and there was a temporary suspension of the firing, General Custer riding along the line, in rear of the artillery, noticed that several of us who were lying down behind the barricade, were directly in front of one of the brass pieces. Though these pieces were firing over our heads, they were very nearly, if not quite, on the same level as the barricades. He, with characteristic thoughtfulness, called my attention to the danger of remaining where we were and I moved away from in front of the gun to a position in front of the interval between two of them, directing the others to do likewise. The three men who were with me were Lieutenant William Creevy, Corporal John Yax, and private Thomas W. Hill of troop C. Hill moved to the right when I moved to the left, but Creevy and Yax were slow about it. The very next time the gun was fired, there was a premature explosion, which killed Yax and wounded Creevy. Hill was a boy only seventeen years of age, one of the recruits of 1863-64. He survived the war and is now cashier of the Cleveland national bank, of Cleveland, Ohio, and one of the most influential and respected business men of that city. Another one of those young recruits of 1863-64 was A.V. Cole, corporal in the same troop as Hill. He was badly wounded in the action at Haw's Shop, May 28. For many years he was adjutant general of the state of Nebraska. [Illustration: THOMAS W. HILL] This line was successfully held, a most meritorious performance, by the cavalry until nearly noon, when the Sixth corps came on the ground and relieved it. Never were reinforcements more cordially welcomed. Never did the uniform and arms of the infantry look better than when the advance of the Sixth corps made its appearance at Old Cold Harbor. In solid array and with quick step they marched out of the woods in rear of the line, and took our places. The tension was relaxed and for the first time since midnight the cavalryman drew a long breath. This was the beginning of the intimate association of the First cavalry division with the Sixth corps. So close a bond did it become that its hold was not released until the war closed. It was a bond of mutual help, mutual confidence and respect. The Greek cross and the cross sabers were found together on all the battle fields of the Shenandoah valley and we shall see how at Cedar Creek they unitedly made a mark for American valor and American discipline unexcelled in all the annals of war. There, side by side, Wright and Ricketts, Getty and Wheaton stood with Merritt and Custer in the face of an enemy flushed with success, and refused to be beaten until Sheridan came on the field to lead them to victory. The division then moved back near Old Church and went into camp. June 2 went into camp at Bottom's bridge, where we remained skirmishing with cavalry across the river. June 6 found the First and Second divisions in camp at Newcastle Ferry on the Pamunkey river, in readiness for what is known in the records and in history as the Trevilian raid, conducted by General Sheridan in person. [Illustration] CHAPTER XX THE TREVILIAN RAID The contents of this chapter constitute the latest contribution of the author to the literature of the events recorded in this book. Much of that which has gone before and all of what follows was written many years ago. But in this final draft, every line has been revised. Time and the ripeness of years have tempered and mellowed prejudice; the hasty and sometimes intemperate generalizations of comparative youth have been corrected by maturer judgment; something of ill-advised comment and crudity has been eliminated. Many of his conclusions and even the accuracy of some of his statements of fact, he realizes fully, may not remain unchallenged; yet it has been his honest endeavor and purpose to give, so far as in him lies, a truthful and impartial recital of those salient memories that remain to him of the stirring experiences of the youthful days when, as a boy he "followed the fortunes of the boy general" in the campaigns of 1863-64, in the great civil war. The outlines of the sketches herein made have been drawn from the official "records of the rebellion" which have been carefully consulted; the details for the most part have been taken from the storehouse of a somewhat retentive memory; something of color and atmosphere necessarily has been left to the imagination. It is a picture that he would present, rather than a dry recital of dates and places, or a mere table of statistics. The importance of these things need not be lessened by seeking to give them an attractive form. The writer must confess, also to an ambition to contribute something, albeit but a little, toward giving to the Michigan cavalry brigade the place in history which it richly earned; so that it may receive in its due proportions the credit which it deserves for the patriotic and valiant services rendered on so many battle fields. And especially does it seem to be to him a duty to do this for the regiment in which it was his privilege and good luck to serve. This ambition, however, was nearly stifled, soon after its birth, by an experience very galling to the pride of a well meaning, if sensitive and fallible historian. It was something like twenty years ago that a paper on the battle of Cedar Creek, prepared with conscientious care and scrupulous fidelity to the facts as the writer understood them, was mailed to General Wesley Merritt, with the request, couched in modest and courteous phrase, that he point out after having read it any inaccuracies of statement that he might make a note of, as the article was intended for publication. The distinguished cavalry officer replied, in a style that was bland, that he had "long since ceased to read fiction;" that he no longer read "even the Century war articles;" that an officer one month would give his version of things which another officer in a subsequent number of the same magazine would stoutly contradict; and that he was heartily tired of the whole business. General Merritt was, however, good enough to give in detail his reasons for dissenting from the writer's account of a certain episode of the battle, and his letter lent emphasis to the discussion in one of the early chapters of this volume concerning men occupying different points of view in a battle. This particular matter will be more fully treated in its proper place. One must not be too sure of what he sees with his own eyes and hears with his own ears, unless he is backed by a cloud of witnesses. Moreover this was notice plain as holy writ, that no mere amateur in the art of war may presume, without the fear of being discredited, to have known and observed that which did not at the time come within the scope of those who had a recognized status as professional soldiers and find its way into their official reports. Indeed, a very high authority as good as told the writer in the war records office in Washington that no man's memory is as good as the published record, or entitled to any weight at all when not in entire harmony therewith. It is evident that this rule, though perhaps a proper and necessary one, to protect the literature of the war against imposition and fraud, may very easily bar out much that is valuable and well worth writing, if not indispensable to a fair and complete record, provided it can in some way be accredited and invested with the stamp of truth. It was quite possible for brigade and even regimental commanders, not to draw the line finer still, to have experiences on the battle field of which their immediate superiors were not cognizant; nor is it necessary to beg the question by arguing that all commanding officers were allowed to exercise a discretion of their own within certain limits. Official reports were oftentimes but hastily and imperfectly sketched amidst the hurry and bustle of breaking camp; or on the eve of battle, when the mind might be occupied with other things of immediate and pressing importance. Sometimes they were prepared long afterwards, when it was as difficult to recall the exact sequence and order of events as it would be after the lapse of years. Some of the "youngsters" of those days failed to realize the value their reports would have in after years as the basis for making history. Others were so unfortunate as to have them "lost in transit" so that, although they were duly and truly prepared and forwarded through the official channels, they never found their way into the printed record. Attention already has been called to the absence of reports of the commanders of the Michigan cavalry brigade regiments for the Gettysburg campaign. General George B. Davis, U.S. army, when in charge of the war records office in Washington, told the writer that he had noticed this want and wondered at it. He could not account for it. A like misfortune befell the same regiments when they participated in the Kilpatrick raid. Only a part of their reports covering the campaign of 1864, including the Trevilian raid, were published. In this respect the Sixth Michigan suffered more than either of the others. Not a single report of the operations of that regiment for that period, appears in the record, though they were certainly made as required. General Custer's reports cover that regiment, of course, as they do the others in the brigade, but it is unfortunate that these are not supplemented by those of the regimental commander. Until the volumes successively appeared, he was not aware of this defect; nor did he ever receive from any source an intimation of it, or have opportunity to supply the deficiency. Hence, it appeals to him as a duty to remedy, so far as it can be done at this late day, the omissions in the record as published of this gallant regiment. From the beginning to the end of the campaign of 1864, in Virginia--from the Wilderness, May 4, to Cedar Creek, October 19--except for a single month when he was in command of the brigade, the writer was present with and commanded the Sixth Michigan cavalry. Not a single day was he absent from duty, nor did he miss a battle or skirmish in which the regiment was engaged. Reports were made, but as we have shown they did not find their way into the war department. No copies were retained, so there is a hiatus in the record. There are numerous cases of a similar kind. Some officers, there is reason to believe, were smart enough to seek and were given the opportunity to restore the missing links. The Trevilian raid resulted from the seeming necessity of drawing the confederate cavalry away from the front of the army of the Potomac while the movement of the latter from the Chickahominy to the James was in progress. Sheridan was ordered to take two divisions and proceed to Charlottesville, on the Virginia Central railroad. Incidentally he was to unite there with the force operating under General Hunter in the direction of Lynchburg. He decided to take the First and Second divisions (Gregg and Torbert). Wilson with the Third division was to remain with the army, taking his orders directly from General Meade. As we have seen, the expeditionary force, before making the start, was at Newcastle Ferry, on the south bank of the Pamunkey river. Three days' rations to last five days were ordered to be taken in haversacks; also two days' forage strapped to the pommels of the saddles; one hundred rounds of ammunition--forty on the person, sixty in wagons; one medical wagon and eight ambulances; Heaton's and Pennington's batteries; and a pontoon train of eight boats. The brigade commanders were: Custer, Merritt, Devin, Davies and Irvin Gregg. In the Michigan brigade there had been some changes since Cold Harbor. Colonel Alger had returned and resumed command of his regiment. Major Melvin Brewer, of the First Michigan, had been promoted to lieutenant colonel and assigned to command of the Seventh Michigan, his appointment dating June 6. There is a certain something about the events of that war that makes them stand out in bold relief, like architectural images on the facade of an edifice. They throw all other recollections of a lifetime into the shade. As I sit at my desk writing, with memory at elbow as a prompter, it is difficult to believe that today (May 7, 1908) it lacks but one short month of being forty-four years since those preparations were making on the banks of the Pamunkey river for a cavalry expedition in some respects more strenuous, more difficult than any which had preceded it. Yet those incidents are burned into the memory, and it seems that, after all, it may have been but yesterday, so deep and lasting were the impressions then produced. As the well focused optical image is transferred to a sensitized surface, reproducing the picture, so were those scenes fixed in the mind with photographic certainty, to be retained as long as memory lasts, somewhat faded by time, it may be, but complete in outline if not in details. The campaign of the previous month had been a hard one for the cavalry. Aside from the fact that he was leaving one third of his force behind, Sheridan's corps had been decimated. A large number of his troopers had been killed and wounded, or rendered hors de combat in other ways. The horses had suffered terribly and many of them had been shot. So only about half the number of mounted men fit for duty that followed the colors of the cavalry corps out of the Wilderness, May 8, marched across the Pamunkey on the pontoon bridge, June 6. Readers who have followed this narrative through the preceding chapters will readily understand this. Sheridan's plan[27] was to move along the north bank of the North Anna to a point opposite Trevilian Station, on the Virginia Central railroad; then cross the North Anna by one of the bridges or fords, and by a rapid movement capture the station, destroy the railroad from Louisa Courthouse to Gordonsville, and proceed thence to Charlottesville, where the expected junction with Hunter was to be made. If this plan should succeed, the two forces thus united were to advance on Lynchburg and do what, as a matter of fact, Sheridan did not accomplish until the spring of 1865. Instead of marching to Charlottesville, Hunter went the other way, and that feature of the expedition was a failure. Breckinridge's corps of infantry was sent to Gordonsville, the confederate cavalry succeeded in interposing between that place and Trevilian Station and Sheridan advanced no farther than the latter point. [Illustration: WADE HAMPTON] Sheridan's march began on the morning of June 7. Passing between the Pamunkey and the Mattapony rivers, he reached Polecat station on the Richmond and Potomac (Fredericksburg) railroad the evening of June 8, and encamped there for the night. The next day the march was resumed, passing through Chilesburg to the North Anna, and along the bank of that river to Young's Mills, where the entire command bivouacked. June 10, he journeyed to Twyman's store and crossed the North Anna at Carpenter's Ford, near Miner's bridge, between Brock's bridge and New bridge, encamping for the night on the road leading past Clayton's store to Trevilian Station. In the meantime, as soon as Sheridan's movement was discovered two divisions of confederate cavalry (Hampton's and Fitzhugh Lee's) under Hampton--the latter's division commanded by Butler--started by the direct road between the Annas for Gordonsville, for the purpose of intercepting Sheridan. Breckinridge timed his movements to make his line of march parallel with that of Sheridan. Hampton, having the shorter distance to cover, although he started two days later than his adversary, was able to anticipate the latter in arriving, and was between Gordonsville and Trevilian Station the night that Sheridan crossed the North Anna. Fitzhugh Lee at the same time was near Louisa Courthouse, the two confederate commanders thus being separated by a distance of some six or seven miles on the evening of June 10. The federal cavalry was all together and in position favorable for preventing a union of the confederate forces by a sudden movement in the morning. Both commanders were looking for a battle on the following day and had made their plans accordingly. Hampton had with him the three brigades of Rosser, Butler and Young; while the other division consisted of the brigades of Lomax and Wickham. It will thus be seen that, while the federal commander had a much smaller force than that which followed him on the raid of the previous month, his opponent was able to meet him with nearly twice the relative strength with which Stuart confronted him at Yellow Tavern. In other words, while Stuart fought him with the three brigades of Lomax, Wickham and Gordon (Hampton not being present) the latter at Trevilian Station had five brigades, including the big South Carolina brigade which fought so gallantly at Haw's Shop. More than that, Breckinridge's infantry was behind the cavalry, ready to reinforce it, if needed. Sheridan's camp was in the woods north of Clayton's store, and extending eastward as far as Buck Chiles's farm, Gregg on his left, Torbert on the right. His plan was to advance on Trevilian Station, at an early hour on the morning of June 11, by the direct road from Clayton's store. It was given to Gregg to look out for Fitzhugh Lee, who was expected to come into the action from the direction of Louisa Courthouse. Hampton planned to advance from Trevilian Station with his own division and attack Sheridan at Clayton's store. Lee was to take the road from Louisa Courthouse to the same point and form on Hampton's right. A glance at the map will show that the two roads intersect. Still another country road runs from Louisa Courthouse to Trevilian Station. Sheridan formed his line of battle with Merritt on the right, Devin to Merritt's left, Custer and Gregg, en echelon, still farther to the left. Custer covered the road toward Louisa Courthouse. The Seventh Michigan picketed that road during the night. At a very early hour the pickets of that regiment were attacked by Lee's advance. The First Michigan was sent to reinforce the Seventh. One brigade of Gregg's division was also sent out to meet Lee. The other one was formed on Devin's left. Sheridan then advanced and attacked Hampton instead of awaiting his attack. Hampton moved from Trevilian Station with the two brigades of Butler and Young, Butler on the left. Rosser was sent to guard a road farther to the left, protecting that flank. Thus Rosser was isolated when the battle began and Hampton came into action with but two brigades on the line. Fitzhugh Lee was headed off by the First and Seventh Michigan and Gregg's brigade, so that, instead of coming to Hampton's assistance as intended, he was finally compelled to take the road leading directly to Trevilian Station instead of the one to Clayton's store. It will be seen later that he arrived there at an opportune moment to prevent the complete destruction of Hampton's division. The entire country between the North Anna river and the railroad was covered with timber and a dense undergrowth, except where there were occasional patches of cleared farm lands. When Torbert with his two brigades came into contact with Hampton, his line was found strongly posted in woods so dense that it was difficult to make headway against the defense. From the start, however, Sheridan was the aggressor and Hampton was forced to fight a defensive battle. In view of the rule laid down by General Sheridan himself (quoted in a footnote on page 241) a criticism might be made on the tactics of the battle. But whether the error, if it was an error, should be laid at the door of the chief of cavalry or of General Torbert there is no way of finding out, though there is reason to believe that the former left the tactics on the field to be worked out by the division commanders. Custer was ordered to take a country road and pass around the flank to the rear of the enemy confronting Torbert. The exact location of this road was unknown and Torbert states in his report that he was under a misapprehension about it; that it did not come out where he supposed it did; and that Custer by taking it lost touch with the other brigades which he was not able to regain until it was too late to accomplish the best results. Such "combinations rarely work out as expected" and Custer should have been put into action on the left of the line of battle; should have advanced with the division, keeping touch to the right, all the brigades in position to support each other. Then, by directing the entire movement in person, it is probable that Sheridan might have thrown his left forward, completely enveloping Hampton's right and crushing it before there was any possibility of receiving reinforcements. In that event, this turning movement would have been Custer's part of the battle, his regiments would have been kept together, under his eye, and well in hand for a combined movement at the right moment. Complete success must have followed. The road which Custer took leaves the North Anna river at New bridge, and runs to Trevilian Station. It crosses the Louisa Courthouse and Clayton store road east of Buck Chiles's farm. It intersects the direct road from Louisa Courthouse to Trevilian Station at a place designated on the map as "Netherland." When Custer started out in the morning the chances were that he would have a hard fight with Fitzhugh Lee at the outset. But it has been shown how, by the interposition of the First and Seventh Michigan and one of Gregg's brigades, that officer was obliged to abandon the plan of reaching Clayton's store and take the other road. So Custer, being relieved from pressure in that direction, started with the Fifth Michigan in advance, followed by Pennington's battery, to carry out his orders to get in Hampton's rear, at or near Trevilian Station. The advance guard was led by Major S.H. Hastings, one of the most daring officers in the brigade. At some point beyond the crossroads, east of Buck Chiles's farm, the exact location being a matter of great uncertainty, upon which the official reports shed no light whatever, Hastings discovered a train of wagons, caissons, led horses and other impedimenta, which he reported to the brigade commander and received orders to charge upon it, the charge to be supported by the entire regiment under Colonel Alger. This charge resulted in the capture of the outfit, but was continued for a long distance beyond the station, this being necessary in order to head off the train, which made a desperate effort to escape in the direction of Gordonsville. Custer's order to the Fifth did not contemplate continuing the pursuit beyond the station, since he was supposed to make a junction there with the other brigades of the First division. But those two brigades were still fighting with Hampton, and the Fifth Michigan was directly in the latter's rear. When this tumult arose in his rear, Hampton immediately recalled Rosser's brigade posted to protect his left flank, thereby leaving the way open for this foray around his right. Rosser, coming quickly upon the scene, not only intercepted Alger's retreat, but proceeded to contest with the Fifth Michigan the possession of the captures which that regiment had made. But, I am outrunning my story: The charge of the Fifth Michigan left Custer's front uncovered, and a force of confederates which belonged to Young's brigade and had probably been looking out for Hampton's right flank and rear, threw itself across his path and boldly challenged his right to advance. This was not a large body of troops, probably the Seventh Georgia cavalry, but it made up in audacity what it lacked in numbers. At that time--immediately after the charge of the Fifth Michigan--and before Rosser had begun his interference, Custer had with him only his staff and escort, and behind them was Pennington's battery which had no opportunity to come into action. The situation was apparently critical in the extreme. The only available regiment at the time to throw into the breach was the Sixth Michigan and that was just starting to move out of the woods where it had been encamped during the night. It was not supposed then that the battle was joined and, indeed, the expectation was that the march was to be a continuation of that of the previous day, although the picket firing in the early morning indicated the close proximity of the enemy. But that had been the case for a morning or two before. Before mounting, the officer in command had thoughtlessly acceded to the request of a brother officer to ride a spirited and nervous black horse belonging to the latter, as he expressed it, "To take the ginger out of him." In place of the regulation McClellan saddle the horse was equipped with one of those small affairs used by jockeys in riding race horses. This had been picked up en route. Horse and saddle certainly made an attractive looking mount, but not such an one as a cavalry officer with a sound mind would select for close work on the battle line. The narration of these circumstances will enable the reader to judge of how little the subordinate officers knew of the real impending situation. It can be stated with absolute certainty that the officers of the Sixth were innocent of any knowledge of the fact that Custer had started out for a fight, up to the moment when they were ordered to mount and move out of the woods into a road running along the east side. The commander of the regiment, mounted as described, and leading the column of files, not having yet formed fours, on account of the woods and brush, had barely reached the edge of the woods by the road, when a member of the brigade staff brought the order to, "Take the gallop and pass the battery." It is probable that this order was sent at the same time that the Fifth was sent forward to capture the train. Custer of course supposed that the Sixth was in column of fours in the road behind the battery. The commanding officer of the Sixth had moved out in compliance with orders and knew nothing about the conditions in front. The command, "Form fours, gallop, march" was given and a touch of the spur sent the black steed flying toward the front, followed as quickly as possible by the leading squadron of the regiment. A regimental staff officer remained to repeat the order to the other squadrons as they came into the road, successively. Approaching the crossroads, the conditions were revealed as described in a previous paragraph. Custer and his escort were exchanging shots with their revolvers, at short range, with the confederates in their front. The most remarkable coolness and courage were being displayed on both sides. The enemy certainly was commanded by an officer of resources who realized to the fullest extent the responsibility resting upon him to delay our further advance as long as possible. Custer never lost his nerve under any circumstances. He was, however, unmistakably excited. "Charge them" was his laconic command; and it was repeated with emphasis. Looking back to see that the leading squadron was pretty well closed up I gave the command, "Draw sabers" and, without waiting to form front into line, or for the remainder of the regiment, the column of fours charged straight at the line of confederates, the black horse leading. In a moment we were through the line. Just how it was done is to this day more or less of a mystery. The enemy gave way--scattered to the right and left--and did not await the contact. On down the road, one hundred, two hundred--it may have been five hundred--yards, but not more than that, at breakneck speed, the charge continued. Then it was seen that there was no enemy in front of us. Where was the enemy? Custer says in his report that Alger's orders were to stop at the station. The single word "charge" comprehended his order to me. Nothing was said about stopping. No warning was given that the Fifth had already charged and was ahead of us. Nor did I know it. The order had been obeyed to the letter. The enemy had apparently been dispersed. At all events he had disappeared from our front. At such times the mind acts quickly. The obvious course was to halt, rally, reform, see what was going on in rear, rejoin the brigade commander, get the regiment all together, for work where we were most needed. Finding that both hands were required to curb the excited steed which, up to that moment had not allowed another horse to come up with him, I returned my revolver to the holster and, when his speed began to slacken, and Captain Vinton, commander of the charging squadron, came alongside, gave the command, "Halt" which was twice repeated. My horse swerved to the right and, when brought to a standstill, was a little way in the woods. The clatter of hoofs behind had told me that I was followed, and I supposed it was by my own troopers. Not so, however. Vinton either did not hear, or was too much "under the influence of a pardonable excitement and zeal" to heed the order to halt, and continued on down the road to and beyond the station, where he overtook the rear of the Fifth and proceeded to assist in the endeavor to bring away the captured property. He was attacked by Rosser who made a lot of his men prisoners. The detachment that went with him did not rejoin the regiment until late in the afternoon and then less the men who had been captured. The word, "Surrender" uttered in imperious tones saluted my ear and, glancing over my left shoulder to find whence it came, I found that a well mounted and sturdy confederate officer had come up from my left rear and, addressing me in language both profane and apparently designed to cast reflections on my ancestry, declared that if I did not comply instantly with his polite request he would complete the front cut on my head. His men circling around in front with their carbines in the position of "ready" seemed to hint that they considered his demand a reasonable one and expressed a purpose to assist in enforcing it. Now, it is a maxim that no cavalry officer may surrender so long as he is not unhorsed. But in the situation in which I found myself there did not seem to be an available alternative. I surrendered, gave up the black horse and the jockey saddle, and never saw either of them afterwards. After the experience described I was glad to be rid of them on most any terms. Several others were captured at the same time and in the same way. One of them after being dismounted tried to run away but was quickly brought to a halt by a shot from a confederate's gun which wounded him. It appears that when we went through their line the rascally confederates rallied and, leaving Custer's front charged our rear. Custer says in his report that after "the Sixth Michigan charged the rebels charged that regiment in rear." When he wrote that report he had forgotten that it was only a portion--less than a third of the Sixth which charged. Two-thirds of the regiment was still back where he was and not yet in the action. There were two squadrons, one commanded by Captain Manning D. Birge, the other by Captain Don G. Lovell in reserve. In using the term squadron here I mean what in the civil war was known as a battalion (four troops). Vinton's squadron did not all take part in the charge. Four confederate cavalrymen undertook the duty of escorting myself and a young Sixth cavalryman who had been trapped in the same way to the rear through the woods. Anticipating that our attack would be followed up, we managed to delay our guards as much as possible, and had gone not more than a hundred yards when a yelling in the road proclaimed that the curtain had risen on the second scene of our little drama. Custer had ordered Birge to charge. Birge's advance put the confederates to flight, what there were left of them. The noise of the pursuit disconcerted our captors so that we took the chances and made our escape under cover of the thick undergrowth. They fired at us as we ran but did not succeed in making a hit. Fortunately Birge directed his course through the woods out of which the enemy had come and into which they had gone in their flight. In a minute we met him coming with a squad of men. He was greatly rejoiced to find that he had rescued me from my disagreeable predicament and, looking back across the years, I can see and freely acknowledge that to no man on this earth am I under greater obligations than to Manning D. Birge. But for his approach it might not have been possible for us to successfully make our break for freedom. That was the only time I ever was a prisoner of war and then only for about ten minutes. Custer, referring to my capture, says that I was rescued by a charge of my own regiment led by Captain Birge. [Illustration: MANNING D. BIRGE] Bidding Birge to follow my late captors I hurried out to the road and thence to the crossroads from which we had started so short a time before. Custer was still there. His battery was there. Most of the Sixth was halted there. My recollection is that the First and Seventh about that time joined Custer, after finding that Fitzhugh Lee had withdrawn from their front looking toward Louisa Courthouse. Birge's charge had cleared the road of the enemy, for the time being. Custer ordered that a rail barricade be thrown up across the road leading to the right, from which direction the attacks had been made on him. Putting the men of Vinton's and Birge's squadrons who were available at work, Lovell's squadron of four troops which was intact and well in hand under as good an officer as there was in the brigade, was posted in line mounted, parallel with the road, and behind a screen of timber, in readiness to repel any further attack. In a few minutes Sergeant Avery, one of the men who had gone with Birge in pursuit of the enemy from whom I had escaped, came in with a confederate prisoner splendidly mounted. Avery with cocked revolver was making his prisoner ride ahead of him and thus brought him in. Receiving orders to dismount, the man gave the horse a caress and with something very like a tear in his eye said: "That is the best horse in the Seventh Georgia cavalry." The horse, with Avery's consent was turned over to me to take the place of the captured black. He proved to be a prize. Handsome as a picture, kind and well broken, sound, spirited but tractable, with a glossy coat of silky luster, he was a mount that a real cavalryman would become attached to and be proud of. I rode him and he had the best of care until he succumbed to the cold weather and exposure near Winchester in the winter following. He was a finely bred southern horse and could not endure the climate. Birge was not so fortunate. When he went after his prisoners he caught a Tartar, or came very near it. The barricade was only partially completed, when yelling in front,--that is in the road leading to the right,--caused every one to look in that direction. Birge and a few of his men were seen coming at full speed with what looked like a good big squadron of the enemy at their heels. Mounting the Seventh Georgia horse, I rode around the barricade and into the field where Lovell was with his battalion. He had been placed there for just such an emergency. Birge did not stop until he had leaped his mare over the barricade. When the confederate column came up, Lovell surprised them with a volley right in their teeth, which sent them "whirling" back into the woods out of which they had come. This was the end of the fighting at that point. Taking with him the Seventh, under Lieutenant Colonel Brewer, and the battery Custer then moved on toward Trevilian Station, leaving the First under Lieutenant Colonel Stagg and the Sixth to bring up and look out for the rear. The affray at the crossroads had occupied less time than it takes to tell it. In giving the story it has been difficult to steer into the middle course between a seeming desire to give undue prominence to one's own part in the action, on one hand, and affectation of undue modesty, on the other. The only course appeared to be to narrate the incidents as they befell and leave it to the kind reader to judge the matter on its apparent merits. When Custer approached the station he found Rosser in his way on his front and right flank. Fitzhugh Lee, coming from Louisa Courthouse, also attacked his left flank. For a time there was a melee which had no parallel in the annals of cavalry fighting in the civil war, unless it may have been at Brandy Station or Buckland Mills. Custer's line was in the form of a circle and he was fighting an enterprising foe on either flank and both front and rear. Fitzhugh Lee charged and captured a section of Pennington's battery. The Seventh Michigan led by Brewer recaptured it. Fragments of all the regiments in the brigade rallied around Custer for the mounted fighting, of which there was plenty, while the First and Sixth dismounted took care of the rear. Custer was everywhere present giving directions to his subordinate commanders, and more than one mounted charge was participated in by him in person. Torbert's attack with Merritt's and Devin's brigades was at length successful in routing Hampton, whose men were driven into and through Custer's lines. Many of them were made prisoners. An officer and twelve men belonging to the Seventh Georgia cavalry, making for the rear as they supposed, came into the arms of the Sixth Michigan skirmishers at one time. The officer gave up his revolver to me and it proved to be a very fine five shooting arm of English make. In the final stages of the battle, Gregg concentrated against Fitzhugh Lee, Torbert effected his junction with Custer, and the latter was extricated from his difficult and dangerous predicament, after performing prodigies of valor. The lines changed front and the confederates were driven across the railroad, Hampton towards Gordonsville, Lee to the eastward. The two did not succeed in coming together that night, and Lee was obliged to make a wide detour in order to reunite with his chief on the afternoon of the next day, Sunday, June 12. The entire command encamped on the battle field in the neighborhood of Trevilian Station for the night. The next morning Gregg was set at work tearing up the railroad toward Louisa Courthouse. The First division was given a rest until the afternoon when, at about three o'clock, although it was Sunday, the order came for the First division to proceed in the direction of Gordonsville. In the meantime, the forces of Hampton and Lee had united and, as will be seen, had planned to stop Sheridan's further progress at all hazards. There is some reason to believe that a part of Breckinridge's infantry had come out from Gordonsville to reinforce Hampton. Such was the impression at the time, and one at least, of Sheridan's commanders, states in his report that he was confronted by infantry. The writer is of the opinion that the "infantry" was Butler's dismounted cavalry which, when in a good position as they were that day, could do as good fighting as any infantry in the confederate service. The Michigan brigade moved out first and the Sixth had the advance. The order was to proceed to a certain point named and then halt until the division closed up. Memory does not recall what the place was, but is quite clear as to that being the specific direction given by General Custer to the officer in command of the advance regiment. We had gone but a short distance, not more than a mile or two at most, when the advance guard reported the enemy entrenched across the way. Skirmishing began at once between our mounted men in front and dismounted confederates behind breastworks of considerable strength. A squadron was deployed and Sergeant Avery was directed to make his way far enough into the woods to find, if possible, what we had in our front. He came back in about ten minutes and reported that the breastworks in our immediate front were thoroughly manned, and that he had seen a column of at least a thousand men moving into the entrenchments on the enemy's right, in front of our left flank. He was sent back to give Custer this information, and the general came up and ordered the entire regiment to be dismounted to fight on foot. The Sixth was put in on the right of the road and directly thereafter the Seventh was sent in on the left. It did not take long to demonstrate that two regiments were not enough and the First and Fifth went into the action on the right of the Sixth. Then Torbert reinforced the line with the Reserve brigade and a portion of the Second, all under Merritt. The entire division became engaged. Several assaults were made upon the confederate line but without success. They were in each instance repulsed. Fitzhugh Lee got in on the right flank of the division and inflicted severe damage upon the Reserve brigade. We have never been able to understand why, if it was intended to break the enemy's line, Gregg's division was not brought into the engagement to protect that flank. General Merritt in his report intimates that he had to do more than his share of fighting; that when the Reserve brigade advanced to the assault on the right it was supposed that the attack would be pressed on the left; that it was not so pressed and that his brigade suffered unduly on that account. This is another case of a man being unable to see all that is going on in a battle. The Michigan brigade was on the left of the line. It was the first brigade engaged. It began the fight and stayed in it till the end. Harder fighting has rarely been done than that which fell to the Michigan men in that battle. Several attempts were made to drive the enemy from their front. The First Michigan especially made a charge across an open field in the face of a terrible fire from behind breastworks, going half way across before they were repulsed. When the First Michigan could not stand before a storm of bullets, no other regiment in the cavalry corps need try. That is a certainty. The losses in killed and wounded were very severe, as will be shown in a table printed at the end of this chapter. [Illustration: SERGEANT AVERY] The fighting continued till ten o'clock that night, when Sheridan decided to withdraw and abandon the expedition. It is worthy of remark that the entire division was unable to advance one inch beyond the place where the advance guard first encountered the enemy and where Sergeant Avery made the reconnoissance which revealed to General Custer the true situation. Poor Avery was killed while doing his duty as he always did in the very front of the battle in the place of greatest danger. Captain Lovell and Lieutenant Luther Canouse of the Sixth were wounded; Captain Carr, and Lieutenants Pulver and Warren of the First Michigan were killed, and Captain Duggan and Lieutenant Bullock of the same regiment wounded. Captains Hastings and Dodge of the Fifth were wounded; also Lieutenant Colonel Brewer of the Seventh was wounded on the eleventh. The casualties in the two days' fighting at Trevilian Station were very severe. The losses in killed and died from wounds received in the action aggregated in the brigade forty one, as follows:[28] First Michigan 13 Fifth Michigan 8 Sixth Michigan 17 Seventh Michigan 3 --- Total 41 Of prisoners lost there were in all two hundred and forty-two, distributed as follows: First Michigan 39 Fifth Michigan 102 Sixth Michigan 58 Seventh Michigan 43 --- Total 242 Of those who were captured and held as prisoners of war, eighty-eight died in southern prisons--most of them in Andersonville--as follows:[29] First Michigan 12 Fifth Michigan 35 Sixth Michigan 26 Seventh Michigan 15 --- Total 88 The battle of Trevilian Station practically ended the fighting which was done by the Michigan brigade in the campaign from the Rapidan to the James. Sheridan's retreat was skilfully conducted but was not especially eventful. A tabulated statement of the losses in the command, beginning in the Wilderness, May 6, and ending at Trevilian Station June 12, is appended hereto. By losses I mean killed in action or died of wounds received in action. It is not possible to give a reliable statement of the wounded, reports of regimental commanders being very deficient in that particular. The table is compiled from the official records in the office of the adjutant general of Michigan and is believed to be approximately correct: First Fifth Sixth Seventh Michigan Michigan Michigan Michigan Total Wilderness 2 3 4 -- 9 Todd's Tavern 3 -- -- 1 4 Beaver Dam Station 1 -- -- -- 1 Yellow Tavern 14 7 3 9 33 Meadow Bridge -- -- 2 -- 2 Hanovertown -- -- 3 -- 3 Haw's Shop 5 13 18 6 42 Old Church 2 -- -- 1 3 Cold Harbor 5 1 1 3 10 Trevilian Station 13 8 17 3 41 ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- Total 45 32 48 23 148 Recapitulation--Killed and died of wounds, the Rapidan to the James: First Michigan 45 Fifth Michigan 32 Sixth Michigan 48 Seventh Michigan 23 --- Total 148 In General Merritt's official report[30] for the period May 26 to June 26, he makes the following statement: "The losses in killed and wounded, (in the Reserve brigade,) are annexed in tabular statement. As they number more than the loss of the entire rest of the command they sufficiently attest the severe services of the brigade." When General Merritt says "the entire rest of the command" we shall assume that he means "the entire rest" of the First division. We have no desire to make invidious comparisons, and have avoided doing so throughout these recollections. The Reserve brigade was a fine brigade and always fought well, and never better than at Trevilian Station and in the battles immediately preceding that engagement. To prove that his comparison was not warranted it is necessary only to refer to the official records. On page 810 of the same volume,[31] appended to the report of General Torbert, for the same period covered by General Merritt's report, we find: Reserve Brigade-- Officers killed 6 Officers wounded 17 ---- Officers killed and wounded 23 Reserve Brigade-- Men killed 57 Men wounded 275 ---- 332 ---- Total officers and men killed and wounded 355 Second Brigade-- Officers killed 2 Officers wounded 15 ---- Officers killed and wounded 17 Second Brigade-- Men killed 42 Men wounded 163 ---- Men killed and wounded 205 ---- Total officers and men killed and wounded 222 First Brigade-- Officers killed 3 Officers wounded 12 ---- Officers killed and wounded 15 First Brigade-- Men killed 62 Men wounded 192 ---- Men killed and wounded 254 ---- Total officers and men killed and wounded 269 Total killed and wounded First and Second Brigades 491 Total killed and wounded Reserve Brigade 355 The Reserve brigade comprised five regiments, two of volunteers and three of regulars. The Michigan brigade consisted of four regiments, of course, all volunteers. One third of the losses in killed and wounded at Trevilian Station in the Reserve brigade were in the single regiment, the First New York dragoons. My authority for this is still the official records. See page 186 of the volume already quoted and referred to in the footnote. Close analysis, therefore, shows that there are inconsistencies in the official records, and unguarded statements in the official reports. The rest of the month of June was consumed in the return march to the army. Owing to the necessity of caring for a large number of wounded and of guarding several hundred prisoners, to say nothing of an army of colored people of all ages and of both sexes who joined the procession, it was necessary to take a tortuous course which traversed the Spottsylvania battle ground, touched at Bowling Green, followed the north bank of the Mattapony river, reaching King and Queen Courthouse June 18. From this place the sick, wounded and prisoners were sent to West Point. On the 19th we marched to Dunkirk, on the Mattapony river, which was crossed on a pontoon bridge and thence to the Pamunkey, opposite White House. June 21, the entire command crossed the Pamunkey at White House and marched the next day (June 22) to Jones's bridge on the Chickahoming. June 25 reached the James river and on the 28th crossed that river to Windmill Point. From here the First and Second divisions were sent to Reams's Station to the relief of the Third division under Wilson which had run into a situation similar to, if not more serious than that which Custer faced on the 11th at Trevilian. Finding that officer safe, we returned to Lighthouse Point and settled down--after having fought and marched for fifty-six consecutive days--for a period of rest and recuperation. During the entire march from Trevilian to the James, Hampton hovered on the flank of Sheridan's column, watching for a favorable opportunity to inflict a blow, but avoiding a general engagement. In crossing from the Pamunkey to the James, Sheridan was charged with the duty of escorting a train of 900 wagons from the White House to Douthat's Landing on the James. General Gregg was entrusted with the responsibility of protecting the right flank, which placed him in the post of danger, and the brunt of the fighting as well as the greater part of the honors of the movement fell to his share. Indeed, General Sheridan in his official report, written in New Orleans a year after the war closed, gave Gregg credit for saving the train. The time from July 2, when we returned to Lighthouse Point on the James river, to July 26 was quiet and uneventful. Many hundred convalescent wounded and sick men returned from hospital to duty; many also who had been dismounted by the exigencies of the campaign returned from dismounted camps. A fine lot of new horses were received. During the month the condition of the animals was very much improved, good care and a plentiful supply of forage contributing to the result. The duty performed was to picket the left flank of the army, the Michigan regiments connecting with Crawford's division of the Fifth corps. The story of the participation of the cavalry with the Second corps in the movement to the north side of the James, which began on the forenoon of July 26, has been so fully and so well told by General Sheridan in his reports and in his memoirs that nothing is left to be added. In fact there is little, if anything, in the part taken by any portion of the force taken across by Sheridan and Hancock to differentiate it from that played by the whole. The object of the movement was to draw the enemy's attention away from the lines around Petersburg preparatory for the explosion of the mine which was to take place on the 30th. In this it was successful. General Lee mistook the attack on his left for real instead of a feint, and detached enough troops to meet it to not only assure the success of the attack on Petersburg, if it had been made with determination, but to seriously menace the safety of the two corps engaged in the movement. General Sheridan truthfully says that, "The movement to the north side of the James for the accomplishment of our part of the plan connected with the mine explosion, was well executed, and every point made; but it was attended with such anxiety and sleeplessness as to prostrate almost every officer and man in the command." This was the last incident of importance connected with the services of the First cavalry division with the army of the Potomac in the year 1864. August 1, Sheridan was ordered to the Shenandoah Valley and selected the First and Third cavalry divisions to go with him. Since this is in some sort a personal narrative it may be of interest to mention that while at Lighthouse Point I received my commission as colonel and, July 9, was mustered out of the United States service as major--with which rank I had been commanding the regiment--and was mustered in in the new grade. The promotion, which was unsought, was due to a request made to the governor, signed by all the officers of the regiment serving in the field, and recommended by General Custer. On the original petition, on file in the adjutant general's office in Lansing, is an endorsement in the general's own handwriting.[32] CHAPTER XXI IN THE SHENANDOAH VALLEY When Grant sent Sheridan to take charge of things in the Shenandoah Valley, and close that gateway to the north, he gave him one corps of infantry (Sixth) and two divisions of cavalry (First and Third) from the army of the Potomac. The Michigan cavalry brigade, still commanded by General George A. Custer, was a part of that force. It embarked on transports at City Point, Virginia, August 3, 1864, and proceeded to Washington, D.C., thence by the way of Poolesville, Maryland, to Halltown, Virginia, in front of Harper's Ferry, arriving there August 10, in time to join in the advance of the new army of the Middle Military Division,[33] under its new commander. Gregg with the Second division was left behind, under the immediate direction of General Meade, and thus, much to their regret, the Michigan men parted finally with that fine officer and his superb command, with whom they had been associated so intimately and honorably at Gettysburg, Haw's Shop, and in many other places. When they rejoined the army of the Potomac, in the spring of 1865, he had retired from the service. They never saw him again but, from the eventful days of 1863 and 1864 to the present time, they have never ceased to respect him as a soldier and a man; and he always had their entire confidence as a commander of cavalry. Sheridan wanted Early to cross into Maryland or to fight him in and around Winchester, but was in the dark as to his adversary's intentions or movements, so at daylight, August 11, he started a reconnoissance in force. Custer led the way across the Opequon creek, toward Winchester, and soon ran into Early's infantry. A sharp fight followed which showed that Early was retreating up the valley. Ransom's regular battery, attached to the brigade, was charged by confederate infantry, which was met and repulsed by a countercharge of one battalion of the Sixth Michigan cavalry led by Captain James Mathers, who was killed. Sheridan had left the gateway via the fords of the Potomac river open, but Early was too foxy to take the lure. He was getting away as fast as he could to a place of safety. The pursuit was instantly taken up and the next day (12th) found us up against infantry again at Fisher's Hill, between Cedar Creek and Strasburg, a position impregnable against direct assault. For three days we remained face to face with Early's infantry, constantly so close as to draw their fire and keep them in their intrenchments. On the 16th we marched to Front Royal. Sheridan had information that a force of infantry and cavalry had been despatched from Richmond to reinforce Early and, incidentally, to strike Sheridan in flank or rear, if he could be caught napping. The force consisted of Kershaw's division of infantry and Fitzhugh Lee's division of cavalry, all commanded by General R. H. Anderson. The route by which they were supposed to be approaching was through Chester Gap and Front Royal. If they could have reached the Shenandoah river and effected a crossing undiscovered, a short march would have brought them to Newtown, directly in rear of our army. Custer crossed and marched through Front Royal but no enemy was found. He then recrossed and took position on commanding ground half a mile or so back from the river, and ordered the horses to be unsaddled and fed and the men to cook their dinner. Headquarters wagons were brought up, mess chests taken out, and we were just gathering around them to partake of a hastily prepared meal, when Fitzhugh Lee's cavalry, which had stealthily approached the ford, charged across and made a dash at our pickets. Major H.H. Vinton, of the Sixth Michigan was in command of the picket line and promptly rallying on his reserves, he courageously met Lee's attack and checked it. That dinner was never eaten. Custer's bugler sounded "to horse." As if by magic, the men were in the saddle. Custer dashed out with his staff and ordered the Fifth Michigan forward, to be followed by the other regiments, I supposed he would charge in the direction of the ford, where Fitzhugh Lee's cavalry was still contending with the Sixth Michigan. He did nothing of the kind. Moving diagonally to the left, he reached the crest overlooking the river just in time to surprise Kershaw in the act of crossing. The Fifth Michigan deployed into line in fine style and opened such a hot fire with their Spencers, that the head of Kershaw's column was completely crushed. Every confederate who was across was either killed or captured. Many of those who were in the water were drowned and those on the other side were kept there. Just then, Devin's brigade came up, and helped to drive the cavalry across the river. The prisoners, all infantry, numbered from three to five hundred. This rencounter at Front Royal was one of the most brilliant affairs of the war and it illustrated well the marvelous intuition with which General Custer often grasped the situation, in an instant of time. He did not anticipate Kershaw's movement or he would not have given the order to unsaddle. It was a surprise but he was alert, and equal to the emergency. He was as bold to act as his perceptions were keen, and the incident recalls the intrepidity with which he met Rosser in the Wilderness under somewhat similar circumstances. Had he charged the cavalry, Anderson would have effected a crossing, and in a very short time might have had the Michigan brigade at such disadvantage that it would have required all of Custer's boldness and skill to extricate it. Custer divined that the dash of Lee's advance was a mask for the infantry, and by a movement that would have done credit to Murat or Ney, caught Kershaw astride the river and trapped him completely. The behavior of the Fifth Michigan was never more "superb." I do not believe that a single regiment, on either side, at any time, during the entire war, performed a more brilliant deed. Major Vinton and his detachment also earned especial praise by interrupting without aid, the first onset of Fitzhugh Lee's advance. The First and Seventh Michigan supported the Fifth in a most gallant manner. General Custer had a lock of hair shot away from his temple and Lieutenant Granger of his staff was killed. Lieutenant Lucius Carver of the Seventh also lost his life in the engagement. After this fight it was found that Sheridan had begun a retrograde movement down the valley to take a defensive position in front of Halltown. The brigade brought up the rear, the Sixth Michigan acting as rear guard. From the 16th to the 25th of August, it was marching and countermarching, picketing, reconnoitering and skirmishing, continually. Both armies were maneuvering for position and advantage. Anderson's reinforcement had joined Early and, with the esprit of the Army of Northern Virginia, was constantly pushing close up to our lines and harassing us. The Michigan brigade was mostly engaged with infantry and did not once, I believe, come into contact with the confederate cavalry. It was a lonesome day, indeed, when their mettle was not put to the proof in a skirmish with either Kershaw or Breckinridge. But one incident occurred to break the monotony. A part of the Fifth Michigan sent out to destroy some buildings supposed to contain supplies, was surprised by Mosby's command and fifteen men were killed outright. They were caught in a field where escape was impossible and shot without mercy. The Sixth was sent out to reinforce the Fifth and we searched far and near for the dashing partisan but did not succeed in coming up with him. He departed as swiftly as he came and made his escape to the mountains. Sheridan had, in his turn, been reinforced by Wilson's division of cavalry (Third) and, on the 25th, Torbert[34] was sent out with Merritt's and Wilson's divisions, to hunt up Fitzhugh Lee, who was reported to have gone in the direction of the fords leading into Maryland. At or near Kearneysville, a small force of cavalry was encountered which was driven rapidly along the road toward Leetown. Nearing the latter place, the inevitable infantry was found and it turned out to be Breckinridge's corps, going north along the Smithfield and Shepherdstown pike. Shepherdstown is on the Potomac river, opposite Sharpsburg and the Antietam battle ground. It never will be known what Breckinridge was intending to do, for he turned on Torbert and did not resume his journey. The collision was a complete surprise to both parties, but Early's design, whatever it may have been, was disarranged, the movement was discovered and, though the cavalry had rather the worst of it, the information gained was worth all it cost. If Early had been contemplating an invasion of Maryland, he relinquished the design and did not revive it. Torbert, finding that he had more than he could handle, fell back toward Halltown, leaving Custer with his brigade for a rear guard. Custer, coming to a piece of woods south of Shepherdstown, neither the enemy nor our own cavalry being in sight, halted and had his men dismount to rest, they having been in the saddle since early morning. We were all sitting or lying down with bridle reins in hand, taking our ease with more or less dignity, when a small body of confederate horse made its appearance in the direction of Shepherdstown. The brigade mounted and started in pursuit but had hardly been put in motion when a line of infantry suddenly appeared in the woods we were vacating and opened fire upon us. The confederate horsemen were driven away by the First and Seventh and, when General Custer rallied his brigade to confront the new danger, he found that Breckinridge had intercepted his retreat in the direction the rest of the cavalry had gone, and was closing in with a line that threatened to envelop the brigade. In a few moments, the enemy's right and left flanks began to swing in towards the river and he found himself face to face with two alternatives: To cut his way through, or fall back and take the risky chance of fording the river, with Breckinridge close at his heels. Of course there was no thought of surrender and Custer was not much given to showing his heels. Torbert left Custer to shift for himself. So far as I ever was able to learn, he made no effort to save his plucky subordinate and the report that the Michigan brigade had been captured was generally credited, in and around Harper's Ferry. Custer, with surprising coolness, put his brigade into line, the Sixth on the right, the First, Fifth and Seventh to the left of the Sixth, the battery in the center, with backs to the river and faces to the enemy, and presented so bold a front that the infantry did not charge, but moved up slowly, maneuvering to get around and obtain possession of the ford in rear. Custer had the men cheer and dared them to come on. With characteristic audacity, he actually unlimbered his pieces and gave them a charge or two right in their teeth; then limbering to the rear he took successive new positions and repeated the performance. While holding one of these points, a squadron of the First New York dragoons, of Devin's brigade, which also in some way had been separated from its command, was driven in from the right, and, riding up to where I was, the commanding officer, Captain Brittain, saluted and said: "Colonel, I am cut off from my own regiment and wish to report to you for duty." "Form your men to the right," I said. "It looks as if your aid would be very acceptable." "I have no cartridges. We have shot them all away." "You have sabers." "Yes, and by ---- they are loaded," he retorted, as he brought his men front into line on the right. Captain Brittain survived the war and came to Michigan to live. He often has sent me kindly reminders of his remembrance of the circumstances as narrated above. For many years he had a home in Wexford county, and I last heard of him as prospering on the Pacific coast. At that moment, the thing had a critical look. We were inside a horseshoe of infantry, the extremities of which very nearly reached the river. We had to go through that line, or through the river, or surrender. Breckinridge's line was in plain sight, not a half mile away, in the open and moving up in splendid order. So far as I am informed, Custer was the only man in the command who knew that there was a ford and that we were making for it. The rest were screwing their courage up to the task of breaking through. I never have ceased to admire the nerve exhibited by Captain Brittain, when I told him it looked as if that was what we would have to do. He was an excellent officer and belonged to an excellent regiment. "My sabers are loaded." The greatest coolness was displayed by General Custer and his entire command. There was not a hint of weakness or fear in any quarter. The brigade, at each falling back, ployed from line into column and deployed into line again, as if on parade, with Breckinridge and his corps for the spectators. Every movement was at a walk. There was no haste--no confusion. Every officer was on his mettle and every man a hero. Presently, Custer finally withdrew his battery, then the regiments one at a time, and slipped away into Maryland before the enemy realized what he was doing. The delicate duty of bringing up the rear was entrusted to Colonel Alger with his own regiment and the Sixth. I was ordered to report to him. The battery crossed first, then the First and Seventh, the brigade staff and general commanding. The two regiments stood in line, watching the enemy closing in closer and closer until this was accomplished. Then Colonel Alger told me to go. He followed leisurely and, as the Fifth and Sixth were marching up the Maryland bank, a line of confederates came up on the other side, and so astounded were they to see how we had escaped from their grasp, that some of them actually cheered, so I have been informed. They had been deceived by the audacity of Custer and his men in the first place and by the cleverness with which they eluded capture in the second. The battle of Shepherdstown was the last in which Colonel Alger was engaged. While the brigade was lying in camp on the Maryland side awaiting orders, he was taken sick and was sent to hospital by order of the brigade surgeon. He was assigned to special duty by order of President Lincoln and did not rejoin. The esteem in which he was held by General Custer and the confidence which that officer reposed in him to the last moment of his service in the brigade is amply evidenced by the selection of him to lead the attack on Kershaw at Front Royal and to bring up the rear at Shepherdstown. The coolness and ability of the officers and the intrepidity of the men in the Michigan cavalry brigade were never more thoroughly tested than in those two battles. Custer was the hero of both and Alger was his right arm. At Meadow Bridge, at Yellow Tavern and in all the battles of that eventful campaign, wherever they were associated together, wherever the one wanted a man tried, true, trained and trustworthy, there he would put the other. No misunderstandings that arose later can alter the significance or break the force of these cold facts. In the battle of Shepherdstown Captain Frederick Augustus Buhl, of the First Michigan was mortally wounded, dying a few days later. He was a Detroit boy, and a classmate of mine in Ann Arbor when the war broke out. I was deeply grieved at his death as I had learned to love him like a brother. He was conspicuous for his gallantry in all the engagements in which he participated, especially at Front Royal and Shepherdstown. For two days the brigade was lost. For a time the report of its capture was generally credited. That it escaped, no thanks were due to General Torbert, the chief of cavalry. It is not likely that he knew anything about what a predicament he had left Custer in. The latter was, as usual, equal to the emergency. I must pass now rapidly over a period of nearly a month, devoted, for the most part, to reconnoitering and retreating, to the eve of the battle of Winchester. September 18, about 8 o'clock in the evening, I went to headquarters to consult Dr. Wooster, brigade surgeon, about the condition of my health. I was very feeble, unable to eat, my eyes and skin the color of certain newspapers during the Spanish-American war. The doctor told me I must go home and insisted on making out a certificate of disability, on which I might obtain a "leave of absence." General Custer and most of his staff were present. I recall the circumstances very well, for a conversation in which the general asked me confidentially certain questions, was incautiously repeated by some one who was present and returned to vex me after many years. I returned to my own camp about nine or half past nine, much cast down over the doctor's diagnosis of my case. I mention all this to show how secretly the preparations for the eventful next day had been made. Not a word was dropped during my long interview with the general and his staff to arouse the suspicion that the army was about to attack Early. Yet, at midnight, orders were received to be ready to move at two o'clock in the morning. Before that hour, horses were in line saddled, the men ready to mount. My cook made a cup of tea and a slice of toast. I drank half of the tea but could not eat the toast. At three o'clock I mounted my favorite saddle horse "Billy" and by order of General Custer, led my regiment in advance of the division, toward Locke's Ford on the Opequon creek. Nothing was said, but every one knew that the army was in motion and that great things were in store for us. [Illustration: BATTLE FIELD OF WINCHESTER VA.] We neared the ford about daylight. There was a faint hope that the enemy might be taken by surprise and the ford captured without resistance, as it was a difficult crossing when bravely defended. In this, however, we were doomed to disappointment, for an alert foe was found awaiting the attack. Indeed, they must have known of the federal approach. Halting an eighth of a mile back and out of sight, Custer directed me to dismount the regiment and move in column of fours through a ravine at right angles with the creek. This ravine ran out at the top, where it reached the edge of a plowed field. This field extended some 100 or 150 yards to the crest overlooking the ford. Along the crest were fences, outbuildings, and the farm house. Thence, there was an abrupt descent to the bed of the Opequon Creek. This side hill slope consisted of cleared fields divided by fences. The hill where the house and barns were, also sloped off to the left. The road to the ford skirted the hill to the left till it reached the bank, then ran parallel with the creek to a point about on a line with the farm house, where it turned to the left and, crossing the stream, took a serpentine course up the opposite slope. This latter was wooded and dotted on both sides of the road with piles of rails behind which were posted infantry sharpshooters. The leading files had barely reached the summit, at the edge of the plowed ground, when the enemy opened fire on the head of the column of fours, before the regiment had debouched. There was momentary confusion, as the sharpshooters appeared to have the exact range. The regiment deployed forward into line under fire, and with General Custer by my side we charged across the field to the crest. Custer was the only mounted man in the field. Reaching the houses and fences, the Sixth proceeded to try to make it as uncomfortable for the confederates as they had been doing for us. General Custer had gone back to direct the movements of the other regiments which were still under cover in the rear. The charge prostrated me. I succeeded in getting across the field, cheered on by the gallant Custer, who rode half way, but then fell down and for a minute or two could not stand on my feet. I suppose my pale face and weak condition made a very fair presentment of a colonel demoralized by fright. It was a case of complete physical exhaustion. While it is probably for the most part moral rather than physical courage that spurs men into battle, it is equally true that good health and a sound body are a good background for the display of moral courage. If any of my friends think that jaundice and an empty stomach are a good preparation for leading a charge across a plowed field in the face of an intrenched foe I hope that they never may be called upon to put their belief to the proof. Custer then sent orders to engage the enemy as briskly as possible and directed the Twenty-fifth New York[35] followed by the Seventh Michigan, to take the ford mounted. The attempt was a failure, however, for the head of the New York regiment after passing the defile around the left, when it reached the crossing, instead of taking it, kept on and, circling to the right, came back to the point from which it started; thus, in effect, reversing the role of the French army which charged up a hill and then charged down again. The Seventh Michigan having received orders to follow the other regiment, obeyed and did not see the mistake until too late to rectify it, much to the chagrin of that gallant officer, Lieutenant Colonel Brewer, who commanded it, and who later in the day, laid down his life. The First Michigan was then ordered up to make the attempt. That regiment moved in column down the road to the foot of the hill at the left and halted. Two squadrons, commanded by Captain George R. Maxwell, an officer of the most undoubted courage, were detailed as an advance guard to lead the charge. Some minutes passed and the sharpshooters began to annoy the mounted men of the First. Major Howrigan, of that regiment, thinking that the Sixth ought to occupy the attention of the enemy so completely as to shield his men from annoyance, galloped up to where I was, and excitedly asked if we could not make it hotter for them. "They are shooting my men off their horses," he shouted. As he halted to deliver this message, a bullet struck the saddlebag in rear of his left leg. Reaching back he unbuckled the strap, lifted the flap, and pulling out a cork inserted in the neck of what had been a glass flask, exclaimed: "Blankety blank their blank souls, they have broken my whisky bottle." Saying which, he wheeled and galloped back through a shower of whistling bullets. General Custer then sent orders by a staff officer for the Sixth to advance dismounted and support the charge of the First. The Seventh was also brought up mounted to charge the ford at the same time. Preparations for this final attack were just about completed when it was discovered that the confederates were leaving their cover and falling back. Lowell had effected a crossing at another ford and was threatening the flank of the force in our front. The Sixth moved forward with a cheer. All the regiments advanced to the attack simultaneously, and the crossing of the Opequon was won. A sharp fight followed on the other side with Early's infantry in which a portion of the First Michigan led by the gallant Captain Maxwell made a most intrepid charge on infantry posted in the woods behind a rail fence. The cavalry soon had the force opposed to it fleeing toward Winchester, but making a stand from time to time, so that it took from daylight in the morning until nearly three o'clock in the afternoon to cover the distance of three or four miles between the crossing of the Opequon and the outskirts of the town after which the battle has been named, though, perhaps, it is more correctly styled "The battle of the Opequon." Breckinridge's infantry and Fitzhugh Lee's cavalry, the same gallant adversaries who hustled us over into Maryland in such lively fashion during the previous month, stood in the way and made vigorous efforts to stop our progress. It was a case of hunted turned hunter and the Wolverines more than balanced the account charged up against Breckinridge for the affair at Shepherdstown, August 25. To borrow an illustration from the Rugby game, the cavalry kept working around the end for gains until a touchdown and goal were scored at five o'clock in the afternoon. The battle was fought along the Martinsburg pike, the enemy being flanked or driven from one position to another until all the brigades of Merritt's and Averell's[36] divisions, which had been converging toward a common point, came together about a mile out of Winchester. As that place was approached, the signs and sounds of a great battle became startlingly distinct. The roar of artillery and the rattle of small arms saluted the ear. Within sight of the fortifications, around that historic town, a duel was raging between the infantry of the two armies. The lines of blue and gray were in plain sight off to the left. Puffs of smoke and an angry roar told where the opposing batteries were planted. Dense masses of smoke enveloped the lines. From the heights to the front and right, cannon belched fire and destruction. The Union cavalrymen were now all mounted. The Michigan brigade was on the left of the turnpike; to its left, the brigades of Devin and Lowell; on the right, Averell's division of two brigades--five brigades in all--each brigade in line of squadron columns, double ranks. This made a front of more than half a mile, three lines deep, of mounted men. That is to say, it was more than half a mile from Averell's right to Merritt's left. At almost the same moment of time, the entire line emerged from the woods into the sunlight. A more enlivening and imposing spectacle never was seen. Guidons fluttered and sabers glistened. Officers vied with their men in gallantry and in zeal. Even the horses seemed to catch the inspiration of the scene and emulated the martial ardor of their riders. Then a left half wheel began the grand flanking movement which broke Early's left flank and won the battle. When the Michigan brigade came out of the woods, it found a line of confederate horse behind a stone fence. This was the last stand that Fitzhugh Lee, who commanded Early's cavalry, attempted to make. Indeed, it was here, probably, that he received the wound which rendered him hors de combat. General Wickham succeeded him. In the stone fence there were places where the stones had fallen or had been thrown down, making openings through which horses could pass one, or at most two, at a time. The Union cavalrymen made for these openings, not halting or hesitating for an instant. The fence was taken and breaking through they put to flight the confederate cavalrymen who did not stop until they found refuge behind their infantry lines. The union line was broken up too. The country for a mile was full of charging columns--regiments, troops, squads--the pursuit taking them in every direction where a mounted enemy could be seen. The cavalry disposed of, the infantry was next taken in hand. Early's lieutenants, finding their flank turned, changed front and tried hard to stem the tide of defeat. The brigade became badly scattered. Custer with a portion of it charged right up to a confederate battery, but failed to get it, not having force enough at that point. The portion of the command with which I found myself followed Lee's cavalry for a long distance when, reaching the top of a slope over which they had gone in their retreat, we found ourselves face to face with a strong line of infantry which had changed front to receive us, and gave us a volley that filled the air with a swarm of bullets. This stopped the onset for the time, in that part of the field, and the cavalry fell back behind the crest of the hill to reform and, to tell the truth, to get under cover, for the infantry fire was exceedingly hot. They were firing at just the right elevation to catch the horses, and there was danger that our cavalrymen would find themselves dismounted, through having their mounts killed. As my horse swerved to the left, a bullet struck my right thigh and, peeling the skin off that, cut a deep gash through the saddle to the opening in the center. The saddle caused it to deflect upwards, or it would have gone through the other leg. At the moment I supposed it had gone through the right leg. Meeting General Custer I told him with some pride that I was wounded and needed a surgeon. Not finding one I investigated for myself and found that it was one of those narrow escapes which a pious man might set down to the credit of providence or a miracle. The wound was not serious and I proceeded to assist in rallying as many men of the regiment as possible to report to General Custer who was preparing for what proved to be the final charge of the battle. This was made upon a brigade of infantry which was still gallantly trying to make a stand toward Winchester and in front of a large stone house. The ground descended from Custer's position to that occupied by this infantry. Custer formed his men in line and, at the moment when the enemy began a movement to the rear, charged down upon them with a yell that could be heard above the din of the battle. In a brief time he was in their midst. They threw down their arms and surrendered. Several hundred of them had retreated to the inside of the stone house. The house was surrounded and they were all made prisoners. This charge, in which the Michigan brigade captured more prisoners than it had men engaged, was for perhaps an eighth of a mile within range of the batteries on the heights around Winchester, and until it became dangerous to their own men, the artillery enfiladed our line. A fragment of one of those shells struck my horse, "Billy," in the nose, taking out a chunk the size of my fist and he carried the scar till the day of his death (in 1888). This last charge finished the battle. Early retreated through Winchester up the valley and nothing was left but to pursue. Sheridan broke Early's left flank by the movement of the cavalry from his own right. It was the first time that proper use of this arm had been made in a great battle during the war. He was the only general of that war who knew how to make cavalry and infantry supplement each other in battle. Had the tactics of the battle been reversed,--that is to say, if Sheridan had moved against Early's right flank instead of his left,--nothing could have prevented the capture or destruction of Early's army, as his retreat would have been cut off. But the way to the south was left open, and Early escaped once more to Fisher's Hill, where he was found the next day with the remnant--a very respectable remnant--of his army. It may be of interest to some of my medical friends to remark here in passing, that the battle of Winchester cured my jaundice. After crossing the Opequon I began to be ravenously hungry, and begged and ate hardtack until there was some danger that the supply would be exhausted. The men soon saw the situation and when one saw me approaching he would "present hardtack" without awaiting the order. So I went into the mounted part of the engagement with a full stomach and in more ways than one with a "better stomach for a fight." I regret that it is impossible to give a complete list of casualties in the brigade. In the appendix to this volume may be found a roll of honor of all those who were either killed or died of wounds received in battle. [Illustration: MELVIN BREWER] Of the officers, Lieutenant Colonel Melvin Brewer was mortally wounded. The bullet which killed him coming from the stone house in which the confederates had taken refuge. Colonel Brewer went out in the First, of which regiment he had risen to be a major. With that rank he was assigned to command the Seventh and only in the previous June had been promoted to lieutenant colonel. He was an officer modest as he was brave; cool and reliable on all occasions. Lieutenant Albert T. Jackson, of the First, killed early in the action, was a young officer of much promise. Captain William O. North of the Fifth, who lost his life in the melee near Winchester, was also a most excellent officer. Captain A.S. Matthews, of the First was wounded. The casualties on the whole were not so numerous as in some other less historic engagements, most of them befalling in the attacks on infantry, early and late in the day. Breckinridge's infantry seems to have fired low when resisting the mounted cavalry, for the havoc among horses was very great. I find by my official report made to the adjutant general at the time, that seven officers in the Sixth alone had their horses shot, and there is no reason to suppose that this record exceeded that of the other regiments. For the next three days, the brigade was in front of infantry at Fisher's Hill, so close to their lines as to draw their fire and keep them in their intrenchments. On the 22nd, Torbert was sent to Milford in the Luray Valley, taking Wilson's and Merritt's divisions. His orders were to break through one of the passes in the Massanutten mountains and come out in rear of Early's army when Crook's flanking movement on the other side would have driven the confederates out of the strong position at Fisher's Hill. Crook's attack was completely successful and Early was soon "whirling up the valley" again. Torbert made a fiasco of it. He allowed Wickham, who succeeded Fitzhugh Lee after the latter was wounded, with, at most, two small brigades, to hold him at bay and withdrew without making any fight to speak of. I remember very well how the Michigan brigade lay in a safe position in rear of the line listening to the firing and was not ordered in at all. If Custer or Merritt had been in command it would have been different. When Sheridan found that Torbert had retreated, he gave him a very peremptory order to retrace his steps and try again. Custer, followed by Lowell, was sent to the front and in the forenoon of the 24th Wickham's troopers were scattered in flight and the way opened for Torbert to carry out his instructions. Even then the march was leisurely, and the two big divisions arrived in Newmarket on the 25th only to find that it was too late. Early had escaped again. On the 26th at Harrisonburg, Custer assumed command of the Second division in place of Averell and I succeeded to the command of the brigade. On the same day, the brigade was ordered to Port Republic and seeing a wagon train on the other side, the Sixth and Seventh were sent across the south fork of the Shenandoah river to attack it. It turned out to be Kershaw's division, which had been shuttle-cocked back and forth between Lee's army and the valley all summer and which, once more on the wing to reinforce Early, was just coming from Swift Run Gap. The two regiments were driven back, but retired in good order and recrossed the river. Sheridan then withdrew to Cross Keys, hoping to lure Early to that point, but was unsuccessful. The next day Port Republic was reoccupied and the brigade established a picket line extended thence to Conrad's Ferry, a distance of twenty miles. While occupying this position, the discovery was made that there were several good grist-mills along the river that were also well stored with grist. There were plenty of men in the brigade who were practical millers, and putting them in charge, I had all the mills running very early in the morning, grinding flour and meal which the commissaries were proceeding to issue to the several regiments, according to their needs, and we all flattered ourselves that we were doing a fine stroke of business. This complacent state of mind was rudely disturbed when, about seven o'clock (the mills had been running some two hours, or more) General Merritt accompanied by his staff, dashed up and, in an angry mood which he did not attempt to conceal, began to reprimand me because the mills had not been set on fire. The fiat had gone forth from General Grant himself, that everything in the valley that might contribute to the support of the army must be destroyed before the country was abandoned. Sheridan had already decided on another retrograde movement down the valley and it was his purpose to leave a trail of fire behind, obeying to the letter the injunction of the general in chief to starve out any crow that would hereafter have the temerity to fly over the Shenandoah valley. The order had gone out the day before and the work was to begin that morning. Custer was to take the west and Merritt the east side and burn all barns, mills, haystacks, etc., within a certain area. Merritt was provoked. He pointed to the west and one could have made a chart of Custer's trail by the columns of black smoke which marked it. The general was manifestly fretting lest Custer should appear to outdo him in zeal in obeying orders, and blamed me as his responsible subordinate, for the delay. I told him, with an appearance of humility that I am sure was unfeigned, that those mills would never grind again, after what had passed. The wheels were not stopped but the torch was applied and the crackling of flames intermingled with the rumbling of the stones made a mournful requiem as the old mills went up in smoke and General Merritt's loyalty was vindicated. It was a disagreeable business and--we can be frank now--I did not relish it. One incident made a lasting impression on the mind of every man who was there. The mill in the little hamlet of Port Republic contained the means of livelihood--the food of the women and children whom the exigencies of war had bereft of their natural providers and, when they found that it was the intention to destroy that on which their very existence seemed to depend, their appeals to be permitted to have some of the flour before the mill was burned, were heartrending. Worse than all else, in spite of the most urgent precautions, enjoined upon the officers in charge, the flames extended. The mill stood in the midst of a group of wooden houses and some of them took fire. Seeing the danger, I rode across and ordered every man to fall in and assist in preventing the further spread of the flames, an effort which was, happily, successful. What I saw there is burned into my memory. Women with children in their arms, stood in the street and gazed frantically upon the threatened ruin of their homes, while the tears rained down their cheeks. The anguish pictured in their faces would have melted any heart not seared by the horrors and "necessities" of war. It was too much for me and at the first moment that duty would permit, I hurried away from the scene. General Merritt did not see these things, nor did General Sheridan, much less General Grant. The army began to fall back on the 6th of October, the cavalry bringing up the rear, as usual, Merritt on the valley pike, Custer by the back road, along the east slope of the Little North mountain. The work of incineration was continued and clouds of smoke marked the passage of the federal army. Lomax with one division of cavalry followed Merritt, while Rosser with two brigades took up the pursuit of Custer on the back road. The pursuit was rather tame for a couple of days but the sight of the destruction going on must have exasperated the confederate troopers, many of whom were on their native heath, and put them in a fighting mood, for on the 8th they began to grow aggressive and worried the life out of our rear guard. The Michigan brigade had the rear. The Seventh was sent ahead to see that nothing escaped that came within the scope of Grant's order; the Fifth acted as rear guard; the First and Sixth in position to support the Fifth if needed. The pike formed the main street of the little town of Woodstock, the houses coming close to it on either side. On nearing that place, it was found that a fire started in some small barns and haystacks in the outskirts, had caught in the adjoining buildings and the town was in flames. Dismounting the two regiments, and sending the lead horses beyond the village, orders were given to have the fires put out. The men went to work with a will, but were interrupted in their laudable purpose by Lomax, who charged the rear guard into the town, and there was some lively hustling to get to the horses in time. The brigade was then formed in line in a good position facing Woodstock and awaited, indeed invited attack by the confederates. Lomax, however, kept at a respectful distance until the march was resumed, when he took up the pursuit again. Thus it went, alternately halting, forming and facing to the rear, and falling back, until Tom's Brook was reached late in the afternoon. Then General Merritt directed me to send one regiment to reinforce Custer, who was being hard pressed by Rosser on the back road, and take the others and drive Lomax back. The Seventh was sent to Custer and the First, Fifth and Sixth, the Sixth leading, drove the cavalry that had been annoying our rear at a jump back to Woodstock, a distance of about six miles. By that time, Lomax had his entire division up and when we started to fall back again, gave us a Roland for our Oliver, following sharply, but always declining the invitation to come on, when we halted and faced him. It was particularly annoying to the Fifth which brought up the rear and distinguished itself greatly by the stubborn resistance which it offered to the attacks of the enemy. Captain Shier's squadron of the First, supported the Fifth with much spirit. On the morning of the 9th, Sheridan told Torbert to go out and whip the cavalry that was following us or get whipped himself. It was a short job and the battle of Tom's Brook is regarded as one of the humorous incidents of the war. With slight loss, in a very brief engagement, Rosser and Lomax were both routed and the pursuit of the latter on the pike was continued for about twenty miles. The battle known in history as that of "Tom's Brook," was facetiously christened "The Woodstock Races," and the confederate cavalry cut little figure in Virginia afterwards. The Michigan brigade had a prominent part in the battle, being in the center and forming the connecting link between the First and Third divisions. In the opening attack the confederate center was pierced by the mounted charge of the Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Michigan, assisted by the Twenty-fifth New York. The First being on picket during the previous night had not returned to the command. I believe I am right in claiming that the first impression made on the enemy's line of battle was by these regiments, though the line was rather thin, for the reason that the heaviest part of Rosser's force had been massed in front of Custer and on the pike, making the center an especially vulnerable point. When the flight began, they took to the roads, and the Michigan men being in the woods did not get very far into the "horse race," as it was called. The First, coming from the picket line, trailed the leaders along the pike and managed to get a good deal of sport out of it with very little danger. I must now pass over the few intervening days to the crowning glory of the campaign, The Battle of Cedar Creek. CHAPTER XXII THE BATTLE OF CEDAR CREEK The engagement which took place in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, on the nineteenth day of October, 1864, will take its place high up in the list of the decisive battles of history. Like Blenheim and Balaklava, Cedar Creek will be remembered while literature lasts. One of its dramatic incidents furnished the theme for the poet's song, and "Sheridan's Ride," like Horatius, will remain until the imagination can no longer be thrilled by the recital of the record of heroic deeds. Thus doth poesy erect monuments, more enduring than bronze or marble, to the memory of the brave. Yet, the events of that day have been greatly misconceived.[37] The imagination, inflamed by the heroic verse of Read, and unaided by the remembrance of actual personal experiences in the battle, sees only the salient points--Gordon's stealthy march along the Massanutten mountain; the union troops, in fancied security, sleeping in their tents; the absence of their great leader; the morning surprise; the rout; the mass of fleeing fugitives; the victors in exultant pursuit; Sheridan's ride from Winchester; the magic influence of his arrival on the field, in arresting the headlong flight of the panic stricken mob; the rally; the reflux tide of enthusiasm; the charge back into the old camps; the glorious victory that succeeded humiliating defeat. With all due allowance for poetical license, the conception of this battle which long ago became fixed in the public mind, does a cruel injustice to the gallant men who were maimed or killed on that hard fought field. Enveloped in the mists of receding years; obscured by the glamour of poetry; belied by the vivid imagination of stragglers and camp-followers who, on the first note of danger, made a frantic rush for Winchester, seeking to palliate their own misconduct by spreading exaggerated reports of disaster, the union army that confronted Early at Cedar Creek, for many years made a sorry picture, which the aureole of glory that surrounded its central figure made all the more humiliating. It is due to truth and justice that every detail of that famous fight should be told, to the end that no undeserved shadow may rest upon the fame of the men and officers who took part in it--no unjust stain upon their record. History, so called, has been misleading. It is true that Sheridan's narrative sheds much new light upon his part in the battle, and General Merritt, one of the leading actors, wrote a paper upon it for the Century series though I doubt if it has been generally read, or if read, effective in modifying preconceived notions. An idea of that which has been written in the name of history may be gained from an extract taken from the American cyclopedia (vol. xvi) which says: "He (Sheridan) met the fugitives a mile and a half from town, (Winchester), and with a brigade which had been left in Winchester, moved upon the enemy, who had begun to intrench themselves." The absurdity of such "history" ought to be self evident. Imagine, if you can, a brigade of infantry following Sheridan on his wild ride of "twenty miles" and then rushing to attack an army which, according to the tradition of which I have spoken, had just whipped four army corps. Of course, the statement is an absurd one. No brigade came from Winchester. No brigade could have come from Winchester; and had such a thing been possible, it would have constituted but a slight factor in the contest. There were in the federal army on that eventful morning, seven brigades of infantry (the Sixth corps) seven brigades of cavalry, not to mention one division (Grover's) of the Nineteenth corps, (four brigades), making eighteen brigades in all, that were neither surprised in their camps, nor in the slightest degree demoralized at any time during the progress of the battle; and which had forced Early to stop short in his headlong career of victory long before the famous black charger brought his fiery rider to the field. The Eighth corps which was surprised was a small corps of only five brigades, and although after Kershaw's onset, conducted by General Early in person, it was practically eliminated, there was a fine army left which, crippled as it was, was fully equal to the task of retrieving the disaster, and which, as the event proved, needed only the guiding hand of Sheridan to put it in motion and lead it to victory. It is not, however, the purpose of this paper to give all the details of that great battle, but to narrate what a single actor in it saw; to make a note in passing of some things that do not appear in the official records, that are not a part of the written history of the war; some incidents that are important only as they throw light on that which is bathed in shadow, though having for one of Custer's troopers an interest in themselves; to do justice to the splendid courage displayed by the cavalry, especially the Michigan cavalry, on that occasion; to pay a tribute of admiration to the gallantry and steadfastness of the old Sixth corps; and to the courage and capacity of the gallant Colonel Lowell, who was killed. Cedar Creek is a small stream that rises in the Blue Ridge, runs across the valley, at that point but four miles wide, and pours its waters into the Shenandoah near Strasburg. It is very crooked, fordable, but with steep banks difficult for artillery or wagons, except where a way has been carved out at the fords. It runs in a southeasterly course, so that its mouth is four miles or more south of a line drawn due east from the point where it deserts the foot-hills on the west side of the valley. The valley, itself, is shut in between the Blue mountains, on one side, and the Massanutten, a spur of the Great North mountain, on the other. It is traversed, from north to south, by a turnpike road, a little to the left of the center, which road crosses Cedar Creek between Middletown and Strasburg. On the night of October 18, 1864, the federal army was encamped on the left bank of Cedar Creek, Crook's Eighth corps on the left flank, east of the pike and nearly in front of Middletown; Emory's Nineteenth corps to the right and rear of Crook and west of the pike; then, successively, each farther to the right and rear, the Sixth corps, temporarily commanded by General James B. Ricketts; Devin's and Lowell's brigades of Merritt's (First) cavalry division; the Michigan cavalry brigade; and last, but not least, Custer with the Third cavalry division. All faced toward the south, though posted en echelon, so that, though Crook was some three or four miles south of Middletown, a line drawn due east from Custer's camp, intersected the pike a little north of that place. For this reason, Early's flanking movement, being from the left through the camp of Crook, could not strike the flank of the other corps, successively, without shifting the line of attack to the north, while the Sixth corps and the cavalry were able to confront his troops, after their first partial success, by simply moving to the left, taking the most direct route to the turnpike. The position which the Michigan cavalry occupied was somewhat isolated. Although belonging to the First division, it was posted nearer the camp of the Third. The brigade consisted of the four Michigan regiments and Captain Martin's Sixth New York independent horse battery. The First Michigan was commanded by Major A.W. Duggan, a gallant officer who was wounded at Gettysburg; the Fifth by Major S.H. Hastings; the Sixth by Major Charles W. Deane; the Seventh by Lieutenant Colonel George G. Briggs, the latter officer having only just been promoted to that position. The New York battery had been with us but a short time, but Captain Martin and his lieutenants ranked among the best artillery officers in the service. For a few days, only, I had been in command of the brigade. General Custer, who had led it from the time he was made a brigadier, in June, 1863, was promoted to the command of the Third division and, hastily summoning me, went away, taking his staff and colors with him. I was obliged while yet on the march, to form a staff of officers as inexperienced as myself. It was an unsought and an unwelcome responsibility. For two or three days before the battle, our duty had been to guard a ford of Cedar Creek. One regiment was kept constantly on duty near the ford. The line of videttes was thrown out across the stream, connecting on the left with the infantry picket line and on the right with Custer's cavalry pickets. The Seventh Michigan was on duty the night of October 18, the brigade camp back about a mile from the ford. No intimation of expected danger had been received--no injunction to be more than usually alert. It was the habit of the cavalry, which had so much outpost duty to perform, to be always ready, and cavalry officers were rarely taken by surprise. Early's precautions had been carefully taken and no hint of his purpose reached the union headquarters, and no warning of any immediate or more than usually pressing danger was given to the army. But, somehow, I had a vague feeling of uneasiness, that would not be shaken off. I believe now and have believed, for many years, that there was in my mind a distinct presentiment of the coming storm. I could not sleep and at eleven o'clock, was still walking about outside the tents. It was a perfect night, bright and clear. The moon was full, the air crisp and transparent. A more serene and peaceful scene could not be imagined. The spirit of tranquility seemed to have settled down, at last, upon the troubled Shenandoah. Far away, to the left, lay the army, wrapped in slumber. To the right, the outlines of the Blue mountains stood out against the sky and cast dark shadows athwart the valley. Three-quarters of a mile away the white tents of Custer's camp looked like weird specters in the moonlight. Scarcely a sound was heard. A solemn stillness reigned, broken only by the tread of the single sentry, pacing his beat in front of headquarters. Inside, the staff and brigade escort were sleeping. Finally, a little before midnight, I turned in, telling the guard to awaken me at once, should there be firing in front, and to so instruct the relief. I cannot give the exact time; it may be I did not know it at the time; but it was before daylight that the sentinel awoke me. Not having undressed, I was out in an instant, and listening, heard scattering shots. They were not many, but enough to impel me to a quick resolve. Rousing the nearest staff officer, I bade him have the command ready to move at a moment's notice. In an incredibly short space of time, the order was executed. The tents were struck, the artillery horses attached to the gun carriages and caissons, and the cavalry horses saddled. No bugle call was sounded. The firing grew heavier, and from the hill where Custer was, rang out on the air the shrill notes of Foght's bugle, telling us that our old commander had taken the alarm. Rosser had attacked the pickets at the fords and was driving them in. He had done the same on one or two mornings before, but there was an unwonted vigor about this attack that boded mischief. The federal cavalry had, however, recovered from their earlier habit of being "away from home" when Rosser called. They were always "in" and ready and willing to give him a warm reception. He found that morning that both Merritt and Custer were "at home." In a moment, a staff officer from General Merritt dashed up with orders to take the entire brigade to the support of the picket line. Moving out rapidly, we were soon on the ground. The Seventh Michigan had made a gallant stand alone, and when the brigade arrived, the enemy did not see fit to press the attack, but contented himself with throwing a few shells from the opposite bank which annoyed us so little that Martin did not unlimber his guns. [Illustration: CHARLES R. LOWELL] A heavy fog had by this time settled down upon the valley. The first streaks of dawn began to appear, and it soon became evident that the cavalry attack upon the right flank was but a feint and that the real danger was in another quarter. Far away to the left, for some time, volleys of musketry had been heard. With the roll of musketry was intermingled, at intervals, the boom of cannon, telling to the practiced ear, the story of a general engagement. The sounds increased in volume and in violence, and it was no difficult matter to see that the union forces were falling back for, farther and farther to the left and rear, were heard the ominous sounds. From the position we occupied no infantry line of battle was to be seen. Soon after the Michigan brigade had taken its position at the front, Colonel Charles R. Lowell rode up at the head of the Reserve brigade. Colonel Lowell was a young man, not much past his majority, and looked like a boy. He was a relative of James Russell Lowell, and had won distinction as colonel of the Second Massachusetts cavalry. He had succeeded Merritt as commander of the Reserve brigade. He had a frank, open face, a manly, soldierly bearing, and a courage that was never called in question. He was a graduate of Harvard, not of West Point, though he had been a captain in the Sixth United States cavalry. Colonel Lowell informed me that his orders were to support the Michigan men if they needed support. No help was needed at that time. I told him so. The enemy had been easily checked and, at the moment, had become so quiet as to give rise to the suspicion that he had withdrawn from our front, as indeed he had. A great battle was raging to the left, and in response to the suggestion that the army seemed to be retreating, he replied: "I think so," and after a few moments reflection, said: "I shall return" and immediately began the countermarch. I said to him: "Colonel, what would you do if you were in my place?" "I think you ought to go too" he replied and, presently, turning in his saddle, continued: "Yes, I will take the responsibility to give you the order," whereat, the two brigades took up the march toward the point where the battle, judging from the sound, seemed to be in progress. How little either of us realized that Lowell was marching to his death. It was into the thickest of the fight that he led the way, Michigan willingly following.[38] A startling sight presented itself as the long cavalry column came out into the open country overlooking the battle-ground. Guided by the sound, a direction had been taken that would bring us to the pike as directly as possible and at the same time approach the union lines from the rear. This brought us out on a commanding ridge north of Middletown. This ridge as it appears to a participant looking at it from memory, runs to and across the pike. The ground descends to the south a half mile, or more, then gradually rises again to another ridge about on a line with Middletown. The confederate forces were on the last named ridge, along which their batteries were planted, and their lines of infantry could be seen distinctly. Memory may have lost something of the details of the picture, but the outlines remain as vivid, now as then. The valley between was uneven, with spots of timber here and there and broken into patches by fences, some of them of stone. The full scope of the calamity which had befallen our arms burst suddenly into view. The whole battle field was in sight. The valley and intervening slopes, the fields and woods, were alive with infantry, moving singly and in squads. Some entire regiments were hurrying to the rear, while the confederate artillery was raining shot and shell and spherical case among them to accelerate their speed. Some of the enemy's batteries were the very ones just captured from us. It did not look like a frightened or panic stricken army, but like a disorganized mass that had simply lost the power of cohesion. A line of cavalry skirmishers[39] formed across the country was making ineffectual efforts to stop the stream of fugitives who had stolidly and stubbornly set their faces to the rear. Dazed by the surprise in their camps, they acted like men who had forfeited their self-respect. They were chagrined, mortified, mad at their officers and themselves--demoralized; but, after all, more to be pitied than blamed. But all these thousands, hurrying from the field, were not the entire army. They were the Eighth corps and a part of the Nineteenth only, a fraction of the army. There, between ourselves and the enemy--between the fugitives and the enemy--was a long line of blue, facing to the front, bravely battling to stem the tide of defeat. How grandly they stood to their work. Neither shot nor shell nor volleys of musketry could break them. It was the old Sixth corps--the "ironsides" from the Potomac army, who learned how to fight under brave John Sedgwick. Slowly, in perfect order, the veterans of the Wilderness and Spottsylvania were falling back, contesting every inch of the way. One position was surrendered only to take another. There was no wavering, no falling out of ranks, except of those who were shot down. The next morning, one passing over the ground where those heroes fought, could see where they successively stood and breasted the storm by the dead men who lay in line where they had fallen. There were two or three lines of these dead skirmishers. The official record shows that the Sixth corps on that day lost 255 men killed and 1600 wounded. The two brigades had reached a point where the entire field was in view, and were in position to resume their relation to the line of battle, whenever the scattered fragments of the army could be assembled and formed for an organized resistance to the enemy. In the meantime it had been decided to mass all the cavalry on the left of the line, opposite to where it had been in the morning. The order came from General Merritt to continue the march in that direction, and the long column led by Lowell turned its head toward the left of the Sixth corps[40] and formed on the other side of the pike. Moving across, parallel with the line which had been taken up by that corps, the cavalry was exposed to a galling fire of artillery. One shell took an entire set of fours out of the Sixth Michigan. Not a man left the ranks. The next set closed up the gap. Custer was already there, having been transferred from right to left while the two brigades of the First division were out on the picket line. Crossing the pike, we passed in front of his division. It was formed in line of brigades, each brigade in column of regiments, mounted. It is needless to say that they were faced toward the enemy. Custer, himself, was riding along the front of his command, chafing like a caged lion, eager for the fray. Devin, with Taylor's battery had been there for some time and, under the personal direction of General Merritt, had been most gallantly resisting the advance of the victorious enemy. The Michigan brigade took position in front of Custer, Martin's battery next the pike. Lowell with the Reserve brigade was stationed still farther in advance toward Middletown. The Sixth corps made its final stand on the prolongation of the cavalry alignment and from that moment the attacks of the enemy were feeble and ineffective, the battle resolving itself, for the time being, into an artillery duel in which Martin's battery took a prominent part. It could not have been much later than nine o'clock when the two brigades of cavalry arrived. Their coming was opportune. Who can say how much it had to do in stopping the further progress of Early's attack? It is now known that Early dreaded a flanking movement by the body of horse which he saw massing in front of his right flank. The gallant Lowell, who so bravely did his duty and who exhibited in every stage of the battle the highest qualities of leadership, a few hours after his arrival on the left laid down his life for the cause he so valiantly served. He was killed by a bullet from the gun of a sharpshooter in Middletown. He did not live to make a report and the story never has been told officially of how he marched from right to left at Cedar Creek. Sheridan had not yet come up, but after his arrival, which he states in his memoirs was not later than ten o'clock, Custer was moved to the right flank, arriving in time to thwart a threatened flanking movement by Gordon and Kershaw. It is evident that every strategic attempt of the enemy, save the morning surprise, was checkmated by the union cavalry and, it must be remembered, that it was the absence of cavalry on the left which rendered the morning surprise possible. The First division was now all together with General Merritt personally in command. A part of Lowell's brigade, dismounted, was posted well to the front, the Michigan brigade, mounted, in its rear. While in this position, having occasion to ride up into the battery to speak to Captain Martin, a sharpshooter in Middletown took a shot at us. The bullet narrowly missed the captain and buried itself in my horse's shoulder. Unlike the shell at Winchester, this wound disabled the old fellow, so that he had to go to the rear and give way to a temporary remount,--furnished by the commanding officer of the First Michigan,--much to the regret of the old hero, for he was a horse who loved the excitement of battle and relished its dangers. Thus, for perhaps an hour (it may have been more) we stood in line inviting attack. But the enemy, strongly posted behind fences and piles of logs, with two ravines and fences separating us, seemed anxious to "let well enough alone." Then Merritt rearranged his line. Devin's brigade was posted next the pike, Lowell in the center, the Michigan brigade on the extreme left. Martin's battery took position in an orchard, on a rising point, which commanded the entire front and sloped off to the rear, so that only the muzzles of the pieces were exposed to the enemy's fire. Directly in front was a section of a battery which Martin several times silenced but which had an aggravating way of coming into action again and making it extremely uncomfortable for us. The First, Sixth and Seventh were formed in line of squadron columns, the Fifth a little to the rear as a reserve and support. A strong line of mounted skirmishers held the front. The left was thrown somewhat forward, menacing the confederate right. Soon after the formation was complete and probably not far from eleven o'clock, General Merritt with his staff came along inspecting the line, and halting near Martin's battery, he expressed the most hearty approval of the dispositions that had been made. While he was still talking, a round shot from one of the enemy's guns ricochetted and nearly struck his horse. He was very cool and gave his view of the situation in a few encouraging words. "The enemy," said he, "is almost as much surprised as we are and does not know what to make of his morning's work and in my opinion, does not intend to press his advantage, but will retreat as soon as a vigorous assault is made upon his line." These are, I am sure, almost the precise words uttered to me by General Merritt before Sheridan came up. At least, if he was with the army at the time, certainly General Merritt did not know it. They show what was the feeling in that portion of the army which was not surprised, and which did not fail, from the moment when the first shot was fired in the early morning, to the last charge at dusk, to keep its face to the foe. General Merritt also suggested, though he did not order it, that I send a regiment to feel of the confederate right flank. He had an impression that it might be turned. The Seventh Michigan was sent with instructions to pass by the rear to the left, thence to the front, and attempt to get beyond the flank of the enemy, and, if successful, to attack. After an absence of about an hour, it returned and the commanding officer reported that he found a line of infantry as far as he deemed it prudent to go. The force in front of the cavalry was Wharton's (Breckinridge's) corps, reinforced by one brigade of Kershaw's division. Early's fear of being flanked by the union cavalry caused him to strengthen and prolong his right. Rosser's cavalry, for some reason, did not put in an appearance after the dash in the morning. There was a lull. After the lapse of so many years, it would be idle to try to recall the hours, where they went and how they sped. There was no thought of retreat, slight fear of being attacked. All were wondering what would be done, when cheering and a great commotion arose toward the right. "Sheridan has come; Sheridan has come; and there is to be an advance all along the line," sped from right to left, as if an electric battery had sent the message, so quickly did it fly. Sheridan did not pass to the left of the pike where the cavalry was, but dashed along in front of the infantry for the purpose of letting the army know that he was there and give it the inspiration of his presence. History puts in his mouth the words: "It is all right, boys; we will whip them yet; we will sleep in our old camps tonight." I was not near enough to hear and do not pretend to quote from personal knowledge, but whatever may have been his exact words, the enthusiasm which they aroused was unmistakable. The answer was a shout that sent a thrill across the valley and whose ominous meaning must have filled the hearts of the confederates with misgivings. This was the first intimation we had that Sheridan was on the ground, though he says in his memoirs, that it was then after midday and that he had been up about two hours. But the Sixth corps needed no encouragement. Nobly had it done its duty during the entire progress of the battle. Sheridan and his staff, therefore, busied themselves reforming and posting the Nineteenth corps and strengthening the right where Custer was to be given the post of honor in the grand flanking movement about to begin. An ominous silence succeeded. Even the batteries were still. It was the calm that precedes the storm. To those on the left, it seemed that the dispositions were a long time in making. When one has his courage screwed to the sticking point, the more quickly he can plunge in and have it over the better. The suspense was terrible. The Michigan brigade had ample time to survey the field in its front. First, the ground descended abruptly into a broad ravine, or depression, through which ran a small creek. Beyond the top of the opposite ascent was a wide plateau of rather level ground, then another ravine and a dry ditch; then a rise and another depression, from which the ground sloped up to a belt of timber stretching clear across the front, almost to the pike. In the edge of the timber was the enemy's main line of battle, behind piles of rails and logs. Half way down the slope was a strong skirmish line along a rail fence. Behind the fence, on a knoll, was the battery, which had annoyed us so much. The brigade was formed with the First Michigan on the right, the Seventh on the left, the Sixth and Fifth in the center, in the order named. Each regiment was in column of battalions, making three lines of two ranks each. Martin's battery was to continue firing until the cavalry came into the line of fire. At length, the expected order came. The bugles sounded, "Forward." Simultaneously, from the right to the left the movement began. At first, slowly, then faster. It was a glorious sight to see that magnificent line sweeping onward in the charge. Far, far away to the right it was visible. There were no reserves, no plans for retreat, only one grand, absorbing thought--to drive them back and retake the camps. Heavens, what a din! All along the confederate line, the cannon volleyed and thundered. The union artillery replied. The roll of musketry became incessant. The cavalry crossed the first ravine and moving over the level plateau, came into a raking fire of artillery and musketry. Pressing on, they crossed the second ravine and ditch. The slope was reached and, charging up to the rail fence, the first line of hostile infantry fell back. But the cavalry had gone too fast for the infantry. Sheridan says faster than he intended, for his intention was to swing his right wing and drive the enemy across the pike into the arms of the left wing on the east side; the too swift advance of the First cavalry division frustrated the plan. The brigade next to the pike, exposed to a galling crossfire, wavered and slowly retired. The entire line then gave way and retreated rapidly, but in good order, to the first ravine, where it halted and reformed. In a short time the charge was again sounded. This time the fence was reached. The right of the Sixth Michigan was directly in front of the battery, as was also the First Michigan. General Merritt, who was riding by the side of Major Deane, said: "Major, we want those guns." "All right, we will get them," gallantly responded the major, and through and over the fence rode the brave cavalrymen. The First Michigan made a dash for the battery, but it was not ours this time for, seeing that the Sixth corps had received a temporary check, the cavalry once more fell back to the nearest ravine, and whirling into line, without orders, was ready instantly for the last supreme effort, which was not long delayed. The charge was sounded. The infantry responded with a shout. This time the cavalry pressed right on up the slope. The enemy did not stand to meet the determined assault but gave way in disorder. The line pushed into the woods and then it was every regiment for itself. The First, under Major Duggan, charged toward the pike, but Devin, being nearer reached the bridge first. The Seventh, under Lieutenant Colonel Briggs, charging through a field, captured, seemingly, more prisoners than it had men. The Sixth, under Major Deane, who knew the country well, did not pause until it reached Buckton's Ford, on the Shenandoah river, returning late at night with many prisoners and a battle flag for which Private Ulric Crocker, of Troop "M," received one of the medals awarded by act of congress. The Fifth, under Major Hastings, charged down a road leading to one of the fords of the Shenandoah, Major Philip Mothersill, with one battalion, going so far that he did not rejoin the command till the next day.[41] Thus ended the battle of Cedar Creek. Darkness, alone, saved Early's army from capture. As it was, most of his artillery and wagons were taken. It is needless to tell how Sheridan broke Early's left by an assault with the Nineteenth corps and Custer's cavalry at the same moment of the last successful charge upon his right. It was a famous victory, though not a bloodless one. Of the gallant men who went into the fight that morning on the union side, 588 never came out alive. Three thousand five hundred and sixteen were wounded. Early did not lose so many but his prestige was gone, his army destroyed and, from that moment, for the confederacy to continue the hopeless struggle was criminal folly. Cedar Creek was the ending of the campaign in the Shenandoah valley. There was some desultory skirmishing, but no real fighting thereafter. Among the wounded were Captain Charles Shier, jr. and Captain Darius G. Maynard, both of the First Michigan cavalry. Captain Shier died on the 31st of October. He was wounded in the charge on the confederate battery. Captain Shier was as gallant an officer as any who periled his life on that famous battle field; and not only a fine soldier but a polished scholar and an accomplished gentleman as well. He was a distinguished son of the state of Michigan and of the noble university which bears its name. In his life and in his death he honored both. Massachusetts remembers the name and reveres the memory of Charles Lowell. Mothers recite to their children the circumstances of his heroic death, and in the halls of Harvard a tablet has been placed in his honor. Charles Shier is a name which ought to be as proudly remembered in Michigan and in Ann Arbor as is that of Charles Lowell in Massachusetts and in Cambridge. But fate, in its irony, has decreed that the nimbus which surrounds the brow of a nation's heroes shall be reserved for the few whom she selects as types, and these more often than otherwise idealized types chosen by chance or by accident. These alone may wear the laurel that catches the eye of ideality and furnishes the theme for the poet's praise. Others must be content to shine in reflected light or to be forgotten. The best way is to follow William Winter's advice and neither crave admiration nor expect gratitude. After all, the best reward that can come to a man is that intimate knowledge of himself which is the sure foundation of self-respect. The adulation of the people is a fugitive dream, as Admiral Dewey knows now, if he did not suspect it before. In the original manuscript of the foregoing chapter, written in the year 1886, Lowell was represented as marching "without orders" from right to left with his own brigade and the Michigan brigade. In the text the words "without orders" have been omitted. This is not because my own recollection of the events of that day is not the same now as then, but for the reason that I am reluctant to invite controversy by giving as statements of fact things that rest upon the evidence of my own unsupported memory. After the manuscript had been prepared, it was referred to General Merritt with a request that he point out any errors or inaccuracies that he might note, as it was intended for publication. This request elicited the following reply: "West Point, December 2, 1886. "General J.H. Kidd, "My Dear General: "So much has been written as to the details of the war that I have stopped reading the war papers in the best magazines, even. An officer writes one month what is to him a truthful account of events and the next month that account is contradicted by three or four in print with dozens of others who content themselves with contradicting it in talk. The account you send me of Cedar Creek is not more accurate than the rest. "The morning of the attack Lowell's brigade had been ordered to make a reconnoissance on the 'Middle road.' This order was given by me the evening before. The picket line of the First brigade was attacked before the Reserve brigade moved out, and Lowell was ordered to hold his brigade in hand to help the First brigade if the attack was pressed. "Soon after, the fighting on the left of our army was heavy, as shown by the artillery fire, and stragglers commenced coming across towards the back road. These were stopped and formed as far as possible by my headquarters escort--the Fifth U.S. cavalry. About this time Devin's brigade (my Second) was ordered to the left of our line to cover and hold the valley pike. "About ten o'clock, the remainder of the First division was moved to the left of the infantry line and disposed so as to connect with the infantry and cover the valley pike. This was soon done, the Second brigade (Devin's) occupying the right, the Reserve brigade (Lowell's) the center, and the First brigade (Kidd's) the left of the division line of battle. "This is the account of the first part of the battle taken from my report written at the time. The movement of Lowell's brigade and your own by agreement, and without orders, was impossible. We had all been posted where we were as part of a line of battle, and any soldier who took a command without orders from one part of a line to another subjected himself to the penalty of being cashiered, as such action might jeopardize the safety of an army. "The principle of marching to the sound of battle when you are distant and detached and without orders that contemplate the contingency is well defined, but for a commander to leave without orders one part of a line of battle because there appears to be heavier fighting at another is all wrong and could not be tolerated. "I should be glad to renew our acquaintance and talk over the war, though as I have intimated I am sick of the fiction written with reference to it. "Truly yours, W. MERRITT." General Merritt in his letter omits one clause in his quotation from his report written at the time which seems to me to have an important bearing upon this question. The clause is as follows: "The First brigade was at once ordered to the support of its picket line." Or to quote the passage in its entirety: "About 4 a.m. on the 19th an attack was made on the pickets of the First brigade near Cupp's ford, which attack, coupled with the firing on the extreme left of the infantry line, alarmed the camps, and everything was got ready for immediate action. The First brigade was at once ordered to the support of its picket line, while the Reserve brigade, which had the night before received orders to make a reconnoissance on the Middle road, was ordered to halt and await further orders. This brigade had advanced in the execution of its reconnoissance to the picket line, and subsequently acted for a short time with the First brigade in repelling the attack of the enemy, feebly made on that part of the field. Soon after moving from camp the heavy artillery firing and immense number of infantry stragglers making across the country to the Back road from our left, showed that it was in that direction the heavy force of the enemy was advancing. The Fifth U.S. cavalry attached to the division headquarters was deployed across the field and, together with the officers and orderlies of the division staff did much toward preventing the infantry going to the rear. About the same time the Second brigade (General Devin) was ordered to move to the left of the line, cover and hold the pike, and at the same time deploy men in that part of the field to prevent fugitives going to the rear." [Illustration: THOMAS C. DEVIN] The rule about moving toward the sound of battle is succinctly stated by General Merritt in his letter and does not admit of controversy. But I may in all fairness call attention to the conditions that existed at the time when it was asserted that Colonel Lowell took the responsibility to move his brigade from the picket line to the rear, if not to the left, and order the First brigade to follow. The division line of battle of which the three brigades had been a part had been broken up. There was no division line of battle. The First brigade had been ordered to reinforce its picket line. The Reserve brigade which on the night before received the order to make a reconnoissance in the morning was held to support the First brigade and had "advanced as far as the picket line." Devin's brigade had been ordered to the valley pike to hold it and "deploy men to prevent fugitives going to the rear." May it not then be said with truth that he was "distant and detached" and "without orders that contemplate the contingency?" The enemy that attacked "feebly" had disappeared. There was in sight no picket line either of the enemy's or of our own. There was visible no line of skirmishers or of battle. The "fighting on the left of our army as shown by the artillery fire" was not only "heavy," as described by General Merritt, but indicated clearly by the sound that the army was falling back. Lowell's movement was under the circumstances entirely justifiable. That he moved from the picket line to the rear voluntarily, and that he took the responsibility to order the Michigan brigade to follow, is as certain as that when the moon passes between the earth and the sun it causes an eclipse. The march from the picket line to the pike was continuous. There was no halting for formations of any kind. It is quite possible, however, that the staff officer who conveyed the order from General Merritt found Lowell in motion in the right direction and delivered the order to him to cover the movement of both brigades. I do not remember receiving any order except the one from Lowell until after reaching the pike. One more point and this subject, which has been given more space perhaps than it ought to, will be left to the reader. General Merritt's report takes up the matter of arranging the division line of battle with the formation at "about ten o'clock," with the Second brigade on the right, next to the pike, the Reserve brigade in the center, and the First brigade on the left. That was some time after the arrival of the two brigades. The first position taken by the First brigade was next the pike in rear of Lowell and Devin. Martin's battery was posted originally close to the pike and it was while there that my horse was shot. I still believe that it was not much after nine o'clock when we first formed on the left of Getty's division. The subsequent rearrangement of the line is referred to in the text and was exactly as described in General Merritt's report. The following table of killed and wounded in the Michigan cavalry brigade in the Shenandoah Valley campaign is compiled from the official records in the office of the adjutant general of Michigan: First Fifth Sixth Seventh Michigan Michigan Michigan Michigan Total Winchester 16 8 7 8 39 Shepherdstown 1 5 1 0 7 Middletown 1 -- -- -- 1 Smithfield 2 4 2 3 11 On Picket 1 -- -- -- 1 Cedar Creek 3 5 6 2 16 By Mosby's Men -- 18 -- -- 18 Front Royal -- 2 -- 2 4 Newtown -- 4 -- -- 4 Tom's Brook -- -- 1 1 2 Berryville -- -- -- 1 1 ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- Total 24 46 17 17 104 Recapitulation--Killed and died of wounds, Shenandoah Valley: First Michigan 24 Fifth Michigan 46 Sixth Michigan 17 Seventh Michigan 17 ---- Total 104 The following table of killed and wounded in the First cavalry division in the battle of Cedar Creek is taken from the official war records:[42] First Brigade-- Officers and men killed 10 Officers and men wounded 43 ---- Officers and men killed and wounded 53 Second Brigade-- Officers and men killed 3 Officers and men wounded 16 ---- Officers and men killed and wounded 19 Reserve Brigade-- Officers and men killed 9 Officers and men wounded 27 ---- Officers and men killed and wounded 36 Total killed and wounded, First Brigade 53 Total killed and wounded Second and Reserve Brigades 55 It is thus seen that the First brigade lost in killed and wounded within two of as many as both the other brigades--almost fifty per cent of the entire losses of the division. Custer's division of two brigades lost 2 killed and 24 wounded. Powell's division of two brigades lost 1 killed, 8 wounded. In other words, while the entire of the Second and Third divisions--four brigades--lost but 35 killed and wounded, the Michigan brigade alone lost 53 in this battle. Thirty-four per cent of the entire losses killed and wounded in the cavalry corps were in this one brigade.[43] These figures give point to the statement of General Merritt in a communication to the adjutant general of the First cavalry division, dated November 4, 1864, that the list of killed and wounded in a battle is presumptive evidence of the degree and kind of service performed.[44] General Merritt also gives the Michigan brigade credit for "overwhelming a battery, and its supports," in other words capturing the battery. CHAPTER XXIII A MYSTERIOUS WITNESS In the latter part of the winter of 1864-65 I was detailed as president of a military commission, called to meet in Winchester to try a man charged with being a spy, a guerrilla, a dealer in contraband goods, and a bad and dangerous man. The specifications recited that the accused had been a member of the notorious Harry Gilmor's band of partisans; that he had been caught wearing citizen's clothes inside the union lines; and that he was in the habit of conveying quinine and other medical supplies into the confederacy. He was a mild mannered, inoffensive appearing person who had been an employe of the Baltimore and Ohio railroad company. He appeared under guard, before the commission, at its daily sessions, accompanied by his counsel, a leading attorney of Winchester, whose learning and ability were not less pronounced than was the quality of his whisky, samples of which he, at irregular intervals, brought in for the solace, if not for the seduction of the court. It was no more like the article commonly called whisky than Mumm's extra dry is like the pink lemonade of circus time. It had an oily appearance, an aromatic flavor, and the lawyer averred that there was not a headache in a barrel of it, though he was the only one who ever had an opportunity to test the truth of the statement and there is no doubt that he knew. The prisoner exhibited a surprising degree of sang froid considering the grave crimes with which he was charged, the penalty of conviction for any one of which was death. This attitude of the accused puzzled the commission not a little, for he acted like either a very hardened criminal, or a man who was both conscious of innocence and confident of acquittal, and he did not look like "a very bad man." The case was on trial when the army moved. General Sheridan seemed to lay much stress on the matter for he refused the request of the president of the commission to be relieved in order to rejoin his regiment. A personal letter from General Merritt to General Forsythe, chief-of-staff, making the same request was negatived and an order issued directing the commission to remain in session until that particular case was disposed of and providing that such members as should then desire it, be relieved and their places filled by others. During the progress of the trial the commission was informed that a very important witness had been detained under guard, by order of General Sheridan, in order that his testimony might be taken. On the witness's first appearance it was noticed that the guard detail was very careful to give him no opportunity to escape. He proved to be a person of most noticeable appearance. Rather above than under six feet, well-built, straight, athletic, with coal-black hair worn rather long, a keen, restless black eye, prominent features, well-dressed, and with a confident, devil-may-care bearing, he was altogether, a most striking figure. His name was Lemoss; his testimony to the point and unequivocal. He acknowledged having been a guerrilla, himself. He had, he said, been a member of Gilmor's band and of other equally notorious commands. He had deserted and tendered his services as a scout and they had been accepted by General Sheridan. He swore that he knew the prisoner; had seen him serving with Gilmor; and knew that he had been engaged in the practices charged. After this witness had given his testimony the court saw no more of him, but he left a very bad impression on the minds of the members and there was not one of them who did not feel, and give voice to the suspicion that there was something mysterious about him which was not disclosed at the trial. When news of the assassination of the president came to Winchester, all wondered if he did not have something to do with it and the name "Lemoss" was instantly on the lips of every one of us. He had, in the meantime disappeared. When I met General Sheridan in Petersburg, after the surrender, and he inquired what disposition had been made of that case I told him of the distrust of the principal witness and that it was the unanimous opinion of the commission that the witness was a much more dangerous man than the prisoner. The general smiled and remarked, rather significantly I thought, that he kept Early's spies at his headquarters all winter, letting them suppose that they were deceiving him, and that before the army moved he had sent them off on false scents. The inference I drew from the conversation was that Lemoss was one of those spies and that the trial was a blind for the purpose of keeping him where he could do no harm, without letting him know that he was under suspicion. Nothing more was said about the matter, and I presume that, at the time, General Sheridan did not know what had become of Lemoss. Soon after the grand review, my regiment was ordered to the west and, while en route to Leavenworth, Kansas, I stopped over night in St. Louis. When reading the morning paper at the breakfast table, I came upon an item which was dated in some New England city, Hartford or New Haven, I think, stating that a man by the name of Lemoss, who had been a scout at Sheridan's headquarters in the Shenandoah valley, had been arrested by the police in the city in question and papers found on his person tending to show that he had been in some way implicated in the plot to assassinate President Lincoln. This recalled to my mind the surmises in Winchester on the day of the event and also the hint thrown out by General Sheridan in reply to my question in Petersburg. I cut the slip out, intending to keep it, but before my return to the states a long time afterwards, had both lost it and temporarily forgotten the circumstance. It was not until many years had elapsed and I began to think of putting my recollections of the war into form for preservation, that all these things came back to my mind. I have often told the story to comrades at regimental or army reunions. The conjectures of the members of the military commission; the suggestion of General Sheridan that Lemoss was a confederate spy; and the newspaper clipping in St. Louis; all seemed so coincident as to form a pretty conclusive chain of evidence connecting the Winchester witness with the conspiracy. I never learned what was done with him after the arrest in New England. Recently, when consulting Sheridan's memoirs to verify my own remembrance of the dates of certain events in the Shenandoah campaign, what was my surprise to find that the purport of a passage bearing directly upon this subject had entirely escaped my attention on the occasion of a first reading soon after the book appeared. On page 108, volume 2, appears the following: "A man named Lomas, who claimed to be a Marylander, offered me his services as a spy, and coming highly recommended from Mr. Stanton, who had made use of him in that capacity, I employed him. He made many pretensions, was more than ordinarily intelligent, but my confidence in him was by no means unlimited. I often found what he reported corroborated by Young's men, but generally, there were discrepancies in his tales which led me to suspect that he was employed by the enemy as well as by me. I felt however, that with good watching, he could do me very little harm and, if my suspicions were incorrect, he might be very useful, so I held on to him. "Early in February Lomas was very solicitous for me to employ a man, who, he said, had been with Mosby, but on account of some quarrel had abandoned that leader. Thinking that with two of them I might destroy the railroad bridge east of Lynchburg, I concluded after the Mosby man had been brought to my headquarters, by Lomas about 12 o'clock one night, to give him employment at the same time informing Colonel Young that I suspected their fidelity and that he must test it by shadowing their every movement. When Lomas's companion entered my room he was completely disguised but on discarding the various contrivances by which his identity was concealed he proved to be a rather slender, dark-complexioned, handsome young man, of easy address and captivating manners. He gave his name as "Renfrew," answered all questions satisfactorily, and went into details about Mosby and his men which showed an intimacy with them at some time. I explained the work I had laid out for them, * * * * * They assented and it was arranged that they should start the following night. Meantime Young had selected his men to shadow them and, two days later, they reported my spies as being concealed in Strasburg without making the slightest effort to continue on their mission. On the 16th of February, they returned and reported their failure, telling so many lies as to remove all doubt as to their double-dealing. Unquestionably, they were spies, but it struck me that through them I might deceive Early as to the time of opening the spring campaign. I therefore, retained the men without even a suggestion of my knowledge of their true character. Young, meantime, kept close watch over all their doings." General Sheridan then, after giving a summary of the scattered locations of the various portions of Early's army continues as follows: "It was my aim to get well on the road before Early could collect these scattered forces and as the officers had been in the habit of amusing themselves during the winter by fox-hunting, I decided to use the hunt as an expedient for stealing a march on the enemy and had it given out that a grand fox-chase would take place on the 29th of February. Knowing that Lomas and Renfrew would spread the announcement south they were permitted to see several red foxes as well as a pack of hounds which had been secured for the spurt and were then started on a second expedition to burn the bridges. Of course, they were shadowed, and two days later were arrested in Newtown. On the way north, they escaped from their guards when passing through Baltimore, and I never heard of them again, though I learned that, after the assassination of Mr. Lincoln, Secretary Stanton strongly suspected his friend Lomas of being associated with the conspirators and it then occurred to me that the good-looking Renfrew may have been Wilkes Booth, for he certainly bore a strong resemblance to Booth's pictures." There is no doubt that "Lemoss," the witness, and the "Lomas" of General Sheridan's narrative, were one and the same person. When he wrote the account from which the foregoing is an extract, General Sheridan had, probably, forgotten about leaving the spies in Winchester under guard where they remained until he was well on his way towards Appomattox. After giving his testimony, Lomas and Renfrew were sent north under guard by General Hancock, Sheridan's successor as commander of the Middle Military Division, and making their escape as explained in Sheridan's narrative, Wilkes Booth, alias Renfrew, was able to carry out his part of the plot. It is, also, quite probable that Lomas's part in the conspiracy was to assassinate either General Sheridan or Secretary Stanton, but, that the scheme was interrupted by the detention of the two spies in Winchester coupled with the unexpected opening of the spring campaign. It is likely that the arrest of the two conspirators led to a postponement of the date of the assassination and that the scope of the plot as originally conceived in the fertile brain of Booth, was very much abridged. There was never in my own mind a particle of doubt, from the moment we heard the news of the president's death, that the man Lomas or Lemoss had something to do with it. The fact that he was on terms of intimacy with Secretary Stanton and contrived to be stationed at Sheridan's headquarters, seems to point conclusively to the part he was to play in the tragedy. At that time, Sheridan was considered, perhaps, the most dangerous enemy the confederacy had to fear and his name must have been high up in the list of those marked by the conspirators for assassination. An amusing incident occurred as this trial neared its close. The defense asked to have William Prescott Smith, master of transportation of the Baltimore and Ohio railroad, summoned as a witness. His residence was Baltimore and he was summoned by wire, the telegram bearing the name of General Hancock, commander of the department. Mr. Smith did not want to come to Winchester and urged the commission to go to Baltimore. Failing to secure acquiescence in that proposition, he suggested as a compromise, that the commission meet him half-way by going to Harper's Ferry. This was agreed to and on the appointed day, the commission took passage on a special train consisting of a locomotive and one passenger coach taking along the prisoner and a guard. Harper's Ferry was reached a little after dark and a messenger from Mr. Smith met us with the compliments of that gentleman and a request that we proceed to his private car. The invitation was accepted and the party was received by the railroad magnate with every manifestation of welcome and a courtesy that seemed to be entirely unaffected. It was found that the most generous and thoughtful provision had been made for our comfort. The colored chef prepared a dinner which would have tickled the palate of an epicure, much more those of a quartet of hungry officers directly from the front. There were champagne and cigars in abundance of a quality such as would have been good enough had General Hancock himself been the guest. The host was courtesy itself, an excellent raconteur, a good fellow, and a gentleman. He could not have treated the president and his cabinet with more distinguished consideration that that with which he honored that little party of volunteer officers. Late in the evening his testimony was taken and he gave the prisoner a very good character. We slept in his car and in the morning had a breakfast that suitably supplemented the elegant dinner. Some more choice cigars, and then Mr. Smith's private car was attached to an ingoing train and he departed for Baltimore. At the very last moment before his train started, Mr. Smith said: "Pardon me, gentlemen, but it is too good a joke to keep and I am sure that you will appreciate it now better than you would have done last night. When you wired me to come, you know, General Hancock's name was signed to the telegram. I supposed I was to entertain him and don't mind telling you, frankly, that the dinner was provided with especial reference to his supposed partiality for the good things of life. I don't mean to say I would not have done the same thing for you. I certainly would now that I know you, but, all the same, please say to the general that I expected him and regret much that he was not one of the party so that I might have had the pleasure of entertaining him as well as yourselves. And, by the way, he continued, when I urged you to come to Baltimore it had been arranged that the mayor and a large number of prominent citizens of the city were to meet you at a banquet to have been given at the Eutaw House in honor of General Hancock." The refined courtesy of the gentleman was something that has been rarely surpassed. Mr. Smith was a thoroughbred. CHAPTER XXIV A MEETING WITH MOSBY At the time of the surrender of Lee and the fall of Richmond about the only confederate force in the Shenandoah Valley was Mosby's band. The last of Early's army had been swept away by Sheridan's advance, led by Custer, and for the first time since 1860, that beautiful valley was free from the movements of armed forces confronting each other in hostile array. The bold and dashing partisan was, however, capable of doing much mischief and it was thought best by General Hancock to treat with him and see if he would not consent to a cessation of hostilities and, possibly, take the parole. Accordingly, an agreement was made to meet him at Millwood, a little town a few miles distant from Winchester and near the mountains. General Chapman, a cavalry officer, was selected to conduct the negotiations and with an escort of two regiments left early on the morning of the day designated for the rendezvous agreed upon. Not yet having been relieved from duty there I readily obtained permission to accompany the expedition. I was early in the saddle and joining a party of staff officers, struck across country, arriving at about the same time as the escort which took the main road. The region to which we were going was one of the favorite haunts of Mosby and his men and it produced a queer sensation to thus ride peacefully through a country where for four long years, the life or liberty of the union soldier caught outside the lines had been worth not a rush, unless backed by force enough to hold its own against an enemy. There never had been a time since our advent into this land of the philistines (a land literally flowing with milk and honey) when we could go to Millwood without a fight, and here we were going without molestation, right into the lair of the most redoubtable of all the partisan leaders. But Mosby's word was law in that section. His fiat had gone forth that there was to be a truce, and no union men were to be molested until it should be declared off. There was, therefore, no one to molest or make us afraid. No picket challenged. Not a scout or vidette was seen. The country might have been deserted, for all the indications of life that could be heard or seen. The environment seemed funereal and the ride could hardly be described as a cheerful one. Each one was busy with his own thoughts. All wondered if the end had really come, or was it yet afar off? Lee had surrendered but Johnson had not. Would he? The chief interest, for the time being, however, centered in the coming interview with Mosby, under a flag of truce. If he could be prevailed upon to take the parole there would not be an armed confederate in that part of Virginia. It had been expected that he would be there first but he was not and his arrival was eagerly awaited. The escort was massed near a large farm house, the owner of which was very hospitable and had arranged to give the two commands a dinner. The officers were soon dispersed in easy attitudes about the porches and lawn or under the shade of friendly trees, smoking and chatting about the interesting situation. Eager glances were cast in the direction from which our old foe was expected to come, and there was some anxiety lest he should fail to meet the appointment after all. But, at length, when the forenoon was pretty well spent, the sound of a bugle was heard. All sprang to their feet. In a moment, the head of a column of mounted men emerged from a woody screen on the high ground, toward the east, as though coming straight out of the mountain, and presently, the whole body of gray troopers came into view. It was a gallant sight, a thrilling scene, for all the world like a picture from one of Walter Scott's novels; and to the imagination, seemed a vision of William Wallace or of Rob Roy. The place itself was a picturesque one--a little valley nestling beneath the foot-hills at the base of the mountains whose tops towered to the sky. Hills and wooded terraces surrounded it, shutting it in on all sides, obstructing the view and leaving the details of the adjacent landscape to the imagination. Mosby evidently had arranged his arrival with a view to theatric effect--though it was no mimic stage on which he was acting--for it was to the sound of the bugle's note that he burst into view and, like a highland chief coming to a lowland council, rode proudly at the head of his men. Finely uniformed and mounted on a thorough bred sorrel mare, whose feet spurned the ground, he pranced into our presence. Next came about sixty of his men, including most of the officers, all, like himself, dressed in their best and superbly mounted. It was a goodly sight to see. General Chapman advanced to meet the commander as he dismounted and the two officers shook hands cordially. There were then introductions all around and in a few moments, the blue and the gray were intermingling on the most friendly terms. It was difficult to believe that we were in the presence of the most daring and audacious partisan leader, at the same time that he was one of the most intrepid and successful cavalry officers in the confederate service. He was wary, untiring, vigilant, bold, and no federal trooper ever went on picket without the feeling that this man might be close at hand watching to take advantage of any moment of unwariness. He had been known in broad daylight, to dash right into federal camps, where he was outnumbered a hundred to one, and then make his escape through the fleetness of his horses and his knowledge of the by-roads. On more than one occasion, he had charged through a union column, disappearing on one flank as quickly as he had appeared on the other. His men, in union garb, were often in our camps mingling unsuspected with our men or riding by their side when on the march. We were prepared to see a large, fierce-looking dragoon but, instead, beheld a small, mild-mannered man not at all like the ideal. But, though small, he was wiry, active, restless and full of fire. "How much do you weigh, colonel?" I asked as I shook his hand and looked inquiringly at his rather slender figure. "One hundred and twenty-eight pounds," said he. "Well, judging from your fighting reputation, I looked for a two hundred pounder, at least," I replied. His spare form was set off by a prominent nose, a keen eye and a sandy beard. There was nothing ferocious in his appearance but when in the saddle he was not a man whom one would care to meet single-handed. There was that about him which gave evidence of alertness and courage of the highest order. It was astonishing to see officers of Mosby's command walk up to union officers, salute and accost them by name. "Where did I meet you?" would be the reply. "There was no introduction. I met you in your camp, though you were not aware of it at the time." Major Richards, a swarthy-looking soldier, remarked to me that he was once a prisoner of the Fifth and Sixth Michigan cavalry. He was captured near Aldie, in the spring of 1863, and made his escape when the Michigan regiments were on the march back to Fairfax Court House, in the night, when his guards were not noticing, by falling out of the column and boldly ordering his captors to "close up" as they were coming out of a narrow place in the road when the column of fours had to break by twos. In the darkness and confusion he was mistaken for one of our own officers. After he had seen the column all "closed up" he rode the other way. After awhile the farmer called us in to dinner and the blue and the gray were arranged around the table, in alternate seats. I sat between two members of the celebrated Smith family. One of them, R. Chilton Smith, was a relative of General Lee, or of his chief-of-staff, a young man of very refined manners, highly educated and well bred. He sent a package and a message by me to a friend in Winchester, a commission that was faithfully executed. The other was the son of Governor, better known as "Extra Billy" Smith, of Virginia; a short, sturdy youth, full of life and animation and venom. "Mosby would be a blanked fool to take the parole," said he, spitefully. "I will not, if he does." "But Lee has surrendered. The jig is up. Why try to prolong the war and cause further useless bloodshed?" "I will never give up so long as there is a man in arms against your yankee government," he replied. "But what can you do? Richmond is ours." "I will go and join 'Joe' Johnston." "It is a question of but a few days, at most, when Sherman will bag him." "Then I will go west of the Mississippi, where Kirby Smith still holds the fort." "Grant, Sherman, Sheridan and Thomas will make short work of Kirby Smith." "Then, if worst comes to worst," he hotly retorted, "I will go to Mexico and join Maximilian. I will never submit to yankee rule; never." I greatly enjoyed the young man's fervor and loyalty to his "cause" and, in spite of his bitterness, we took quite a liking to each other and, on parting, he was profuse in his expressions of regard and urged me cordially not to forget him should fortune take me his way again. A day or two later, I was ordered to Petersburg, and soon thereafter, was in Richmond, Johnston having, in the meantime, surrendered. In the evening of the day of my arrival, after having visited the points of interest, Libby prison, the burnt district, the state house, etc., I was in the office of the Spotswood hotel where were numbers of federal and confederate soldiers chatting pleasantly together, when I was saluted with a hearty: "Hello; how are you, colonel!" and, on looking around, was surprised as well as pleased to see my young friend of the Millwood conference. I was mighty glad to meet him again and told him so, while he seemed to reciprocate the feeling. There was a cordial shaking of hands and after the first friendly greetings had been exchanged I said: "But what does this mean? How about Mexico and Maximilian? Where is Mosby? What has been going on in the valley? Tell me all about it." "Mexico be blanked" said he. "Mosby has taken the parole and so have I. The war is over and I am glad of it. I own up. I am subjugated." The next day I met him again. "I would be only too glad to invite you to our home and show you a little hospitality," said he, "but your military governor has taken possession of our house, father has run away, and mother is around among the neighbors." I assured him of my appreciation of both his good will and of the situation and begged him to be at ease on my account. He very politely accompanied me in a walk around the city and did all he could to make my stay agreeable. I never saw him afterwards. When in Yorktown in 1881, I made inquiry of General Fitzhugh Lee about young Smith and learned that he was dead. I hope that he rests in peace, for although a "rebel" and a "guerrilla," as we called them in those days, he was a whole-hearted, generous, and courageous foe who, though but a boy in years, was ready to fight for the cause he believed in and, in true chivalrous spirit, grasp the hand of his former adversary in genuine kindness and good-fellowship. One other incident of the Millwood interview is perhaps worth narrating. A bright eyed young scamp of Mosby's command mounted the sorrel mare ridden by his chief, and flourishing a roll of bills which they had probably confiscated on some raid into yankee territory, rode back and forth in front of the lawn, crying out: "Here are two hundred dollars in greenbacks which say that this little, lean, sorrel mare of Colonel Mosby's, can outrun any horse in the yankee cavalry." The bet was not taken. THE END ROLL OF HONOR LIST OF KILLED IN ACTION Following is a list of those killed in action, or who died of wounds received in action in the four regiments which constituted the Michigan cavalry brigade, commanded by General George Armstrong Custer, in the civil war of 1861-65. It constitutes a veritable roll of honor: FIRST MICHIGAN CAVALRY NAME AND POSITION COMPANY BATTLE DATE OF DEATH Adams, William, Private H Cold Harbor June 1 1864 Alcott, Richard, Private L Cedar Mountain August 9 1862 Altenburg, William, Corporal B Bull Run August 30 1862 Andrus, John, Private K Winchester September 19 1864 Anson, Elisha B., Sergeant E Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Babcock, Edwin H., Private K Gettysburg July 3 1863 Bachman, Robert, Sergeant G Appomattox April 9 1865 Banker, Edward S., Private C Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Barney, Lorenzo J., Private A Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Bartlett, Orrin M., Lieutenant H Five Forks April 1 1865 Bateman, Cyrus A., Corporal M Shenandoah Valley August 11 1864 Battison, William, Sergeant H Piedmont April 17 1862 Bell, Charles S., Private E Todd's Tavern April 7 1864 Beloir, Michael, Sergeant B Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Bentley, Augustus W., Corporal I Gettysburg July 3 1864 Brown, Dexter, Corporal E Yellow Tavern June 11 1864 Blount, Lemuel K., Private A Yellow Tavern June 11 1864 Bovee, John S., Sergeant F Gettysburg July 3 1864 Brevoort, William M., Captain K Cold Harbor June 1 1864 Brewer, Charles E., Private A Bull Run August 30 1862 Brodhead, Thornton F., Colonel Bull Run August 30 1862 Bucklin, Lyman D., Private C Unknown May 13 1863 Buhl, Augustus F., Captain C Shepherdstown August 25 1864 Butler, Abner K., Private F Middletown April 4 1862 Byscheck, John, Private C Dinwiddie Courthouse March 30 1865 Campeau, Eli, Private K Unknown Died July 3 1865 Carr, Alpheus W., Captain I Trevilian Station June 12 1864 Chatfield, William H., Private B Bull Run August 30 1862 Chilson, Alphonso W., Sergeant I Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Chittenden, Adelbert, Private G Gettysburg July 3 1863 Cicotte, David, jr., Private C Winchester February 23 1865 Clarke, John R., Private K Winchester September 19 1864 Cole, Benjamin, Chief Bugler Winchester September 19 1864 Colles, David W., Private I Unknown May 26 1865 Crawford, Charles C., Private M Todd's Tavern May 7 1864 Crosby, Henry, Private E Unknown Died June 1 1864 Cummings, George W., Private A Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Cunningham, Barnabas, Private A Smithfield August 29 1864 Davis, Joseph, Private I Unknown Died June 20 1864 Davison, Joseph, Private G Unknown Died April 7 1865 Dibble, Darius, Private L Cedar Mountain August 9 1862 Dorsay, John, Private B Appomattox April 9 1865 Durkee, Robert, Private K Bull Run August 30 1862 Eagle, Ellwood, Private H Cold Harbor June 1 1864 Eastman, Oscar A, Sergeant I Winchester September 19 1864 Eaton, William O, Private H Accident October 28 1862 Edgerton, George W, Private L Beaver Dam May 9 1864 Elliott, William R, Captain C Fairfield Gap July 4 1863 Ellis, Henry, Private L Cedar Mountain August 9 1862 Ensign, Leroy, Private M Winchester May 4 1862 Fisher, Peter, Private E Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Follett, Irving B, Sergeant L Winchester September 19 1864 Foss, Andrew, Private I On Picket December 14 1864 Frost, Joel, Corporal L Cedar Mountain August 9 1862 Falcher, John, Private K Gettysburg July 3 1863 Gillett, George M, Corporal B Hagarstown July 1863 Gordon, Alexander, Corporal H Winchester September 19 1864 Graves, Benjamin F, Private A Cold Harbor June 1 1864 Grimes, Micah, Private M Unknown Died September 2 1864 Handy, Lucius F, Private F Todd's Tavern May 7 1864 Hart, Lorenzo, Corporal L Dinwiddie Courthouse March 30 1865 Hicks, Charles Eugene, Private F Fort Scott January 12 1863 Hobbs, David, Private B Bull Run August 30 1862 Hoffman, Peter, Corporal B Trevilian Station June 12 1864 Hough, Albert or Robert, Private H Unknown Died April 8 1865 Hovey, Henry, Private A Unknown Died June 18 1864 Hughes, Patrick H., Corporal E Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Hutton, Thomas, Private C Snicker's Ferry March 26 1862 Hymen, Ralph, Private I Bull Run August 30 1862 Iott, Harrison, Private I Harper's Ferry August 31 1864 Irwin, H. II., Private F Unknown Died September 5 1864 Irwin, Stephen, H., Sergeant I Old Church May 30 1864 Jackson, Albert T., Captain F Winchester September 19 1864 Jackson, William, Private K Rapidan River September 14 1863 Jacob, Henry, Private A Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Jacobs, George A., Private I Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Jayne, William H., Sergeant G Unknown Died September 23 1863 Kidder, Hiram O., Private A Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Keferly (Keferle) Frank, Private H Bull Run August 30 1862 Kilbride (Kilride) William, Private H Piedmont April 17 1862 Kling, Henry, Private G Gettysburg July 3 1863 Kroop, Albert, Private H Unknown Died April 8 1865 Lambert, Jacob, Private K Unknown Died June 16 1864 Lewis, Lewis J., (Lucius) Private K Unknown Died June 15 1864 Long (Lozo) Henry, Private I Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Longdo, Jeremiah, Private B Unknown Died June 1864 Lyon, James B., Sergeant L Unknown Died June 4 1864 McDermott, James, Corporal A Bull Run August 29 1862 McElheny, James S., Captain G Fairfield Gap July 4 1863 Manuel, Peter, Private K Unknown Died July 29 1864 Marshner, Frank A., Private A Winchester September 19 1864 Martin, David, Private C Fairfield Gap July 4 1863 Mathews, Samuel M., Private A Indians August 13 1865 Merriam, John G., Private K Bull Run August 30 1862 Michaels, William H., Private C Trevilian Station June 12 1864 Miller, John, Private E Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Moran, Thomas, Private A Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Morse, Sidney G., First Sergeant M Bull Run August 30 1862 Moss, Daniel B., Sergeant A Dinwiddie Courthouse March 30 1865 Murray, Elias M., Private M Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Nesbit, James, Private L Trevilian Station June 12 1864 Orth, Adam, Private A Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Owen, Perry, Private F Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Phelps, Ralph Z., Battalion Adjutant Accident April 1 1862 Pierce, Henry C., Sergeant B Bull Run August 30 1862 Piper, Leo, Sergeant C Five Forks April 1 1865 Pixley, John, Private K Gettysburg July 3 1863 Power (Tower) Mortimer F., Private C Trevilian Station June 12 1864 Pulver, Andrew J., Lieutenant A Trevilian Station June 12 1864 Price, William H., Private L Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Ransom, William W., Sergeant K Unknown Died August 3 1864 Reed, Charles D., Private K Smithfield August 29 1864 Rennan, Frederick, Private E Cold Harbor June 1 1864 Reynolds, Samuel W., Private F Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Rhoades, Willard, Q. M. Sergeant B Centerville November 6 1863 Robertson, William, Sergeant I Wilderness May 6 1864 Robins, Charles H., Private A Winchester September 19 1864 Robinson, George W., Lieutenant A Winchester September 19 1864 Rose, William L., Com. Sergeant G Unknown Died December 25 1864 Rush, Thomas, Private K Unknown Died July 13 1864 Ryder, Alfred G., Corporal H Gettysburg July 3 1863 Saulsbury, Charles, Private K Bull Run August 30 1862 Sawyer, Henry O., Private I Gettysburg July 3 1863 Schintzler, Leonard, Private H Old Church May 30 1864 Shanahan, Thomas, Corporal H Fountaindale July 4 1863 Shaughnessy, William, Private B Bull Run August 30 1862 Shier, Charles, jr., Captain K Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Sitts, Charles, Private L Fairfield Gap July 4 1863 Smith, Marcus, Private I Accident May 20 1864 Snyder, Charles F., Captain F Hagarstown July 6 1863 Stanley, Henry C., Private F Five Forks April 1 1865 Stewart, William, Private C Winchester September 19 1864 Sterling, Richard, Hospital Steward Unknown Died November 6 1864 Teebles, William H., Private C Brentsville June 7 1863 Thomas, Abel, Private H Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Thomas, Benjamin, Private B Bull Run August 30 1862 Thomas, Cassius M., Private M Wilderness May 6 1864 Thomas, Samuel H., Private C Gettysburg July 3 1863 Truesdale, Lewis B., Sergeant K Winchester September 19 1864 Vance, George, Private K Bull Run August 30 1862 Vandecar, Thomas H., Private L Unknown Died May 26 1865 Vashaw, John, Private K Bull Run August 30 1862 Warren, Robert S., Lieutenant C Trevilian Station June 12 1864 Waterman, W. E., First Sergeant H Unknown Died June 20 1864 Watson, Colbert R., Sergeant L Falling Waters July 14 1863 Welch, Jay Michael, Private A Winchester August 11 1864 Welton, Ransom W., Private E Gettysburg July 3 1863 Wescott, James M., Private K Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Whitney, Ambrose, Private H By Accident March 7 1862 Whitney, George C., Lieutenant F Five Forks April 1 1865 Wideroder, John C., Private F Trevilian Station June 12 1864 Wilcox, Alonzo W., Sergeant H Brentsville June 7 1863 Wilcox, Philip, jr., Private L Gettysburg July 3 1863 Williams, Isaac, Private K Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Winfield, George D., Corporal D Salem April 1 1862 Warwick, William, Private K Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Wieg, Orren, Private L Falling Waters July 14 1863 FIFTH MICHIGAN CAVALRY Ackerman, Hiram, Corporal A Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Allen, Nelson A., Private D Gettysburg July 3 1863 Allison, George S., Private B Winchester September 19 1864 Alverson, Thomas J., Private G Winchester September 19 1864 Anderson, Alfred C., Private D Boonesborough July 8 1863 Atherholt, Peter, Private F Winchester September 19 1864 Axtell, Benjamin F., Captain F Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Ball, William, Private M Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Barbour, Frank A., Sergeant A Gettysburg July 3 1863 Barse, Horace S., Corporal E Gettysburg July 3 1863 Beebe, Henry C., Corporal A Morton's Ford November 27 1863 Bemis, Andrew J., Private K Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Benning, John, Private F Unknown Died August 7 1865 Bishop, Abraham, Private B Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Bliss, Henry G., Private I Raccoon Ford September 16 1863 Brennan, William, Sergeant B Monterey Gap July 4 1863 Brink, Simeon L., Private B Buckland Mills October 19 1863 Brown, Clifton E., Private A Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Brown, William, Private H Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Buell, John, Private K Gettysburg July 3 1864 Burdick, Reuben, Private I Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Burnett, Henry, Corporal D Shepherdstown August 29 1864 Burson, Joseph, Private L Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Busley, Levi, Private M Richmond March 1 1864 Cathcart, Albert J., Private B Unknown Died July 5 1864 Chapman, Edward, Private E Buckland Mills October 19 1863 Chart (Chant), Private G Salem October 23 1864 Clark, Frederick, Private F Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Clark, Henry, Private M Dinwiddie Courthouse April 4 1865 Clyde, Charles B., Private M Berryville by Guerrillas August 19 1864 Colf, Levinas, Private K Wilderness May 6 1864 Comte, Victor E., Wagoner C Unknown Died July 11 1864 Connor, James, Private A Morton's Ford November 27 1863 Corcelins, Frederick, Private K Gettysburg July 3 1863 Corser, Augustus F., Private C Stevensburg October 30 1863 Coston, Peter, Private M Berryville by Guerrillas August 19 1864 Craft, Charles, Private M Berryville by Guerrillas August 19 1864 Day, Alpheus G., Corporal E Berryville by Guerrillas August 19 1864 Dean, Henry J., Private D Yellow Tavern May 12 1864 Decker, George R., Private K Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Dell, Martin V., Private H Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Derwin, Lewis, Private C Winchester September 19 1864 Dockham, Reuben K., Sergeant C Unknown Died June 18 1864 Duffey, James, Corporal F Falmouth August 4 1863 Eggleston, Andrew J., Sergeant K Unknown Died July 1 1864 Essler, Samuel K., Private C Berryville by Guerrillas August 19 1864 Evans, Andrew R., Private A Gettysburg July 3 1863 Felt, John, Private H Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Ferry, Noah H., Major Gettysburg July 3 1863 Fox, Josiah, Sergeant M Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Friday, Adolph, Private F Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Gale, Henry D., Corporal C Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Garvelink, Herman, Corporal I Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Gibbs, Levi, Private G Gettysburg July 3 1863 Gillett, William H., Corporal K Wilderness May 6 1864 Granger, Edward G., Lieutenant C Front Royal August 16 1864 Gudith, John D., Corporal D Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Hammond, Smith (Noble S.) Sergeant G Brandy Station October 11 1863 Hanly, Richard, Private E Middletown August 15 1864 Harmon, Allen M., Lieutenant B By Accident April 20 1863 Henry, Alfred A., Private C Berryville by Guerrillas August 19 1864 Hichler, George, Private E Gettysburg July 3 1863 Hicks, George H., Corporal I Smithfield August 29 1864 Higgins, Charles W., Private D Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Hill, Philip H., Corporal E Gettysburg July 3 1863 Hirner, Louis, Private I Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Hobbs, Levant, Sergeant C Unknown Died June 6 1864 Hodge, Milton, Private K Brandy Station October 11 1863 Huff, John A., Private E Cold Harbor June 1 1864 Jackson, Andrew T., Private A Brandy Station October 11 1863 James, Aaron B., Sergeant H Newtown November 12 1864 Johnson, Julius C., Private D Newtown November 12 1864 Kennedy, Philip, Private H Front Royal August 16 1864 Kennicut, James C., Private I Berryville by Guerrillas August 19 1864 Kent, Francis P., Private G Gettysburg July 3 1863 Lewis, Eaton, Private M Berryville by Guerrillas August 19 1864 Little, John M., Private M Brandy Station October 11 1863 Lusk, John F., Sergeant K Winchester October 19 1864 Lutz, John G., Private C Berryville by Guerrillas August 19 1864 McChusen, J. B., Private G Buckland Mills October 19 1863 McCormick, William J., Private D Dinwiddie Courthouse April 1 1865 McCrary, Calvin, Private M Haw's Shop May 28 1864 McGuire, John, Private F Appomattox April 8 1865 McIntyre, John D., Private C Brandy Station October 12 1863 Maguire, Christopher, Private I Yellow Tavern May 12 1864 Mann, Harvey W., Corporal I Shepherdstown August 25 1864 Marshall, Norton C., Sergeant I Hanovertown (?) May 27 1864 Mather, Zelotes H., Sergeant M Boonesborough July 8 1863 Meyer, George W., Private M Luray September 24 1864 Miller, Daniel F., Sergeant L Unknown Died June 14 1864 Mills, James F., Private M Richmond March 1 1864 Morgan, Isaac C., Private E Newtown November 12 1864 North, William O., Captain F Winchester September 19 1864 Notting, John, Private I Gettysburg July 3 1863 O'Brien, Anthony, Private A Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 O'Brien, John, Private A By Guerrillas December 2 1864 O'Brien, Matthew, Private A Loudon County November 1864 Olaphant, David, Captain B Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Osborn, Isaac C., Private M Berryville by Guerrillas August 19 1864 Perkins, Isaac, Private A Smithfield August 29 1864 Phelan, Thomas, Sergeant L Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Phillips, Edward H., Sergeant H Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Prouty, Wallace, Private E Newtown November 23 1864 Purdy, Robert, Private H Trevilian Station June 12 1864 Ragan, Alexander, Corporal C Appomattox March 31 1865 Rathburn, Chauncey J., Private D Hanover June 30 1863 Reed, Arthur, Private H Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Roberts, Ephraim, Sergeant E Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Rockwell, Floyd, Private L Ashby's Gap July 21 1863 Rockwell, William H., Corporal I Brandy Station October 11 1863 Roe, Alva, Private B Smithfield August 29 1864 Russell, Major W., Private M Summit Point September 5 1864 Ryan, Michael, Private K Gettysburg July 3 1863 Ryder, Stephen, Sergeant D Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Scates, Charles, Private A Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Shafer, Absalom B., Private C Berryville by Guerrillas August 19 1864 Shattuck, Oscar, Private K Boonesborough July 8 1863 Shrontz, Mortimer J., Sergeant M Smithburg July 5 1863 Sickman, Simon, Private F James City Died November 1 1863 Skeels, Squire E., Sergeant M Berryville by Guerrillas August 19 1864 Skinner, Irwin M., Private G Gettysburg July 3 1863 Smith, Joseph W., Private H Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Smith, Stephen, Private B Brandy Station October 11 1863 Spencer, Lucien H., Private A Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Sprague, Almerin, Private H Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Stewart, Harrison C., Private E Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Taggart, Robert G., Private H Winchester September 19 1864 Taylor, David P., Corporal I By Accident March 27 1863 Tenney, Wayland, Corporal H Winchester September 19 1864 Todd, Andrew, Private F Newtown November 12 1864 Tuller, Calvin, H., Private H Shepherdstown August 25 1864 Van Bree, Garrett, Private L Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Vicory, William L., Private M Smithfield August 29 1864 Warner, Oliver M., Private C Berryville by Guerrillas August 19 1864 Warren, Milan S., Private K Newby's Crossroads July 24 1863 Watkins, Jarius, Corporal M Wilderness May 6 1864 Wire, George, Private M Berryville by Guerrillas August 19 1864 Whirehead, Richard H., Sergeant A Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Withington, Hiram A., Corporal M Berryville by Guerrillas August 19 1864 Wixsom, George, Private I Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Wood, Edwin W., Sergeant A Shepherdstown August 25 1864 Wood, Fletcher, Sergeant A Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Wright, Francis M., Corporal M Unknown Died September 10 1864 Yoek, George, Private E Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 SIXTH MICHIGAN CAVALRY Andrus, James L., Sergeant H Smithfield August 29 1864 Avery, Marvin E., Sergeant E Trevilian Station June 12 1864 Bacon, Truman J., Private F Falling Waters June 14 1863 Barber, George, Private E Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Barnes, Augustus M., Private D On Sultana Explosion April 26 1865 Barnum, Andrew, Private A Winchester September 19 1864 Bass, Nathan B., Private E Woodstock October 8 1864 Batson, Charles, Private B Falling Waters July 14 1863 Beckwith, George, Private C Trevilian Station June 12 1864 Bolza, Charles E., Lieutenant B Falling Waters July 14 1863 Bowman, Lewis, Private B Battle Mountain July 24 1863 Briggs, George, Private F Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Brockway, William F., Corporal H Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Brockway, William M., Private H Rapidan River September 16 1863 Brown, George F., Private I Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Brown, James W., Sergeant E Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Brownell, George H., Private K Gettysburg July 3 1863 Buck, Charles, H., Private D Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Burden, John, Private B Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Burns, James, Private D Trevilian Station June 12 1864 Butler, Edward, Private M Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Campbell, Duncan, Private M Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Campbell, William P., Private C Winchester September 19 1864 Carey, Seth, Corporal E Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Curliss, William, Private G Falling Waters July 14 1863 Chandler, George B., Private D Somerville Ford September 16 1863 Chase, Albert, Teamster L Somerville Ford September 16 1863 Clark, George, Corporal G Boonesborough July 11 1863 Clark, Joshua P., Private F Muddy Branch July 21 1864 Cole, Osmer F., Captain G By Indians August 31 1865 Coon, Alexander H., Private A Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Cox, Charles W., Private C Hunterstown July 2 1863 Cranston, Thomas C., Private C Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Cryderman, John, Private E Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Daily, William H., Sergeant D Hanovertown May 27 1864 Day, John, Private F Washington April 27 1865 Decker, Almeron, Private E Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Dexter, Dallas, Private M Waterford August 8 1863 Dixon, William G., Private C Buckland Mills October 19 1863 Dudley, Jerry, Private, I Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Earl, Benjamin F., Private I Somerville Ford September 16 1863 Edie, Thomas A., Lieutenant A Meadow Bridge May 12 1864 Edwards, William H., Private E Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Eldridge, Marvin J., Private C Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Elmore, Byron A., Private B Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Fairbanks, Forrest, Private D Trevilian Station June 12 1864 Farrell, Thomas, Private M Harper's Ferry August 17 1863 Fay, George W., Private H Trevilian Station June 12 1864 Finney, Solon H., Lieutenant E Beaver Mills April 4 1865 Foe, James, Private C Hatcher's Mills April 4 1865 Foote, Martin W., Private C Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Francisco, James K., Sergeant K Winchester September 19 1864 Galusha, Sears E., Corporal G Falling Waters July 14 1863 Gooch, Horace N., Private B Falling Waters July 14 1863 Griffith, Gilbert D., Private B Falling Waters July 14 1863 Gross, Charles H., Private M Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Hanna, John, Private A Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Harding, Ira C., Private D Somerville Ford September 16 1863 Harrison, Henry M., Private E High Bridge April 6 1865 Hart, Horace, Corporal D Hanover June 30 1863 Hawkins, Oscar J., Private K Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Hayes, William O., Private C By Indians September 13 1865 House, Martin, Private M Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Hughson, Franklin, Private K Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Hulet, James H., Private K On Sultana Explosion April 26 1865 Hutchinson, Miles E., Private E Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Ingersoll, George B. W., Sergeant G Shepherdstown August 28 1864 Inman, Elisha, Private K By Guerrillas December 4 1864 Jewell, Leander, Sergeant A Hanovertown May 27 1864 Jewett, Aaron C., Acting Adjutant Williamsport July 6 1863 Johnson, Warren E., Private I Seneca June 11 1863 Johnson, William W., Private M Unknown Died October 11 1864 Jolly, Toussaint, Private I Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Jones, Levi F., Private D Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Kelsey, Ira, Private K Newby's Crossroads July 24 1863 Kilbourn, Joseph, Private C Winchester September 19 1864 Kirkby, Henry, Private I Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Krauss, Charles C., Private A Hunterstown July 2 1863 Larime, Joseph, Private C Wilderness May 6 1864 Livingston, Albert, Private C Thornton Gap July 24 1863 Livingston, Monroe, Private F Falling Waters July 14 1863 Lorsey, Charles, Private B Falling Waters July 14 1863 Lyons, James, Private F Unknown July 30 1864 McClure, Alexander, Private C Haw's Shop May 28 1864 McDonald, Jeremiah, Private F Falling Waters July 14 1863 McLean, Peter, Corporal G Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Martin, Alonzo R., Private B Falling Waters July 14 1863 Mathers, James, Captain L Winchester August 11 1864 Mayfield, Oakland W., Private B Falling Waters July 14 1863 Morre, Ezra P., Private A Trevilian Station June 12 1864 Mosher, Merritt, Corporal A Wilderness May 6 1864 Morrison, Edwin M., Private K Wilderness May 6 1864 Moulthrop, Albert, Private I Tom's Brook October 9 1864 Neal, Flavius J., Private B Falling Waters July 14 1863 Nellins, John, Private H Winchester November 18 1864 Onweller, William, Private B Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Otis, Albert, Private D Falling Waters July 14 1863 Patten, George T., Sergeant B Falling Waters July 14 1863 Pelton, Francis, Private B Falling Waters July 14 1863 Perkins, William, Private E Beaver Pond Mills April 4 1865 Pixley, Austin, Private A Drowned June 15 1864 Potter, Harvey B., Sergeant B Falling Waters July 14 1863 Powers, Wesley, Private I Seneca June 11 1863 Pray, Stephen, Private C Trevilian Station June 12 1864 Provin, James J., Private M Smithfield February 5 1864 Rappelye, Mortimer, Sergeant C Hanovertown May 27 1864 Rodder, John, Private I Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Richardson, Francis D., Private F Falling Waters July 14 1863 Rider, Carlos, Corporal D Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Rogers, Frederick V., Private G Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Rogers, Remus, Private B Falling Waters July 14 1863 Roney, Charles E., Private C Dinwiddie Courthouse April 9 1865 Rossell, Abram, Private D Falling Waters July 14 1863 Royce, David G., Captain D Falling Waters July 14 1863 Ruckel, George, Private I Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Sliter, Josiah T., Private B Falling Waters July 14 1863 Smith, Jonathan W., Private K Newby's Crossroads July 24 1863 Soule, John W., Corporal D Boonesborough July 8 1863 Stafford, Ananias, Private D Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Stanton, Andrew, Private K Winchester September 19 1864 Stowe, Stephen L., Sergeant B Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Streeter, Seth, Private H Unknown Died August 2 1863 Sweet, Lorenzo D., Private I Falling Waters July 14 1863 Telling, George, Corporal D Boonesborough July 8 1863 Trager, George, Private F Falling Waters July 14 1863 Tucker, Ephraim, Private D Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Tucker, Harvey, Sergeant C Wilderness May 6 1864 Tuttle, Milo, Private M Waterford August 8 1863 Von Helmerich, Frederick, Private I Seneca June 11 1863 Wadeweitz, Frederick, Private I Meadow Bridge May 12 1864 Ward, Erastus E., Private F Five Forks April 1 1865 Weber, Peter A., Captain B Falling Waters July 14 1863 Whalen, David, Private I Seneca June 11 1863 Wheaton, Henry F., Private H Unknown February 2 1865 White, William C., Private D Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Wightman, George H., Sergeant L Unknown Died September 1 1864 Williams, Edward L., Sergeant I Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Williams, John D., Corporal I Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Winters, John, Private H Accident July 28 1864 Yax, John, Corporal C Cold Harbor June 1 1864 Yeoman, Lewis H., Private E Brandy Station October 11 1863 SEVENTH MICHIGAN CAVALRY Adams, Oscar H., Corporal A Trevilian Station June 12 1864 Adams, William H., Private D Gettysburg July 3 1863 Armstrong, Harrison, Private F Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Baker, George, Private B Killed by Indians August 5 1865 Bedel, Harlin, Corporal F Five Forks April 1 1865 Bedel, James T., Private F Gettysburg July 3 1863 Bouchard (Bershall), Eli, Private K Front Royal August 16 1864 Brewer, Melvin, Lieutenant Colonel Winchester September 19 1864 Brickwell, Edward J., Private A Gettysburg July 3 1863 Brownell, Horace R., Private A Gettysburg July 3 1863 Bush, Christian, Corporal D Winchester September 19 1864 Bush, Frederick, Corporal D Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Carver, Lucius, Lieutenant M Front Royal August 16 1864 Chapman, Frank, Private A Richmond March 1 1864 Cheesman, Jeremiah, Private F Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Church, Benjamin, Sergeant C Gettysburg July 3 1863 Churchill, Alfred W., Corporal G Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Clark, Edgar A., Private A By Accident July 5 1865 Clark, Jonas, Private K Richmond March 1 1864 Cochran, Harlan B., Sergeant F Falling Waters July 14 1863 Cochran, William J., Corporal I Front Royal August 16 1864 Campau, Peter, Private D Boonesborough July 1863 Cook, Elliott A., Sergeant C Robinson River October 8 1863 Cooper, Eugene, Private F Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Cornell, Llewellyn C., Private B Gettysburg July 3 1863 Crampton, P. H., Private G Hagarstown July 6 1863 Croman, William, Private E Brandy Station October 11 1863 Dann, Daniel, Private K Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Diehl, Henry, Private C Salem Church June 2 1864 Delamater, Martin R., Corporal G Cold Harbor June 1 1864 Dumphrey, Edwin, Sergeant A Winchester September 19 1864 Edwards, William, Private C Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Filbern, Owen, Private I Buckland Mills October 19 1863 Finch, Robert, Private E Gettysburg July 3 1863 Firman, Josiah B., Corporal H Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Fisher, Mathias, Bugler B Berryville September 4 1864 Fordham, Albert, Corporal D Gettysburg July 3 1863 Fox, William H., Corporal M Winchester September 19 1864 Granger, Henry W., Major Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Guio, Henry, Corporal F Falling Waters July 14 1863 Haines, Henry, Private D Gettysburg July 3 1863 Hall (Hull), William, Private M Buckland Mills October 19 1863 Hamel, Harrison, Private K Winchester September 19 1864 Haskins, James, Sergeant B Duck Pond Mills April 3 1865 Hassart, Andrew, Private B Winchester September 19 1864 Hasty, Robert, Private I Gettysburg July 3 1863 Heinck, John, Saddler A Gettysburg July 3 1863 Hoag, Robert, Private F Gettysburg July 3 1863 Hopkins, Horace, Private E Gettysburg July 3 1863 House, Barnum B., Private E Old Church May 23 1864 Jackson, Orlando D., Private D Gettysburg July 3 1863 Jessup, Charles H., Private F Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Karcher, Jehial, Private D Gettysburg July 3 1863 Keller, Henry H., Private B Todd's Tavern May 7 1864 Kisner, Samuel, Private C By Accident July 18 1863 Koster, Frederick, Private H Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Laird, William J., Sergeant B Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Lake, John W., Private A Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Larrue, Hiram J., Private B By Guerrillas March 28 1864 Long, Edward, Private B Winchester September 19 1864 Lundy, George W., Private H Gettysburg July 3 1863 McClure, Ralph, Private H Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 McComber, William, Private C Cold Harbor June 4 1864 McDonald, John J., Sergeant C Gettysburg July 3 1863 McLaine, Alexander, Private E Marselas May 22 1863 Martin, Francis D., Private H Gettysburg July 3 1863 Matchett, Noel, Private A Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Mead, Joseph L., Lieutenant L Smithfield August 29 1864 Mercer, Thomas, Private F Smithfield August 29 1864 Milbourn, John L., Corporal D Gettysburg July 3 1863 Miller, Jacob L., Private C Unknown Died June 21 1864 Mills, Harry, Private H Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Miner, Charles E., Sergeant F Gettysburg July 3 1863 Moll, Cornelius, Private F White Ford September 22 1863 Motley, Thomas, Private G Gettysburg July 3 1863 Nay, Harmon, Private E Hagarstown July 6 1863 Nichols, William H., Private H Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Nolan, Arthur D., Sergeant I Haw's Shop May 28 1864 O'Brien, William H., Sergeant A Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Olin, Oscar O., Private M Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Page, Truman, Bugler F Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Parks, Allen C., Private A Cedar Creek October 19 1864 Paule, Jacob, Sergeant F Yellow Tavern May 11 1864 Perkins, Myron H., Sergeant B Haw's Shop May 28 1864 Ploof, Dewitt C., Private K Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Pomeroy, David H., Private L Trumble Run June 9 1864 Ralph, Oscar S., Corporal F Falling Waters July 14 1863 Richards, William H., Private H Emmittsburg July 4 1863 Robinson, James B., Teamster E Tom's Brook October 9 1864 Shafer, Charles F., Private A Winchester September 19 1864 Smith, Alonzo, Private C Gettysburg July 3 1863 Smith, Eli, Private K Gettysburg July 3 1863 Smith, Perry W., Private H Hagarstown July 13 1863 Spear, Truman, Private G Gettysburg July 3 1863 Stearns, William A., Sergeant B Cold Harbor June 1 1864 Stephens, Charles, Private K Front Royal August 16 1864 Taber, Winfield S., Sergeant M Culpeper September 13 1863 Thompson, Henry, Private D Smithfield August 29 1864 Treat, Gordon, Private K Front Royal August 16 1864 Vancourse, Henry, Private K Front Royal August 16 1864 Van Duzer, Charles E., Private M Unknown September 1864 Van Ness, George E., Corporal M Gettysburg July 3 1863 Walters, Nelson, Private A Gettysburg July 3 1863 Whittaker, William S., Private B Trevilian Station June 11 1864 Wilcox, Charles, Corporal A Gettysburg July 3 1863 Williams, Squire, Corporal I Haw's Shop May 28 1864 TOTAL NUMBER KILLED IN ACTION First Michigan Cavalry 157 Fifth Michigan Cavalry 144 Sixth Michigan Cavalry 141 Seventh Michigan Cavalry 106 --- Total 548 FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: Quoted from "Michigan in the War."] [Footnote 2: The original roster of the regiment may be found in appendix "A" to this volume.] [Footnote 3: Grand Rapids, Michigan, so named on account of its location in the heart of the valley of Grand river. Also known as the "Furniture City," referring to its chief industry.] [Footnote 4: Robert Williams, a Virginian, grandson of James Williams, of the Virginia line in the Revolution. He married the widow of Stephen A. Douglas.] [Footnote 5: Third Michigan infantry. It served three years, and was then reorganized as the "New Third."] [Footnote 6: Since the above was written I have become satisfied that this man was really taken prisoner and that he died as such in the Confederate prison at Andersonville. His name appears on one of the markers in the national cemetery there.] [Footnote 7: September, 1907.] [Footnote 8: Official Records, Series 1, Vol. XXVII, Part III, page 276.] [Footnote 9: The Michigan cavalry brigade was the outgrowth of the reorganization of the Federal cavalry that followed Lee's invasion of the North and Hooker's consequent movement into Maryland. It consisted originally, as has been shown, of three regiments--the Fifth, Sixth and Seventh. They were all organized in 1862, spent the winter of 1862-63 in camp on Meridian and Capitol Hills, Washington, D. C., and during the spring months of the latter year, were engaged in doing outpost duty in Fairfax County, Va., within the defenses of Washington. They were, therefore, in the language of another, "fresh from pastures green" when General Hooker, en route to Maryland in June, 1863, picked them up in passing and made them a part of that grand Army of the Potomac which, on the battle-field of Gettysburg, won a renown as lasting as history itself. The commanding officer was Brigadier General J.T. Copeland, a Michigan man, promoted from the colonelcy of the Fifth. The battalion commanders were, respectively, Colonels Russell A. Alger, George Gray and William D. Mann. The first had seen service in the Second Michigan as captain and major, under Colonels Gordon Granger and P.H. Sheridan; the last in the First Michigan, under Brodhead and Town. Colonel Gray was appointed from civil life, and was having his first experience of "war's rude alarums."] [Footnote 10: Custer in his report mistook the York for the Hanover road.] [Footnote 11: General Custer mistook the Low Dutch for the Oxford road.] [Footnote 12: A letter from General Gregg to the writer says: "There is no conflict between your recollection and mine as to the events of that day."--J.H.K.] [Footnote 13: A possible solution of this difficulty has come to my mind. It is this. That Custer originally wrote "1 o'clock" and that in copying the "1" and the "o" were mistaken for "10," and o'clock added--J.H.K.] [Footnote 14: In this connection it may be stated that Colonel Fox's history of the casualties in the war shows that there were 260 cavalry regiments in the service of the Union. Of these, the First Michigan lost the largest number of men killed in action of all save one--the First Maine. In percentage of killed, in proportion to numbers the Fifth and Sixth Michigan rank all the rest, not excepting the two first named, and it must be remembered that the Fifth and Sixth went out in 1862 and did their first fighting in the Gettysburg campaign. They stand third and fourth in the number killed, being ranked in that respect by the First Maine and First Michigan alone. The four regiments in the Michigan brigade during their terms of service lost twenty-three officers and 328 men killed; eight officers and 111 men died of wounds; nine officers and 991 men died of disease--a grand total of 1470 officers and men who gave up their lives during those four years of war.--J.H.K.] [Footnote 15: It may be proper to state that during the Gettysburg campaign the Michigan brigade lost thirty officers killed and wounded, whose names are here given. KILLED First Michigan--Capt. W.R. Elliott, Capt. C.J. Snyder, Lieut. J.S. McElhenny--3. Fifth Michigan--Major N.H. Ferry--1. Sixth Michigan--Major P.A. Weber, Capt. D.G. Royce, Lieut. C.E. Bolza, Acting Adjutant A.C. Jewett--4. WOUNDED First Michigan--Capt. D.W. Clemmer, Lieut. E.F. Baker, Capt. A.W. Duggan, Capt. George W. Alexander, Capt. H.E. Hascall, Capt. W.M. Heazlett, Capt. G.R. Maxwell, Lieut. R.N. Van Atter--8. Fifth Michigan--Col. R.A. Alger, Lieut. Col. E. Gould, Lieut. T. Dean, Lieut. G.N. Dutcher--4. Sixth Michigan--Lieut. George W. Crawford; Capt. H.E. Thompson, Capt. J. H. Kidd, Lieut. E. Potter, Lieut. S. Shipman--5. Seventh Michigan--Lieut. J.G. Birney, Lieut. J.L. Carpenter, Lieut. E. Gray, Lieut. C. Griffith, Capt. Alex. Walker--5.] [Footnote 16: Brigadier General Henry E. Davies, formerly colonel Second New York cavalry, assigned as permanent successor of Farnsworth, killed at Gettysburg.] [Footnote 17: Attached to the Michigan brigade.] [Footnote 18: Rosser, Young and Gordon.] [Footnote 19: Since reporting for duty, October 12, I had been in command of the regiment.] [Footnote 20: Campaigns of Stuart's Cavalry.] [Footnote 21: Fitzhugh Lee was Custer's instructor in West Point before the war broke out.] [Footnote 22: Kilpatrick's Report, Official Records, series I. vol. XXXIII. p. 133.] [Footnote 23: "Unless the separate commands in an expedition of this nature are very prompt in movement, and each equal to overcoming at once any obstacle it may meet combinations rarely work out as expected."--Personal Memoirs of P.H. Sheridan, vol. I, p. 373.] [Footnote 24: A small stream crossing the turnpike and after which the historical pike was named.] [Footnote 25: On page 813, Vol. XXXVI, Series I, Part 1, of the War Records, in the report of General Merritt appears the following: "A charge made, mounted, by one regiment of the First brigade, (the Fifth Michigan)." The words in parenthesis should be the First Michigan. It is a pity that the official records should thus falsify history.] [Footnote 26: I am not positive that these were the particular tunes the bands played.] [Footnote 27: Personal Memoirs of P.H. Sheridan, Vol. I: page 417. Also Records, Series I, Vol. XXXVI, part 1.] [Footnote 28: Taken from the official records in the office of the adjutant general of Michigan, Lansing, Michigan.] [Footnote 29: Taken from the official records in the office of the adjutant general of Michigan, Lansing, Michigan.] [Footnote 30: Official Records, Series I, Vol. XXXVI, part I, page 851.] [Footnote 31: Official Records, Series I, Vol. XXXVI, part I, page 810.] [Footnote 32: "Headquarters 1st Brig. 1st Div. Cavalry Corps, June 3, 1864. To His Excellency Governor Blair, I most cheerfully and earnestly recommend that the foregoing petition may be granted. Major Kidd has commanded his regiment for several months. He has distinguished himself in nearly all of the late severe engagements of the corps. Michigan cannot boast of a more gallant or efficient officer than Major Kidd, and I am confident that his appointment as colonel of the 6th would not only produce entire satisfaction in his regiment, but would serve to increase the already high but well earned fame of the Michigan Cavalry Brigade." "Very respectfully, etc., G.A. CUSTER, Brig. Gen'l Comdg."] [Footnote 33: The title given to the department over which Sheridan was to have supreme command, and which included West Virginia.] [Footnote 34: Torbert had been created "chief of cavalry," and Merritt assigned to command of the First division. Colonel Charles R. Lowell, Second Massachusetts cavalry succeeded Merritt in command of the Reserve brigade.] [Footnote 35: Attached temporarily to the Michigan brigade.] [Footnote 36: Second division of cavalry from West Virginia, General W.W. Averell.] [Footnote 37: Written in 1886.] [Footnote 38: The only order I had received at the time was to support the picket line with the entire brigade. See General Merritt's report, Official records, Vol. XLIII, series I, part I, page 449.] [Footnote 39: The Fifth United States cavalry, General Merritt's escort. General Merritt's report.] [Footnote 40: General Sheridan's report states that it was Getty's division of the Sixth corps only that was in this position when he came up--that the other divisions were farther to the rear but were brought up to the alignment. "On arriving at the front, I found Merritt's and Custer's divisions of cavalry, * * * and Getty's division of the Sixth corps opposing the enemy. I suggested to General Wright that we would fight on Getty's line, and that the remaining two divisions of the Sixth corps, which were to the right and rear about two miles, should be ordered up, * * before the enemy attacked Getty."--Sheridan's report, Records, Vol. XLIII, part I, page 53.] [Footnote 41: "The First brigade, in column of Regiments in line, moved forward like an immense wave, slowly at first, but gaining strength and speed as it progressed, overwhelmed a battery and its supports amidst a devastating shower of canister and a deadly fire of musketry from part of Kershaw's division, at short range from a heavy wood to our left. Never has the mettle of the division been put to a severer test than at this time, and never did it stand the test better. The charge was made on an enemy well formed and prepared to receive it with guns double-shotted with canister."--General Merritt's official report, Records, Vol. XLIII, Part I, page 450.] [Footnote 42: Records, Series I, Vol. XLIII, part I, page 136.] [Footnote 43: Records. Series I, Vol. XLIII, part I. pages 136-37.] [Footnote 44: Records. Series I, Vol. XLIII, part I. page 453.] 
32050	----	THE PLANTS OF MICHIGAN SIMPLE KEYS FOR THE IDENTIFICATION OF THE NATIVE SEED PLANTS OF THE STATE By HENRY ALLAN GLEASON, Ph. D. Associate Professor of Botany and Director of the Botanical Gardens and Arboretum in the University of Michigan 1918 COPYRIGHT, 1918 GEORGE WAHR PUBLISHED BY GEORGE WAHR ANN ARBOR PRINTED BY THE ANN ARBOR PRESS PREFACE This book is not intended for the expert botanist. He should consult one of the regular Manuals which give full descriptions of each species of plant. Neither is it intended for the merely curious. Only those who have sufficient interest in a plant to observe it can find its name by this book. Furthermore, it is not a textbook. It does not attempt to convey botanical information, but offers merely an opportunity to learn the names of plants. Its mission is fully accomplished if, through its use, students, vacationists, and plant-lovers in general are able to recognize by name the plants about them. HOW TO USE THE BOOK One recognizes a plant by the presence of structural features peculiar to itself, and not found on any other kind of plant. In such a book as this, these characters are given one or a few at a time, and contrasted with the characters which other sorts of plants possess. Such a presentation is called a Key, and by its proper use the name may be learned of any plant considered in it. This process is called Identification. Keys are constructed in several different ways, although the principle of all is the same. In this book, the user will begin with lines 1a and 1b on the page headed Key to the Groups. Each of these lines includes some descriptive matter, but only one of them can apply to the plant being identified. For example, if the plant to be identified is an Oak, line 1a will apply perfectly, and the same line will also apply to any other kind of tree or to any shrub. But if the plant is a Violet, a Buttercup, or any other herb, line 1b agrees and line 1a will not apply. At the end of each line is a reference to be consulted next. If the plant is a tree or shrub, one turns accordingly to Group 1, on page ix, and begins again at the first number given. If the plant is an herb, he follows the reference to line 2, just below, and again compares the plants with lines 2a and 2b. Under every number at least two lines of description are given, designated a and b, and under a few numbers additional lines appear, designated c, d, etc. In every case, the user of the key will select from the different lines under the same number that particular line which agrees with the structure of the plant, and follow up the reference given at the end of that line. Eventually one finds at the end of a line, instead of a number, the name of a family of plants, to which this particular plant belongs, and then turns over to the page where this family is treated. Under each family is a similar key, to be followed in exactly the same way, until finally one finds instead of a number the common name and the scientific name of the plant in hand. The process of identification is now completed, and the student has found the name of the plant. In some cases, a reference is made in the key to a particular portion of the family key. One then turns directly to this particular number in the family key, and continues his identification in the usual way. As a definite example of the use of the key, suppose that one has in hand a branch of the White Oak, and that he does not know its name. To determine its name, he will trace it through the following steps in the key. Under the Key to the Groups, it agrees with line 1a, which refers to Group 1, Woody Plants. Under this group it agrees in structure with line 1a, which refers to 2; with line 2b, referring to 21; with line 21b, referring to 22; with 22b, referring to 29; with 29b, referring to 32; with 32c, referring to 47; with 47b, referring to 48; with 48b, referring to 51; with 51b, referring to number 1b in the Beech Family. Turning to the proper number in this family, the plant is referred to line 3; it agrees with line 3c, referring to 10; with 10a, referring to 11; and with 11b, which gives the name of the plant. White Oak, _Quercus alba_. As a second example, suppose one has a common yellow-flowered plant blooming on lawns and roadsides in spring. Under the Key to the Groups, it agrees with 1b, referring to 2; with 2b, referring to 3; and its net-veined leaves place it in 3b, referring to Group 4, Dicotyledones. Under this group, its basal leaves place it in 1b, referring to 2; its simple leaves in 2b, referring to 18; the absence of stem-leaves places it in 18b, referring to 23; its solitary flowers on each flower-stalk place it in 23b, referring to 24; its yellow flowers agree with 24a, referring to 25; and its milky juice refers the plant to number 16, in the Composite Family. In the key to this family, its lobed leaves agree with 16b, referring on to 17; its large flowers with 17b, giving one the common name Dandelion, and referring on to 18 to determine which kind of Dandelion the plant may be. At some point in the key there will be found for each plant a statement in parentheses. This is general information concerning the height of the plant, the color of the flowers, or the season of bloom. It must be remembered that the height of plants is subject to great variation; that most plants have white-flowered varieties; and that the month of bloom depends largely on the latitude and the climate. Therefore this general information should not be used as means of distinguishing species. =The names of plants.= Each plant bears a scientific name. This is composed of two parts and is usually of Latin or Greek derivation. In some cases these names are taken directly from the Latin language, as _Quercus_, the Oak, or _Acer_, the Maple. In other cases the name may indicate some characteristic feature of the plant, as _Polygonum_, many joints, for the Knotweed, or _Ammophila_, sand-loving, for the Beach Grass. An English name is also given for almost every kind of plant. In a few cases there is no accepted English name, and none has been given. In many cases the same English name applies to several kinds of plants and has been repeated for each. When this is so, the common name is given in the key in parentheses before the scientific name is reached. Thus, if one is satisfied to know merely that his plant is a dandelion, he learns it in line 17b of the key to the Composite Family, but to discover which kind of a dandelion he has, he must follow through the key and use the scientific name. There is in this book, therefore, no necessity of learning or using scientific names. The less critical may be satisfied with an English name, and others may use the scientific names as they see fit. =Possible Errors.= In using this book, care must be taken to compare all the lines under each number with the plant, and to use judgment in selecting the right one. While faulty observation or poor judgment may lead to error, a mistake is usually due to carelessness in not following correctly the reference at the end of the line chosen. If one reaches a number in which none of the lines of description agrees with the plant, it is very probable that he has made a mistake at an earlier stage of the identification, and he should then begin anew. It has been the intention of the author to make the key as nearly as possible proof against errors of judgment. For example, the Indian Turnip may be sought under either Group 3 or Group 4; the Matrimony Vine may be identified either as a shrub or as an herb, and numerous other similar examples may be discovered. =Botanical Information Needed.= It is presumed that those using the book will be familiar with the parts of the flower and with the commoner descriptive terms applied to leaves. Unusual terms have been avoided as far as possible, but those which do occur, as well as the simpler ones, are explained in the glossary. In general, only those characters have been used in the keys which can be observed without a magnifying glass and without dissection of the flower. In several groups of plants, reference is made to the fuller descriptions to be found in the Manuals. The standard manuals for Michigan are Gray's New Manual of Botany, 7th edition (American Book Company, $2.50), and Britton and Brown, Illustrated Flora of the Northern States and Canada (Chas. Scribner's Sons, $13.50). These books may be consulted in most school or public libraries. All dimensions are expressed in the metric system. For convenience, it may be stated that 25 millimeters (mm.) are about equal to one inch; 1 centimeter (cm.) to two-fifths of an inch; 1 decimeter (dm.) to 4 inches; and 1 meter (m.) is a little more than 3 feet. KEY TO GROUPS 1a. Trees, shrubs, or woody climbers, with stems which last from year to year Group 1, =WOODY PLANTS=, p. ix. 1b. Herbaceous plants, with stems which live above ground only a single season --2. 2a. Plants with unusual habits or structures, including leafless, colorless, submerged, floating, parasitic, or hollow-leaved plants Group 2, =UNUSUAL PLANTS=, p. xxiii. 2b. Ordinary terrestrial or swamp plants, without unusual structural peculiarities --3. 3a. Leaves parallel-veined (or net-veined in a few species); parts of the flower usually in threes or sixes, never in fives; wood-fibers scattered through the stem; seed with one cotyledon. All plants with definitely parallel-veined leaves may be identified through this division, unless the parts of the flower are distinctly in fives. Group 3, =MONOCOTYLEDONES=, p. xxvii. 3b. Leaves net-veined (or parallel-veined in a few species); parts of the flower usually in fours or fives; wood-fibers arranged in a circle in the stem; seeds with two cotyledons. All plants with definitely net-veined leaves may be identified through this division. Group 4, =DICOTYLEDONES=, p. xxx. Note:--In order to avoid possible chances of error, many plants have been treated under both of the above groups. The following hints may also be useful in distinguishing Groups 3 and 4: All herbaceous plants with deeply lobed, dissected or compound leaves may be sought under the Dicotyledones. All herbaceous plants with five stamens in each flower, or with seven or more stamens and one ovary in each flower, may be sought under Dicotyledones. GROUP 1, WOODY PLANTS 1a. Trees, with erect stem and central trunk, attaining a height of 6 m. (20 ft.) or more --2. 1b. Shrubs or woody vines, without true tree habit, or attaining heights of less than 6 m. (20 ft.) --52. 2a. Key for use in earliest spring, for trees which have flowers but no leaves --3. 2b. Key for use with trees bearing leaves --21. 3a. Flowers in catkins, without brightly colored or petal-like parts --4. 3b. Flowers not in catkins, either with or without petals --14. 4a. Leaf-scars and lateral buds 2-ranked, i. e., in two longitudinal rows with the third leaf above the first --5. 4b. Leaf-scars and buds in three or more longitudinal rows --9. 5a. From 1 to 3 bud-scales visible on each leaf-bud 2b, in =FAGACEAE=, p. 22. 5b. From 4 to 7 bud-scales visible on each leaf-bud --6. 5c. From 8 to 20 bud-scales visible on each leaf-bud; buds long and slender; bark of the trunk smooth --8. 6a. Bundle-scars 5 or more 2b, in =URTICACEAE=, p. 23. 6b. Bundle-scars 3 --7. 7a. Twigs bearing numerous dwarf branches thickly covered with crowded leaf-scars (Birch) =BETULACEAE=, p. 21. 7b. Twigs without dwarf branches (Ironwood) 9a, in =BETULACEAE=, p. 22. 8a. Trunk cylindrical or nearly so 2a, in =FAGACEAE=, p. 22. 8b. Trunk prominently fluted with longitudinal ridges 1b, in =BETULACEAE=, p. 21. 9a. Bundle-scars 3 in each leaf-scar --10. 9b. Bundle scars more than 3 in each leaf-scar --12. 10a. Pith divided into separate cavities by transverse partitions 1a, in =JUGLANDACEAE=, p. 21. 10b. Pith not partitioned --11. 11a. Buds small, with only one external bud-scale 1b, in =SALICACEAE=, p. 19. 11b. Buds with more than one outer bud-scale 1a, in =SALICACEAE=, p. 19. 12a. Buds clustered near the tips of the twigs 1b, in =FAGACEAE=, p. 22. 12b. Buds not clustered at the tips of the twigs --13. 13a. Buds with about 3 visible bud-scales 2b, in =FAGACEAE=, p. 22. 13b. Terminal bud large, with 4 or more visible bud-scales 1b, in =JUGLANDACEAE=, p. 21. 14a. Flowers conspicuous, brightly colored, at least 8 mm. wide. with both calyx and corolla --15. 14b. Flowers inconspicuous, seldom brightly colored, and then less than 8 mm. wide --17. 15a. Flowers irregular, pink or red 3a, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 15b. Flowers regular, white --16. 16a. Ovary one, superior, in the center of the flower 32b, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 54. 16b. Ovary inferior, appearing as a swelling below the calyx at the summit of the pedicel 42b, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 55. 17a. Leaf-scars and buds opposite --18. 17b. Leaf-scars and buds alternate --19. 18a. Bundle-scar one in each leaf-scar 1b, in =OLEACAE=, p. 88. 18b. Bundle-scars 3 or more in each leaf-scar =ACERACEAE=, p. 70. 19a. Bundle-scar 1 in each leaf-scar 1b, in =LAURACEAE=, p. 41. 19b. Bundle-scars 3 in each leaf-scar --20. 19c. Bundle-scars 5 in each leaf-scar 7a, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 20a. Branches thorny 5a, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 20b. Branches not thorny 3a, in =URTICACEAE=, p. 24. --21-- 21a. Leaves narrow, needle-like or scale-like; trees mostly evergreen =PINACEAE=, p. 1. 21b. Leaves broader, flat, never needle-like or scale-like, falling in winter --22. 22a. Leaves compound --23. 22b. Leaves simple --29. 23a. Leaves opposite --24. 23b. Leaves alternate --26. 24a. Leaves palmately compound with 5-7 leaflets =SAPINDACEAE=, p. 70. 24b. Leaves pinnately compound --25. 25a. Leaflets 3-5 1a, in =ACERACEAE=, p. 70. 25b. Leaflets 7-11 1b, in =OLEACEAE=, p. 88. 26a. Stem or branches thorny 4a, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 26b. Stem or branches not thorny --27. 27a. Leaflets entire 7a, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 27b. Leaflets entire except for a few large glandular teeth near their base =SIMARUBACEAE=, p. 65. 27c. Leaflets serrate their entire length --28. 28a. Upper leaflets less than 25 mm. wide 4b, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 51. 28b. Upper leaflets more than 25 mm. wide =JUGLANDACEAE=, p. 21. 29a. Leaves opposite --30. 29b. Leaves alternate --32. 30a. Leaves entire =CORNACEAE=, p. 83. 30b. Leaves toothed or lobed, not entire --31. 31a. Leaves lobed 1b, in =ACERACEAE=, p. 70. 31b. Leaves merely toothed 27b, in =CAPRIFOLIACEAE=, p. 111. 32a. Leaves entire --33. 32b. Leaves toothed --36. 32c. Leaves lobed --47. 33a. Leaves heart-shape 3a, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 33b. Leaves not heart-shape --34. 34a. Twigs and foliage spicy-aromatic 1b, in =LAURACEAE=, p. 41. 34b. Twigs and foliage not aromatic --35. 35a. Pith 5-angled; fruit an acorn 3a, in =FAGACEAE=, p. 22. 35b. Pith not 5-angled; fruit a berry 1a, in =CORNACEAE=, p. 83. 36a. Leaves oblique at base, i. e., one side of the leaf larger than the other --37. 36b. Leaves symmetrical, not oblique at base --38. 37a. Leaves heart-shape, about as broad as long =TILIACEAE=, p. 72. 37b. Leaves oval or ovate, much longer than wide 1a, in =URTICACEAE=, p. 23. 38a. Stems thorny 41b, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 54. 38b. Stems not thorny --39. 39a. Leaves finely toothed, with 3-many teeth per centimeter of margin --40. 39b. Leaves coarsely toothed, with 1-2 teeth per centimeter of margin --46. 40a. Petioles laterally compressed 2a, in =SALICACEAE=, p. 19. 40b. Petioles not compressed --41. 41a. Leaves, or many of them, crowded on short spur-like branches --42. 41b. Leaves scattered, not on short spur-like branches --43. 42a. Bark of the trunks separating in thin papery or leathery sheets =BETULACEAE=, p. 21. 42b. Bark of the trunk not papery or leathery 24b, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 53. 43a. Lateral leaf-veins straight and parallel, and terminating in the teeth =BETULACEAE=, p. 21. 43b. Lateral veins more or less curved, and not ending in the teeth --44. 44a. Leaves palmately veined, about as broad as long; juice somewhat milky 2b, in =URTICACEAE=, p. 23. 44b. Leaves pinnately veined; juice not milky --45. 45a. Willows, with slender leaves and brittle twigs 8a, in =SALICACEAE=, p. 19. 45b. Trees with lanceolate, ovate, or oblong leaves and tough twigs 30, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 54. 45c. Cottonwoods, with broad, heart-shape or rounded leaves 1a, in =SALICACEAE=, p. 19. 46a. Petioles laterally compressed 2a, in =SALICACEAE=, p. 19. 46b. Petioles not compressed; lateral veins straight and parallel, running directly to the teeth =FAGACEAE=, p. 22. 47a. Stem thorny 41b, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 54. 47b. Stem not thorny --48. 48a. Leaves palmately veined --49. 48b. Leaves pinnately veined --51. 49a. Lobes of the leaf entire 1b, in =LAURACEAE=, p. 41. 49b. Lobes of the leaf serrate --50. 50a. Juice somewhat milky; lateral buds visible 2b, in =URTICACEAE=, p. 23. 50b. Juice not milky; lateral buds covered by the base of the petiole =PLATANACEAE=, p. 51. 51a. Leaves with 4 large entire lobes; stem marked with a ring at each node =MAGNOLIACEAE=, p. 40. 51b. Leaves with many lobes; stem not ringed 1b, in =FAGACEAE=, p. 22. --52-- 52a. For specimens bearing leaves only --53. 52b. For specimens bearing flowers only --140. 52c. For specimens with both leaves and flowers --155. 53a. Leaves narrow, needle-like or scale-like, mostly evergreen --54. 53b. Leaves broader, flat or rolled, but not needle-like or scale-like --56. 54a. Foliage densely gray-pubescent; low bushy shrubs with yellow flowers 2a, in =CISTACEAE=, p. 74. 54b. Foliage green --55. 55a. Leaves opposite or whorled =PINACEAE=, p. 1. 55b. Leaves scattered on the stem =TAXACEAE=, p. 2. 56a. Twining or climbing vines --57. 56b. Not climbing or twining --66. 57a. Thorny vines --58. 57b. Not thorny --60. 58a. Climbing by tendrils at the base of the leaves 4b, in =LILIACEAE=, p. 11. 58b. Tendrils none --59. 59a. Leaves simple 5a, in =SOLANACEAE=, p. 100. 59b. Leaves compound 8a, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 52. 60a. Leaves compound --61. 60b. Leaves simple --63. 61a. Leaves with 5 leaflets 1a, in =VITACEAE=, p. 71. 61b. Leaves with 3 leaflets --62. 62a. Plant climbing by tendril-like leaf-stalks 1a, in =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 35. 62b. Plant climbing by hold-fast roots 5b, in =ANACARDIACEAE=, p. 69. 63a. Leaves opposite 5a, in =CAPRIFOLIACEAE=, p. 110. 63b. Leaves alternate --64. 64a. Plants climbing by tendrils 1b, in =VITACEAE=, p. 71. 64b. Twining plants --65. 65a. Leaves ovate-oblong, attached by the base 1a, in =CELASTRACEAE=, p. 69. 65b. Leaves almost round, peltate near the edge =MENISPERMACEAE= p. 40. 66a. Leaves opposite --67. 66b. Leaves alternate --84. 67a. Leaves compound --68. 67b. Leaves simple --69. 68a. Leaflets 3 =STAPHYLEACEAE=, p. 69. 68b. Leaflets 7 or more 1a, in =CAPRIFOLIACEAE=, p. 109. 69a. Leaves palmately veined, or at least with a pair of prominent lateral veins from the base --70. 69b. Leaves pinnately veined --72. 70a. Leaves not lobed 1b, in =RHAMNACEAE=, p. 71. 70b. Leaves more or less lobed --71. 71a. Leaves with stipules 22a, in =CAPRIFOLIACEAE=, p. 111. 71b. Leaves without stipules 2a, in =ACERACEAE=, p. 70. 72a. Leaves serrate --73. 72b. Leaves entire --77. 73a. Stem thorny 1b, in =RHAMNACEAE=, p. 71. 73b. Stem not thorny --74. 74a. Bark of the ripe twigs green 1b, in =CELASTRACEAE=, p. 69. 74b. Bark of the ripe twigs brown, reddish, or gray --75. 75a. Twigs with a prominent hairy ridge extending downward from the middle of the line connecting the petiole bases 13a, in =CAPRIFOLIACEAE=, p. 110. 75b. Twigs without any pubescent ridge --76. 76a. Erect shrubs; leaves obviously toothed 11b, in =CAPRIFOLIACEAE=, p. 110. 76b. Spreading shrubs; most of the leaves entire, and only here and there some with serrate margins 18b, in =CAPRIFOLIACEAE=, p. 110. 77a. Leaves silvery beneath with a dense coating of scales =ELAEAGNACEAE=, p. 77. 77b. Leaves green beneath, or somewhat hairy and light-colored --78. 78a. Aquatic plant with lanceolate leaves, and stems bending over and into the water 1a, in =LYTHRACEAE=, p. 77. 78b. Not truly aquatic, although frequently in wet places --79. 79a. Leaves evergreen, as shown by their presence on the older stems 18a, in =ERICACEAE=, p. 85. 79b. Leaves deciduous each year --80. 80a. Leaves dotted with translucent dots, easily seen when the leaf is held to the light 1a, in =HYPERICACEAE=, p. 73. 80b. Leaves not dotted with translucent dots --81. 81a. Lateral veins curved forward and running almost parallel to the leaf-margin =CORNACEAE=, p. 83. 81b. Lateral veins spreading, and not paralleling the leaf-margin --82. 82a. Leaves with stipules 1a, 1a, in =RUBIACEAE=, p. 108. 82b. Leaves with a prominent ridge connecting them at the base --83. 82c. Leaves with neither stipules nor connecting ridges 1a, in =OLEACEAE=, p. 88. 83a. Bundle-scar one in each leaf-scar 18b, in =CAPRIFOLIACEAE=, p. 110. 83b. Bundle-scars three in each leaf-scar (Honeysuckle) 12, in =CAPRIFOLIACEAE=, p. 110. 84a. Leaves compound --85. 84b. Leaves simple --95. 85a. Stems prickly or thorny --86. 85b. Stems without prickles or thorns --88. 86a. Leaves twice-pinnate 4a, 1a, in =ARALIACEAE=, p. 80. 86b. Leaves evenly pinnate 5b, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 86c. Leaves odd-pinnate or trifoliate --87. 87a. Leaflets entire 1a, 1a, in =RUTACEAE=, p. 65. 87b. Leaflets serrate 3b, 3b, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 51. 88a. Leaflets 3 --89. 88b. Leaflets 5 to many --91. 89a. Tall shrubs; leaflets entire or minutely toothed 1b, in =RUTACEAE=, p. 65. 89b. Shrubs 2 m. high or less; leaves conspicuously toothed --90. 90a. Stipules present 17b, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 53. 90b. Stipules none 1b, in =ANACARDIACEAE=, p. 68. 91a. Leaflets 6-25 mm. long --92. 91b. Leaflets 30 mm. long, or more --93. 92a. Leaflets mostly 5, rarely 3 or 7 7a, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 52. 92b. Leaflets mostly 9-19, 15 mm. long or more 26a, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 60. 92c. Leaflets mostly 25-45, less than 15 mm. long 8a, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 93a. Leaflets entire 3a, in =ANACARDIACEAE=, p. 68. 93b. Leaflets entire, except for 1-4 large glandular teeth near their base =SIMARUBACEAE=, p. 65. 93c. Leaflets toothed throughout --94. 94a. Juice milky 1a, in =ANACARDIACEAE=, p. 68. 94b. Juice not milky 3a, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 51. 95a. Leaves minute, scale-like, appressed 2a, in =CISTACEAE=, p. 74. 95b. Leaves 3-10 mm. long, spreading, completely rolled into a tube =EMPETRACEAE=, p. 68. 95c. Leaves normal in shape, green in color --96. 96a. Leaves evergreen, as shown by their presence on the older parts of the stem 4b, in =ERICACEAE=, p. 84. 96b. Leaves deciduous --97. 97a. Stems or branches thorny --98. 97b. Stems or branches without thorns or thorny leaves --103. 98a. Leaves conspicuously palmately veined --99. 98b. Leaves pinnately veined, or sometimes with smaller lateral veins arising from the end of the petiole --100. 99a. Leaves 5 cm. wide or less 1a, in =SAXIFRAGACEAE=, p. 49. 99b. Leaves 15 cm. wide or more 1a, in =ARALIACEAE=, p. 80. 100a. Leaves entire 5a, in =SOLANACEAE=, p. 100. 100b. Leaves toothed or somewhat lobed --101. 101a. Leaves with bristly margins; some of the thorns three-pointed 2a, in =BERBERIDACEAE=, p. 40. 101b. Leaves not bristly on the margin; thorns not branched --102. 102a. Only lateral thorns present 41b, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 54. 102b. Only terminal thorns present 2a, in =RHAMNACEAE=, p. 71. 103a. Leaves palmately veined, or with one or more pairs of lateral veins from the base of the leaf --104. 103b. Leaves pinnately veined --111. 104a. Leaves entire --105. 104b. Leaves toothed --106. 104c. Leaves palmately lobed --108. 105a. Foliage fragrant when crushed; leaves ovate 1b, in =LAURACEAE=, p. 41. 105b. Foliage not aromatic; leaves heart-shape 3b, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 106a. Lateral veins straight and parallel, running to the teeth of the leaf 3a, in =BETULACEAE=, p. 22. 106b. Lateral veins curved or branched, and not running straight to the teeth --107. 107a. Tall shrubs with somewhat milky juice and broadly ovate leaves 2b, in =URTICACEAE=, p. 23. 107b. Low shrubs less than 1 m. high with watery juice 1b, in =RHAMNACEAE=, p. 71. 108a. Leaves with 2 or 3 entire lobes, spicy-fragrant when crushed 1b, in =LAURACEAE=, p. 41. 108b. Leaves with milky juice 2b, in =URTICACEAE=, p. 23. 108c. Leaves neither spicy-fragrant nor with milky juice --109. 109a. Stem covered with brown bristles 29, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 54. 109b. Stem not bristly --110. 110a. Sides of the petiole strongly decurrent on the stem; bundle-scars crowded or nearly in contact in the leaf-scars 28b, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 53. 110b. Sides of petiole little decurrent or not at all; bundle-scars distinctly separate 2b, in =SAXIFRAGACEAE=, p. 49. 111a. Leaves aromatically fragrant when crushed --112. 111b. Leaves not aromatically fragrant when crushed --113. 112a. Leaves broadly obovate, entire; a common woodland shrub 1a, in =LAURACEAE=, p. 41. 112b. Leaves linear-lanceolate or oblanceolate, conspicuously toothed or entire =MYRICACEAE=, p. 20. 113a. Leaves entire --114. 113b. Leaves toothed or lobed --121. 114a. Base of the petiole covering the axillary buds; twigs marked with rings =THYMELAEACEAE=, p. 77. 114b. Base of petiole not covering the bud, and twigs not marked with rings --115. 115a. Pith with prominent partitions; tall shrubs with fetid bark; leaves obovate, 10 cm. long or larger =ANONACEAE=, p. 40. 115b. Pith not partitioned; leaves smaller --116. 116a. Leaves waxy or resinous underneath 24b, in =ERICACEAE=, p. 86. 116b. Leaves not waxy or resinous --117. 117a. Lateral veins curved forward and almost parallel to the margin of the leaf 2a, in =CORNACEAE=, p. 83. 117b. Lateral veins spreading --118. 118a. Leaves lanceolate or linear, much longer than wide --119. 118b. Leaves ovate or elliptical --120. 119a. Stem weak, spreading or trailing 5a, in =SOLANACEAE=, p. 100. 119b. Stems, or some of them, erect 3b, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 120a. Leaves with purple petioles, which are at least one-fourth as long as the leaf-blade 1a, in =AQUIFOLIACEAE=, p. 69. 120b. Leaves with short petioles or sessile 24c, in =ERICACEAE=, p. 86. 121a. Lateral veins straight and parallel, mostly ending in the teeth of the leaf --122. 121b. Lateral veins not straight and parallel --129. 122a. Leaves 2-ranked, i. e., in two longitudinal rows, with the third leaf directly above the first --123. 122b. Leaves not 2-ranked --127. 123a. Leaves unsymmetrical, oblique at the base, i. e., with one side of the leaf larger than the other =HAMAMELIDACEAE=, p. 51. 123b. Leaves symmetrical or nearly so at the base --124. 124a. Lateral leaf-veins ending in the leaf-teeth --125. 124b. Lateral veins not ending in the teeth 42b, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 55. 125a. Bark smooth and fluted on the large stems 1b, in =BETULACEAE=, p. 21. 125b. Bark rough or warty or glandular --126. 126a. Leaves 4 cm. long or less 3a, in =BETULACEAE=, p. 22. 126b. Leaves 5 cm. long or more 9b, in =BETULACEAE=, p. 22. 127a. Pith 3-angled 6a, in =BETULACEAE=, p. 22. 127b. Pith 5-angled 13b, in =FAGACEAE=, p. 23. 127c. Pith cylindrical --128. 128a. Leaves finely serrate 42b, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 55. 128b. Leaves coarsely or doubly serrate 41a, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 54. 129a. Leaves coarsely or doubly serrate --130. 129b. Leaves simply serrate --131. 130a. Leaves 2-ranked, i. e., in two longitudinal rows, with the third leaf directly over the first 9b, in =BETULACEAE=, p. 22. 130b. Leaves not 2-ranked 41a, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 54. 131a. Leaves with glands on the petiole or at the base of the leaf-blade --132. 131b. Leaves with small dark glands on the upper side of the mid-vein 42a, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 54. 131c. Leaves without glands --133. 132a. Willows; with usually slender leaves, frequently conspicuous broad stipules, and lateral buds protected by a single external bud-scale 13, in =SALICACEAE=, p. 20. 132b. Plums and cherries; with leaves lanceolate or broader, and stipules minute and falling early in the season; lateral buds with more than one bud-scale 30, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 54. 133a. With stipules or with stipular scars indicating where stipules have been detached --134. 133b. Without stipules or stipular scars --138. 134a. With three bundle-scars in each leaf-scar --135. 134b. With one bundle-scar in each leaf-scar --136. 135a. Willows; usually with slender leaves and twigs and frequently with large conspicuous stipules; lateral buds covered by a single external bud-scale 13, in =SALICACEAE=, p. 20. 135b. Juneberries; with oblong or ovate leaves and small stipules which fall early; lateral buds with more than one external scale 42b, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 55. 136a. Leaves mostly entire, only a few here and there with low teeth 1a, in =AQUIFOLIACEAE=, p. 69. 136b. Leaves sharply toothed --137. 137a. Axillary buds superposed, i. e., with a second one just above the first 1b, in =AQUIFOLIACEAE=, p. 69. 137b. Axillary buds not superposed 2b, in =RHAMNACEAE=, p. 71. 138a. Leaves with purple petioles, which are at least one-fourth as long as the blade 1a, in =AQUIFOLIACEAE=, p. 69. 138b. Leaves short-petioled or sessile --139. 139a. Stems erect and straight, unbranched or with very few branches 27, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 53. 139b. Stems more or less crooked and freely branched, making a spreading shrub 25, in =ERICACEAE=, p. 86. --140-- 140a. Flowers appearing in autumn, after the leaves have fallen =HAMAMELIDACEAE=, p. 51. 140b. Flowers appearing in spring, before the leaves have opened --141. 141a. Flowers in catkins, without brightly colored or petal-like parts --142. 141b. Flowers not in catkins, either with or without brightly colored or petal-like parts --149. 142a. Leaves 2-ranked, as shown by the arrangement of buds and leaf-scars in two longitudinal rows, so that the third bud is directly over the first --143. 142b. Leaves and leaf-scars not 2-ranked --146. 143a. Bundle-scars three in each leaf-scar --144. 143b. Bundle-scars several in each leaf-scar 2b, in =URTICACEAE=, p. 23. 144a. Leaf-buds with only 1-3 visible bud-scales 10, in =BETULACEAE=, p. 22. 144b. Leaf-buds with more than 3 visible scales --145. 145a. Bark of the branches smooth and dark gray, the larger stems fluted with projecting longitudinal ridges 1b, in =BETULACEAE=, p. 21. 145b. Branches without projecting ridges 4, in =BETULACEAE=, p. 22. 146a. Pith 3-angled 8, in =BETULACEAE=, p. 22. 146b. Pith 5-angled 13b, in =FAGACEAE=, p. 23. 146c. Pith cylindrical --147. 147a. Visible outer bud-scales 2 or more --148. 147b. Buds with a single visible outer scale 13, in =SALICACEAE=, p. 20. 148a. Bundle-scars 3 in each leaf-scar =MYRICACEAE=, p. 20. 148b. Bundle-scars more than 3 in each leaf-scar 2b, in =URTICACEAE=, p. 23. 149a. Flowers dark red-purple, about 3 cm. wide =ANONACEAE=, p. 40. 149b. Flowers bright pink, irregular, about 1 cm. wide 3a, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 149c. Flowers white, with 5 conspicuous petals --150. 149d. Flowers greenish or yellowish, small, inconspicuous --152. 150a. Ovary 1, superior, i. e., in the center of the flower and not attached to surrounding parts 36, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 54. 150b. Ovary inferior, appearing as a swelling below the calyx at the apex of the pedicel --151. 151a. Flowers in racemes or solitary 42b, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 55. 151b. Flowers in flattened or rounded branching clusters 42a, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 55. 152a. Stems thorny 1a, in =RUTACEAE=, p. 65. 152b. Stems not thorny --153. 153a. Bark pleasantly aromatic when crushed; perianth with 6 parts --154. 153b. Bark not pleasantly aromatic; perianth with 4 short lobes =THYMELAEACEAE=, p. 77. 154a. Flowers in sessile lateral clusters 1a, in =LAURACEAE=, p. 41. 154b. Flowers in peduncled terminal clusters 1b, in =LAURACEAE=, p. 41. --155-- 155a. Leaves narrow, needle-like or scale-like, mostly evergreen --54. 155b. Leaves broader, flat or rolled, but not needle-like or scale-like --156. 156a. Twining or climbing vines --56. 156b. Not twining or climbing --157. 157a. Leaves opposite --158. 157b. Leaves alternate --165. 158a. Leaves compound --68. 158b. Leaves simple --159. 159a. Leaves broad, palmately lobed --160. 159b. Leaves not palmately lobed --161. 160a. Flowers greenish-yellow, in racemes or panicles 2a, in =ACERACEAE=, p. 70. 160b. Flowers white, in rounded or flattened clusters 22a, in =CAPRIFOLIACEAE=, p. 111. 161a. Flowers in close clusters, subtended by four large white petal-like bracts 4b, in =CORNACEAE=, p. 83. 161b. Flowers small, white, in dense spherical heads 1a, in =RUBIACEAE=, p. 108. 161c. Flowers not in dense heads, and not subtended by petal-like bracts --162. 162a. Petals separate from each other --163. 162b. Petals united with each other --164. 163a. Flowers dark purple-red 1b, in =CELASTRACEAE=. p. 69. 163b. Flowers bright yellow 1a, in =HYPERICACEAE=, p. 73. 163c. Flowers pink-purple; aquatic shrubs 1a, in =LYTHRACEAE=, p. 77. 163d. Flowers white 5, in =CORNACEAE=, p. 83. 163e. Flowers minute, greenish; twigs usually thorny 1b, in =RHAMNACEAE=, p. 71. 163f. Flowers small, yellowish; leaves silvery beneath =ELAEAGNACEAE=, p. 77. 164a. Stamens 2 1a, in =OLEACEAE=, p. 88. 164b. Stamens 4 or 5 11, in =CAPRIFOLIACEAE=, p. 110. 164c. Stamens 10 18a, in =ERICACEAE=, p. 85. 165a. Leaves once-compound --166. 165b. Leaves simple --172. 165c. Leaves twice- or thrice-compound 4a, in =ARALIACEAE=, p. 80. 166a. Flowers small, greenish or greenish-yellow --167. 166b. Flowers conspicuous, white, or brightly colored --170. 167a. Stems thorny 1a, in =RUTACEAE=, p. 65. 167b. Stems not thorny --168. 168a. Leaflets 3, entire or minutely toothed 1b, in =RUTACEAE=, p. 65. 168b. Leaflets 3, conspicuously toothed 1b, in =ANACARDIACEAE=, p. 68. 168c. Leaflets more than 3 --169. 169a. Leaflets entire except for 1-4 large glandular teeth near their base =SIMARUBACEAE=, p. 65. 169b. Leaflets entire, or toothed for their entire length =ANACARDIACEAE=, p. 68. 170a. Flowers with a single bright-blue petal 8a, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 170b. Flowers with several petals --171. 171a. Flowers regular 3, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 51. 171b. Flowers irregular, the upper petal the largest 4, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 172a. Leaves minute, scale-like, appressed 2a, in =CISTACEAE=, p. 74. 172b. Leaves 3-10 mm. long, spreading, completely rolled into a tube =EMPETRACEAE=, p. 68. 172c. Leaves normal in shape, green in color --173. 173a. Leaves evergreen, as shown by their presence on the older parts of the stem 4b, in =ERICACEAE=, p. 84. 173b. Leaves deciduous --174. 174a. Flowers in catkins, without petal-like parts --142. 174b. Flowers not in catkins, either with or without petal-like parts --175. 175a. Flowers small, inconspicuous, yellowish or greenish in color --176. 175b. Flowers white or colored, with conspicuous petals --180. 176a. Leaves broad and palmately lobed; stem thorny 1a, in =ARALIACEAE=, p. 80. 176b. Leaves entire, toothed, or with 2-3 entire lobes; stem not thorny --177. 177a. Flowers in small axillary clusters; foliage not spicy-aromatic --178. 177b. Flowers in clusters terminating last year's twigs; foliage spicy-aromatic 1b, in =LAURACEAE=, p. 41. 178a. Petals none; sepals present 2b, in =RHAMNACEAE=, p. 71. 178b. Petals present but small --179. 179a. A stamen in front of each petal 2a, in =RHAMNACEAE=, p. 71. 179b. A stamen between each two petals =AQUIFOLIACEAE=, p. 69. 180a. Petals united with each other; stamens 8-10 24, in =ERICACEAE=, p. 86. 180b. Petals separate from each other --181. 181a. Petals 4 --182. 181b. Petals 5 --183. 181c. Petal-like sepals 6; real petals none; foliage spicy-aromatic 1b, in =LAURACEAE=, p. 41. 181d. Petals 6; sepals also present --187. 182a. Flowers in late spring or early summer 2a, in =CORNACEAE=, p. 83. 182b. Flowers in autumn =HAMAMELIDACEAE=, p. 51. 183a. Corolla irregular, the upper petal largest 3b, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 183b. Corolla regular, all petals alike in size and shape --184. 184a. Stamens 5 --185. 184b. Stamens 10 or more 24, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 53. 185a. Flowers in loose racemes or axillary clusters 2, in =SAXIFRAGACEAE=, p. 49. 185b. Flowers in branching clusters --186. 186a. Leaves palmately lobed; stem thorny 1a, in =ARALIACEAE=, p. 80. 186b. Leaves not lobed; stem not thorny 1b, in =RHAMNACEAE=, p. 71. 187a. Flowers dark red-purple =ANONACEAE=, p. 40. 187b. Flowers yellow 2a, in =BERBERIDACEAE=, p. 40. GROUP 2, UNUSUAL PLANTS 1a. Small brown leafless plants, growing as parasites on the tamarack or black spruce =LORANTHACEAE=, p. 25. 1b. Aquatic plants, with all or most of the leaves submerged, or leafless --2. 1c. Aquatic plants, with the leaves or the whole plant floating on or near the surface --20. 1d. Terrestrial or marsh plants, without floating or submerged leaves --29. 2a. Submerged aquatics, without leaves --3. 2b. Submerged aquatics, with the leaves linear or dissected --4. 3a. Flowers showy, yellow or purple =LENTIBULARIACEAE=, p. 105. 3b Flowers small and inconspicuous, sessile, purplish or greenish 3a, in =HALORAGIDACEAE=, p. 79. 4a. Leaves linear or lanceolate, not lobed or dissected --5. 4b. Leaves more or less lobed or dissected --13. 5a. Leaves all basal --6. 5b. Stem-leaves present --7. 6a. Flowers blue, 1 cm. long or more; leaves cylindrical, blunt, hollow, partitioned lengthwise 1a, in =LOBELIACEAE=, p. 113. 6b. Flowers yellow; leaves minute =LENTIBULARIACEAE=, p. 105. 6c. Flowers white, in clusters; leaves linear-lanceolate, acute, not hollow 1b, in =ALISMACEAE=, p. 3. 6d. Flowers greenish, solitary at the end of elongated peduncles; leaves very long and ribbon-like, flat or trough-shape 1a, in =HYDROCHARITACEAE=, p. 3. 6e. Flowers minute, whitish or lead-color, in heads =ERIOCAULACEAE=, p. 9. 7a. Leaves alternate --8. 7b. Leaves opposite --10. 7c. Leaves whorled --12. 8a. Leaves with thin sheathing stipules 1b, in =NAJADACEAE=, p. 2. 8b. Leaves without stipules --9. 9a. Flowers greenish, in a head =SPARGANIACEAE=, p. 2. 9b. Flowers pale yellow 1b, in =PONTEDERIACEAE=, p. 10. 10a. Leaves serrate 2b, in =NAJADACEAE=, p. 2. 10b. Leaves entire --11. 11a. Leaves 2 cm. long or less =CALLITRICHACEAE=, p. 68. 11b. Leaves thread-like, 2-8 cm. long 2a, in =NAJADACEAE=, p. 2. 11c. Leaves linear to elliptical, more than 2 cm. long 1b, in =NAJADACEAE=, p. 2. 12a. Leaves in whorls of 3, abruptly widened at the base 2b, in =NAJADACEAE=, p. 2. 12b. Leaves in whorls of 3, widest near the middle 1b, in =HYDROCHARITACEAE=, p. 3. 12c. Stems straight and erect, at leaves the flowers emerged; leaves in whorls of 4 or more 2a, in =HALORAGIDACEAE=, p. 79. 13a. Leaves with numerous small bladders attached, each bladder 1-3 mm. long =LENTIBULARIACEAE=, p. 105. 13b. Leaves without bladders --14. 14a. Leaves alternate --15. 14b. Leaves opposite or whorled --18. 15a. Delicate and rare plants growing attached to stones in running water =PODOSTEMACEAE=, p. 48. 15b. Plants 2 dm. high or more, with roots in mud or sand --16. 16a. Leaves once-pinnate --17. 16b. Leaves 2-3 times pinnate 15b, in =UMBELLIFERAE=, p. 81. 16c. Leaves palmately dissected 1b, in =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 35. 17a. Taste peppery or mustardy 34, in =CRUCIFERAE=, p. 45. 17b. Taste not peppery or mustardy 1a, in =HALORAGIDACEAE=, p. 79. 18a. Leaves pinnately compound 3b, in =HALORAGIDACEAE=, p. 79. 18b. Leaves palmately compound --19. 19a. Leaves opposite or in whorls of four 119a, in =COMPOSITAE=, p. 123. 19b. Leaves in whorls of 5-12 =CERATOPHYLLACEAE=, p. 34. 20a. Plants small, flattened, rounded or ovate, without distinction of stem and leaf; the whole plant floating on or near the surface =LEMNACEAE=, p. 9. 20b. Plant attached to the soil, with differentiated stem and leaves --21. 21a. Leaves on long slender stalks, which bear also a cluster of slender tubers near the leaf-base; leaves heart-shape 1b, in =GENTIANACEAE=, p. 88. 21b. Leaf-stalks without a cluster of tubers --22. 22a. Leaves all basal --23. 22b. Stem-leaves present --24. 23a. Leaves parallel-veined 1b, in =ALISMACEAE=, p. 3. 23b. Leaves net-veined 1b, in =NYMPHAEACEAE=, p. 35. 24a. Leaves opposite or whorled --25. 24b. Leaves alternate --26. 25a. Leaves less than 2 cm. long =CALLITRICHACEAE=, p. 68. 25b. Leaves more than 2 cm. long 1b, in =NAJADACEAE=, p. 2. 26a. Leaves attached by the center to the stalk 2b, in =NYMPHAEACEAE=, p. 35. 26b. Leaves attached by the margin --27. 27a. Leaves parallel-veined --28. 27b. Leaves net-veined, with a single mid-vein; lanceolate or elliptical in outline 29b, in =POLYGONACEAE=, p. 28. 28a. Leaves not over 2 dm. long 1b, in =NAJADACEAE=, p. 2. 28b. Leaves very long and grass-like 14a, in =GRAMINEAE=, p. 5. 29a. Brown, yellow, or white plants, without green color --30. 29b. Plants with normal green color, at least in some parts --33. 30a. Stemless and leafless plants, consisting of flowers only and partly underground 4a, in =ARACEAE=, p. 8. 30b. Stems climbing on other plants 1b, in =CONVOLVULACEAE=, p. 91. 30c. Stem and flower-stalks erect, not climbing --31. 31a. Corolla regular; stamens 6-12 1a, in =ERICACEAE=, p. 84. 31b. Corolla irregular --32. 32a. Sepals and petals each 3; flowers in simple racemes 5a, in =ORCHIDACEAE=, p. 16. 32b. Sepals 5; corolla of united petals =OROBANCHACEAE=, p. 106. 33a. Stem thick and fleshy, leafless, thorny =CACTACEAE=, p. 77. 33b. Stem not thorny --34. 34a. Leaves none --35. 34b. Leaves reduced to small scales --40. 34c. Leaves thick and fleshy --44. 34d. Leaves hollow --45. 34e. Leaves small, all basal, bearing large glandular hairs on the upper surface =DROSERACEAE=, p. 48. 35a. Stem none, the flowers appearing at or partially beneath the surface of the soil 4a, in =ARACEAE=, p. 8. 35b. Stem present --36. 36a. Stem freely branched 2a, in =LILIACEAE=, p. 10. 36b. Stem unbranched, except possibly in the flower-clusters --37. 37a. Flowers greenish or brownish, without obvious colored petals --38. 37b. Flowers with conspicuous white or colored petals --39. 38a. Each flower with 6 small chaffy petals 4, in =JUNCACEAE=, p. 10. 38b. Petals none; each flower in the axil of a single chaffy bract 2a, in =CYPERACEAE=, p. 7. 39a. Flowers regular 34a, in =LILIACEAE=, p. 11. 39b. Flowers irregular 10a, in =ORCHIDACEAE=, p. 16. 40a. Stem erect, unbranched or with one or two branches only --41. 40b. Stem freely branched --42. 41a. Plants of moist soil, with opposite scales; corolla regular, with 4 petal-like lobes 1a, in =GENTIANACEAE=, p. 88. 41b. Swamp plants, with a few alternate scales; corolla irregular =LENTIBULARIACEAE=, p. 105. 42a. Leaves numerous and close, concealing the stem 2a, in =CISTACEAE=, p. 74. 42b. Leaves spreading, not concealing the stem --43. 43a. Leaf-scales in small clusters; flowers greenish, with 6 petals 2a, in =LILIACEAE=, p. 10. 43b. Leaf-scales distinctly opposite; petals 5, yellow 7a, in =HYPERICACEAE=, p. 74. 44a. Sepals 2 3, in =PORTULACACEAE=, p. 34. 44b. Sepals 4 or 5 =CRASSULACEAE=, p. 48. 45a. Leaves pitcher-shape, open at the top =SARRACENIACEAE=, p. 48. 45b. Leaves tubular, closed at the end 37b, in =LILIACEAE=, p. 13. GROUP 3, MONOCOTYLEDONES 1a. Twining plants, with flowers in panicles or racemes =DIOSCOREACEAE=, p. 14. 1b. Plants with milky juice 13a, in =COMPOSITAE=, p. 115. 1c. Plants not twining (some climb by tendrils) and not with milky juice. --2. 2a. Flowers in close spikes or heads, surrounded or subtended by a green or colored bract, the whole resembling a single flower; petals minute or wanting; leaves broad, not grass-like, linear, or sword-shape =ARACEAE=, p. 8. 2b. Plants with narrow, linear, grass-like, or sword-shape leaves (a few species of Carex have broader, lanceolate to ovate leaves); flowers greenish, yellowish, or brownish, never brightly colored, and frequently dry or chaffy in texture; perianth small or wanting; individual flowers inconspicuous in size, but sometimes grouped into conspicuous clusters --3. 2c. Plants with leaves of various widths, but the flowers petaloid, i. e., with a white or colored, more or less conspicuous perianth, and never chaffy in texture. In a few cases the flowers are greenish, but the size and conspicuousness of the perianth identifies them in this class --9. 3a. Flowers in the axils of dry, membranous or chaffy scales, which are regularly arranged into spikes or spikelets of uniform size and structure, which are variously grouped or clustered; fruit an achene; grasses and sedges, with joined stems and sheathing leaves, or leafless and the stems not jointed --4. 3b. Flowers not subtended individually by dry, membranous, or chaffy scales, and otherwise not agreeing with 3a --5. 4a. Leaf-sheaths split on the side opposite the leaf; leaves usually 2-ranked, i. e., in 2 longitudinal rows with the third leaf above the first; stems rounded or flat, never triangular, usually hollow =GRAMINEAE=, p. 4. 4b. Leaf-sheaths closed into a continuous tube; leaves usually 3-ranked; stems frequently triangular, usually solid =CYPERACEAE=, p. 7. 5a. Flowers in dense spikes --6. 5b. Flowers in heads, racemes, or panicles --7. 6a. Spike terminal, with pistillate flowers at the base and staminate ones at the apex =TYPHACEAE=, p. 2. 6b. Spike short, apparently lateral, near the apex of the stem 3a, in =ARACEAE=, p. 8. 7a. Flowers in globose heads which are arranged in spikes, the lowest heads pistillate, the upper staminate; ovary 1-celled =SPARGANIACEAE=, p. 2. 7b. Flowers in globose woolly heads terminating leafless unbranched stalks =ERIOCAULACEAE=, p. 9. 7c. Flowers in a spike-like raceme; ovaries 3-6, separate or nearly so =JUNCAGINACEAE=, p. 3. 7d. Flowers in heads or panicles, all perfect, not woolly, with one ovary --8. 8a. Leaves less than 1 cm. wide, or none; divisions of the perianth 6 =JUNCACEAE=, p. 10. 8b. Leaves 2 cm. wide or more; petals 5 2a, in =UMBELLIFERAE=, p. 80. 9a. Flowers regular, with all the petals of approximately the same size and shape --10. 9b. Flowers irregular, with the petals of each flower not of the same size or shape --22. 10a. Ovaries 3 or more, separate or barely united with each other at the base --11. 10b. Ovary one in each flower --12. 11a. Ovaries 3-6 in number; flowers in spikes or racemes; leaves linear =JUNCAGINACEAE=, p. 3. 11b. Ovaries more than 6 =ALISMACEAE=, p. 3. 12a. Flowers or flower-clusters lateral, axillary or apparently so --13. 12b. Flowers or flower-clusters terminal or on leafless stalks --14. 13a. Leaves minute and scale-like; flowers greenish-yellow 2a, in =LILIACEAE=, p. 10. 13b. Leaves linear, grass-like 3b, in =IRIDACEAE=, p. 13. 13c. Leaves lanceolate or broader, not grass-like or scale-like 2b, in =LILIACEAE=, p. 10. 14a. Divisions of the perianth 5-12 cm. long --15. 14b. Divisions of the perianth less than 5 cm. long --16. 15a. Flowers blue, or blue marked with yellow 1a, in =IRIDACEAE=, p. 15. 15b. Flowers not blue 12a, in =LILIACEAE=, p. 11. 16a. Flowers solitary --17. 16b. Flowers 2 or more, in some kind of a cluster --18. 17a. Leaves 2, broadly heart-shape, basal, on long stalks 1b, in =ARISTOLOCHIACEAE=, p. 25. 17b. Leaves not heart-shape 20, 20, in =LILIACEAE=, p. 12. 18a. Divisions of the perianth (4 to 6) all essentially alike --19. 18b. Perianth differentiated into sepals and 2 or 3 colored petals --21. 19a. Flowers in umbels --20. 19b. Flowers in dense round heads; petals 5 2a, in =UMBELLIFERAE=, p. 80. 19c. Flowers in spikes, racemes, or panicles 38, in =LILIACEAE=, p. 13. 20a. Ovary inferior, appearing below the perianth as a swelling at the apex of the stalk; flowers bright yellow; leaves linear =AMARYLLIDACEAE=, p. 14. 20b. Ovary inferior; flowers blue or white, terminating a flattened winged leafless flower-stalk 3a, in =IRIDACEAE=, p. 15. 20c. Ovary superior, i. e., in the center of the flower and separate from the perianth 31, in =LILIACEAE=, p. 13. 21a. Flowers in dense heads, yellow, 1 cm. wide or smaller =XYRIDACEAE=, p. 9. 21b. Flowers in umbels, blue or white, 2 cm. wide or larger =COMMELINACEAE=, p. 9. 22a. Flowers blue; ovary superior (defined under _20c_); stamens distinct from the other parts of the flower --23. 22b. Ovary inferior (defined under _20a_); floral structure complex; stamens attached to other parts of the flower and not resembling ordinary stamens in form or structure =ORCHIDACEAE=, p. 15. 23a. Leaves triangular-heart-shape at base; marsh plants 1a, in =PONTEDERIACEAE=, p. 10. 23b. Leaves not heart-shape at base =COMMELINACEAE=, p. 9. GROUP 4, DICOTYLEDONES 1a. Foliage leaves all or principally basal; flower-stalk either completely leafless, or bearing a single pair of opposite leaves only. Bracts and scale-leaves are not considered foliage leaves --2. 1b. Stem-leaves present on the stem, either one or more in number, and not limited to a single opposite pair --3. 2a. Leaves compound --7. 2b. Leaves simple --18. 3a. Stem-leaves all or chiefly opposite or whorled (the bracts of the flower clusters may be alternate) --4. 3b. Stem-leaves all or chiefly alternate --5. 4a. Flowers small and inconspicuous, the perianth none or greenish or chaffy, and never petal-like in appearance --50. 4b. Flowers with a white or colored petal-like perianth --66. 5a. Flowers small and inconspicuous, without any white or colored petal-like perianth --118. 5b. Flowers large or small, but with a white or colored petal-like perianth --6. 6a. Flowers small, not exceeding 3 mm. in length or breadth --144. 6b. Flowers larger, more than 3 mm. in length or breadth --166. --7-- 7a. Leaves twice to three times compound or dissected --8. 7b. Leaves once-compound --11. 8a. Flowers in racemes 2b, in =FUMARIACEAE=, p. 41. 8b. Flowers in umbels --9. 9a. Flowers about 3 mm. wide, white or greenish-white --10. 9b. Flowers 10-20 mm. wide, conspicuous 45b, in =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 39. 10a. Leaflets 5-15 cm. long 5b, in =ARALIACEAE=, p. 80. 10b. Leaflets not over 2 cm. long 16a, in =UMBELLIFERAE=, p. 81. 11a. Leaflets 2 3a, in =BERBERIDACEAE=, p. 40. 11b. Leaflets three or more --12. 12a. Leaflets entire or very finely toothed --13. 12b. Leaflets coarsely toothed or lobed --15. 13a. Flowers irregular, in dense head-like umbels 37a, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 61. 13b. Flowers consisting of a greenish or purplish bract wholly or partly enclosing a fleshy spike 2, in =ARACEAE=, p. 8. 13c. Flowers regular, solitary or in loose clusters --14. 14a. Leaflets reverse heart-shape, not over 2 cm. long =OXALIDACEAE=, p. 64. 14b. Leaflets 4-10 cm. long 1c, in =GENTIANACEAE=, p. 88. 15a. Flowers with colored or white petals and green or colored sepals --16. 15b. Flowers with one kind of perianth only (calyx), with broad and petal-like parts 32, in =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 38. 15c. Flowers with white petal-like sepals and small inconspicuous petals 38b, in =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 39. 16a. Petals and sepals each 4 31, in =CRUCIFERAE=, p. 44. 16b. Petals and sepals each 5 or more --17. 17a. Leaves with stipules =ROSACEAE=, p. 51. 17b. Leaves without stipules 23b, in =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 37. --18-- 18a. Stem-leaves a single opposite pair (basal leaves may also be present) --19. 18b. Stem-leaves none --23. 19a. Leaves entire --20. 19b. Leaves toothed or lobed --21. 20a. Flowers solitary; leaves broadly kidney-shape =ARISTOLOCHIACEAE=, p. 25. 20b. Flowers in racemes; leaves linear or lanceolate =PORTULACACEAE=, p. 34. 21a. Flowers in racemes; petals deeply toothed 23b, in =SAXIFRAGACEAE=, p. 51. 21b. Flowers solitary or few in a cluster; petals entire or nearly so --22. 22a. Petals 5 =GERANIACEAE=, p. 64. 22b. Petals 6 or more 2b, in =BERBERIDACEAE=, p. 40. 23a. Flowers or flower-clusters sessile, at or partly beneath the surface of the ground 4a, in =ARACEAE=, p. 8. 23b. Flowers or flower-heads solitary at the ends of the flower-stalks --24. 23b. Flowers or flower-heads numerous or several on each flower-stalk --38. 24a. Flowers yellow --25. 24b. Flowers not yellow --29. 25a. Juice milky 16, in =COMPOSITAE=, p. 115. 25b. Juice not milky --26. 26a. Aquatic or mud plants, with large entire leaves 1-4 dm. wide =NYMPHAEACEAE=, p. 35. 26b. Land plants, with smaller or lobed leaves --27. 27a. Flower-stalk scaly 110, in =COMPOSITAE=, p. 122. 27b. Flower-stalk bare or with 1 to 2 minute bracts --28. 28a. Flowers regular 10, in =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 36. 28b. Flowers irregular, with a spur 3a, in =VIOLACEAE=, p. 75. 29a. Flowers obviously irregular, with a spur --30. 29b. Flowers regular or nearly so, without a spur --31. 30a. Leaves sessile or nearly so; stamens 2 =LENTIBULARIACEAE=, p. 105. 30b. Leaves petioled; stamens 5 =VIOLACEAE=, p. 75. 31a. Flowers 3 mm. wide or smaller; leaves thread-like 16a, in =SCROPHULARIACEAE=, p. 103. 31b. Flowers 6 mm. wide or larger --32. 32a. Ovary 1 --33. 32b. Ovaries numerous --37. 33a. Leaves lobed or cleft --34. 33b. Leaves entire or toothed --35. 34a. Leaves deeply 2-cleft; stamens 8 3a, in =BERBERIDACEAE=, p. 40. 34b. Leaf 1, palmately lobed; stamens numerous 1a, in =PAPAVERACEAE=, p. 41. 35a. Flowers dull red =ARISTOLOCHIACEAE=, p. 25. 35b. Flowers white or pinkish --36. 36a. Leaves entire; stamens with good anthers 5 13, in =SAXIFRAGACEAE=, p. 50. 36b. Leaves minutely toothed; stamens 8-10 14a, in =ERICACEAE=, p. 85. 37a. Leaves lobed or divided =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 35. 37b. Leaves crenate or toothed 64a, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 56. --38-- 38a. Flowers of the composite type, with several or many small flowerets closely aggregated into a dense head surrounded by a calyx-like involucre of small bracts 10, in =COMPOSITAE=. p. 114. 38b. Flowers separate; variously clustered, but never crowded into involucred heads --39. 39a. Flowers in dense close spikes --40. 39b. Flowers in open loose clusters --42. 40a. Flower-stalk leafless below the spike =PLANTAGINACEAE=, p. 107. 40b. Flower-stalk with several bracts --41. 41a. Leaves entire 9c, in =ORCHIDACEAE=, p. 16. 41b. Leaves toothed 6a, in =SCROPHULARIACEAE=, p. 102. 42a. Flowers in umbels --43. 42b. Flowers in racemes, panicles, flat-topped clusters, or merely 1 or 2 --45. 43a. Leaves almost round, peltate, palmately veined 3a, in =UMBELLIFERAE=, p. 80. 43b. Leaves at least twice as long as broad, with a single mid-vein --44. 44a. Stamens 5 =PRIMULACEAE=, p. 87. 44b. Stamens 10 15, in =ERICACEAE=, p. 85. 45a. Leaves cylindrical, hollow, obtuse. 1a, in =LOBELIACEAE=, p. 113. 45b. Leaves beset on the upper side with long glandular hairs; bog plant with flowers in racemes =DROSERACEAE=, p. 48. 45c. Leaves flat, pubescent or smooth, but not with long glandular hairs --46. 46a. Sepals and petals each 4 53, in =CRUCIFERAE=, p. 46. 46b. Sepals and petals each 5 --47. 46c. Sepals 6; petals none; flowers minute, green; leaves frequently lobed at the base 4, in =POLYGONACEAE=, p. 25. 47a. Petals united with each other in an irregular corolla =LENTIBULARIACEAE=, p. 105. 47b. Petals separate from each other --48. 48a. Stamens 10; style 1 =ERICACEAE=, p. 84. 48b. Stamens 5 or 10; styles 2 =SAXIFRAGACEAE=, p. 49. 48c. Stamens and pistils each very numerous --49. 49a. Flowers white 64a, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 56. 49b. Flowers yellow 13a, in =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 36. --50-- 50a. Leaves compound or deeply lobed --51. 50b. Leaves entire or toothed --54. 51a. Flowers in axillary racemes, spikes, or panicles =URTICACEAE=, p. 23. 51b. Flowers terminal, or in terminal clusters --52. 52a. Flowers in umbels; leaves palmately compound =ARALIACEAE=, p. 80. 52b. Flowers in racemes or spikes, or solitary --53. 53a. Leaves deeply pinnatifid; swamp plants with flowers in spikes or solitary =HALORAGIDACEAE=, p. 79. 53b. Leaves lobed, or irregularly pinnately cut or dissected; weedy plants with flowers in racemes 2, in =COMPOSITAE=, p. 114. 54a. Juice milky 3, in =EUPHORBIACEAE=, p. 67. 54b. Juice not milky or colored --55. 55a. Leaves whorled --56. 55b. Leaves all opposite --58. 56a. Aquatic or mud plants with erect stems 2a, in =HALORAGIDACEAE=, p. 79. 56b. Prostrate weedy terrestrial plants =AIZOACEAE=, p. 31. 56c. Erect or ascending terrestrial plants --57. 57a. Leaves more than 2.5 cm. long 4a, in =CORNACEAE=, p. 83. 57b. Leaves 2 cm. long or less 3a, in =PRIMULACEAE=, p. 87. 58a. Flowers in terminal or axillary spikes, racemes, or other clusters --59. 58b. Flowers solitary or few in the axils of the leaves --61. 59a. Leaves less than 5 mm. long 1a, in =GENTIANACEAE=, p. 88. 59b. Leaves more than 2 cm. long --60. 60a. Inflorescence chiefly terminal, panicled 2, in =COMPOSITAE=, p. 114. 60b. Inflorescence chiefly axillary =URTICACEAE=, p. 23. 61a. Flowers on long pedicels 2, in =CARYOPHYLLACEAE=, p. 31. 61b. Flowers on short pedicels or sessile --62. 62a. Stem erect, repeatedly branched; leaves linear to oblong =ILLECEBRACEAE=, p. 31. 62b. Stem decumbent or prostrate --63. 63a. Leaves round, ovate, or kidney-shape, rounded at the base, crenate or lobed 12a, in =SAXIFRAGACEAE=, p. 50. 63b. Leaves of a narrower shape, entire, tapering toward the base --64. 64a. Principal leaves 2-3 cm. long 1a, in =ONAGRACEAE=, p. 78. 64b. Principal leaves 1 cm. long or less --65. 65a. Petals present =ELATINACEAE=, p. 74. 65b. Petals none =CALLITRICHACEAE=, p. 68. --66-- 66a. Plants of the composite type, with several or many small flowerets closely aggregated into a dense head surrounded or subtended by a calyx-like involucre of small bracts --67. 66b. Flowers solitary or variously clustered, but not in involucred heads --70. 67a. Involucre of 4 conspicuous white bracts, much larger than the small flower-cluster 4a, in =CORNACEAE=, p. 83. 67b. Involucral bracts green or somewhat colored --68. 68a. Stem more or less prickly =DIPSACACEAE=, p. 112. 68b. Stem and leaves not prickly --69. 69a. Stem square; foliage aromatic when crushed =LABIATAE=, p. 95. 69b. Stem not square; foliage not with the odor of mint =COMPOSITAE=, p. 113. 70a. The conspicuous portion of the perianth[1] composed of separate parts --71. 70b. The conspicuous portion of the perianth[1] composed of united parts --97. 71a. Stem-leaves compound, or cleft to the very base --72. 71b. Stem-leaves simple --78. 72a. Stamens more than 10 in each flower --73. 72b. Stamens 5-10 in each flower --75. 73a. Ovary 1 in each flower 2a, in =PAPAVERACEAE=, p. 41. 73b. Ovaries several in each flower --74. 74a. Leaves pinnately compound 68a, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 57. 74b. Leaves palmately compound =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 35. 75a. Stamens 6 31, in =CRUCIFERAE=, p. 44. 75b. Stamens 5 or 10 --76. 76a. Leaflets reverse heart-shape; flowers yellow =OXALIDACEAE=, p. 64. 76b. Leaflets not reverse heart-shape; flowers white, greenish, or pink --77. 77a. Flowers greenish or white, about 2 mm. broad =ARALIACEAE=, p. 80. 77b. Flowers 5 mm. broad or larger =GERANIACEAE=, p. 64. 78a. Juice milky --79. 78b. Juice not milky --80. 79a. A 3-lobed ovary with 3 short styles visible in some of the flowers =EUPHORBIACEAE=, p. 66. 79b. Ovaries 2 in the center of each flower (sometimes concealed by other organs); sepals and petals each 5 --104. 80a. Perianth with one circle of parts only --81. 80b. Each flower with both calyx and corolla --82. 81a. Stem prostrate; flowers only 2 mm. broad =AIZOACEAE=, p. 31. 81b. Stem erect; flowers at least 20 mm. wide 4a, in =CORNACEAE=, p. 83. 82a. Petals 2 or 4 --83. 82b. Petals 3 22, in=LILIACEAE=, p. 12. 82c. Petals 5 or 6 --84. 83a. Leaves with 3-5 principal veins =MELASTOMACEAE=, p. 77. 83b. Leaves with 1 principal mid-vein =ONAGRACEAE=, p. 78. 84a. Leaves palmately lobed --85. 84b. Leaves entire or toothed, or with 1-2 small lobes near the base only --86. 85a. Petals entire or notched at the end =GERANIACEAE=, p. 64. 85b. Petals conspicuously fringed 23b, in =SAXIFRAGACEAE=, p. 51. 86a. Ovary 1 --87. 86b. Ovaries 2, surrounded and concealed by other organs =ASCLEPIADACEAE=, p. 90. 86c. Ovaries 4-5 2b, in =CRASSULACEAE=, p. 48. 87a. Leaves dotted with translucent dots (easily seen when the leaf is held to the light) =HYPERICACEAE=, p. 73. 87b. Leaves not dotted with translucent dots --88. 88a. Leaves only 1-3 mm. long, closely appressed and concealing the stem 2a, in =CISTACEAE=, p. 74. 88b. Leaves larger, not concealing the stem --89. 89a. Style 1 or none --90. 89b. Styles 2 to 7 --94. 90a. Stamens 5 --91. 90b. Stamens 10 --92. 90c. Stamens neither 5 nor 10 --93. 91a. Flowers blue, sessile in terminal spikes with leaf-like bracts =LYTHRACEAE=, p. 77. 91b. Flowers not in terminal bracted spikes =PRIMULACEAE=, p. 87. 92a. Leaves entire =LYTHRACEAE=, p. 77. 92b. Leaves toothed or crenate =ERICACEAE=, p. 84. 93a. Flowers irregular; petals 3 =POLYGALACEAE=, p. 65. 93b. Flowers regular; petals 5 or more =LYTHRACEAE=, p. 77. 94a. Sepals 2, partly attached to the ovary =PORTULACACEAE=, p. 34. 94b. Sepals 5, free from the ovary --95. 95a. Stamens 5 --96. 95b. Stamens not 5 =CARYOPHYLLACEAE=, p. 31. 96a. Flowers blue or yellow =LINACEAE=, p. 63. 96b. Flowers white or pinkish =CARYOPHYLLACEAE=, p. 31. --97-- 97a. Perianth with but one circle of floral leaves --98. 97b. Perianth consisting of both calyx and corolla --101. 98a. Flowers small, in dense heads subtended by conspicuous bracts --99. 98b. Flowers 2-5, in a colored spreading 5-lobed involucre =NYCTAGINACEAE=, p. 31. 98c. Flowers in various sorts of clusters or solitary, but never in heads with a conspicuous involucre --100. 99a. Bracts 4, white and conspicuous; stem not thorny 4a, in =CORNACEAE=, p. 83. 99b. Bracts green; stem thorny =DIPSACACEAE=, p. 112. 100a. Stamens 3 =VALERIANACEAE=, p. 111. 100b. Stamens 4 or 5 =RUBIACEAE=, p. 108. 101a. Anthers more numerous than the lobes of the corolla --102. 101b. Anthers just as many as the lobes of the corolla --103. 101c. Anthers fewer than the lobes of the corolla --110. 102a. Leaves simple =POLYGALACEAE=, p. 65. 102b. Leaves compound with 3 leaflets =OXALIDACEAE=, p. 64. 102c. Leaves finely dissected; stems climbing 2a, in =FUMARIACEAE=, p. 41. 103a. Ovaries 2 --104. 103b. Ovary 1, but very deeply 4-lobed, with a single style =LABIATAE=, p. 95. 103c. Ovary 1, not deeply lobed --105. 104a. Stamens united, surrounding and more or less concealing the ovaries, and not resembling ordinary stamens =ASCLEPIADACEAE=, p. 90. 104b. Stamens separate, of ordinary structure =APOCYNACEAE=, p. 90. 105a. Ovary inferior, appearing as a swelling below the calyx at the apex of the pedicel --106. 105b. Ovary superior, located in the center of the flower --107. 106a. Corolla 3-4-lobed =RUBIACEAE=, p. 108. 106b. Corolla 5-lobed 3b, in =CAPRIFOLIACEAE=, p. 109. 107a. Leaves toothed or deeply cut =VERBENACEAE=, p. 99. 107b. Leaves entire --108. 108a. A stamen in front of the middle of each petal =PRIMULACEAE=, p. 87. 108b. Stamens located between the petals or lobes of the corolla, or else so far down in the tubular corolla that their position is not easily ascertained --109. 109a. Corolla salver-form, with a very slender tube, and abruptly spreading lobes =POLEMONIACEAE=, p. 92. 109b. Corolla salver-form, with a wide tube and fringed blue petals =GENTIANACEAE=, p. 88. 109c. Corolla rotate, funnel-form, or bell-shape =GENTIANACEAE=, p. 88. 110a. Ovary deeply 4-lobed, appearing like 4 separate ovaries; style 1 =LABIATAE=, p. 95. 110b. Ovary not 4-lobed --111. 111a. Stamens 2 --112. 111b. Stamens 3 =VALERIANACEAE=, p. 111. 111c. Stamens 4 --113. 112a. Flowers in dense heads 1a, in =ACANTHACEAE=, p. 107. 112b. Flowers solitary or in loose clusters =SCROPHULARIACEAE=, p. 101. 113a. Corolla distinctly 2-lipped and irregular --114. 113b. Corolla not distinctly 2-lipped, its 5 lobes all alike or nearly so --115. 114a. Calyx 2-lipped; the upper lip with 3 awl-shape teeth, the lower with 2 short teeth; flowers in slender terminal spikes =PHRYMACEAE=, p. 107. 114b. Calyx not obviously 2-lipped, its teeth equal or nearly so =SCROPHULARIACEAE=, p. 101. 115a. Flowers sessile or nearly so, in spikes --116. 115b. Flowers in nodding pairs at the top of a slender stalk 3a, in =CAPRIFOLIACEAE=, p. 109. 115c. Flowers solitary or in clusters; not in spikes or nodding pairs --117. 116a. Corolla not over 1 cm. long =VERBENACEAE=, p. 99. 116b. Corolla 1.5 cm. long or more =SCROPHULARIACEAE=, p. 101. 117a. Calyx-lobes 15-25 mm. long; flowers blue, 3-5 cm. long; calyx without an obvious tube 2, in =ACANTHACEAE=, p. 107. 117b. Calyx-lobes united below into an obvious calyx-tube =SCROPHULARIACEAE=, p. 101. --118-- 118a. Leaves deeply lobed, compound, or dissected --119. 118b. Leaves simple and not deeply lobed --129. 119a. Leaves once-pinnately compound or lobed --120. 119b. Leaves once-palmately compound or lobed --124. 119c. Leaves dissected or 2-3 times compound --125. 120a. Leaves merely lobed --121. 120b. Leaves actually compound --123. 121a. Flowers axillary; marsh or swamp plants =HALORAGIDACEAE=, p. 79. 121b. Flowers in terminal clusters --122. 122a. Stamens 2-6; taste mustard-like 52b, in =CRUCIFERAE=, p. 46. 122b. Stamens 10 or more =RESEDACEAE=, p. 48. 123a. Leaflets entire =LIMNANTHACEAE=, p. 68. 123b. Leaflets serrate 70a, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 57. 124a. Flowers solitary 31a, in =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 38. 124b. Flowers in dense terminal umbels or heads =UMBELLIFERAE=, p. 80. 124c. Flowers in terminal racemes 2a, in =COMPOSITAE=, p. 114. 124d. Flowers in axillary spikes or panicles 9b, in =URTICACEAE=, p. 24. 125a. Leaves merely dissected, not truly compound with distinct leaflets --126. 125b. Leaves truly compound, with distinct petiolate leaflets --127. 126a. Flowers in axillary clusters =CHENOPODIACEAE=, p. 28. 126b. Flowers in terminal clusters =COMPOSITAE=, p. 113. 127a. Stamens 5; flowers in umbels --128. 127b. Stamens 6; flowers in small clusters 3b, in =BERBERIDACEAE=, p. 40. 127c. Stamens many; flowers in racemes or panicles =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 35. 128a. Styles 5 =ARALIACEAE=, p. 80. 128b. Styles 2 =UMBELLIFERAE=, p. 80. 129a. Flowers in dense cottony heads; plants more or less white-woolly 79, in =COMPOSITAE=, p. 120. 129b. Pistillate flowers in an ovoid spiny involucre, ripening into a bur 3a, in =COMPOSITAE=, p. 114. 129c. Flowers minute, subtended by palmately cleft axillary bracts 1a, in =EUPHORBIACEAE=, p. 66. 129d. Plants without any of the preceding characters --130. 130a. Plants with milky or colored juice 10, in =EUPHORBIACEAE=, p. 67. 130b. Plants with tendrils, at least on the upper leaves 4a, in =LILIACEAE=, p. 11. 130c. Plants of nettle-like character, with stinging hairs 8b, in =URTICACEAE=, p. 24. 130d. Plants with sheathing stipules, surrounding the stem above the base of each leaf =POLYGONACEAE=, p. 25. 130e. Plants with smooth, pale, juicy, almost translucent stems 12a, in =URTICACEAE=, p. 24. 130f. Plants without any of the preceding structures or habits --131. 131a. Flowers axillary, solitary or in few-flowered clusters --132. 131b. Flowers in terminal, or terminal and axillary clusters --138. 132a. Leaves linear =CHENOPODIACEAE=, p. 28. 132b. Leaves of a broader shape than linear --133. 133a. Flower-clusters with bracts as long as or longer than the flowers --134. 133b. Flowers without conspicuous bracts --135. 134a. Leaves broadest below the middle 8a, in =URTICACEAE=, p. 24. 134b. Leaves broadest above the middle 2, in =AMARANTHACEAE=, p. 30. 135a. Principal leaves 3 cm. long or more --136. 135b. Principal leaves 2.5 cm. long or less --137. 136a. Flowers nodding in the axils of the leaves 1a, in =VIOLACEAE=, p. 75. 136b. Flowers erect in the axils 2a, in =ONAGRACEAE=, p. 78. 137a. Leaves narrowly oblong 1a, in =HALORAGIDACEAE=, p. 79. 137b. Leaves roundish and somewhat heart-shape 12a, in =SAXIFRAGACEAE=, p. 50. 138a. Flowers in racemes or simple spikes --139. 138b. Flowers in panicles or other branched clusters --141. 139a. Leaves toothed or lobed 52b, in =CRUCIFERAE=, p. 46. 139b. Leaves entire --140. 140a. Flowers sessile; leaves heart-shape =PIPERACEAE=, p. 19. 140b. Flowers pedicelled; leaves obovate 8b, in =PRIMULACEAE=, p. 87. 141a. Individual flowers distinct from each other, on pedicels --142. 141b. Individual flowers crowded in close clusters, or separate and sessile --143. 142a. Leaves finely serrate 3b, in =CRASSULACEAE=, p. 49. 142b. Leaves entire 1b, in =CISTACEAE=, p. 74. 143a. Flower-clusters mingled with sharp-pointed bracts =AMARANTHACEAE=, p. 30. 143b. Flower-clusters without bracts, or (rarely) with bracts which are not sharp-pointed =CHENOPODIACEAE=, p. 28. --144-- 144a. Juice not milky --145. 144b. Juice milky; apparent flowers consisting of a few white or colored petal-like bracts, inclosing a few inconspicuous flowers without petals. In some of them a 3-lobed ovary with 3 styles may be plainly seen =EUPHORBIACEAE=, p. 66. 145a. Plants of the composite type, with several or many small flowerets closely aggregated into a dense head subtended by a calyx-like involucre of small bracts --146. 145b. Flowers solitary or in clusters, but not in involucred heads --147. 146a. Leaves compound with 3 leaflets; stipules present =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 146b. Stipules none =COMPOSITAE=, p. 113. 147a. Leaves compound or deeply lobed --148. 147b. Leaves simple and not deeply lobed --154. 148a. Flowers irregular =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 148b. Flowers regular --149. 149a. Petals 3 =LIMNANTHACEAE=, p. 68. 149b. Petals 4 --150. 149c. Petals 5 or more --151. 150a. Stamens 4 70a, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 57. 150b. Stamens 6 =CRUCIFERAE=, p. 42. 150c. Stamens numerous 43, in =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 39. 151a. Flowers in heads or umbels --152. 151b. Flowers in slender spikes or racemes --153. 152a. Styles 2 =UMBELLIFERAE=, p. 80. 152b. Styles 5 =ARALIACEAE=, p. 80. 153a. Leaves ternately compound 43, in =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 39. 153b. Leaves once-pinnately compound 50b, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 55. 154a. Flowers irregular --155. 154b. Flowers regular --156. 155a. Stamens 2 40b, in =SCROPHULARIACEAE=, p. 104. 155b. Stamens 5 or 10 =SAXIFRAGACEAE=, p. 49. 155c. Stamens 6 or 8 =POLYGALACEAE=, p. 65. 156a. With sheathing stipules surrounding the stem at the base of each leaf =POLYGONACEAE=, p. 24. 156b. Stipules not encircling the stem, or none --157. 157a. Petals 3 =CISTACEAE=, p. 74. 157b. Petals 4 --158. 157c. Petals 5 --161. 158a. Stamens 2 --159. 158b. Stamens 6 =CRUCIFERAE=, p. 42. 158c. Stamens 8 --160. 159a. Corolla perfectly regular; flowers in terminal clusters without bracts, becoming racemes; taste peppery 52a, in =CRUCIFERAE=, p. 46. 159b. Corolla slightly irregular; flowers in bracted clusters, or axillary; taste not peppery 40b, in =SCROPHULARIACEAE=, p. 104. 160a. Delicate trailing evergreen, with flowers solitary in the axils and nearly or quite hidden beneath the leaves 22b, in =ERICACEAE=, p. 85. 160b. Erect or nearly so; flowers in terminal clusters 12b, in =ONAGRACEAE=, p. 78. 161a. Leaves sword-shape, finely parallel-veined, with bristly margins 2a, in =UMBELLIFERAE=, p. 80. 161b. Leaves not sword-shape --162. 162a. Leaves toothed or lobed --163. 162b. Leaves entire --164. 163a. Stems creeping 2b, in =UMBELLIFERAE=, p. 80. 163b. Stems erect or nearly so =SAXIFRAGACEAE=, p. 49. 164a. Flowers in open panicles; leaves principally basal =SAXIFRAGACEAE=, p. 49. 164b. Flowers in rounded or flattened clusters; leaves principally on the stem =SANTALACEAE=, p. 24. 164c. Flowers in racemes, which become elongated at maturity --165. 165a. Foliage glabrous 8b, in =PRIMULACEAE=, p. 87. 165b. Foliage pubescent =BORAGINACEAE=, p. 93. --166-- 166a. Juice milky or colored --167. 166b. Juice watery, not colored --172. 167a. Apparent flowers consisting of a few petal-like bracts, inclosing a few inconspicuous flowers without petals. In some of them a 3-lobed ovary with 3 styles may be seen =EUPHORBIACEAE=, p. 66. 167b. Plants of the composite type, with several or many small flowerets closely aggregated in dense heads subtended by a calyx-like involucre of small bracts 11, in =COMPOSITAE=, p. 115. 167c. Flowers never aggregated in involucred clusters resembling a single flower --168. 168a. Corolla very irregular; stamens protruding =LOBELIACEAE=, p. 113. 168b. Corolla regular --169. 169a. Stamens with ordinary visible anthers; ovary 1 --170. 169b. Stamens so grown together and to the stigma as to be almost unrecognizable; ovaries 2 =ASCLEPIADACEAE=, p. 90. 170a. Petals separate =PAPAVERACEAE=, p. 41. 170b. Petals united --171. 171a. Stamens attached to the tube of the corolla =CONVOLVULACEAE=, p. 91. 171b. Stamens attached at the very base of the corolla =CAMPANULACEAE=, p. 112. 172a. Plants of the composite type, with several or many small flowerets closely aggregated into dense heads subtended by a calyx-like involucre of small bracts --173. 172b. Flowers solitary or clustered, but not in involucred heads --174. 173a. True composites, without a normal calyx =COMPOSITAE=, p. 113. 173b. A normal calyx with each floweret; leaves compound with 3 leaflets =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 174a. Flowers irregular, i. e., the conspicuous lobes of the perianth unlike in size or shape --175. 174b. Flowers regular --185. 175a. Stamens 2 or 4 =SCROPHULARIACEAE=, p. 101. 175b. Stamens 5 --176. 175c. Stamens 6 --181. 175d. Stamens 8; leaves simple =POLYGALACEAE=, p. 65. 175e. Stamens 10; leaves usually compound =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 58. 175f. Stamens more than 10 --183. 176a. Petals separate --177. 176b. Petals united --179. 177a. Flowers greenish or purplish, in a panicle =SAXIFRAGACEAE=, p. 49. 177b. Flowers white or purplish, in compound umbels =UMBELLIFERAE=, p. 80. 177c. Flowers solitary, or in few-flowered clusters --178. 178a. Flowers blue, yellow, or white, in spring =VIOLACEAE=, p. 75. 178b. Flowers red-orange or yellow, in summer =BALSAMINACEAE=, p. 71. 178c. Flowers small and greenish, in spring 1a, in =VIOLACEAE=, p. 75. 179a. Anthers united; stamens protruding from the very irregular corolla =LOBELIACEAE=, p. 113. 179b. Anthers separate; corolla almost regular --180. 180a. Corolla rotate; some or all filaments hairy 2, in =SCROPHULARIACEAE=, p. 101. 180b. Corolla funnel-form, dull yellow and purple; filaments not hairy 12a, in =SOLANACEAE=, p. 101. 180c. Corolla funnel-form, blue or violet; filaments not hairy 7b, in =BORAGINACEAE=, p. 94. 181a. Leaves compound or dissected =FUMARIACEAE=, p. 41. 181b. Leaves simple --182. 182a. Flowers solitary =ARISTOLOCHIACEAE=, p. 25. 182b. Flowers in spikes, heads, or racemes =POLYGALACEAE=, p. 65. 183a. Leaves truly compound --184. 183b. Leaves palmately cleft; flowers 15 mm. wide or larger 6a, in =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 36. 183c. Leaves irregularly cleft; flowers about 5 mm. wide =RESEDACEAE=, p. 48. 184a. Petals prolonged backward into hollow spurs 6b, in =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 36. 184b. Petals not prolonged into spurs =CAPPARIDACEAE=, p. 47. --185-- 185a. Perianth consisting of one circle of parts only (usually considered to be the calyx) --186. 185b. Perianth consisting of both calyx and corolla --192. 186a. Leaves with sheathing stipules encircling the stem above the base of every leaf =POLYGONACEAE=, p. 25. 186b. Leaves without sheathing stipules --187. 187a. Leaves entire --188. 187b. Leaves toothed, lobed, or compound --190. 188a. Stamens 5 =SANTALACEAE=, p. 24. 188b. Stamens 6 --189. 188c. Stamens 10 =PHYTOLACCACEAE=, p. 30. 189a. Perianth-lobes 3; perianth-tube curved =ARISTOLOCHIACEAE=, p. 25. 189b. Perianth-lobes 6, spreading 4a, in =LILIACEAE=, p. 11. 190a. Stamens 5 =UMBELLIFERAE=, p. 80. 190b. Stamens 6 --191. 190c. Stamens more than 6 =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 35. 191a. Climbing plant with heart-shape perianth 2a, in =FUMARIACEAE=, p. 41. 191b. Erect plant, with spreading perianth 3b, in =BERBERIDACEAE=, p. 40. 192a. Corolla composed of united petals --193. 192b. Corolla composed of separate petals --208. 193a. Stamens 2 or 4 =SCROPHULARIACEAE=, p. 101. 193b. Stamens 3; climbing vines =CUCURBITACEAE=, p. 112. 193c. Stamens 5 --194. 193d. Stamens 6 2a, in =FUMARIACEAE=, p. 41. 193e. Stamens 8 22b, in =ERICACEAE=, p. 85. 193f. Stamens 10 --207. 193g. Stamens very numerous =MALVACEAE=, p. 72. 194a. Ovaries 2; flowers orange-red, in umbels 7a, in =ASCLEPIADACEAE=, p. 91. 194b. Ovary 1, deeply 4-lobed; flowers in racemes =BORAGINACEAE=, p. 93. 194c. Ovary 1, not deeply lobed --195. 195a. Climbing or scrambling vines --196. 195b. Not climbing or scrambling --198. 196a. Flowers about 1 cm. wide --197. 196b. Flowers 2-8 cm. wide =CONVOLVULACEAE=, p. 91. 197a. Leaves 1 cm. wide or less 2b, in =CAMPANULACEAE=, p. 112. 197b. Leaves 2 cm. wide or more 4a, in =SOLANACEAE=, p. 100. 198a. Flowers solitary, either terminal or axillary --199. 198b. Flowers in terminal clusters --201. 199a. Calyx concealed by 2 bracts =CONVOLVULACEAE=, p. 91. 199b. Calyx not completely concealed by bracts --200. 200a. Ovary inferior, appearing as a swelling below the calyx at the base of the flower, 3-celled; stigma 3-lobed =CAMPANULACEAE=, p. 112. 200b. Ovary superior, located in the center of the flower =SOLANACEAE=, p. 100. 201a. Some or all filaments hairy --202. 201b. Filaments not hairy --203. 202a. Leaves lobed or divided =HYDROPHYLLACEAE=, p. 93. 202b. Leaves not lobed 2, in =SCROPHULARIACEAE=, p. 101. 203a. Anthers close together, longer than the filaments 2, in =SOLANACEAE=, p. 100. 203b. Anthers separate from each other --204. 204a. Leaves compound or very deeply lobed --205. 204b. Leaves simple or with shallow lobes only --206. 205a. Leaf-segments linear or oblong, irregular =HYDROPHYLLACEAE=, p. 93. 205b. Leaves truly compound with separate leaflets 1a, in =POLEMONIACEAE=, p. 92. 206a. Flowers greenish-yellow =SOLANACEAE=, p. 100. 206b. Flowers blue, violet, white, or intermediate tints =CAMPANULACEAE=, p. 112. 207a. Leaves simple =ERICACEAE=, p. 84. 207b. Leaves compound =OXALIDACEAE=, p. 64. --208-- 208a. Petals 4 --209. 208b. Petals 5 --212. 208c. Petals 6 or more --227. 209a. Stamens 4 or 8 --210. 209b. Stamens 6, 4 long and 2 short =CRUCIFERAE=, p. 42. 209c. Stamens 9 or more =CAPPARIDACEAE=, p. 47. 210a. Leaves compound =ROSACEAE=, p. 51. 210b. Leaves simple --211. 211a. Ovary 1, inferior, appearing as a swelling below the calyx =ONAGRACEAE=, p. 78. 211b. Ovaries 4 or 5, in the center of the flower =CRASSULACEAE=, p. 48. 212a. Stamens with good anthers 5 --213. 212b. Stamens 6 to 10 --217. 212c. Stamens more than 10 --222. 213a. Flowers solitary, terminating the stem 12b, in =SAXIFRAGACEAE=, p. 50. 213b. Flowers axillary, solitary or in small clusters --214. 213c. Flowers several, in loose irregular terminal clusters; leaves simple =LINACEAE=, p. 63. 213d. Flowers in slender spike-like racemes; leaves compound 50b, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 55. 213e. Flowers in panicles 20a, in =SAXIFRAGACEAE=, p. 50. 213f. Flowers in umbels --216. 214a. Leaves compound 25b, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 60. 214b. Leaves simple --215. 215a. Flowers blue or yellow, erect or spreading =LINACEAE=, p. 63. 215b. Flowers greenish, nodding 1a, in =VIOLACEAE=, p. 75. 216a. Flowers pink or purple =GERANIACEAE=, p. 64. 216b. Flowers yellow or white =UMBELLIFERAE=, p. 80. 217a. Leaves compound with 3 leaflets --218. 217b. Leaves pinnately compound --219. 217c. Leaves deeply palmately lobed =GERANIACEAE=, p. 64. 217d. Leaves simple and not deeply lobed --220. 218a. Leaflets reverse heart-shape; flowers yellow =OXALIDACEAE=, p. 64. 218b. Leaflets taper-pointed; flowers white or pink 73, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 57. 219a. Leaflets entire 24, in =LEGUMINOSAE=, p. 60. 219b. Leaflets toothed 50b, in =ROSACEAE=, p. 55. 220a. Prostrate plants, with thick, fleshy, entire leaves 3, in =PORTULACACEAE=, p. 34. 220b. Bushy branched plants, with small gray leaves concealing the stem 2a, in =CISTACEAE=, p. 74. 220c. Erect or spreading plants --221. 221a. Ovary 1, style 1 4a, in =ERICACEAE=, p. 84. 221b. Ovary with 2 distinct styles =SAXIFRAGACEAE=, p. 49. 221c. Ovaries 5; styles 5 =CRASSULACEAE=, p. 48. 222a. Stamens united by their filaments into a tube =MALVACEAE=, p. 72. 222b. Stamens separate from each other --223. 223a. Leaves with stipules; ovaries more than 1 =ROSACEAE=, p. 51. 223b. Leaves without stipules --224. 224a. Leaves toothed, deeply lobed, or compound =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 35. 224b. Leaves entire --225. 225a. Ovaries numerous =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 35. 225b. Ovary 1 --226. 226a. Sepals 2 =PORTULACACEAE=, p. 34. 226b. Sepals 3 or 5 =CISTACEAE=, p. 74. --227-- 227a. Leaves entire =LYTHRACEAE=, p. 77. 227b. Leaves lobed, divided, dissected, or compound --228. 228a. Flowers in slender racemes =RESEDACEAE=, p. 48. 228b. Flowers solitary or clustered, but not in slender racemes --229. 229a. Stamens 6 3b, in =BERBERIDACEAE=, p. 40. 229b. Stamens numerous =RANUNCULACEAE=, p. 35. [1] In most flowers the corolla is the conspicuous portion of the perianth, and is composed of united or separate petals, as the case may be. In some flowers the corolla is absent, and the calyx is the conspicuous portion. THE PLANTS OF MICHIGAN PINACEAE, the Pine Family Trees or shrubs, usually evergreen, with needle-like or scale-like leaves; fruit a cone or berry. 1a. Leaves in clusters of 2-5 --2. 1b. Leaves mostly in clusters of 10 or more, on short lateral wart-like branches, deciduous each autumn =Tamarack, Larix laricina.= 1c. Leaves not in clusters --4. 2a. Leaves in clusters of 5 =White Pine, Pinus strobus.= 2b. Leaves in clusters of 2 or 3 --3. 3a. Leaves 8-15 cm. long =Norway Pine, Pinus resinosa.= 3b. Leaves 2-4 cm. long =Jack Pine, Pinus banksiana.= 4a. Leaves alternate or scattered --5. 4b. Leaves opposite or whorled --8. 5a. Leaves four-sided --6. 5b. Leaves flattened --7. 6a. Leaves 6-12 mm. long =Black Spruce, Picea mariana.= 6b. Leaves 15-25 mm. long =White Spruce, Picea canadensis.= 7a. Leaves short-stalked, 15 mm. long or less =Hemlock, Tsuga canadensis.= 7b. Leaves sessile, 15-30 mm. long =Balsam, Abies balsamea.= 8a. Leafy twigs soft and flattened =White Cedar, Thuja occidentalis.= 8b. Leafy twigs not distinctly flattened --9. 9a. Leaves opposite --10. 9b. Leaves in whorls of three --11. 10a. Erect shrub or tree =Red Cedar, Juniperus virginiana.= 10b. Prostrate or spreading shrub =Creeping Cedar, Juniperus horizontalis.= 11a. Erect shrub or small tree =Juniper, Juniperus communis.= 11b. Spreading or ascending shrub, growing in dense mats =Low Juniper, Juniperus communis var. depressa.= TAXACEAE, the Yew Family Shrubs, with needle-like evergreen leaves; fruit red and berry-like. One species in Michigan; straggling shrub 1-3 m. high =Ground Hemlock, Taxus canadensis.= TYPHACEAE, the Cat-tail Family Erect plants 1-2 m. high, with linear leaves and terminal spikes of brown flowers, appearing in summer. 1a. Staminate and pistillate portions of the flower-spike contiguous, the latter 2.5 cm. in diameter =Common Cat-tail, Typha latifolia.= 1b. Staminate and pistillate portions of the spike separated, the latter 2 cm. or less in diameter =Narrow-leaved Cat-tail, Typha angustifolia.= SPARGANIACEAE, the Bur-reed Family Marsh plants with linear leaves and spherical heads of inconspicuous greenish flowers, appearing in summer. About 5 species occur in Michigan, of which the commonest is =Bur-reed, Sparganium eurycarpum.= NAJADACEAE, the Pondweed Family Aquatic plants with submerged or floating leaves and inconspicuous flowers in summer. 1a. Leaves opposite or whorled --2. 1b. Leaves alternate --2c. 2a. Leaves thread-like, 3-8 cm. long =Horned Pondweed, Zannichellia palustris.= 2b. Leaves linear, toothed, abruptly dilated at the base, 3 cm. long or less (Naiad) --3. 2c. Leaves entire, not abruptly dilated at base [2]=Pondweed, Potamogeton spp.= 3a. Leaves about 2 mm. wide, sharply and coarsely toothed =Naiad, Naias marina.= 3b. Leaves very narrowly linear, with numerous minute teeth =Naiad, Naias flexilis.= [2] About 30 species of Potamogeton occur in Michigan, among which the most conspicuous is Potamogeton natans, with elliptical floating leaves. For the identification of the species the Manual must be used. JUNCAGINACEAE, the Arrow Grass Family Marsh plants, with linear cylindrical leaves and inconspicuous flowers in spikes or racemes, appearing in early summer. 1a. Leaves all basal; flowers numerous in a spike-like raceme (Arrow Grass) --2. 1b. Stem-leaves present; flowers in a loose bracted raceme (1-3 dm. high). =Scheuchzeria, Scheuchzeria palustris.= 2a. Fruit (usually to be seen at the base of the raceme) ovoid or oblong, rounded at the base =Arrow Grass, Triglochin maritima.= 2b. Fruit linear, narrowed at the base (1-5 dm. high) =Arrow Grass, Triglochin palustris.= ALISMACEAE, the Water Plantain Family Marsh plants, with scape-like stems; flowers with 3 green sepals, 3 white petals, 6 or more stamens, and several separate pistils. 1a. Ovaries in a ring; flowers in panicles (2-8 dm. high, summer) =Water Plantain, Alisma Plantago-aquatica.= 1b. Ovaries in a head; flowers in racemes or umbels --2. 2a. Flowers all perfect, in a single umbel of 2-8 flowers; stamens 9 (leaves lanceolate; 15 cm. high or less; summer) =Dwarf Water Plantain, Echinodorus tenellus.= 2b. Flowers in a raceme of 3-flowered whorls, the lower pistillate, the upper staminate; stamens usually more than nine (1-10 dm. high, summer) (Arrow-head) --3. 3a. Leaves ovate to linear, not sagittate at base --4. 3b. Leaves broad or narrow, sagittate at base --5. 4a. Pistillate (basal) flowers sessile or nearly so (2-8 dm. high, summer) =Arrow-head, Sagittaria heterophylla.= 4b. Pistillate flowers with obvious pedicels =Arrow-head, Sagittaria graminea.= 5a. Basal lobes of the leaf conspicuous, triangular, almost or quite as long as the terminal portion --6. 5b. Basal lobes small, short, linear --4b. 6a. Beak of the achene very short and erect; rare species =Arrow-head, Sagittaria arifolia.= 6b. Beak of the achene sharp, incurved at right angles to the body; common species =Arrow-head, Sagittaria latifolia.= HYDROCHARITACEAE, the Frog's Bit Family Submerged aquatics, with inconspicuous flowers in summer. 1a. Leaves all from the base, 2 dm. long or more =Eel Grass, Vallisneria spiralis.= 1b. Leaves on the stem, 2 cm. long or less =Water-weed, Elodea canadensis.= GRAMINEAE, the Grass Family Grasses, with linear or narrow sheathing leaves, and very small flowers without perianth in the axils of chaffy bracts, appearing in late spring and summer. Of the large number (over 150) of grasses in Michigan, only the commonest are included here, and the student is referred to the Manuals for a full treatment of them. Their classification depends chiefly upon the structure and arrangement of the spikelets. These consist typically of a short axis, the rachilla, almost or quite concealed by several chaffy bracts. The two lower bracts are termed glumes, and have no flowers in their axils. Above the glumes are two or more other bracts, the lemmas. In the axil of each lemma, and usually concealed by it, is a smaller bract, the palea, and between the lemma and the palea is a single flower. The number of flowers in a spikelet is therefore normally equal to the number of lemmas. The spikelets are grouped in racemes, spikes, or panicles of various size. 1a. Spikelets one-flowered --2. 1b. Spikelets with 2 or more flowers --24. 2a. Spikelets grouped into dense solitary cylindrical spikes --3. 2b. Spikelets arranged in panicles or in panicled spikes --8. 3a. Spikelets without awns or bristles, or with short awns not more than 3 mm. long --4. 3b. Spikelets with awns 2-5 cm. long, terminating the bracts =Squirrel-tail, Hordeum jubatum.= 3c. Bracts of the spikelet without terminal awns, but the spikelets with one or more long bristles arising from their base --6. 4a. Spike-like panicle thickened in the middle, more than 1 cm. thick =Beach Grass, Ammophila arenaria.= 4b. Spike little or not at all thickened in the middle, less than 1 cm. thick --5. 5a. Lower bracts awned; stem erect, unbranched =Timothy, Phleum pratense.= 5b. Lower scales unawned; stem branched at the base =Floating Foxtail, Alopecurus geniculatus.= 6a. Bristles 5 or more at the base of each spikelet =Yellow Foxtail, Setaria glauca.= 6b. Bristles 1-3 at the base of each spikelet --7. 7a. Spikelets about 2 mm. long; bristles not much longer, green =Green Foxtail, Setaria viridis.= 7b. Spikelets about 3 mm. long; bristles much longer, usually purple =Millet, Setaria italica.= 8a. Spikelets numerous, in long slender symmetrical spikes --9. 8b. Spikelets in panicles, racemes, or loose spikes --13. 9a. Spikelets without awns; plants 8 dm. high or less (Crab Grass) --10. 9b. Spikelets with awns; plants 12 dm. high or more --12. 10a. Leaf-sheaths all glabrous. =Crab Grass, Digitaria humifusa.= 10b. Lower leaf-sheaths hairy --11. 11a. Axis of the spike flat, with wing-like margins =Crab Grass, Digitaria sanguinalis.= 11b. Axis of the spike slender, without winged margins =Crab Grass, Digitaria filiformis.= 12a. Spikes numerous, appressed to the axis of the panicle; tall marsh grass =Slough Grass, Spartina michauxiana.= 12b. Spikes 2-6, widely divergent; plant of dry ground =Blue-joint, Andropogon furcatus.= 13a. Spikelets subtended by an ovoid thorny involucre 3-8 mm. wide =Sand Bur, Cenchrus carolinianus.= 13b. Spikelets without a thorny involucre --14. 14a. Lower branches of the panicle spreading, bearing staminate flowers, the upper branches erect, with pistillate flowers; aquatic or marsh grass 2-4 m. high =Wild Rice, Zizania aquatica.= 14b. Panicle uniform throughout --15. 15a. Spikelets with awns 2 mm. or more long --16. 15b. Spikelets not awned, or with short inconspicuous awns --18. 16a. Spikelets in solitary raceme-like spikes; awn about 1 cm. long or more =Beard Grass, Andropogon scoparius.= 16b. Spikelets in branching clusters; awn less than 1 cm. long --17. 17a. Leaf-blade 4 mm. wide or narrower; panicle slender =Drop-seed, Muhlenbergia schreberi.= 17b. Leaf-blade 6 mm. wide or more; panicle stout and coarse =Barnyard Grass, Echinochloa crus-galli.= 18a. Spikelet plump and compact, its bracts closely folded about each other --19. 18b. Spikelet very flat, its two bracts closely folded together =Cut-grass, Leersia oryzoides.= 18c. Spikelet loose and open, somewhat flattened, its 3 bracts ascending or spreading and not closely folded about each other --20. 19a. Panicle about half as long as the entire plant; leaves copiously hairy =Witch Grass, Panicum capillare.= 19b. Panicle of smaller size =Panic-grasses, various species of Panicum.= 20a. Panicle strongly contracted or spike-like; plants of sand-dunes --4a. 20b. Panicle spreading or slightly contracted; axis of the spikelet beset with bristles; leaves 2 dm. long or more; marsh grass =Reed Grass, Calamagrostis canadensis.= 20c. Panicle spreading or somewhat contracted, but not spike-like; axis of the spikelet without bristles --21. 21a. Panicle-branches erect or ascending --22. 21b. Panicle-branches strongly spreading --23. 22a. The two outer scales of the spikelet one-fourth as long as the third scale, or sometimes one of them absent --17a. 22b. The glumes at least half as long as the lemma =Wood-grass, Muhlenbergia mexicana.= 23a. The chief lateral branches of the panicle dividing and bearing flowers below their middle =Red-top, Agrostis alba.= 23b. The chief branches of the panicle dividing only beyond the middle =Hair Grass, Agrostis hyemalis.= 24a. Spikelets arranged in two rows to form a definite spike --25. 24b. Spikelets in panicles, never in definite rows --29. 25a. Spikelets in a single row on one side of the axis, forming a one-sided spike =Yard Grass, Eleusine indica.= 25b. Spikelets alternating on opposite sides of the axis, forming a two-rowed spike --26. 26a. Spikelets in pairs at each joint, forming a dense spike (Wild Rye) --27. 26b. Spikelets single at each joint, forming a loose, open or interrupted spike --28. 27a. Glumes lanceolate =Wild Rye, Elymus canadensis.= 27b. Glumes narrowly subulate =Wild Rye, Elymus virginicus.= 28a. Spikelets with their edges toward the axis of the spike =Rye Grass, Lolium perenne.= 28b. Spikelets with their sides toward the axis of the spike =Quack Grass, Agropyron repens.= 29a. Glumes longer than the lemmas =Oats, Avena sativa.= 29b. Glumes shorter than the lemmas --30. 30a. Axis of the spikelet beset with conspicuous long hairs about equaling the lemmas; tall marsh grass 1-4 m. high =Reed, Phragmites communis.= 30b. Spikelets without conspicuous long hairs --31. 31a. Spikelets sessile or nearly so, forming crowded or spike-like panicles --32. 31b. Spikelets distinctly panicled --33. 32a. Spikelets in dense one-sided clusters at the ends of the panicle branches =Orchard Grass, Dactylis glomerata.= 32b. Spikelets in an erect spike-like cluster =Prairie June-grass, Koeleria cristata.= 33a. Lemmas, exclusive of the awn when present, 8 mm. long or more --34. 33b. Lemmas, exclusive of the awn when present, 6 mm. long or less --35. 34a. Awns on the lemmas 12 mm. long or more =Brome-grass, Bromus tectorum.= 34b. Awns on the lemmas 8 mm. long or less, or none =Cheat, Bromus secalinus.= 35a. Lemmas with 7 sharp conspicuous veins from base to apex =Manna Grass, Glyceria nervata.= 35b. Lemmas with 3-5 inconspicuous veins --36. 36a. Spikelets with 5 flowers or more --37. 36b. Spikelets with 2-4 (rarely 5) flowers --40. 37a. Stems tufted and decumbent at base (Love Grass) --38. 37b. Stems erect (Fescue Grass) --39. 38a. Spikelets 1.5 mm. wide =Love Grass, Eragrostis pilosa.= 38b. Spikelets 3 mm. wide =Love Grass, Eragrostis megastachya.= 39a. Lemmas with conspicuous awns =Fescue Grass, Festuca octoflora.= 39b. Lemmas without awns =Fescue Grass, Festuca elatior.= 40a. Tufted annual grass =Spear Grass, Poa annua.= 40b. Perennials, with erect flowering stems --41. 41a. Stems round =Blue Grass, Poa pratensis.= 41b. Stems strongly flattened =Canadian Blue Grass, Poa compressa.= CYPERACEAE, the Sedge Family Grass-like or rush-like plants, with linear leaves or leafless, and inconspicuous flowers in small chaffy spikes. Over 200 species occur in Michigan, of which only the commonest are included here. For the remaining species the Manuals should be consulted. 1a. Spikes all alike --2. 1b. The uppermost spike or spikes wholly staminate, the lower one or more pistillate; ovary and achene surrounded by a sac, the perigynium. Mature fruit is necessary for satisfactory identification (Sedge) --12. 2a. Stems leafless, bearing one or more spikes at or near the top --3. 2b. Stems leafy --6. 3a. Spike one, terminal and erect (Spike Rush) --4. 3b. Spikes usually more than one, lateral and spreading --5. 4a. Annual, with fibrous roots =Spike Rush, Eleocharis obtusa.= 4b. Perennial, with a running rootstock =Spike Rush, Eleocharis palustris.= 5a. Stem round =Bulrush, Scirpus validus.= 5b. Stem 3-cornered =Three-square, Scirpus americanus.= 6a. Spikes axillary along the side of the stem =Dulichium, Dulichium, arundinaceum.= 6b. Spikes terminal --7. 7a. Spikes subtended by long conspicuous leaves which greatly exceed the flower clusters --8. 7b. Spikes not conspicuously exceeded by the bract-like leaves --10. 8a. Spikes in a dense head-like cluster, white-woolly at maturity =Cotton Grass, Eriophorum virginicum.= 8b. Spikes not in dense heads, nor white-woolly at maturity --9. 9a. Perennial by a creeping rootstock =Nut Grass, Cyperus esculentus.= 9b. Perennial by hard basal corms =Cyperus, Cyperus strigosus.= 10a. Bracts of the spike chestnut-brown =Twig Rush, Cladium mariscoides.= 10b. Bracts of the spike green or straw-color (Sedge) --11. 11a. Spikes 3-8, separate =Sedge, Carex straminea.= 11b. Spikes very numerous and densely crowded =Sedge, Carex vulpinoidea.= 12a. Achenes flattened =Sedge, Carex crinita.= 12b. Achenes 3-angled --13. 13a. Perigynium tipped with a sharp straight 2-toothed beak --14. 13b. Perigynium with a short soft beak --17. 14a. Perigynium thin and papery, loosely enclosing the achene --15. 14b. Perigynium firm, closely enclosing the achene --16. 15a. Perigynium less than 1 cm. long =Sedge, Carex hystericina.= 15b. Perigynium more than 1 cm. long =Sedge, Carex lupulina.= 16a. Perigynium smooth =Sedge, Carex riparia.= 16b. Perigynium hairy =Sedge, Carex filiformis.= 17a. Beak of the perigynium bent abruptly to one side =Sedge, Carex laxiflora.= 17b. Beak of the perigynium straight =Sedge, Carex pennsylvanica.= ARACEAE, the Arum Family Individual flowers small, but crowded on a fleshy spadix to form a conspicuous spike, usually surrounded by a green or colored spathe. 1a. Leaves compound --2. 1b. Leaves simple --3. 2a. Leaflets 3, spathe pale green or purple (3-6 dm. high; spring) =Indian Turnip, Arisaema triphyllum.= 2b. Leaflets 7-11; spathe green; spadix long and slender (3-8 dm. high; late spring) =Dragon Root, Arisaema dracontium.= 3a. Leaves linear, sword-shape; spathe none (5-15 dm. high; early summer) =Sweet Flag, Acorus calamus.= 3b. Leaves broader than linear; spathe present --4. 4a. Flower clusters partly underground, appearing in earliest spring =Skunk Cabbage, Symplocarpus foetidus.= 4b. Flower clusters peduncled, in early summer --5. 5a. Leaves broadly ovate-cordate; spathe white =Water Arum, Calla palustris.= 5b. Leaves more or less sagittate; spathe green =Arrow Arum, Peltandra virginica.= LEMNACEAE, the Duckweed Family Minute leafless plants floating on quiet water; flowers exceedingly small and seldom seen. 1a. Plant thick, ovoid, less than 2 mm. long; roots none. Two species are reported from Michigan =Wolffia spp.= 1b. Plant flattened, with short roots --2. 2a. Roots several from each rounded plant =Duckweed, Spirodela polyrhiza.= 2b. Root single from each rounded plant =Duckweed, Lemna spp.= Three species are reported from Michigan, of which the commonest is Lemna minor. ERIOCAULACEAE, the Pipewort Family Bog or marsh herbs, with small flowers in heads terminating long slender scapes. One species in Michigan; leaves linear and basal; flower-stalk 5-15 cm. high; flower-heads whitish or lead-color =Pipewort, Eriocaulon articulatum.= XYRIDACEAE, the Yellow-eyed Grass Family Small herbs with basal leaves and erect flower-stalks bearing a head of perfect yellow flowers, in summer. 1a. Base of plant bulbous-thickened (3-6 dm. high) =Yellow-eyed Grass, Xyris flexuosa.= 1b. Base of plant not bulbous-thickened (1-3 dm. high) =Yellow-eyed Grass, Xyris montana.= COMMELINACEAE, the Spiderwort Family Leafy-stemmed herbs; flowers with 3 sepals, 3 petals, and 6 stamens, lasting but a single day; petals blue. 1a. Stamens 6; petals all equal (Spiderwort) --2. 1b. Perfect stamens 3, sterile stamens 3; two of the petals larger than the third (3-6 dm. high; summer) =Day-flower, Commelina virginica.= 2a. Sepals villous (3-10 dm. high; late spring) =Spiderwort, Tradescantia virginiana.= 2b. Sepals glabrous, or with a tuft of hairs at the apex (4-10 dm. high; late spring) =Spiderwort, Tradescantia reflexa.= PONTEDERIACEAE, the Pickerel-weed Family Aquatic herbs, with 6 rather conspicuous petals; flowers in summer. 1a. Flowers blue; leaves cordate-sagittate (3-10 dm. high) =Pickerel-weed, Pontederia cordata.= 1b. Flowers yellow; leaves linear (submerged) =Mud Plantain, Heteranthera dubia.= JUNCACEAE, the Rush Family Grass-like or rush-like plants, with inconspicuous greenish or brownish flowers, of 3 chaffy or scale-like sepals and as many similar petals. 1a. Leaf-sheaths closed; capsule 1-celled and 3-seeded; stem or leaves usually hairy at or near the base (1-4 dm. high). (Wood Rush) --2. 1b. Leaf-sheaths open; capsule many-seeded; plants never hairy --4. 2a. Flowers solitary at the ends of the branches of the umbel-like cluster (spring) =Wood Rush, Luzula saltuensis.= 2b. Flowers in spikes or dense clusters --3. 3a. Flower-cluster spike-like, nodding at the tip (summer) =Wood Rush, Luzula spicata.= 3b. Flower-cluster umbel-like (spring) =Wood Rush, Luzula campestris var. multiflora.= 4. The genus Juncus, or Rush, contains about 25 species in Michigan, blooming in summer or autumn. For their identification the Manuals should be consulted. One of the commonest species is Juncus effusus, growing in marshes, with erect leafless cylindrical stems, bearing a lateral cluster of flowers near the summit. Another common species is Juncus tenuis, with slender stems and linear leaves, growing in hard ground, especially in woodland paths. LILIACEAE, the Lily Family Herbs or twining shrubs, with generally conspicuous flowers; sepals and petals each 3, and usually colored alike, stamens 6, ovary 3-celled, superior. In one species the perianth is 4-parted and the stamens are 4. 1a. Flowers or flower-clusters lateral, axillary or apparently so --2. 1b. Flowers or flower-clusters scapose or terminal --12. 2a. Leaves minute and scale-like (7-15 dm. high; flowers greenish-yellow, June) =Asparagus, Asparagus officinalis.= 2b. Leaves broad and flat, not scale-like --3. 3a. Flowers numerous in rounded umbels; perianth-segments nearly separate; leaves long-petioled --4. 3b. Flowers in clusters of 1-8; leaves short-petioled, sessile, or clasping --8. 4a. Stems herbaceous (flowers greenish-yellow, ill-scented) (Carrion-flower) --5. 4b. Stems woody, thorny, climbing (flowers greenish-yellow, early summer) (Green Brier) --7. 5a. Stems climbing by tendrils --6. 5b. Stem not climbing; only the upper leaves, or none, with tendrils =Carrion-flower, Smilax ecirrhata.= 6a. Leaves smooth beneath. =Carrion-flower, Smilax herbacea.= 6b. Leaves minutely pubescent beneath when mature =Carrion-flower, Smilax herbacea var. pulverulenta.= 7a. Leaves with 5 principal veins. =Green Brier, Smilax rotundifolia.= 7b. Leaves with 7 principal veins. =Green Brier, Smilax hispida.= 8a. Perianth-segments united into a tube (flowers axillary, late spring) (Solomon's Seal) --9. 8b. Perianth-segments separate (2-8 dm. high; spring) (Twisted-stalk) --10. 9a. Leaves minutely pubescent beneath; filaments rough, inserted at three-fourths the length of the perianth (3-8 dm. high) =Small Solomon's Seal, Polygonatum biflorum.= 9b. Leaves smooth beneath; filaments smooth, inserted at the middle of the perianth tube (5-15 dm. high) =Great Solomon's Seal, Polygonatum commutatum.= 10a. Leaves distinctly clasping the stem; flowers greenish-white =Twisted-stalk, Streptopus amplexifolius.= 10b. Leaves closely sessile; flowers reddish to purple --11. 11a. Rootstock short and thick; berries spherical =Twisted-stalk, Streptopus roseus.= 11b. Rootstock long and slender; berries 3-angled =Twisted-stalk, Streptopus longipes.= 12a. Perianth-segments 5-12 cm. long --13. 12b. Perianth-segments shorter than 5 cm. --19. 13a. Leaves all or chiefly basal, stem-leaves bract-like or none --14. 13b. Leaves chiefly or entirely on the stem --15. 14a. Leaves numerous, linear or sword-shape (flowers orange, summer) =Day Lily, Hemerocallis fulva.= 14b. Leaves a single pair, oblong or lanceolate --21. 15a. Leaves a single whorl of 3 (Wake Robin, Trillium) --22. 15b. Leaves numerous (6-12 dm. high; flowers yellow, orange, or red, in summer) (Lily) --16. 16a. Flowers erect --17. 16b. Flowers nodding --18. 17a. Leaves narrowly lanceolate, 6-15 mm. wide, mostly whorled =Wood Lily, Lilium philadelphicum.= 17b. Leaves linear, 5 mm. wide or less, almost all alternate =Wood Lily, Lilium philadelphicum var. andinum.= 18a. Perianth-segments strongly revolute =Turk's-cap Lily, Lilium superbum.= 18b. Perianth-segments half-recurved =Yellow Lily, Lilium canadense.= 19a. Flower solitary --20. 19b. Flowers in clusters, not solitary --31. 20a. Stem with a single pair of basal leaves (Dog's-tooth Violet) --21. 20b. Stem with a single whorl of 3 leaves (1-3 dm. high; spring) (Wake Robin, Trillium) --22. 20c. Stem leafy (Bellwort) --29. 21a. Perianth yellow =Dog's-tooth Violet, Erythronium americanum.= 21b. Perianth white, bluish, or pinkish =Dog's-tooth Violet, Erythronium albidum.= 22a. Flower sessile, red or brown --23. 22b. Flower peduncled, white or pink, rarely red --24. 23a. Leaves sessile, sepals spreading =Wake Robin, Trillium sessile.= 23b. Leaves short-petioled, sepals reflexed =Wake Robin, Trillium recurvatum.= 24a. Ovary with 6 distinct wing-like angles --25. 24b. Ovary obtusely 3-angled or lobed --28. 25a. Stamens distinctly longer than the pistil --26. 25b. Stamens equaling or shorter than the pistil --27. 26a. Stigmas erect or nearly so, slender =Wake Robin, Trillium grandiflorum.= 26b. Stigmas strongly recurved or spreading =Wake Robin, Trillium erectum.= 27a. Filaments about as long as the anthers =Wake Robin, Trillium cernuum.= 27b. Filaments half as long as the anthers or shorter =Wake Robin, Trillium declinatum.= 28a. Leaves obtuse; petals obtuse, white =Dwarf White Trillium, Trillium nivale.= 28b. Leaves acuminate; petals acute, purple-striped at base =Painted Trillium, Trillium undulatum.= 29a. Leaves sessile (3-6 dm. high; flowers yellow, spring) =Bellwort, Oakesia sessilifolia.= 29b. Leaves perfoliate (4-6 dm. high; flowers yellow, in spring) --30. 30a. Leaves minutely pubescent beneath =Bellwort, Uvularia grandiflora.= 30b. Leaves glabrous and all glaucous =Bellwort, Uvularia perfoliata.= 31a. Stem bearing 2 whorls of 3-9 leaves (3-6 dm. high; flowers pale yellow, early summer) =Indian Cucumber-root, Medeola virginiana.= 31b. Stem-leaves not whorled, or all leaves basal --32. 32a. Flowers in umbels --33. 32b. Flowers in racemes or panicles --38. 33a. Plant with the odor of onions or garlic (leaves all or chiefly basal; flower-stalks 2-8 dm. high, late spring or summer) --34. 33b. Plant not with the odor of onions (leaves basal; flower-stalks 2-3 dm. high, with an umbel of 3-6 greenish-yellow flowers in late spring) =Clintonia, Clintonia borealis.= 34a. Leaves oblong, 2-5 cm. wide, not present when the plants are in bloom (greenish-white flowers) =Wild Leek, Allium tricoccum.= 34b. Leaves linear, present with the flowers --35. 35a. Umbel nodding or horizontal (petals rose-color) =Wild Onion, Allium cernuum.= 35b. Umbel erect --36. 36a. Pedicels longer than the flowers --37. 36b. Pedicels equaling or shorter than the flowers (petals rose-purple) =Wild Chives, Allium schoenoprasum var. sibiricum.= 37a. Leaves flattened; flowers pink to white =Wild Onion, Allium canadense.= 37b. Leaves cylindrical; flowers greenish to purple =Field Garlic, Allium vineale.= 38a. Leaves lanceolate to ovate, not more than 8 times as long as broad --39. 38b. Leaves linear or grass-like, at least 12 times as long as broad --45. 39a. Principal leaves all basal, stem-leaves none or bract-like --40. 39b. Principal leaves on the stem --41. 40a. Flowers in a spike-like raceme (4-10 dm. high; small white flowers in summer) =Colic-root, Aletris farinosa.= 40b. Flowers in an umbel-like cluster --34b. 41a. Perianth-segments 4 (1-2 dm. high; flowers white, early summer) =Wild Lily of the Valley, Maianthemum canadense.= 41b. Perianth-segments 6 --42. 42a. Styles 3; flowers dioecious (3-10 dm. high; flowers white, early summer) =Blazing Star, Chamaelirium luteum.= 42b. Style 1; flowers perfect, white, in spring (False Solomon's Seal) --43. 43a. Flowers panicled (3-6 dm. high) =False Solomon's Seal, Smilacina racemosa.= 43b. Flowers racemed --44. 44a. Leaves 2-4, usually 3 (1-2 dm. high) =False Solomon's Seal, Smilacina trifolia.= 44b. Leaves 5-12 (2-5 dm. high) =False Solomon's Seal, Smilacina stellata.= 45a. Flowers bright blue; perianth-segments united (2-3 dm. high, spring) =Grape Hyacinth, Muscari botryoides.= 45b. Flowers blue, greenish, yellowish, or white; perianth-segments separate --46. 46a. Flowers 1 cm. wide, or smaller (white or greenish, in racemes, late spring or summer) (False Asphodel) --47. 46b. Flowers 1.5 cm. wide, or larger --48. 47a. Stem glabrous (2 dm. high or less) =False Asphodel, Tofieldia palustris.= =False Asphodel, Tofieldia glutinosa.= 47b. Stem viscid-pubescent (1-5 dm. high) 48a. Perianth-segments with 2 glands near the base (3-8 dm. high; greenish-white panicled flowers in summer) =Zygadenus, Zygadenus chloranthus.= 48b. Perianth-segments without glands --49. 49a. Plant 3-5 dm. tall; flowers blue or nearly white, in long racemes (early summer) =Wild Hyacinth, Camassia esculenta.= 49b. Plant 1-3 dm. tall; flowers greenish-white, in short corymb-like racemes (spring) =Star of Bethlehem, Ornithogalum umbellatum.= DIOSCOREACEAE, the Yam Family Twining herbs with net-veined leaves and greenish or white flowers in panicles or racemes. One species in Michigan; leaves ovate-cordate; flowers in summer =Wild Yam, Dioscorea villosa.= AMARYLLIDACEAE, the Amaryllis Family Plants with linear basal leaves, and perfect flowers, with 6-parted perianth, inferior ovary, and 6 stamens. One species in Michigan; 1-2 dm. high; flowers yellow, 1 cm. wide, in spring =Star Grass, Hypoxis hirsuta.= IRIDACEAE, the Iris Family Herbs, with 6-parted perianth, inferior ovary, and 3 stamens. 1a. Flowers blue, 5 cm. wide or larger --2. 1b. Flowers about 1 cm. wide (blue or white, from a spathe terminating a 2-edged stem 2-5 dm. high, spring and early summer) (Blue-eyed Grass) --3. 2a. Flowering stems 4-8 dm. high (early summer) =Blue Flag, Iris versicolor.= 2b. Flowering stems 2 dm. or less high (spring) =Dwarf Iris, Iris lacustris.= 3a. Spathes terminal, sessile --4. 3b. Spathes long-peduncled, axillary --8. 4a. Spathe single --5. 4b. Spathes 2 on each flowering stem --7. 5a. Pedicels much longer than the inner (shorter) bract =Blue-eyed Grass, Sisyrinchium mucronatum.= 5b. Pedicels equaling or barely exceeding the inner bract --6. 6a. Capsule brown; common species =Blue-eyed Grass, Sisyrinchium angustifolium.= 6b. Capsule green or yellowish; rare species =Blue-eyed Grass, Sisyrinchium montanum.= 7a. Leaves folded lengthwise; stems narrowly winged =Blue-eyed Grass, Sisyrinchium hastile.= 7b. Leaves flat; stem broadly winged, 2-3 mm. wide =Blue-eyed Grass, Sisyrinchium albidum.= 8a. Capsules pale straw-color or whitish --9. 8b. Capsules brown, or tinged with purple --10. 9a. Plant with straight fibrous bristles at base; pedicels long-exserted =Blue-eyed Grass, Sisyrinchium farwellii.= 9b. Plants not bristly at base; pedicels barely exserted =Blue-eyed Grass, Sisyrinchium strictum.= 10a. Pedicels scarcely exceeding the inner bract --6a. 10b. Pedicels much exceeding the inner bract --11. 11a. Stem 2-6 mm. wide; bracts 1.5-2 cm. long =Blue-eyed Grass, Sisyrinchium gramineum.= 11b. Stem 1-2 mm. wide; bracts 1-1.5 cm. long =Blue-eyed Grass, Sisyrinchium apiculatum.= ORCHIDACEAE, the Orchis Family Herbs, with irregular flowers, one petal, the lip, differing from the others in size and shape, inferior ovary, and one or two stamens adherent to the style. 1a. Flowers in a spike-like obviously twisted raceme; small, yellowish or greenish-white, in late summer and autumn (except 4a) (Ladies' Tresses) --2. 1b. Flowers solitary or in clusters, but never in a twisted raceme --5. 2a. Flowers in 1 row =Ladies' Tresses, Spiranthes gracilis.= 2b. Flowers in several rows --3. 3a. Lip constricted near the apex =Ladies' Tresses, Spiranthes romanzoftiana.= 3b. Lip not constricted --4. 4a. Lip yellow; flowers in spring and early summer =Ladies' Tresses, Spiranthes lucida.= 4b. Lip white =Ladies' Tresses, Spiranthes cernua.= 5a. Brown, purple, or yellow plants, without green color, with scale-like leaves (1-4 dm. high; summer) (Coral Root) --6. 5b. Plants with normal green color --9. 6a. Lip white, not spotted =Coral Root, Corallorrhiza trifida.= 6b. Lip white, spotted with red --7. 7a. Lip distinctly 3-lobed =Coral Root, Corallorrhiza maculata.= 7b. Lip entire, or barely toothed --8. 8a. Flower, exclusive of ovary, 4 mm. long =Coral Root, Corallorrhiza odontorhiza.= 8b. Flower about 10 mm. long. =Coral Root, Corallorrhiza striata.= 9a. Leaf 1 or none at flowering time --10. 9b. Leaves a single pair, basal, or opposite on the stem; never alternate on the stem --19. 9c. Leaves several, all basal, prominently net-veined, and frequently blotched with white (scape 1-4 dm. high; flowers whitish, pubescent, in summer) (Rattlesnake Plantain) --26. 9d. Leaves 2 or more, on the stem --28. 10a. Foliage leaf absent or undeveloped at flowering time, or merely persisting through the winter from the previous year --11. 10b. Foliage leaf present at flowering time --12. 11a. Flower rose-purple, 3-5 cm. long, solitary or two (1-3 dm. high, early summer) =Arethusa, Arethusa bulbosa.= 11b. Flowers purplish-green, in racemes, with a spur 2 cm. long =Crane-fly Orchis, Tipularia discolor.= 11c. Flowers yellowish, purple tinged, in racemes; spur none (3-4 dm. high, early summer). =Putty Root, Aplectrum hyemale.= 12a. Leaf linear or linear-lanceolate --13. 12b. Leaf of a broader shape --14. 13a. Flower solitary or two; leaf just below the flower --11a. 13b. Flowers in a loose raceme, sometimes only 2; leaf basal =Calopogon, Calopogon pulchellus.= 14a. Flowers greenish, yellowish, or white --15. 14b. Flowers pink to purple, often variegated --17. 15a. Flowers 6-10 mm. wide, with a spur about the same length (1-4 dm. high, summer) (Rein Orchis) --35. 15b. Flowers 5 mm. wide or less; spur none (1-2 dm. high; summer) (Adder's Mouth) --16. 16a. Pedicels less than 5 mm. long; lip broadest below the middle =Adder's Mouth, Microstylis monophyllos.= 16b. Pedicels more than 5 mm. long; lip broadest near the apex =Adder's Mouth, Microstylis unifolia.= 17a. Flowers spicate; lip distinctly 3-lobed (1-2 dm. high; early summer) --24. 17b. Flowers solitary or two --18. 18a. Leaf on the stem, lanceolate to ovate --34a. 18b. Leaf basal, round-ovate (2 dm. high or less; early summer) =Calypso, Calypso bulbosa.= 19a. Leaves opposite and sessile near the middle of the stem (1-3 dm. high; flowers in summer) (Tway-blade) --20. 19b. Leaves basal --21. 20a. Lip deeply 2-cleft (flowers purplish) =Tway-blade, Listera cordata.= 20b. Lip wedge-shape, with 2 round shallow lobes (flowers greenish-yellow) =Tway-blade, Listera convallarioides.= 21a. Lip an inflated sac about 4 cm. long --29d. 21b. Lip not sac-like --22. 22a. Flower with a spur 15-50 mm. long --23. 22b. Flower not spurred (1-2 dm. high; early summer) (Tway-blade) --25. 23a. Flowers purple or magenta, or with white markings --24. 23b. Flowers greenish, yellowish, or white (1-4 dm. high; summer) (Rein Orchis) --36. 24a. Leaf 1 (1-2 dm. high; early summer) =Round-leaved Orchis, Orchis rotundifolia.= 24b. Leaves 2 (-20 cm. high; late spring) =Showy Orchis, Orchis spectabilis.= 25a. Lip about 10 mm. long, purple =Tway-blade, Liparis liliifolia.= 25b. Lip about 5 mm. long, yellowish-green =Tway-blade, Liparis loeselii.= 26a. Perianth 8-10 mm. long; lip with elongated point =Rattlesnake Plantain, Epipactis decipiens.= 26b. Perianth 4-6 mm. long; lip sack-like --27. 27a. Raceme loosely flowered, one-sided =Rattlesnake Plantain, Epipactis repens var. ophioides.= 27b. Raceme closely flowered, not one-sided =Rattlesnake Plantain, Epipactis pubescens.= 28a. Lip conspicuously sack-like, inflated (late spring and early summer) (Lady's Slipper) --29. 28b. Lip not sack-like nor inflated --32. 29a. Lip white (1-3 dm. high) =White Lady's Slipper, Cypripedium candidum.= 29b. Lip yellow (2-7 dm. high) --30. 29c. Lip white, with crimson or purple markings --31. 29d. Lip pink (1-4 dm. high, late spring) =Stemless Lady's Slipper, Cypripedium acaule.= 30a. Lip 2-3 cm. long. =Small Yellow Lady's Slipper, Cypripedium parviflorum.= 30b. Lip 3.5-5 cm. long =Large Yellow Lady's Slipper, Cypripedium parviflorum var. pubescens.= 31a. Lip 2 cm. long or less; sepals separate (1.5-3 dm. high) =Ram's Head Lady's Slipper, Cypripedium arietinum.= 31b. Lip 3 cm. long or more; the 2 lower sepals united =Showy Lady's Slipper, Cypripedium hirsutum.= 32a. Flowers solitary in the axils, or solitary and terminal; not spurred --33. 32b. Flowers in terminal racemes, spurred --38. 33a. Leaves a whorl of 5 (2-3 dm. high; petals greenish; late summer) =Whorled Pogonia, Pogonia verticillata.= 33b. Leaves alternate --34. 34a. Leaves lanceolate or narrowly ovate, 2-8 cm. long, narrowed at base; flower terminal (1-4 dm. high; flowers pink purple, early summer) =Snake Mouth, Pogonia ophioglossoides.= 34b. Leaves ovate, 1-2 cm. long, clasping; flowers axillary (5-20 cm. high; flowers purple, summer) =Nodding Pogonia, Pogonia trianthophora.= 35a. Leaf basal; spur nearly straight =Rein Orchis, Habenaria obtusata.= 35b. Leaf on the stem; spur strongly curved =Rein Orchis, Habenaria clavellata.= 36a. Flower-stalk without bracts below the raceme; flowers yellowish-green =Rein Orchis, Habenaria hookeri.= 36b. Flower-stalk bearing bracts below the raceme; flowers greenish-white --37. 37a. Spur 15-25 mm. long =Rein Orchis, Habenaria orbiculata.= 37b. Spur 30-50 mm. long =Rein Orchis, Habenaria macrophylla.= 38a. Lip fringed (Fringed Orchis) --43. 38b. Lip not fringed (Rein Orchis) --39. 39a. Lip with 2-3 evident teeth at apex --40. 39b. Lip without apical teeth --41. 40a. Stem-leaves 3 or more =Rein Orchis, Habenaria bracteata.= 40b. Stem-leaves 2 --35b. 41a. Flowers white =Rein Orchis, Habenaria dilatata.= 41b. Flowers greenish-yellow --42. 42a. Lip lanceolate, tapering toward the apex =Rein Orchis, Habenaria hyperborea.= 42b. Lip oblong, truncate at the apex =Rein Orchis, Habenaria flava.= 43a. Lip deeply 3-lobed, toothed or fringed --44. 43b. Lip not 3-lobed, but deeply fringed --46. 44a. Flowers purple =Purple Fringed Orchis, Habenaria psycodes.= 44b. Flowers white or nearly so --45. 45a. Spur 3 cm. long or more =Prairie Fringed Orchis, Habenaria leucophaea.= 45b. Spur 1-1.5 cm. long =Ragged Fringed Orchis, Habenaria lacera.= 46a. Flowers yellow =Yellow Fringed Orchis, Habenaria ciliaris.= 46b. Flowers white =White Fringed Orchis, Habenaria blephariglottis.= PIPERACEAE, the Pepper Family Herbaceous plants with alternate leaves, and flowers without either calyx or corolla. One species in Michigan, a marsh plant with heart-shape leaves and slender racemes of white flowers =Lizard's Tail, Saururus cernuus.= SALICACEAE, the Willow Family Trees or shrubs, with dioecious flowers in catkins. 1a. Leaves less than twice as long as broad, on petioles 3 cm. long or more --2. 1b. Leaves more than twice as long as broad, on petioles 2.5 cm. long or less. (The genus Salix, or Willow, contains about 30 species in Michigan, of which only the commoner are mentioned here. For the others the Manuals should be consulted.) --8. 2a. Petioles strongly flattened laterally --3. 2b. Petioles not flattened laterally --6. 3a. Leaves broadly ovate or nearly circular --4. 3b. Leaves broadly triangular or deltoid in shape --5. 4a. Leaves coarsely toothed =Large-toothed Aspen, Populus grandidentata.= 4b. Leaves finely crenulate or serrate =Quaking Aspen, Populus tremuloides.= 5a. Tree with narrow spire-shape crown =Lombardy Poplar, Populus nigra var. italica.= 5b. Tree with spreading crown =Cottonwood, Populus deltoides.= 6a. Lower side of leaf densely tomentose =White Poplar, Populus alba.= 6b. Lower side of leaf glabrous or nearly so --7. 7a. Petioles glabrous =Balsam Poplar, Populus balsamifera.= 7b. Petioles ciliate =Balm of Gilead, Populus candicans.= 8a. Trees --9. 8b. Shrubs --13. 9a. Petioles without glands --10. 9b. Petioles with glands --11. 10a. Petiole short (about 5 mm.), broad and flat =Black Willow, Salix nigra.= 10b. Petiole slender, about 10-20 mm. long =Peach-leaved Willow, Salix amygdaloides.= 11a. Leaves green beneath =Crack Willow, Salix fragilis.= 11b. Leaves pale beneath --12. 12a. Branches and twigs conspicuously drooping =Weeping Willow, Salix babylonica.= 12b. Branches and twigs not conspicuously drooping, yellow =Yellow Willow, Salix alba var. vitellina.= 13a. Shrubs of bogs --14. 13b. Plants of sand-dunes along the Great Lakes --15. 13c. Plants of dry upland hills --16. 13d. Plants of wet ground, river-banks, and swamps --17. 14a. Leaves densely white-tomentose beneath =Willow, Salix candida.= 14b. Leaves pale beneath but not tomentose =Willow, Salix serissima.= 14c. Leaves glabrous and green beneath =Willow, Salix pedicellaris.= 15a. Leaves linear =Willow, Salix longifolia.= 15b. Leaves ovate-lanceolate, tomentose beneath =Willow, Salix syrticola.= 15c. Leaves ovate-lanceolate, glabrous =Willow, Salix glaucophylla.= 16a. Leaves about 3 times as long as broad =Willow, Salix rostrata.= 16b. Leaves narrower, nearly sessile =Willow, Salix tristis.= 16c. Leaves narrower, distinctly petioled =Willow, Salix humilis.= 17a. Leaves linear or nearly so =Willow, Salix longifolia.= 17b. Leaves shining =Willow, Salix lucida.= 17c. Leaves silky =Willow, Salix sericea.= 17d. Leaves not as in the preceding 3 species --18. 18a. Leaves rounded at base =Willow, Salix cordata.= 18b. Leaves acute at base --19. 19a. Leaves finely serrulate =Willow, Salix petiolaris.= 19b. Leaves remotely serrate or nearly entire =Willow, Salix discolor.= MYRICACEAE, the Sweet Gale Family Shrubs, with monoecious or dioecious flowers in catkins, and aromatic foliage. 1a. Leaves pinnately lobed =Sweet Fern, Myrica asplenifolia.= 1b. Leaves merely serrate --2. 2a. Shrub of sandy soil, shore of Lake Erie =Bayberry, Myrica carolinensis.= 2b. Shrub of bogs and shores, northern half of state =Sweet Gale, Myrica gale.= JUGLANDACEAE, the Walnut Family Trees with alternate pinnately compound leaves and flowers in catkins. 1a. Leaflets 11-23; pith divided by partitions into chambers --2. 1b. Leaflets 5-11; pith not partitioned (Hickory) --3. 2a. Pith brown; bark with flat longitudinal ridges =Butternut, Juglans cinerea.= 2b. Pith cream-color; bark of trunk without flat ridges =Black Walnut, Juglans nigra.= 3a. Bark of the trunk essentially smooth, not deeply furrowed or shaggy --4. 3b. Bark of the trunk deeply furrowed or shaggy --6. 4a. Leaflets glabrous beneath; buds greenish --5. 4b. Leaflets somewhat pubescent beneath; buds bright yellow =Bitter Nut, Carya cordiformis.= 5a. Twigs hairy =Small-fruited Hickory, Carya microcarpa.= 5b. Twigs smooth =Pignut Hickory, Carya glabra.= 6a. Twigs and leaves both pubescent --7. 6b. Twigs nearly smooth; leaves smooth beneath =Shag-bark Hickory, Carya ovata.= 7a. Twigs brownish; buds densely hairy =Mocker-nut Hickory, Carya alba.= 7b. Twigs orange; buds very slightly hairy =King-nut Hickory, Carya laciniosa.= BETULACEAE, the Birch Family Trees or shrubs with alternate simple leaves and inconspicuous monoecious flowers, the staminate flowers in catkins, and the pistillate in catkins or small clusters. 1a. Trees, with white or yellowish bark exfoliating in thin papery plates or scales --2. 1b. Tree or shrub, with smooth, dark gray bark; trunk fluted with prominent longitudinal ridges =Hornbeam, Carpinus caroliniana.= 1c. Trees or shrubs; the bark more or less roughened, but not exfoliating; trunk not fluted --3. 2a. Bark white or chalky =Paper Birch, Betula alba var. papyrifera.= 2b. Bark yellowish =Yellow Birch, Betula lutea.= 3a. Shrubs, with leaves 4 cm. long or less --4. 3b. Shrubs or trees, with leaves 5 cm. long or more --5. 4a. Twigs glandular-warty =Dwarf Birch, Betula glandulosa.= 4b. Twigs not glandular =Swamp Birch, Betula pumila.= 5a. Twigs and bark with the odor of wintergreen =Sweet Birch, Betula lenta.= 5b. Twigs and bark without odor of wintergreen --6. 6a. Fruit clusters woody, persistent on the plant for a long time --7. 6b. Fruit clusters herbaceous, dropping in late autumn --9. 7a. Leaves rusty or whitish beneath, and pubescent at least on the veins =Speckled Alder, Alnus incana.= 7b. Leaves green beneath, and either pubescent or smooth --8. 8a. Leaves broadest at or below the middle =Mountain Alder, Alnus crispa.= 8b. Leaves broadest above the middle =Smooth Alder, Alnus rugosa.= 9a. Tree; fruit a cluster of bladder-like sacs each containing a small achene =Ironwood, Ostrya virginiana.= 9b. Shrubs; fruit a nut within a close-fitting involucre --10. 10a. Involucre of 2 broad bracts, almost separate and not much longer than the fruit =Hazel, Corylus americana.= 10b. Involucre of united bracts, prolonged into a bristly beak beyond the fruit =Beaked Hazel, Corylus rostrata.= FAGACEAE, the Beech Family Trees (or 1 species shrubby), with alternate simple leaves and monoecious flowers, the staminate flowers in catkins, and the pistillate solitary or in small clusters. Fruit a nut (or acorn) enclosed in a cup or bur. 1a. Leaves serrate with numerous sharp-pointed teeth --2. 1b. Leaves serrate, lobed, or entire, but never serrate with sharp-pointed teeth; fruit an acorn; pith 5-angled in the young twigs (Oak) --3. 2a. Bark gray, smooth; buds 3-4 times longer than wide; nut triangular =Beech, Fagus grandifolia.= 2b. Bark rough; buds relatively thicker; nut rounded =Chestnut, Castanea dentata.= 3a. Leaves entire, except for a bristle at the tip =Shingle Oak, Quercus imbricaria.= 3b. Leaves toothed or lobed, the points bristle-tipped --4. 3c. Leaves toothed or lobed, the points without bristles --10. 4a. Leaves entire below the middle, with a few shallow lobes beyond =Black Jack Oak, Quercus marilandica.= 4b. Leaves deeply lobed throughout --5. 5a. Cup of the acorn saucer-shape, covering less than one-third of the acorn --6. 5b. Cup of the acorn hemispherical or top-shape, covering one-third or more of the acorn --8. 6a. Length of the lateral leaf-lobes less than one-third the width of the leaf; acorn cup 2-2.5 cm. wide =Red Oak, Quercus rubra.= 6b. Length of the lateral leaf-lobes more than one-third the width of the leaf --7. 7a. Acorn depressed-globose, about 1 cm. in diameter =Pin Oak, Quercus palustris.= 7b. Acorn ovoid, 1.5-2 cm. thick =Schneck's Oak, Quercus schneckii.= 8a. Leaves pubescent beneath =Black Oak, Quercus velutina.= 8b. Leaves glabrous beneath --9. 9a. Buds glabrous; inner bark of the trunk yellow =Hill's Oak, Quercus ellipsoidalis.= 9b. Buds pubescent beyond the middle; inner bark of trunk red =Scarlet Oak, Quercus coccinea.= 10a. Leaves deeply pinnately lobed --11. 10b. Leaves crenate, dentate, or sinuate, not lobed --12. 11a. Leaf divided nearly to the middle by a pair of deep lateral lobes near the middle of the leaf; acorn more than half covered by the cup =Bur Oak, Quercus macrocarpa.= 11b. Leaf without a median pair of deeper lobes; acorn about one-fourth covered by the cup =White Oak, Quercus alba.= 12a. Leaves broadest at or near the middle, with numerous (8-13) sharp coarse teeth on each side =Yellow Oak, Quercus muhlenbergii.= 12b. Leaves broadest above the middle, with a few shallow, rounded or subacute teeth (7 or less on each side) --13. 13a. Large tree; leaves densely white-tomentose beneath; acorn on a stalk 3-10 cm. long =Swamp White Oak, Quercus bicolor.= 13b. Shrub; leaves thinly white-tomentose beneath; acorn sessile or nearly so =Scrub Oak, Quercus prinoides.= URTICACEAE, the Nettle Family Herbs or trees, with small inconspicuous apetalous flowers. 1a. Trees or tall shrubs --2. 1b. Herbs --7. 2a. Leaves oblong-ovate to lanceolate, serrate --3. 2b. Leaves broadly ovate to rotund, some of them lobed (Mulberry) --6. 3a. Leaves thick, coarsely and doubly serrate, broadest near the middle (Elm) --4. 3b. Leaves thin, simply serrate, broadest distinctly below the middle =Hackberry, Celtis occidentalis.= 4a. Some of the branches with flat corky wings; leaves smooth above =Cork Elm, Ulmus racemosa.= 4b. Branches without corky wings; leaves more or less rough above --5. 5a. Petioles and axillary buds glabrous =White Elm, Ulmus americana.= 5b. Petioles and axillary buds pubescent with rusty hairs =Slippery Elm, Ulmus fulva.= 6a. Leaves rough above =Red Mulberry, Morus rubra.= 6b. Leaves smooth above =White Mulberry, Morus alba.= 7a. Leaves alternate --8. 7b. Leaves opposite --9. 8a. Leaves 2-5 cm. long, stems pubescent =Pellitory, Parietaria pennsylvanica.= 8b. Leaves 8-20 cm. long; stem armed with stinging hairs =Wood Nettle, Laportea canadensis.= 9a. Twining plant; leaves serrate or cleft =Hop, Humulus lupulus.= 9b. Erect plant; leaves palmately compound =Hemp, Cannabis sativa.= 9c. Erect plants; leaves not lobed or compound --10. 10a. Stems armed with stinging hairs --11. 10b. Stems glabrous or rough, but not with stinging hairs --12. 11a. Leaves ovate, with a heart-shape base =Stinging Nettle, Urtica dioica.= 11b. Leaves lanceolate or ovate-lanceolate, not heart-shape at base =Slender Nettle, Urtica gracilis.= 12a. Stems glabrous, pellucid =Clearweed, Pilea pumila.= 12b. Stems rough, opaque =False Nettle, Boehmeria cylindrica.= SANTALACEAE, the Sandalwood Family Low herbs with alternate entire leaves and terminal clusters of small greenish-white bell-shape flowers without petals in spring and early summer. 1a. Inflorescence of several-flowered clusters terminating the stem and in the upper axils =Toad-flax, Comandra umbellata.= 1b. Inflorescence of axillary clusters of 1-5 flowers =Toad-flax, Comandra livida.= LORANTHACEAE, the Mistletoe Family Parasitic plants, attached to the branches of trees. One species in Michigan, a dwarf brown plant 5-20 mm. long, with minute scale-like leaves, growing on the branches of Black Spruce =Dwarf Mistletoe, Arceuthobium pusillum.= ARISTOLOCHIACEAE, the Birthwort Family Flowers greenish-brown or reddish-brown, at or near the ground, with inferior 6-celled ovary. 1a. Leaves alternate, on the stem; flowers on a basal scaly branch (1-4 dm. high; summer) =Virginia Snakeroot, Aristolochia serpentaria.= 1b. Leaves a single basal pair, bearing 1 short-stalked flower between them (spring) (Wild Ginger) --2. 2a. Lobes of the perianth ending in a tubular portion 5-8 mm. long =Wild Ginger, Asarum canadense.= 2b. Lobes of the perianth ending in a tubular portion over 1 cm. long =Wild Ginger, Asarum canadense var. acuminatum.= 2c. Lobes of the perianth triangular, not tubular at the end =Wild Ginger, Asarum canadense var. reflexum.= POLYGONACEAE, the Buckwheat Family Herbs with alternate entire leaves, stipules surrounding the stem above the base of each leaf, and small green, white or pink flowers without petals. 1a. Erect or ascending or prostrate or floating plants --2. 1b. Scrambling or climbing plants, clinging by sharp recurved prickles on the 4-angled stems (flowers greenish or pink, summer) (Tear-thumb) --32. 1c. Twining vines (flowers white or greenish, summer) --33. 2a. Sepals 6, the 3 inner ones enlarging in fruit and surrounding the achenes; flowers in panicles --3. 2b. Sepals 4 or 5 (occasional flowers may be found with 6 sepals, but the flowers are not in panicles) (summer) --13. 3a. Leaves arrow-shape or halberd-shape, with 2 basal lobes (Sorrel) --4. 3b. Leaves without basal lobes (Dock) --5. 4a. Leaves halberd-shape, the basal lobes directed sidewise =Red Sorrel, Rumex acetosella.= 4b. Leaves arrow-shape, the basal lobes directed backward =Green Sorrel, Rumex acetosa.= 5a. The projecting wings of the fruiting calyx (known as valves) with sharp slender teeth =Bitter Dock, Rumex obtusifolius.= 5b. Valves entire or finely dentate, but without sharp slender teeth --6. 6a. Pedicels straight, thickened toward the end, all regularly deflexed, 3-4 times longer than the fruiting calyx =Swamp Dock, Rumex verticillatus.= 6b. Pedicels slender, flexuous, spreading --7. 7a. Leaves flat or nearly so --8. 7b. Leaves with strongly crisped or wavy-curled margins; plants usually of cultivated grounds or waste places (5-10 dm., summer) --12. 8a. With grain-like tubercles on all 3 valves of the fruit --9. 8b. With grain-like tubercles on only one valve, or entirely lacking --10. 9a. Valves broadly cordate, finely toothed =Water Dock, Rumex brittanica.= 9b. Valves triangular-ovate, entire or nearly so =Dock, Rumex mexicanus.= 10a. Valves oblong =Bloody Dock, Rumex sanguineus.= 10b. Valves broadly heart-shape --11. 11a. Grain-like tubercle less than half as long as the valve =Patience Dock, Rumex patientia.= 11b. Grain-like tubercle more than half as long as the valve =Tall Dock, Rumex altissimus.= 12a. The grain-like tubercle on the valves of the fruit broadly ellipsoid, with rounded apex =Sour Dock, Rumex crispus.= 12b. Tubercle ovoid with tapering apex =Sour Dock, Rumex elongatus.= 13a. Flowers inconspicuous, in small axillary clusters; leaves jointed at the base (Knotweed) --14. 13b. Flowers more or less conspicuous, in obvious spikes or racemes which terminate the stems or branches, or arise from the axils of the upper leaves --18. 14a. Leaves sharply folded lengthwise (1-4 dm. tall) =Knotweed, Polygonum tenue.= 14b. Leaves flat or nearly so --15. 15a. The small sepals pink or white at the margin (stems prostrate or ascending) --16. 15b. Sepals greenish or yellowish throughout (stems erect or ascending) --17. 16a. Leaves thin; common weed of dooryards and gardens =Knotweed, Polygonum aviculare.= 16b. Leaves thick and fleshy; a plant of sandy shores =Knotweed, Polygonum aviculare var. littorale.= 17a. Leaves narrowly lanceolate or linear-oblong; rare species =Knotweed, Polygonum ramosissimum.= 17b. Leaves broadly oblong, oval, or elliptical; common weed of yards and gardens =Knotweed, Polygonum erectum.= 18a. Leaves broadly triangular (3-7 dm. high; flowers white) =Buckwheat, Fagopyrum esculentum.= 18b. Leaves from linear to ovate or oblong --19. 19a. Sepals 4; flowers in very long and slender spike-like racemes (4-10 dm. high) =Knotweed, Polygonum virginianum.= 19b. Sepals 5; flowers in spikes or racemes --20. 20a. Flowers on slender pedicels, forming a loose raceme; leaves linear, jointed at the base (1-3 dm. high; flowers pink or white; chiefly near the Great Lakes) =Jointweed, Polygonella articulata.= 20b. Flowers sessile or nearly so, forming a spike or spike-like raceme --21. 21a. Stipular sheaths at the base of the leaves ciliate at their upper margin --22. 21b. Stipular sheaths not ciliate at the upper margin --28. 22a. Sheaths with spreading borders --23. 22b. Sheaths without a spreading border, appressed to the stem (Smartweed) --24. 23a. Leaves ovate, acuminate; stem erect (1-2 m. high; flowers pink) =Prince's Feather, Polygonum orientate.= 23b. Leaves oblong, obtuse or subacute; spreading or ascending plant of wet soil =Water Smartweed, Polygonum amphibium var. hartwrightii.= 24a. Peduncles with glandular hairs (5-15 dm. high) =Smartweed, Polygonum careyi.= 24b. Peduncles not glandular (1-8 dm. high) (Smartweed) --25. 25a. Sepals beset with minute black dots --26. 25b. Sepals white, pink, or red, not black-dotted --27. 26a. Racemes drooping or nodding at the tip; achene dull-colored =Smartweed, Polygonum hydropiper.= 26b. Racemes erect; achene smooth and shining =Smartweed, Polygonum acre.= 27a. Sheaths smooth; leaves usually with a dark spot near the base =Smartweed, Polygonum persicaria.= 27b. Sheaths hairy; leaves not dark-spotted =Smartweed, Polygonum hydropiperoides.= 28a. Leaves obtuse or somewhat acute at the apex --29. 28b. Leaves acuminate at the apex (5-15 dm. high; flowers white to pink) (Smartweed) --30. 29a. Stem unbranched, erect, bearing a single terminal raceme (5-30 cm. high; flowers pink) =Bistort, Polygonum viviparum.= 29b. Stem branched, submerged in water or creeping on muddy shores (flowers pink) =Water Smartweed, Polygonum amphibium.= 30a. Raceme single or two; leaves broadly ovate-lanceolate, about 3 times as long as wide =Smartweed, Polygonum muhlenbergii.= 30b. Racemes numerous; leaves lanceolate, 4-6 times as long as wide --31. 31a. Racemes drooping or nodding at the tip =Smartweed, Polygonum lapathifolium.= 31b. Racemes erect =Smartweed, Polygonum pennsylvanicum.= 32a. Leaves arrow-shape, the basal lobes pointing backward =Tear-thumb, Polygonum sagittatum.= 32b. Leaves halberd-shape, the basal lobes pointing sidewise =Tear-thumb, Polygonum arifolium.= 33a. The three outer sepals becoming conspicuously winged in fruit (False Buckwheat) --34. 33b. The sepals all unchanged in fruit, except in size (Black Bindweed) --35. 34a. Wings of the fruit with wavy-curled margins =False Buckwheat, Polygonum scandens.= 34b. Wings of the fruit flat =False Buckwheat, Polygonum dumetorum.= 35a. Leaf-sheaths with a ring of bristles at the base =Black Bindweed, Polygonum cilinode.= 35b. Leaf-sheaths without a ring of bristles =Black Bindweed, Polygonum convolvulus.= CHENOPODIACEAE, the Goosefoot Family Herbs, with inconspicuous greenish or reddish flowers without petals, in summer. 1a. Leaves linear or nearly so, entire --2. 1b. Leaves of a broader shape, usually toothed or lobed --5. 2a. Leaves rather stiff, narrowly linear or thread-like, with spine-like tips =Russian Thistle, Salsola kali var. tenuifolia.= 2b. Leaves soft, not spine-like --3. 3a. Widely branched, rather diffuse, 1-5 dm. tall; plant of the shore of the Great Lakes =Bug-seed, Corispermum hyssopifolium.= 3b. Erect plants with ascending branches --4. 4a. Leaves glabrous (3-6 dm. tall) =Goosefoot, Chenopodium leptophyllum.= 4b. Leaves minutely ciliate on the margin (bushy branched, 5-10 dm. tall) =Kochia, Kochia scoparia.= 5a. Principal leaves with a broad truncate, rounded, or hastate base --6. 5b. Principal leaves narrowed to the base --12. 6a. Leaves broadly ovate, with 1-4 large sharp projecting teeth on each side =Goosefoot, Chenopodium hybridum.= 6b. Leaves hastate or triangular-ovate, entire or with many teeth --7. 7a. Leaves entire or merely undulate --8. 7b. Leaves sharply or sinuately toothed --9. 8a. Stem erect, simple or sparingly branched =Good King Henry, Chenopodium bonus-henricus.= 8b. Stem diffuse or ascending, freely branched =Orache, Atriplex patula.= 9a. Flowers in small heads, in the axils or in terminal spikes; leaves sinuately toothed or nearly entire =Strawberry Blite, Chenopodium capitatum.= 9b. Flowers in terminal panicles; leaves sharply toothed (Goosefoot) --10. 10a. Panicles short, not as long as the subtending leaves =Goosefoot, Chenopodium murale.= 10b. Panicles long, exceeding the subtending leaves --11. 11a. Calyx green =Goosefoot, Chenopodium urbicum.= 11b. Calyx red =Goosefoot, Chenopodium rubrum.= 12a. Foliage glandular and strongly aromatic --13. 12b. Foliage not glandular nor aromatic; sometimes ill-scented --15. 13a. Flowers in large loose open spreading panicles; leaves deeply pinnatifid =Jerusalem Oak, Chenopodium botrys.= 13b. Flowers clustered in slender axillary or terminal spikes --14. 14a. Spikes dense, leafy =Mexican Tea, Chenopodium ambrosioides.= 14b. Spikes open, nearly leafless =Wormseed, Chenopodium ambrosioides var. anthelminticum.= 15a. Stem erect, 5-20 dm. tall; leaves frequently white-mealy =Lamb's Quarters, Chenopodium album.= 15b. Stem prostrate or ascending, succulent; leaves glaucous-white beneath =Goosefoot, Chenopodium glaucum.= 15c. Stem widely and diffusely branched; leaves green, soon deciduous =Cycloloma, Cycloloma atriplicifolium.= AMARANTHACEAE, the Amaranth Family Herbs, with alternate leaves, and inconspicuous greenish or reddish flowers without petals, which are axillary or in dense clusters, blooming in summer. 1a. Flower-clusters axillary --2. 1b. Flower-clusters in terminal spikes or panicles, sometimes also axillary --3. 2a. Plant prostrate or decumbent; seed about 1.5 mm. broad =Pigweed, Amaranthus blitoides.= 2b. Plant erect or ascending, widely branched; seeds about 1 mm. broad (3-10 dm. high) =Tumble Weed, Amaranthus graecizans.= 3a. Principal leaves with a pair of spines at their base =Thorny Amaranth, Amaranthus spinosus.= 3b. Spines none at the base of the leaves --4. 4a. Weedy plants of cultivated or waste ground; flowers monoecious or polygamous; pistillate flowers with a calyx (Pigweed) --5. 4b. Plants of swamps or stream-banks; flowers dioecious; pistillate flowers without calyx (Water Hemp) --7. 5a. Spikes short, 1-8 cm. long, crowded in dense ovoid panicles; the terminal spike not conspicuously elongated beyond the appressed or ascending lower ones =Pigweed, Amaranthus retroflexus.= 5b. Spikes slender, 1-12 cm. long; the terminal spike greatly exceeding the short inconspicuous divergent lower ones --6. 6a. Bracts subulate, sharply awned =Pigweed, Amaranthus hybridus.= 6b. Bracts merely acuminate =Pigweed, Amaranthus paniculatus.= 7a. Flowers in leafy spikes, or the lower in separate clusters =Water Hemp, Acnida tuberculata.= 7b. Flowers in separate distinct clusters =Water Hemp, Acnida tuberculata var. subnuda.= PHYTOLACCACEAE, the Pokeweed Family Herbs with alternate entire leaves, small flowers without petals, and a many-celled ovary. One species in Michigan, 1-2 m. high, with numerous racemes of whitish flowers, in late summer, followed by dark-purple berries =Pokeweed, Phytolacca decandra.= NYCTAGINACEAE, the Four-o'Clock Family Herbs, with opposite entire leaves and flowers in small clusters surrounded by a broad open calyx-like involucre; the true calyx colored like a corolla; petals none (4-8 dm. high; flowers purple, in summer). 1a. Leaves lanceolate or narrower, sessile =Umbrella-wort, Oxybaphus hirsutus.= 1b. Leaves ovate, petioled =Umbrella-wort, Oxybaphus nyctagineus.= ILLECEBRACEAE, the Knotwort Family Herbs, with opposite entire leaves, and minute flowers without petals. (Prostrate spreading or freely branched plants, 3 dm. high or less; flowers in summer.) 1a. Stipules none; leaves slightly connate at base, subulate =Knawel, Scleranthus annuus.= 1b. Stipules present, but small; leaves elliptical or oval (Forked Chickweed) --2. 2a. Stems pubescent; internodes seldom more than 1 cm. long =Forked Chickweed, Anychia polygonoides.= 2b. Stems smooth; internodes about 2 cm. long =Forked Chickweed, Anychia canadensis.= AIZOACEAE, the Carpet-weed Family Prostrate herbs, with whorled leaves and small whitish axillary flowers without petals, in summer. One species in Michigan =Carpet-weed, Mollugo verticillata.= CARYOPHYLLACEAE, the Pink Family Herbs, with opposite or whorled entire leaves, and stems frequently swollen at the nodes. Sepals 4 or 5; petals separate, as many as the sepals, or rarely none; stamens twice as many as the petals in plants with conspicuous flowers, sometimes fewer in those with small flowers; ovary 1-celled, with the ovules on a central axis, and with 2-5 styles. 1a. Calyx spreading, of separate sepals; flowers 15 mm. wide or less; petals sometimes none --2. 1b. Calyx tubular, of united sepals; flowers in many species more than 15 mm. wide; petals always present --22. 2a. Stipules present --3. 2b. Stipules none --4. 3a. Leaves opposite; flowers pink (about 1 dm. high; summer) =Sand Spurrey, Spergularia rubra.= 3b. Leaves whorled; flowers white (1-5 dm. high; leaves linear; summer) =Spurrey, Spergula arvensis.= 4a. Leaves subulate or thread-like --5. 4b. Leaves linear to ovate --7. 5a. Leaves opposite (1 dm. high or less; flowers white, summer) =Pearlwort, Sagina procumbens.= 5b. Leaves fascicled in the axils --6. 6a. Styles 4 or 5 (1 dm. high; terminal white flowers 5 mm. wide, in summer) =Pearlwort, Sagina nodosa.= 6b. Styles 3 (1-4 dm. high; flowers white, nearly 1 cm. wide, summer) =Stitchwort, Arenaria stricta.= 7a. Petals entire (3 dm. high or less; flowers white, in summer) (Stitchwort) --8. 7b. Petals notched or 2-cleft at the end, or none --11. 8a. Principal leaves 1 cm. long or less --9. 8b. Principal leaves 1.5 cm. long or more --10. 9a. Petals half as long as the sepals =Stitchwort, Arenaria leptoclados.= 9b. Petals almost as long as the sepals =Stitchwort, Arenaria serpyllifolia.= 10a. Leaves oblong-oval, obtuse. =Stitchwort, Arenaria lateriflora.= 10b. Leaves lanceolate, acute. =Stitchwort, Arenaria macrophylla.= 11a. Capsule splitting by valves at maturity; styles usually 3 (Chickweed) --12. 11b. Capsule opening by terminal teeth at maturity; styles usually 5 (tufted or matted plants, 1-5 dm. high; flowers white, in spring and summer) (Mouse-ear Chickweed) --18. 12a. Petals distinctly shorter than the sepals, or none --13. 12b. Petals as long as the sepals, or longer --15. 13a. Leaves ovate (1-3 dm. high; flowers white, all summer) =Chickweed, Stellaria media.= 13b. Leaves lanceolate to oblong (in water or wet places, 1-4 dm. high; flowers white, in summer) --14. 14a. Flowers in a leafy terminal branching cluster =Chickweed, Stellaria borealis.= 14b. Flowers in a lateral cluster with minute bracts =Chickweed, Stellaria uliginosa.= 15a. Flowers in clusters with leaf-like bracts, or axillary and solitary (in water or wet places; 1-3 dm. high; flowers white, summer) =Chickweed, Stellaria crassifolia.= 15b. Flowers in clusters with scale-like bracts --16. 16a. Leaves distinctly linear; cymes lateral; a common species in marshes (2-5 dm. high; flowers white, early summer) =Chickweed, Stellaria longifolia.= 16b. Leaves distinctly broadest near the base; flower-cluster terminal --17. 17a. Pedicels erect; clusters usually few-flowered; in extreme northern part of the state only (1-3 dm. high; flowers white, summer) =Chickweed, Stellaria longipes.= 17b. Pedicels spreading; clusters open, many-flowered (2-6 dm. high; flowers white, in summer) =Chickweed, Stellaria graminea.= 18a. Petals distinctly longer than the sepals --19. 18b. Petals as long as the sepals, or shorter than them --21. 19a. Flowers much less than 1 cm. wide =Mouse-ear Chickweed, Cerastium nutans.= 19b. Flowers more than 1 cm. wide --20. 20a. Stem-leaves linear or narrowly lanceolate =Mouse-ear Chickweed, Cerastium arvense.= 20b. Stem-leaves oblong =Mouse-ear Chickweed, Cerastium arvense var. oblongifolium.= 21a. Bracts green; pedicels short and inflorescence crowded =Mouse-ear Chickweed, Cerastium viscosum.= 21b. Bracts with transparent white margins; pedicels longer than the calyx and inflorescence open =Mouse-ear Chickweed, Cerastium vulgatum.= 22a. Styles 5 --23. 22b. Styles 3 (3-10 dm. high; flowers in summer) --25. 22c. Styles 2 --29. 23a. Calyx-teeth much longer than the calyx-tube (erect, 4-10 dm. high; flowers large, red, late summer) =Corn Cockle, Agrostemma githago.= 23b. Calyx-teeth shorter than the calyx-tube (4-10 dm. high; flowers in summer) --24. 24a. Flowers crimson =Mullein Pink, Lychnis coronaria.= 24b. Flowers white or pink =White Campion, Lychnis alba.= 25a. Flowers night-blooming, always wilted during the day =Catchfly, Silene noctiflora.= 25b. Flowers open during the day --26. 26a. Flowers 6 mm. wide or less, white or pink =Catchfly, Silene antirrhina.= 26b. Flowers 1-2 cm. wide, white to pink or purple --27. 26c. Flowers 2 cm. wide or more, crimson =Fire Pink, Silene virginica.= 27a. Principal leaves in whorls of 4 =Starry Campion, Silene stellata.= 27b. Leaves opposite --28. 28a. Calyx globular, much inflated or bladder-like =Bladder Campion, Silene latifolia.= 28b. Calyx club-shape, not inflated =Sweet William Catchfly, Silene armeria.= 29a. Leaves linear or narrowly lanceolate, 5 mm. wide or less (flowers pink or white, in summer) --30. 29b. Leaves lanceolate or ovate (flowers pink, white, or red, in summer) --32. 30a. Flowers in terminal clusters; leaves hairy (2-4 dm. high) =Deptford Pink, Dianthus armeria.= 30b. Flowers solitary at the ends of long pedicels --31. 31a. Flowers 3-4 mm. wide (1-2 dm. high) =Gypsophyll, Gypsophila muralis.= 31b. Flowers 1 cm. wide or more (1-5 dm. high) =Meadow Pink, Dianthus deltoides.= 32a. Flowers less than 1 cm. broad --33. 32b. Flowers more than 1 cm. broad --34. 33a. Flowers white, in large panicles (4-7 dm. high) =Baby's Breath, Gypsophila paniculata.= 33b. Flowers pale red, in loose clusters (4-10 dm. high) =Cowherb, Saponaria vaccaria.= 34a. Leaves with 3-5 prominent veins (4-7 dm. high) =Soapwort, Saponaria officinalis.= 34b. Leaves with one mid-vein (3-6 dm. high) =Sweet William, Dianthus barbatus.= PORTULACACEAE, the Purslane Family Herbs with opposite or alternate leaves and regular flowers with 2 sepals, 5 petals, and a 1-celled ovary with 2 or 3 styles. 1a. Leaves a single pair on each stem (1-2 dm. high; flowers pink, in racemes in early spring) (Spring Beauty) --2. 1b. Leaves numerous (prostrate or spreading; flowers in summer) --3. 2a. Leaves lance-ovate to oblong, not more than six times as long as wide =Spring Beauty, Claytonia caroliniana.= 2b. Leaves linear or linear-lanceolate, more than six times as long as wide =Spring Beauty, Claytonia virginica.= 3a. Flowers yellow, about 5 mm. wide =Purslane, Portulaca oleracea.= 3b. Flowers 2-5 cm. wide =Portulaca, Portulaca grandiflora.= CERATOPHYLLACEAE, the Hornwort Family Submerged aquatics, with whorled, finely dissected leaves and inconspicuous flowers with neither calyx nor corolla. One species in Michigan =Hornwort, Ceratophyllum demersum.= NYMPHAEACEAE, the Water Lily Family Aquatic plants, with usually large and floating leaves which are round or elliptical and palmately veined. 1a. Floating and emersed leaves centrally peltate --2. 1b. Leaves rounded but not peltate, with a deep sinus --3. 2a. Leaves round, 3 dm. in diameter or more; flowers very large, pale yellow =Lotus, Nelumbo lutea.= 2b. Leaves oval, 5-15 cm. long; flowers small, purple =Water Shield, Brasenia schreberi.= 3a. Flowers yellow (Pond Lily) --4. 3b. Flowers white or tinged with pink (Water Lily) --5. 4a. Leaves more than 1 dm. long =Pond Lily, Nymphaea advena.= 4b. Leaves less than 1 dm. long =Pond Lily, Nymphaea microphylla.= 5a. Flowers very fragrant; leaves purplish beneath =Water Lily, Castalia odorata.= 5b. Flowers not fragrant; leaves green beneath =Water Lily, Castalia tuberosa.= RANUNCULACEAE, the Crowfoot Family Herbs with alternate (rarely opposite) leaves, acrid watery juice, separate sepals and petals, numerous stamens, and several or many (rarely only 1) simple pistils. Petals present or absent, in the latter case the sepals are usually petal-like in appearance. 1a. Climbing plants with opposite leaves (flowers in late summer) (Virgin's Bower) --2. 1b. Aquatic plants with dissected submerged leaves (flowers in late spring and summer) (Water Crowfoot) --3. 1c. Terrestrial or mud plants, not agreeing with 1a or 1b --6. 2a. Flowers white, 2-3 cm. wide =Virgin's Bower, Clematis virginiana.= 2b. Flowers pink-purple, 5-8 cm. wide =Virgin's Bower, Clematis verticillaris.= 3a. Flowers white --4. 3b. Flowers yellow --5. 4a. Leaves rigid, not collapsing when removed from the water =Water Crowfoot, Ranunculus circinatus.= 4b. Leaves soft, collapsing when removed from the water =Water Crowfoot, Ranunculus aquatilis var. capillaceus.= 5a. Submerged leaves divided into hair-like segments =Water Crowfoot, Ranunculus delphinifolius.= 5b. Submerged leaves palmately divided into linear lobes =Water Crowfoot, Ranunculus purshii.= 6a. Flowers blue, irregular, with one spur (4-8 dm. high, summer) =Larkspur, Delphinium ajacis.= 6b. The five petals each prolonged into a spur; flowers showy (4-8 dm. tall) (Columbine) --7. 6c. Flowers regular, without spurs --8. 7a. Spurs nearly straight; flowers scarlet and yellow (spring) =Wild Columbine, Aquilegia canadensis.= 7b. Spurs strongly incurved; flowers blue or white (spring, early summer) =Columbine, Aquilegia vulgaris.= 8a. Flowers yellow --9. 8b. Flowers of various colors, but never yellow --28. 9a. Petals none; sepals petal-like; leaves crenate or dentate (2-4 dm. high, flowers in early spring) =Cowslip, Caltha palustris.= 9b. Petals small; sepals petal-like; leaves deeply palmately lobed (4-6 dm. tall; flowers in late spring) =Globe-flower, Trollius laxus.= 9c. Petals yellow; sepals green or yellowish --10. 10a. Leaves linear to narrowly oblong, entire or with minute teeth (flowers 10-15 mm. wide, in summer) --11. 10b. Leaves broader, some or all of them lobed or divided, or cordate-ovate and not lobed --12. 11a. Stems ascending (4-8 dm. high), rooting at the lower joints; fruits pointed with a long slender beak =Spearwort, Ranunculus laxicaulis.= 11b. Stems prostrate and trailing, rooting at the joints; fruits tipped with a minute short beak =Spearwort, Ranunculus flammula var. reptans.= 12a. Basal leaves, or most of them, merely serrate or crenate, and not obviously lobed --13. 12b. All the leaves lobed or divided --16. 13a. Stem-leaves resembling the basal ones, and not lobed (1-2 dm. high; summer) =Sea-side Crowfoot, Ranunculus cymbalaria.= 13b. Stem-leaves deeply divided into oblong or linear segments --14. 14a. Flowers 1.5 cm. wide or more (1-3 dm. high; spring) =Buttercup, Ranunculus rhomboideus.= 14b. Flowers 1 cm. wide or less (2-5 dm. high; spring) --15. 15a. Foliage glabrous or minutely pubescent; basal leaves cordate =Small-flowered Crowfoot, Ranunculus abortivus.= 15b. Foliage villous; basal leaves barely cordate or not at all =Small-flowered Crowfoot, Ranunculus micranthus.= 16a. Stem erect or essentially so --17. 16b. Stem prostrate, creeping, or ascending. Early in spring stems may be found which appear almost erect. Common spring-flowering buttercups are all classified here --22. 17a. Flowers 2 cm. broad or larger (Buttercup) --18. 17b. Flowers 1 cm. broad or smaller --19. 18a. Terminal lobe of leaf stalked (2-5 dm. high, early summer) =Buttercup, Ranunculus bulbosus.= 18b. Terminal lobe of leaf sessile (5-10 dm. high; all summer) =Buttercup, Ranunculus acris.= 19a. Plant glabrous, succulent; stem hollow (1-5 dm. high; spring and summer) =Cursed Crowfoot, Ranunculus sceleratus.= 19b. Plant pubescent (Buttercup) --20. 20a. Fruits tipped with a prominent recurved beak; plant of shady woods (2-6 dm. high; flowers in late spring) =Buttercup, Ranunculus recurvatus.= 20b. Fruits tipped with a straight or slightly curved beak; plants of marshes or wet soil (3-6 dm. high; flowers in summer) --21. 21a. Fruits in a short-cylindric head on a conical receptacle =Buttercup, Ranunculus pennsylvanicus.= 21b. Fruits in a globose or short-ovoid head, on an obovoid receptacle =Buttercup, Ranunculus macounii.= 22a. Leaves dissected into numerous linear or narrowly wedge-shape divisions; plants growing in water or very wet places (late spring and summer) =Water Crowfoot, Ranunculus delphinifolius.= 22b. Leaves palmately lobed, the terminal division not definitely stalked --23. 22c. Leaves compound, some or all of the divisions on definite stalks (Buttercup) --24. 23a. Stem-leaves numerous (1-2 dm. tall; late spring and summer) =Crowfoot, Ranunculus purshii.= 23b. Stem-leaves one or none, the principal leaves all basal (about 1 dm. high; flowers in summer) =Buttercup, Ranunculus lapponicus.= 24a. Style short, obviously curved --25. 24b. Style long and slender, straight or nearly so (common spring-flowering buttercups, 2-5 dm. high) --26. 25a. Stems creeping; flowers 2 cm. wide or more (spring) =Buttercup, Ranunculus repens.= 25b. Stems ascending; flowers 1.5 cm. wide or less (3-6 dm. high; summer) =Buttercup, Ranunculus macounii.= 26a. The two lateral divisions of the leaf sessile or nearly so =Buttercup, Ranunculus fascicularis.= 26b. The two lateral divisions of the leaf on long stalks --27. 27a. Roots fibrous; plants of wet soil =Buttercup, Ranunculus septentrionalis.= 27b. Roots thickened; plants of dry woods or thickets =Buttercup, Ranunculus hispidus.= 28a. Leaves dissected into numerous narrowly linear acute divisions (4-7 dm. high; flowers large, bluish, in summer) =Love-in-a-mist, Nigella damascena.= 28b. Leaves lobed or divided, but the divisions not separated by definite stalks --29. 28c. Leaves truly compound, all their divisions separated by distinct stalks --39. 29a. Leaves all basal, their lobes (usually 3) entire (1-2 dm. high; flowers pink-purple, in earliest spring) (Hepatica) --30. 29b. Lobes of the leaf serrate or incised --31. 30a. Lobes of the leaf obtuse or rounded =Hepatica, Hepatica triloba.= 30b. Lobes of the leaf acute =Hepatica, Hepatica acutiloba.= 31a. Petals none; sepals 3, usually falling away as soon as the flower opens (2-4 dm. high; flowers greenish-white, in spring) =Golden Seal, Hydrastis canadensis.= 31b. Petals none; sepals petal-like, 4 or more (Anemone) --32. 31c. Petals present, but much smaller than the 5 petal-like sepals --38. 32a. Stem-leaves sessile or nearly so --33. 32b. Stem-leaves on definite petioles --35. 33a. Ovary tipped with a long slender hairy style; flowers bluish-purple (1-4 dm. high; early spring) =Pasque Flower, Anemone patens var. wolfgangiana.= 33b. Ovary with a short style, densely woolly; flowers red, greenish, or white (1-4 dm. high; late spring and summer) --34. 33c. Ovary tipped with a short style, glabrous or nearly so; flowers white (4-7 dm. high; late spring and early summer) =Anemone, Anemone canadensis.= 34a. Stem 1-flowered, sepals white =Anemone, Anemone parviflora.= 34b. Stem 3-flowered; sepals usually red =Anemone, Anemone multifida.= 35a. Achenes densely woolly; flowers appearing in summer --36. 35b. Achenes merely pubescent; stems 1-flowered; woodland species blooming in early spring (1-2 dm. high; flowers white) =Wood Anemone, Anemone quinquefolia.= 36a. Segments of the leaf broadly wedge-shape or ovate; flowers white (4-8 dm. high) --37. 36b. Segments of the leaf linear-oblong; flower red, greenish, or white; plants growing on the shores of the Great Lakes =Anemone, Anemone multifida.= 37a. Segments of the basal leaves wedge-lanceolate; head of fruit cylindric =Anemone, Anemone cylindrica.= 37b. Segments of the basal leaves ovate-lanceolate; head of fruit ovoid or oblong =Anemone, Anemone virginiana.= 38a. Stem-leaves present --9b. 38b. Leaves all basal (1-2 dm. high; leaves 3-divided; flowers white, in early summer) =Gold-thread, Coptis trifolia.= 39a. Flowers numerous, in branching panicles (Meadow Rue) --40. 39b. Flowers numerous, in racemes --43. 39c. Flowers solitary or few, in loose clusters; woodland plants blooming in early spring (1-3 dm. high; flowers white to purple) --45. 40a. Blooming in spring; stem-leaves with obvious petioles (3-7 dm. high; flowers white or greenish) =Meadow Rue, Thalictrum dioicum.= 40b. Blooming in late spring or summer, stem-leaves sessile or nearly so (8-15 dm. high; flowers white) --41. 41a. Filaments club-shape, approximately as wide as the anther =Meadow Rue, Thalictrum polygamum.= 41b. Filaments slender or thread-like --42. 42a. Leaves minutely pubescent beneath, but not glandular =Meadow Rue, Thalictrum dasycarpum.= 42b. Leaves minutely glandular beneath =Meadow Rue, Thalictrum revolutum.= 43a. Racemes slender, 10-90 cm. long (8-15 dm. high; flowers white, in summer) =Bugbane, Cimicifuga racemosa.= 43b. Racemes short and stout, 3-8 cm. long (4-8 dm. high; flowers white, in late spring) (Baneberry) --44. 44a. Berries white; pedicels strongly thickened at maturity =Baneberry, Actaea alba.= 44b. Berries red; pedicels slender =Baneberry, Actaea rubra.= 45a. Flowers white; stem-leaves alternate =Isopyrum, Isopyrum biternatum.= 45b. Flowers white to pink or purplish; stem-leaves whorled =Rue Anemone, Anemonella thalictroides.= MAGNOLIACEAE, the Magnolia Family Trees or shrubs, with alternate leaves, and large, frequently showy flowers. One species in Michigan, with broad 4-lobed leaves and greenish-yellow flowers in late spring =Tulip Tree, Liriodendron tulipifera.= ANONACEAE, the Custard Apple Family Trees or shrubs, with alternate simple entire leaves, 3 sepals, and 6 petals. One species in Michigan; tall shrub or small tree, with obovate leaves and large dull-purple flowers in spring =Papaw, Asimina triloba.= MENISPERMACEAE, the Moonseed Family Woody climbers, with alternate leaves, 6-8 petals, and numerous stamens. One species in Michigan, with 5-7-angled leaves which are peltate near the edge, and small white flowers in early summer =Moonseed, Menispermum canadense.= BERBERIDACEAE, the Barberry Family Shrubs or herbs; petals 6 or more; stamens 6-18, frequently opening by two terminal lids; pistil 1. 1a. Leaves simple --2. 1b. Leaves compound --3. 2a. Stem shrubby (flowers yellow, in racemes, in spring) =Barberry, Berberis vulgaris.= 2b. Stem herbaceous, with a single pair of palmately lobed leaves (4-6 dm. tall; flower white, solitary, terminal, in spring) =May Apple, Podophyllum peltatum.= 3a. Leaves all basal; leaflets 2 (2-4 dm. high; the flower-stalks bearing solitary white flowers in spring) =Twin-leaf, Jeffersonia diphylla.= 3b. The stem-leaf ternately compound, with numerous leaflets (4-8 dm. high; with yellowish-green clustered flowers in spring) =Blue Cohosh, Caulophyllum thalictroides.= LAURACEAE, the Laurel Family Trees or shrubs, with aromatic taste or odor, and alternate simple leaves; flowers small, imperfect, the anthers opening by lids. 1a. Freely branched shrub; leaves obovate-oblong, entire (flowers yellow, in early spring, before the leaves) =Spice Bush, Benzoin aestivale.= 1b. Tree or tall shrub; some or all of the leaves 2-3-lobed (flowers greenish-yellow, appearing with the leaves) =Sassafras, Sassafras variifolium.= PAPAVERACEAE, the Poppy Family Herbs with milky or colored juice, regular flowers, 2 sepals, 4, 6, or 8 petals, numerous stamens, and a 1-celled ovary. 1a. Leaves palmately lobed; flower 2.5-5 cm. wide, with 8 petals or more (leaf basal; flower white, in early spring) =Bloodroot, Sanguinaria canadensis.= 1b. Leaves pinnately toothed or lobed; flower 7-10 cm. wide, with 4-6 petals (4-8 cm. high; leaves clasping; summer) =Poppy, Papaver somniferum.= 1c. Leaves divided pinnately to the mid-rib into several toothed or lobed segments; flower 2.5 cm. broad or less (3-5 cm. high; flowers yellow) --2. 2a. Flowers in clusters of 2-4, about 3 cm. wide (spring) =Celandine Poppy, Stylophorum diphyllum.= 2b. Flowers in umbels of 3-8, about 1.5 cm. wide =Celandine, Chelidonium majus.= FUMARIACEAE, the Fumitory Family Herbs with watery juice, compound or dissected leaves, and irregular flowers; sepals 2, small; petals 4, in two pairs, and one or both of the outer pair spurred at the base; stamens 6. 1a. Both outer petals spurred or sack-like at the base --2. 1b. One outer petal spurred or sack-like at the base --4. 2a. A climbing vine with flowers in panicles (white or pinkish flowers in summer) =Climbing Fumitory, Adlumia fungosa.= 2b. Low herbs (2-4 cm.) with basal leaves and white or pinkish flowers in racemes (early spring) --3. 3a. Spurs of the corolla triangular, divergent =Dutchman's Breeches, Dicentra cucullaria.= 3b. Spurs of the corolla short and rounded =Squirrel Corn, Dicentra canadensis.= 4a. Flowers about 5 mm. long, pink-purple tipped with red (3-8 dm. high; summer) =Fumitory, Fumaria officinalis.= 4b. Flowers 10 mm. long or more, yellow, at least at the tip (2-6 dm. high) (Corydalis) --5. 5a. Flowers yellow throughout (spring) =Corydalis, Corydalis aurea.= 5b. Flowers pink, tipped with yellow (summer). =Corydalis, Corydalis sempervirens.= CRUCIFERAE, the Mustard Family Herbs, with alternate, frequently lobed or dissected leaves, and regular flowers, usually in racemes; sepals and petals each 4, stamens 6, 4 long and 2 short (or rarely 2 only), ovary 1. 1a. Petals yellow or yellowish --2. 1b. Petals white, pink, or purple, never yellow --29. 2a. Leaves simple, entire or dentate, never lobed --3. 2b. Leaves deeply lobed or compound (the bracteal leaves, at or near the flower-clusters, may be simple and unlobed) --10. 3a. Leaves clasping the stem --4. 3b. Leaves not clasping at base --6. 4a. Clasping base and apex of leaf obtuse or rounded; pod very long and slender (3-8 dm. high; summer) =Hare's Ear, Conringia orientalis.= 4b. Clasping base and apex of leaf acute; pod obovoid (3-7 dm. high; early summer) (False Flax) --5. 5a. Stem and leaves glabrous =False Flax, Camelina sativa.= 5b. Leaves and usually the stem pubescent =False Flax, Camelina microcarpa.= 6a. Flowers about 2 mm. wide (1-3 dm. high; flowers in summer) --7. 6b. Flowers 5 mm. wide or more (2-6 dm. high; flowers in summer) --8. 7a. Leaves about twice as long as broad, widest near or below the middle =Whitlow Grass, Draba nemorosa.= 7b. Leaves 3-5 times as long as broad, widest above the middle =Yellow Alyssum, Alyssum alyssoides.= 8a. Leaves lanceolate, gradually tapering to the base; flowers about 15 mm. wide =Sand Rocket, Diplotaxis muralis.= 8b. Leaves ovate, acute at base; flowers about 15 mm. wide --22a. 8c. Leaves entire or minutely toothed; flowers 5-10 mm. wide --9. 9a. Pods 25 mm. long or less, on slender pedicels about 8 mm. long =Worm-seed Mustard, Erysimum cheiranthoides.= 9b. Pods 20 mm. long or more, on stout pedicels about 4 mm. long =Worm-seed Mustard, Erysimum parviflorum.= 10a. Leaves bipinnate or dissected into very numerous divisions (3-8 dm. high; flowers in summer) --11. 10b. Leaves simply pinnate --13. 11a. Flowers about 5 mm. broad; pods about 20 mm. long by 1 mm. broad =Herb Sophia, Sisymbrium sophia.= 11b. Flowers about 3 mm. broad; pods about 8 mm. long by 2 mm. wide (Tansy Mustard) --12. 12a. Stems gray with a close fine pubescence =Tansy Mustard, Sisymbrium canescens.= 12b. Stems green =Tansy Mustard, Sisymbrium canescens var. brachycarpon.= 13a. Pod short, not more than 3 times as long as wide (coarse plants, preferring wet or sandy ground; flowers in summer) (Yellow Cress) --14. 13b. Pod elongated, more than 4 times as long as wide --17. 14a. Stems creeping, with erect or ascending branches; flowers about 8 mm. wide =Yellow Cress, Radicula sylvestris.= 14b. Stems erect or ascending (3-10 dm. high); flowers about 4 mm. wide --15. 15a. Pods about twice as long as the pedicels =Yellow Cress, Radicula obtusa.= 15b. Pods about as long as the pedicels, or shorter than them --16. 16a. Plant glabrous or minutely pubescent =Yellow Cress, Radicula palustris.= 16b. Plant hirsute =Yellow Cress, Radicula palustris var. hispida.= 17a. Petals 7 mm. long or more; pod terminating in a conspicuous beak (coarse, weedy plants, 3-12 dm. high, blooming in summer) --18. 17b. Petals of smaller size; pod not terminating in a conspicuous beak --24. 18a. Upper stem-leaves clasping at the base =Rutabaga, Brassica campestris.= 18b. Upper stem-leaves not clasping --19. 19a. Pod tipped with a slender cylindrical beak whose base is much narrower than the pod --20. 19b. Pod gradually narrowed at its tip into a stout, flattened or angled beak --22. 20a. Leaves oblanceolate, rather regularly pinnatifid, the terminal segment about the same size as the lateral ones =Sand Rocket, Diplotaxis muralis.= 20b. Leaves broad, irregularly pinnatifid especially below the middle, with a large terminal segment --21. 21a. Beak of pod 3-4 mm. long =Black Mustard, Brassica nigra.= 21b. Beak of pod 5 mm. long or more =Indian Mustard, Brassica juncea.= 22a. Leaves dentate or lobed =Charlock, Brassica arvensis.= 22b. Leaves deeply pinnatifid --23. 23a. Pod dehiscent when ripe by two valves, tipped with a flat or angled beak =White Mustard, Brassica alba.= 23b. Pod indehiscent, with spongy cross-partitions between the seeds, tipped with a conical beak =Wild Radish, Raphanus raphanistrum.= 24a. Terminal segment of the principal leaves much larger than the lateral segments; flowers in spring and summer --25. 24b. Terminal segment of the principal leaves equaling or smaller than the lateral ones (5-10 dm. high; pods very long and slender; flowers in summer) =Sisymbrium, Sisymbrium altissimum.= 25a. Flowers about 3 mm. wide; pods erect and closely appressed to the stem (3-9 dm. high; weed blooming in summer) (Hedge Mustard) --26. 25b. Flowers about 7 mm. wide; pods spreading or ascending (3-6 dm. high; flowers in spring) (Winter Cress) --27. 26a. Pods pubescent =Hedge Mustard, Sisymbrium officinale.= 26b. Pods glabrous =Hedge Mustard, Sisymbrium officinale var. leiocarpum.= 27a. Lateral leaf-segments 5-8 pairs on the principal leaves =Winter Cress, Barbarea verna.= 27b. Lateral leaf-segments 1-4 pairs on the principal leaves --28. 28a. Flowers bright yellow, in racemes; pods spreading or ascending =Winter Cress, Barbarea vulgaris.= 28b. Flowers pale yellow, in corymb-like clusters; pods erect and somewhat appressed =Winter Cress, Barbarea stricta.= 29a. Principal stem-leaves compound or deeply lobed (the uppermost or bracteal leaves may be simple) --30. 29b. Principal stem-leaves entire, dentate, serrate, or sometimes shallowly lobed or none (the basal leaves, at the surface of the ground, may be deeply lobed or compound) --42. 30a. Leaves ternately divided or compound (2-5 dm. high; flowers in spring) (Toothwort) --31. 30b. Leaves pinnately divided or compound --33. 31a. Leaf-segments lanceolate or narrowly oblong =Toothwort, Dentaria laciniata.= 31b. Leaf-segments ovate or ovate-oblong --32. 32a. Stem-leaves 2, opposite or nearly opposite =Toothwort, Dentaria diphylla.= 32b. Stem-leaves 2-5, alternate =Toothwort, Dentaria maxima.= 33a. Plants growing in water, or in mud near water (spring and summer) --34. 33b. Plants of dry or moist soil --35. 34a. Aerial leaves distinctly compound, with 3-11 leaflets =Water Cress, Radicula nasturtium-aquaticum.= 34b. Aerial leaves merely serrate to pinnatifid; the submerged leaves, if present, dissected =Lake Cress, Radicula aquatica.= 35a. Flowers 5 mm. broad, or less --36. 35b. Flowers 6 mm. broad, or more --39. 36a. Stem-leaves irregularly pinnatifid or lobed; pod about as broad as long (2-4 dm. high; flowers in summer) =Garden Cress, Lepidium sativum.= 36b. Stem-leaves distinctly pinnatifid, with 3-6 pairs of lateral segments (spring) (Bitter Cress) --37. 37a. Leaves chiefly basal, pubescent on the upper side (1-3 dm. tall) =Bitter Cress, Cardamine hirsuta.= 37b. Stem-leaves conspicuous, glabrous on the upper side --38. 38a. Plant of dry soil; flowers about 3 mm. wide (1-4 dm. high) =Bitter Cress, Cardamine parviflora.= 38b. Plant of moist or wet soil; flowers about 5 mm. wide (2-8 dm. high) =Bitter Cress, Cardamine pennsylvanica.= 39a. Leaves irregularly pinnatifid or lobed, not segmented into definitely paired divisions (coarse plants 4-8 dm. high; flowers in summer) --40. 39b. Leaves deeply segmented into 3-10 pairs of divisions --41. 40a. Flowers pink or white from the first =Radish, Raphanus sativus.= 40b. Flowers yellow at first, turning white with age =Wild Radish, Raphanus raphanistrum.= 41a. Flowers pink or white, appearing in spring (2-5 dm. high) =Cuckoo Flower, Cardamine pratensis.= 41b. Flowers yellowish or cream-color; a weed blooming in summer (5-10 dm. high) =Sisymbrium, Sisymbrium altissimum.= 42a. A fleshy, much-branched plant of the shores of the Great Lakes, with a pod transversely divided into two joints (2-3 dm. high; summer) =Sea Rocket, Cakile edentula.= 42b. Pod not transversely divided into two joints --43. 43a. Pod short, its length not more than 3 times its diameter --44. 43b. Pod long and slender, its length more than 3 times its diameter --55. 44a. Pods not conspicuously flattened, thick and plump, about circular in cross-section (flowers in summer) --45. 44b. Pods distinctly flat --46. 45a. A plant escaped from cultivation in dry or moist soil, with very large basal leaves (5-10 dm. high) =Horse Radish, Radicula armoracia.= 45b. A plant of water or very wet soil, the largest leaves seldom more than 15 cm. long (1-5 dm. tall) =Lake Cress, Radicula aquatica.= 46a. Stem-leaves clasping the stem by an auricled base --47. 46b. Stem-leaves sessile or petioled, not clasping, or none --49. 47a. Stem and leaves glabrous or pubescent; pod very flat and circular, about 10 mm. wide (1-5 dm. tall; early summer) =Penny Cress, Thlaspi arvense.= 47b. Stem and leaves glabrous or pubescent; pod not more than 5 mm. wide (1-6 dm. high; spring and early summer) --48. 48a. Pods broadly ovate =Field Cress, Lepidium campestre.= 48b. Pods triangular, or slightly indented at the apex =Shepherd's Purse, Capsella bursa-pastoris.= 49a. Pods about circular, or a very little longer than broad --50. 49b. Pods ovoid or oblong, broadest near the middle, and distinctly longer than wide (Whitlow Grass) --53. 50a. Leaves entire (1-3 dm. high; flowers in summer) =Yellow Alyssum, Alyssum alyssoides.= 50b. Leaves serrate (2-6 dm. high; flowers in summer) --51. 51a. Stamens 6 =Garden Cress, Lepidium sativum.= 51b. Stamens 2 (Pepper Grass) --52. 52a. Petals present =Pepper Grass, Lepidium virginicum.= 52b. Petals none =Pepper Grass, Lepidium apetalum.= 53a. Petals deeply 2-cleft (about 1 dm. high; early spring) =Whitlow Grass, Draba verna.= 53b. Petals entire or barely notched at the tip --54. 54a. Leaves all or chiefly at or near the base (about 1 dm. high; spring) =Whitlow Grass, Draba caroliniana.= 54b. Stems leafy up to the flowers (1-5 dm. high; summer) =Whitlow Grass, Draba arabisans.= 55a. Stem-leaves cordate or sagittate at the base and sessile, forming a more or less clasping leaf (3-10 dm. high) (Rock Cress) --56. 55b. Stem-leaves sessile or somewhat petioled, but not clasping --63. 56a. Seeds in 2 rows in each cavity of the pod (early summer) --57. 56b. Seeds in 1 row in each cavity of the pod --59. 57a. Calyx pubescent; the pods reflexed =Rock Cress, Arabis holboellii.= 57b. Calyx glabrous; the pods spreading or ascending --58. 58a. Basal leaves densely pubescent =Rock Cress, Arabis brachycarpa.= 58b. Basal leaves smooth or nearly so =Rock Cress, Arabis drummondii.= 59a. Petals conspicuous, about twice as long as the calyx, or longer; straight, erect, mostly unbranched plants --60. 59b. Petals inconspicuous, equaling or but little longer than the calyx --61. 60a. Pods 3-4 cm. long, ascending (summer) =Rock Cress, Arabis patens.= 60b. Pods 8-10 cm. long, recurved (late spring) =Rock Cress, Arabis laevigata.= 61a. Pods widely spreading; stem usually sparingly branched near the base (spring) =Rock Cress, Arabis dentata.= 61b. Pods erect or appressed; stem usually unbranched (summer) --62. 62a. Stem-leaves and stem smooth and glaucous =Rock Cress, Arabis glabra.= 62b. Stem-leaves and stem almost always pubescent, and never glaucous =Rock Cress, Arabis hirsuta.= 63a. Principal stem-leaves 7-10 cm. long, or more --64. 63b. Principal stem-leaves 2-5 cm. long --65. 64a. Leaves lanceolate or oblong; flowers 10 mm. wide or less (3-7 dm. high; summer) =Rock Cress, Arabis canadensis.= 64b. Leaves ovate or ovate-lanceolate; flowers 15-20 mm. wide (5-8 dm. high; late spring and summer) =Dame's Rocket, Hesperis matronalis.= 65a. Basal leaves ovate to orbicular or cordate, not more than twice as long as broad (1-3 dm. high; spring) (Bitter Cress) --66. 65b. Basal leaves oblong, lanceolate, or oblanceolate, at least 3 times as long as broad (1-3 dm. high) --67. 66a. Flowers purple or rose color =Bitter Cress, Cardamine douglassii.= 66b. Flowers white =Bitter Cress, Cardamine bulbosa.= 67a. Basal leaves pinnatifid (spring and summer) =Rock Cress, Arabis lyrata.= 67b. Basal leaves entire or toothed --68. 68a. Leaves narrowly oblanceolate; rare plant occurring from Mackinac northward (summer) =Rock Cress, Braya humilis.= 68b. Leaves obovate or oblong; an introduced weed (spring) =Mouse-ear Cress, Sisymbrium thalianum.= CAPPARIDACEAE, the Caper Family Herbs, with alternate compound leaves, 4 petals, and 6 or more stamens, which are about equal in length; fruit a 1-celled pod. One species in Michigan, stamens about 11; leaflets 3 (2-4 dm. high; flowers yellowish, in summer) =Clammy-weed, Polanisia graveolens.= RESEDACEAE, the Mignonette Family Herbs, with alternate leaves and terminal racemes of small yellowish flowers; sepals 6, petals 6, stamens numerous. One species in Michigan, with divided leaves and irregularly cleft petals, blooming in summer =Yellow Mignonette, Reseda lutea.= SARRACENIACEAE, the Pitcher Plant Family Insectivorous plants, with hollow, pitcher-shaped leaves, and large purple flowers at the ends of naked stems. One species in Michigan, growing in bogs and blooming in late spring =Pitcher Plant, Sarracenia purpurea.= DROSERACEAE, the Sundew Family Insectivorous herbs, with a rosette of basal leaves bearing gland-tipped bristles on their upper surface, and with slender racemes of small white flowers in summer; inhabitants of bogs and swamps (2 dm. high, or less). 1a. Leaf-blade about as long as wide =Sundew, Drosera rotundifolia.= 1b. Leaf-blade about 2-3 times as long as wide =Sundew, Drosera longifolia.= 1c. Leaf-blade about 5-8 times as long as wide =Sundew, Drosera anglica.= 1d. Leaf-blade narrowly linear, about 10 times as long as wide =Sundew, Drosera linearis.= PODOSTEMACEAE, the River Weed Family Small submerged aquatics, growing attached to stones in running water, with dissected leaves and minute flowers. One species in Michigan =River Weed, Podostemum ceratophyllum.= CRASSULACEAE, the Orpine Family Herbs, with usually alternate leaves; the sepals, petals, and pistils each 4 or 5, or in one species the petals none, and the stamens as many or twice as many as the sepals. 1a. Leaves entire (Stonecrop) --2. 1b. Leaves toothed --3. 2a. Leaves 3-5 mm. long, very thick and fleshy (tufted plants about 1 dm. high, with yellow flowers in summer) =Stonecrop, Sedum acre.= 2b. Leaves 10-30 mm. long, flat (tufted plants 1-2 dm. high; flowers white, in spring) =Stonecrop, Sedum ternatum.= 3a. Petals present, purple (2-5 dm. high; summer) =Live-for-ever, Sedum purpureum.= 3b. Petals none (3-6 dm. high; summer) =Ditch Stonecrop, Penthorum sedoides.= SAXIFRAGACEAE, the Saxifrage Family Herbs or shrubs, with alternate or opposite leaves; petals and sepals each 5, or the petals none; stamens 5 or 10; styles or stigmas 2-4. 1a. Shrubs with lobed leaves (3-15 dm. high; flowers in late spring) --2. 1b. Herbs --12. 2a. Stems thorny --3. 2b. Stems not thorny (Currant) --8. 3a. Flowers and fruits in racemes =Swamp Currant, Ribes lacustre.= 3b. Flowers and fruit in short clusters (Gooseberry) --4. 4a. Ovary and fruit prickly and bristly =Gooseberry, Ribes cynosbati.= 4b. Ovary and fruit smooth, or sometimes a little glandular --5. 5a. Stamens equaling the ovate calyx-lobes in length, or a very little longer --6. 5b. Stamens distinctly longer than the linear calyx-lobes --7. 6a. Leaves glabrous beneath, or nearly so =Gooseberry, Ribes oxyacanthoides.= 6b. Leaves softly pubescent beneath =Gooseberry, Ribes oxyacanthoides var. calcicola.= 7a. Flowers, including the stamens, about 15 mm. long =Gooseberry, Ribes gracile.= 7b. Flowers, including the stamens, about 8 mm. long =Gooseberry, Ribes rotundifolium.= 8a. Calyx prolonged above the ovary into a tube which is longer than the sepals --9. 8b. Calyx-tube shorter than the ovary or none --10. 9a. Flowers greenish-yellow, inconspicuous; calyx-tube narrowly bell-shape =Black Currant, Ribes floridum.= 9b. Flowers bright yellow, conspicuous; calyx-tube narrow, with spreading lobes =Golden Currant, Ribes aureum.= 10a. Ovary and berry bristly with glandular hairs =Skunk Currant, Ribes prostratum.= 10b. Ovary and fruit smooth, or with sessile glands --11. 11a. Leaves dotted beneath with resinous glands =Black Currant, Ribes hudsonianum.= 11b. Leaves glabrous or pubescent beneath, without resinous glands =Red Currant, Ribes triste.= 12a. Flowers minute, yellowish, without petals, in the axils of the leaves (1-2 dm. high; flowers in spring) =Golden Saxifrage, Chrysosplenium americanum.= 12b. Flowers large, solitary, terminating erect stalks (leaves mostly basal; flowers white, in late summer; flower-stalks 1-5 dm. high) (Grass-of-Parnassus) --13. 12c. Flowers in terminal racemes, panicles, or clusters --15. 13a. Flowers less than 2 cm. wide; leaves narrowed to the base =Grass-of-Parnassus, Parnassia parviflora.= 13b. Flowers 2-3.5 cm. wide; leaves rounded or cordate at the base --14. 14a. A 3-cleft scale at the base of each petal =Grass-of-Parnassus, Parnassia caroliniana.= 14b. A many-cleft (9-15) scale at the base of each petal =Grass-of-Parnassus, Parnassia palustris.= 15a. Leaves linear to oblanceolate, 3 times as long as broad, or more, and pinnately veined (Saxifrage) --16. 15b. Leaves broadly ovate to nearly circular, frequently cordate at the base, and always palmately veined or lobed --20. 16a. Leaves basal; the flower-stalk bearing no leaves except small ones at the base of its branches --17. 16b. Flower-stalk leafy below (1-3 dm. high; flowers yellow, summer) --18. 17a. Petals white; sepals erect; leaves conspicuously toothed, 3-10 cm. long (1-3 dm. high; spring) =Saxifrage, Saxifraga virginiensis.= 17b. Petals greenish; sepals reflexed; leaves minutely toothed or entire, 10-30 cm. long (5-10 dm. high; spring) =Saxifrage, Saxifraga pennsylvanica.= 18a. Leaves with 3 sharp teeth at the apex =Saxifrage, Saxifraga tricuspidata.= 18b. Leaves with numerous teeth or entire --19. 19a. Leaves linear, chiefly on the stem =Saxifrage, Saxifraga aizoides.= 19b. Leaves spatulate, chiefly in a basal rosette =Saxifrage, Saxifraga aizoon.= 20a. Stamens 5 (leaves mostly basal; flowers greenish or purplish in late spring, on stalks 5-10 dm. high) (Alum Root) --21. 20b. Stamens 10 (flowers white, in spring) --23. 21a. Flowers regular =Alum Root, Heuchera americana.= 21b. Flowers irregular, the calyx oblique, longer on the upper side than on the lower --22. 22a. Stamens projecting beyond the calyx =Alum Root, Heuchera hirsuticaulis.= 22b. Stamens not projecting beyond the calyx =Alum Root, Heuchera hispida.= 23a. Stem-leaves alternate or none --24. 23b. Stem with a pair of opposite leaves (2-4 dm. high) =Bishop's Cap, Mitella diphylla.= 24a. Petals deeply fringed (1-2 dm. high) =Bishop's Cap, Mitella nuda.= 24b. Petals entire (1-3 dm. high) =False Mitrewort, Tiarella cordifolia.= HAMAMELIDACEAE, the Witch Hazel Family Shrubs, with alternate simple leaves; sepals, petals, and stamens each 4; ovary 2-lobed. One species in Michigan; tall shrub with obovate leaves and yellow flowers appearing late in autumn =Witch Hazel, Hamamelis virginiana.= PLATANACEAE, the Plane Tree Family Trees, with broad, palmately veined and lobed leaves, and minute flowers in dense spherical heads. One species in Michigan =Sycamore, Platanus occidentalis.= ROSACEAE, the Rose Family Trees, herbs, or shrubs, with alternate, frequently compound leaves; petals and sepals usually 5, stamens numerous, pistils 1 to many; receptacle expanded into a saucer-shape or cup-shape organ, bearing the sepals, petals, and stamens at its margin, the pistils at its center, and resembling a calyx-tube or flattened calyx. 1a. Shrubs or trees --2. 1b. Herbaceous plants --48. 2a. Leaves compound --3. 2b. Leaves simple --24. 3a. Flowers in large panicles or corymbs, each flower 5-10 mm. across; leaflets 7 or more --4. 3b. Flowers solitary or in small clusters, each flower usually 20-80 mm. wide; leaflets frequently only 3 or 5 --7. 4a. Flowers in a pyramidal or oblong panicle, the ovaries superior (1-2 m. high; flowers white, in summer) --70b. 4b. Flowers in rounded or hemispheric clusters, the ovary inferior --5. 5a. Leaves pubescent on the lower surface =Rowan Tree, Pyrus aucuparia.= 5b. Leaves glabrous beneath when mature (small trees; flowers white, in early summer or late spring) (Mountain Ash) --6. 6a. Leaves acuminate at the apex =Mountain Ash, Pyrus americana.= 6b. Leaves obtuse or acute at the apex =Mountain Ash, Pyrus sitchensis.= 7a. Flowers yellow (5-10 dm. high; summer) =Cinquefoil, Potentilla fruticosa.= 7b. Flowers pink or red, rarely white, 4-10 cm. across (shrubs, 5-15 dm. high, or climbing; stems usually thorny; flowers in early summer) (Rose) --8. 7c. Flowers white, 1-3 cm. across (4-20 dm. high; flowers in late spring) --16. 8a. Leaflets on most of the leaves 3; styles cohering in a column which protrudes from among the stamens =Climbing Rose, Rosa setigera.= 8b. Leaflets 5-11; styles not cohering in a protruding column --9. 9a. Sepals persistent on the fruit after flowering --10. 9b. Sepals soon deciduous from the young fruit after flowering --14. 10a. A pair of spines below each leaf larger than the other spines --11. 10b. Spines all alike in size or nearly so, or absent completely --12. 11a. Sepals entire =Wild Rose, Rosa woodsii.= 11b. Sepals pinnatifid =Dog Rose, Rosa canina.= 12a. Stems with few thorns or none at all =Wild Rose, Rosa blanda.= 12b. Stems prickly --13. 13a. Fruit somewhat pear-shape, narrowed toward the base. =Wild Rose, Rosa acicularis.= 13b. Fruit globose, rounded at the base =Wild Rose, Rosa acicularis var. bourgeauiana.= 14a. The pair of spines at the base of each leaf straight or nearly so =Wild Rose, Rosa humilis.= 14b. The pair of spines at the base of each leaf distinctly recurved or hooked --15. 15a. Leaves densely glandular-pubescent beneath =Sweetbrier, Rosa rubiginosa.= 15b. Leaves glabrous or minutely pubescent =Swamp Rose, Rosa carolina.= 16a. Stems trailing or creeping --17. 16b. Stems erect, ascending, or arched --19. 17a. Stems distinctly shrubby and thorny (Dewberry) --18. 17b. Stems almost herbaceous, without thorns =Dwarf Raspberry, Rubus triflorus.= 18a. Leaves thin, dull above; fruit black, large and juicy =Dewberry, Rubus villosus.= 18b. Leaves firm or thick, shining above; fruit reddish, small, consisting of a few sour drupelets =Swamp Dewberry, Rubus hispidus.= 19a. Ripe fruit dropping away from the white receptacle or core; terminal leaflet of each leaf with a long stalk, while the lateral leaflets are sessile or nearly so (Raspberry) --20. 19b. Ripe fruit and receptacle or core dropping together; all the leaflets on stalks which are approximately equal in length (Blackberry) --22. 20a. Stem very glaucous with a whitish or bluish waxy deposit; fruit black =Black Raspberry, Rubus occidentalis.= 20b. Stem not glaucous; fruit red --21. 21a. Calyx velvety-pubescent =Red Raspberry, Rubus idaeus.= 21b. Calyx bristly-hispid =Red Raspberry, Rubus idaeus var. aculeatissimus.= 22a. Pedicels with gland-tipped hairs, but no prickles =Blackberry, Rubus allegheniensis.= 22b. Pedicels with prickles =Blackberry, Rubus nigricans.= 22c. Pedicels with neither prickles nor gland-tipped hairs --23. 23a. Leaves downy beneath =Blackberry, Rubus frondosus.= 23b. Leaves smooth beneath =Blackberry, Rubus canadensis.= 24a. Ovaries 1 or more, superior (attached to the surface of the receptacle, but not concealed within it or united to it) --25. 24b. Ovary 1, inferior (permanently enclosed within the receptacle, with only the styles protruding) --38. 25a. Ovaries more than 1 --26. 25b. Ovary 1 --30. 26a. Leaves serrate --27. 26b. Leaves lobed --28. 27a. Leaves glabrous or very nearly so (8-20 dm. high; flowers white or pinkish, summer) =Meadow-sweet, Spiraea salicifolia.= 27b. Leaves closely pubescent beneath (5-15 dm. high; flowers pink, summer) =Hardhack, Spiraea tomentosa.= 28a. Flowers showy, purple or white, 3-4 cm. broad --29. 28b. Flowers white, about 1 cm. wide (1-3 m. high; flowers in early summer) =Ninebark, Physocarpus opulifolius.= 29a. Flowers purple =Flowering Raspberry, Rubus odoratus.= 29b. Flowers white =Salmonberry, Rubus parviflorus.= 30a. Flowers in racemes (trees or tall shrubs; flowers white, in late spring) --31. 30b. Flowers in small umbels or corymbs (flowers white, in spring) --32. 31a. Leaves oblong, the points of their teeth incurved =Black Cherry, Prunus serotina.= 31b. Leaves obovate, the points of their teeth spreading =Choke Cherry, Prunus virginiana.= 32a. Flowers about 1 cm. wide --33. 32b. Flowers about 1.5-2.5 cm. wide --36. 33a. Low shrubs, with the spatulate or oblong leaves widest above the middle --34. 33b. Erect tall shrubs or small trees, with the leaves widest below the middle --35. 34a. An erect shrub (5-10 dm. high) =Appalachian Cherry, Prunus cuneata.= 34b. A prostrate or ascending shrub (3-15 dm. high) =Sand Cherry, Prunus pumila.= 35a. Leaves very broadly ovate, almost as wide as long (small tree) =Perfumed Cherry, Prunus mahaleb.= 35b. Leaves oblong-lanceolate, about 3 times as long as broad (shrub or small tree, 2-10 m. high) =Pin Cherry, Prunus pennsylvanica.= 36a. Sepals glandular-serrate (tall shrub or small tree) =Wild Plum, Prunus nigra.= 36b. Sepals entire --37. 37a. Leaves with sharp teeth, frequently bristle-tipped; a native species (tall shrub or small tree, frequently growing in thickets) =Wild Plum, Prunus americana.= 37b. Leaves with obtuse teeth; a species escaped from cultivation (widely branched tree) =Cherry, Prunus cerasus.= 38a. Trees, in cultivation or escaped from cultivation near roads or dwellings, with showy flowers 2.5-5 cm. across, edible fruits, and no thorns (spring) --39. 38b. Native species, trees or shrubs, growing in woods, fields, or thickets; frequently with thorns (spring) --40. 39a. Leaves finely serrulate or entire =Pear, Pyrus communis.= 39b. Leaves coarsely serrate or somewhat lobed =Apple, Pyrus malus.= 40a. Shrubs or small trees, without thorns --42. 40b. Bushy trees or shrubs, with thorns or stiff thorn-like branches, and with flowers generally 1.5-2.5 cm. across --41. 41a. Flowers pink, very fragrant =Wild Crab, Pyrus coronaria.= 41b. Flowers white (Hawthorn, the genus Crataegus). Several species of this genus occur in the state, for the identification of which the Manual must be used. 42a. Mid-vein glandular above (shrubs 1-3 m. tall; flowers white or pink) (Chokeberry) --43. 42b. Mid-vein not glandular (shrubs or trees, 1-10 m. tall; flowers white) (Juneberry) --44. 43a. Leaves glabrous beneath =Chokeberry, Pyrus melanocarpa.= 43b. Leaves tomentose beneath =Chokeberry, Pyrus arbutifolia var. atropurpurea.= 44a. Petals 15-25 mm. long --45. 44b. Petals 5-12 mm. long --46. 45a. Mature leaves glabrous =Juneberry, Amelanchier canadensis.= 45b. Mature leaves pubescent beneath =Juneberry, Amelanchier canadensis var. botryapium.= 46a. Flowers in racemes --47. 46b. Flowers solitary, or in small clusters of 2-4 =Juneberry, Amelanchier oligocarpa.= 47a. Leaves coarsely dentate, with about 1 tooth for each lateral vein =Juneberry, Amelanchier spicata.= 47b. Leaves finely serrate, with about 2-3 teeth for each lateral vein =Juneberry, Amelanchier oblongifolia.= 48a. Flowers yellow --49. 48b. Flowers white, pink, purple, or rose, never yellow --63. 49a. Plant with basal trifoliate leaves, resembling strawberry (1-3 dm. high; late spring) =Barren Strawberry, Waldsteinia fragarioides.= 49b. Plants with leafy stems --50. 50a. Flowers solitary in the axils of foliage leaves, on long peduncles (trailing or creeping plants; flowers in late spring and summer) --51. 50b. Flowers in narrow terminal spike-like racemes (3-8 dm. high; summer) (Agrimony) --52. 50c. Flowers in irregular or spreading clusters --55. 51a. Leaflets 5 =Five-finger, Potentilla canadensis.= 51b. Leaflets 7-25 =Silver Weed, Potentilla anserina.= 52a. Principal leaflets more than 3 times (about 3-1/2) as long as wide =Agrimony, Agrimonia parviflora.= 52b. Principal leaflets less than 3 times (about 2-1/2) as long as wide --53. 53a. Leaves nearly glabrous beneath, or with scattered spreading hairs =Agrimony, Agrimonia gryposepala.= 53b. Leaves softly pubescent beneath --54. 54a. Leaves distinctly glandular beneath =Agrimony, Agrimonia striata.= 54b. Leaves not glandular beneath =Agrimony, Agrimonia mollis.= 55a. Principal leaves palmately compound with 5-7 leaflets (Cinquefoil) --56. 55b. Principal stem-leaves with 3 leaflets, or pinnately compound with several leaflets --58. 56a. Leaves silvery-white beneath, laciniately toothed (1-4 dm. high; late spring and summer) =Silvery Cinquefoil, Potentilla argentea.= 56b. Leaves not silvery-white beneath (3-10 dm. high; summer) --57. 57a. Terminal leaflet more than 3 times as long as wide =Cinquefoil, Potentilla recta.= 57b. Terminal leaflet less than 3 times as long as wide =Cinquefoil, Potentilla intermedia= 58a. Flowers about 4 mm. wide (2-6 dm. high; spring) =Spring Avens, Geum vernum.= 58b. Flowers 6 mm. wide, or wider --59. 59a. Principal leaves with lobed leaflets, of which the terminal is the largest; leaf-axis bearing also some small leaflets between those of usual size (4-12 dm. high; late spring and summer) (Avens) --60. 59b. Principal leaves with toothed or pinnately cleft leaflets, the lateral ones about equaling the terminal one in size, and without any small scattered leaflets (3-8 dm. tall; summer) (Cinquefoil) --61. 60a. Terminal leaflet cordate at base =Avens, Geum macrophyllum.= 60b. Terminal leaflet wedge-shape or acute at base =Avens, Geum strictum.= 61a. Leaflets 3 =Cinquefoil, Potentilla monspeliensis.= 61b. Leaflets 5-15 --62. 62a. Leaflets crenate =Cinquefoil, Potentilla paradoxa.= 62b. Leaflets deeply incised =Cinquefoil, Potentilla pennsylvanica.= 63a. Leaves all basal, the flowers on leafless stalks --64. 63b. Stem-leaves present --66. 64a. Leaves simple (1-2 dm. high; summer) =Dalibarda, Dalibarda repens.= 64b. Leaves trifoliate (1-2 dm. high; spring) (Strawberry) --65. 65a. Leaflets thick and firm, the petioles and pedicels pubescent with spreading or ascending hairs; fruit subglobose, the achenes embedded in pits on its surface =Strawberry, Fragaria virginiana.= 65b. Leaflets thin, the petioles and pedicels nearly glabrous or with appressed hairs; fruit conic, the achenes on its surface =Wood Strawberry, Fragaria americana.= 66a. Leaves pinnate with numerous leaflets --67. 66b. Stem-leaves with 3-5 leaflets --72. 67a. Leaflets laciniate or deeply lobed (flowers pink or purple, early summer) --68. 67b. Leaflets merely toothed --69. 68a. Stem-leaves few, small and opposite (2-4 dm. tall) =Purple Avens, Geum triflorum.= 68b. Stem-leaves large and alternate (5-20 dm. tall) =Queen of the Prairie, Filipendula rubra.= 69a. Individual flowers small, not exceeding 6 mm. across, in large clusters or spikes --70. 69b. Individual flowers more than 10 mm. wide, in few-flowered clusters (Cinquefoil) --71. 70a. Flowers in dense spikes (5-15 dm. high; late summer) =Burnet, Sanguisorba canadensis.= 70b. Flowers in panicles =Sorbaria, Sorbaria sorbifolia.= 71a. Flowers red or purple (3-6 dm. high; summer) =Marsh Cinquefoil, Potentilla palustris.= 71b. Flowers white (5-10 dm. high; early summer) =Cinquefoil, Potentilla arguta.= 72a. Pistils 5 (5-10 dm. high; flowers white or pink, early summer) --73. 72b. Pistils 10, in a ring (flowers pink or purple) --68b. 72c. Pistils numerous, in a head or close group --74. 73a. Stipules linear or subulate, 5-8 mm. long =Bowman's Root, Gillenia trifoliata.= 73b. Stipules leaf-like, 10-25 mm. long, serrate =American Ipecac, Gillenia stipulata.= 74a. Flowers red or purple --75. 74b. Flowers white --76. 75a. Leaflets sharply and irregularly toothed or lobed; petals erect, narrowed at the base (3-9 dm. high; early summer) =Purple Avens, Geum rivale.= 75b. Leaflets finely and regularly toothed, oblong; petals spreading --71a. 76a. Leaflets entire below, 3-toothed at the apex (1-3 dm. high; summer) =Cinquefoil, Potentilla tridentata.= 76b. Leaflets toothed all around the margin --77. 77a. Leaves all trifoliate (2-5 dm. high; late spring) --17b. 77b. Some of the upper leaves merely lobed or dentate (5-8 dm. high) (Avens) --78. 78a. Stem bristly-hairy (early summer) =Avens, Geum virginianum.= 78b. Stem softly and finely pubescent (summer) =Avens, Geum canadense.= LEGUMINOSAE, the Pulse Family Trees, shrubs, or herbs, with alternate compound (except 3 species with simple) leaves and stipules; flowers usually irregular (except in a few species), with a large upper petal and 4 smaller ones, the 2 lower enclosing the stamens and pistil; stamens almost always 10, and generally united by their filaments; pistil 1, simple, ripening into a pod. 1a. Shrubs or trees --2. 1b. Herbs, twining, but without tendrils --9. 1c. Herbs; the leaves, or some of them, tipped with tendrils --12. 1d. Herbs, not climbing or twining; tendrils none --21. 2a. Leaves simple --3. 2b. Leaves compound --4. 3a. Leaves broadly cordate (tall shrub or small tree; flowers pink, early spring) =Redbud, Cercis canadensis.= 3b. Leaves lanceolate or elliptical (3-6 dm. high; flowers yellow, summer) =Dyer's Greenweed, Genista tinctoria.= 4a. Twigs or branches thorny --5. 4b. Thorns none --7. 5a. Thorns branched, scattered on the stem (tall tree; flowers greenish, early summer) =Honey Locust, Gleditsia triacanthos.= 5b. Thorns unbranched, a pair of them at the base of each leaf (late spring) --6. 6a. Branches glabrous or nearly so (tree; flowers white) =Black Locust, Robinia pseudo-acacia.= 6b. Branches glandular-pubescent (tall shrub; flowers pinkish) =Clammy Locust, Robinia viscosa.= 6c. Branches bristly (shrub. 1-3 m. high; flowers pink) =Bristly Locust, Robinia hispida.= 7a. Trees; leaves 2-3-pinnate (flowers greenish-white, spring) =Kentucky Coffee-tree, Gymnocladus dioica.= 7b. Low shrubs; leaves once-pinnate (3-6 dm. high; summer) --8. 8a. Flowers bright-blue, each with a single petal =Lead Plant, Amorpha canescens.= 8b. Flowers yellowish and pink-purple, petals 5 --26a. 9a. Leaflets 5-7; flowers in racemes (purplish, late summer) =Wild Bean, Apios tuberosa.= 9b. Leaflets 3 (flowers greenish, purple, or white, late summer) --10. 10a. Flowers in small capitate clusters; lower 2 petals strongly incurved =Wild Bean, Strophostyles helvola.= 10b. Flowers in racemes (Hog Peanut) --11. 11a. Stem pubescent or glabrate; leaflets seldom more than 5 cm. long =Hog Peanut, Amphicarpa monoica.= 11b. Stem villous with retrorse hairs; leaflets usually longer than 5 cm. =Hog Peanut, Amphicarpa pitcheri.= 12a. Style with a tuft of hairs at the apex; lateral petals of the corolla adherent to the lower ones as far as the middle; stipules less than 10 mm. long, and usually less than one-fourth the length of the lower leaflets (spring and summer) (Vetch) --13. 12b. Style hairy along the inner side; lateral petals of the corolla free from the lower ones or adherent only at the very base; stipules more than 8 mm. long and usually one-third or more the length of the lower leaflets (late spring and summer) --17. 13a. Flowers axillary, sessile or nearly so (flowers purple) --14. 13b. Flowers in peduncled racemes --15. 14a. Upper leaves oblong-obovate, truncate or notched, and mucronate at the apex =Spring Vetch, Vicia sativa.= 14b. Upper leaves lance-linear, sharply acute =Common Vetch, Vicia angustifolia.= 15a. Flowers 15-20 mm. long, 4-8 in a cluster (flowers purple) =Vetch, Vicia americana.= 15b. Flowers 8-12 mm. long --16. 16a. Racemes one-sided; flowers blue =Vetch, Vicia cracca.= 16b. Racemes loosely flowered, not one-sided; flowers whitish, the lower petals tipped with blue =Vetch, Vicia caroliniana.= 17a. Flowers yellowish-white =Vetchling, Lathyrus ochroleucus.= 17b. Flowers purple --18. 18a. Stipules nearly regularly halberd-shape, almost as large as the leaflets =Beach Pea, Lathyrus maritimus.= 18b. Stipules half-sagittate, apparently attached laterally near the middle --19. 19a. Leaflets 4-8 pairs, ovate; racemes with 10 or more flowers =Wild Pea, Lathyrus venosus.= 19b. Leaflets 2-4 pairs, linear to oblong or elliptical; racemes with 2-9 flowers (Marsh Pea) --20. 20a. Stems with a membranous wing on the margins =Marsh Pea, Lathyrus palustris.= 20b. Stems angled, but not winged =Marsh Pea, Lathyrus palustris var. myrtifolius.= 21a. Leaves simple (2-3 dm. high; flowers yellow, summer) =Rattlebox, Crotalaria sagittalis.= 21b. Leaves palmately compound; leaflets 7-11 (3-6 dm. high; flowers blue, late spring) =Lupine, Lupinus perennis.= 21c. Leaves pinnately compound; leaflets 5 to many --22. 21d. Leaves compound; leaflets 3 --28. 22a. Leaflets 5; flowers rose-purple in a spike-like head (5-8 dm. high, late summer) =Prairie Clover, Petalostemum purpureum.= 22b. Leaflets more than 5 --23. 23a. Flowers bright-blue, in a dense spike (3-6 dm. high; summer) --8a. 23b. Flowers bright-yellow; stamens not united (summer) --24. 23c. Flowers white, cream-color, or yellowish, or marked with purple --26. 24a. Leaflets linear-oblong, 2 cm. long or less; stamens 5 or 10 (3-6 dm. high) (Partridge Pea) --25. 24b. Leaflets lanceolate-oblong, 2-5 cm. long; 7 stamens with normal anthers and 3 with imperfect anthers (8-15 dm. high) =Wild Senna, Cassia marilandica.= 25a. Anthers 10; flowers 2-4 cm. wide =Partridge Pea, Cassia chamaecrista.= 25b. Anthers 5; flowers 5-10 mm. wide =Partridge Pea, Cassia nictitans.= 26a. Silky-hairy with whitish hairs; flowers marked with purple (3-5 dm. high; summer) =Goat's Rue, Tephrosia virginiana.= 26b. Glabrous or nearly so (summer) (Milk Vetch) --27. 27a. Flowers greenish cream-color (4-10 dm. high) =Milk Vetch, Astragalus canadensis.= 27b. Flowers white (3-5 dm. high) =Milk Vetch, Astragalus neglectus.= 28a. Flowers in heads, umbels, or short dense spikes --29. 28b. Flowers in loose racemes or panicles --42. 29a. Flowers bright-yellow; decumbent or ascending plants (spring and summer) --30. 29b. Flowers white, cream, purple, or red; never yellow --34. 30a. Whole flower only about 2 mm. long; pod coiled --31. 30b. Flowers larger, each one 3-6 mm. long; pod straight (1-4 dm. high) (Hop Clover) --32. 31a. Flowers numerous in each head =Black Medick, Medicago lupulina.= 31b. Flowers in clusters of 2 --20 =Bur Clover, Medicago hispida.= 32a. Stipules linear =Hop Clover, Trifolium agrarium.= 32b. Stipules ovate --33. 33a. Heads densely flowered; flowers 20 or more; upper petal striate when dry =Hop Clover, Trifolium procumbens.= 33b. Heads loosely flowered; flowers usually 10 or fewer; upper petal scarcely striate or not at all =Hop Clover, Trifolium dubium.= 34a. Leaves palmately compound, the 3 leaflets all from the same point (late spring and summer) (Clover) --35. 34b. Leaves pinnately compound, the terminal leaflet on a distinct stalk --39. 35a. Individual flowers sessile, or on very short pedicels --36. 35b. Individual flowers distinctly pedicelled --37. 36a. Heads oblong, on distinct peduncles; calyx longer than the corolla (flowers nearly white; 1-4 dm. tall) =Stone Clover, Trifolium arvense.= 36b. Heads nearly globose, almost sessile, closely subtended by the leaves; corolla longer than the calyx (2-8 dm. high; flowers red-purple) =Red Clover, Trifolium pratense.= 37a. Stems prostrate or creeping; heads long-peduncled, arising from the creeping branches (flower-stalks 1-2 dm. high; flowers white) =White Clover, Trifolium repens.= 37b. Some or all of the stems erect; heads arising from the leafy stems (flowers white or pink) --38. 38a. Plants with long basal runners; flowers 10-13 mm. long (2-3 dm. high) =Buffalo Clover, Trifolium stoloniferum.= 38b. Basal runners none; flowers 6-8 mm. long (3-8 dm. high) =Alsike Clover, Trifolium hybridum.= 39a. Prostrate; leaflets broadly ovate; flowers 3-10 in a cluster --10a. 39b. Erect; leaflets broadest near the middle; flowers numerous (5-12 dm. high; flowers yellowish-white, late summer) (Bush Clover) --40. 40a. Leaflets less than twice as long as broad =Bush Clover, Lespedeza hirta.= 40b. Leaflets more than twice as long as broad --41. 41a. Leaflets linear, 5 mm. wide or less; heads with obvious peduncles =Bush Clover, Lespedeza angustifolia.= 41b. Leaflets narrowly elliptical, the principal ones more than 5 mm. wide; heads sessile or nearly so =Bush Clover, Lespedeza capitata.= 42a. Leaflets finely toothed --43. 42b. Leaflets entire --44. 43a. Flowers violet or blue (3-6 dm. high; summer) =Alfalfa, Medicago sativa.= 43b. Flowers yellow (1-2 m. high; summer) =Yellow Sweet Clover, Melilotus officinalis.= 43c. Flowers white (1-3 m. high; summer) =White Sweet Clover, Melilotus alba.= 44a. Flowers yellow (5-10 dm. high; summer) =Wild Indigo, Baptisia tinctoria.= 44b. Flowers white, the leaflets all from the same point (5-10 dm. high; summer) =Wild Indigo, Baptisia leucantha.= 44c. Flowers blue, purple, or pink (rarely white, and then the terminal leaflet stalked) --45. 45a. Racemes arising from the base of the plant, leafless (4-8 dm. high; summer) =Tick Trefoil, Desmodium nudiflorum.= 45b. Racemes terminal or a few of them axillary; leaflets generally more than 3 cm. long; pod (usually to be seen at the base of the raceme) transversely segmented into 2 or more joints (summer) (Tick Trefoil; the genus Desmodium. Pods are usually necessary for satisfactory identification) --46. 45c. Racemes short, loose, chiefly axillary; leaflets generally less than 3 cm. long; the short ovate or ovoid pod not transversely jointed (5-10 dm. high; flowers in summer) (Bush Clover; the genus Lespedeza. Reference to the Manual is recommended) --58. 46a. Leaves clustered near the summit of the stem (4-12 dm. high) =Tick Trefoil, Desmodium grandiflorum.= 46b. Leaves scattered on the stem --47. 47a. Plants prostrate; racemes panicled; leaflets nearly circular =Tick Trefoil, Desmodium rotundifolium.= 47b. Plants decumbent or ascending; racemes short, simple, few-flowered; stipules ovate (stems 4-8 dm. long) =Tick Trefoil, Desmodium pauciflorum.= 47c. Plants erect or ascending; racemes panicled --48. 48a. Leaflets of an oblong type, broadest at or near the middle, and about 4 times as long as broad (5-10 dm. tall) --49. 48b. Leaflets of an ovate or lanceolate type, broadest below the middle, and not more than 3 times as long as wide --50. 49a. Stem pubescent; leaves sessile or nearly so =Tick Trefoil, Desmodium sessilifolium.= 49b. Stem glabrous or nearly so; leaves obviously petioled =Tick Trefoil, Desmodium paniculatum.= 50a. Stipules lanceolate to ovate, 1 cm. long or more (6-15 dm. high) --51. 50b. Stipules narrowly lanceolate or subulate, less than 1 cm. long --54. 51a. Stems glabrous or minutely pubescent; leaves acuminate --52. 51b. Stems hispid or densely pubescent; leaves ovate or ovate-lanceolate, obtuse or barely acute --53. 52a. Leaves glabrous on both sides =Tick Trefoil, Desmodium bracteosum.= 52b. Leaves rough above, hairy beneath =Tick Trefoil, Desmodium bracteosum var. longifolium.= 53a. Leaflets broadly ovate =Tick Trefoil, Desmodium canescens.= 53b. Leaflets ovate-lanceolate =Tick Trefoil, Desmodium illinoense.= 54a. Flowers 10-12 mm. long (1-2 m. high) =Tick Trefoil, Desmodium canadense.= 54b. Flowers 5-8 mm. long (5-8 dm. tall) --55. 54c. Flowers 3-4 mm. long (4-8 dm. tall) --56. 55a. Leaflets broadly ovate =Tick Trefoil, Desmodium viridiflorum.= 55b. Leaflets oblong-ovate =Tick Trefoil, Desmodium dillenii.= 56a. Leaflets 3-5 cm. long, oblong-ovate, scabrous above =Tick Trefoil, Desmodium rigidum.= 56b. Leaflets 1-2.5 cm. long, broadly ovate or oval, not scabrous above --57. 57a. Stem and leaves glabrous or very nearly so =Tick Trefoil, Desmodium marilandicum.= 57b. Stem and leaves conspicuously pubescent =Tick Trefoil, Desmodium obtusum.= 58a. Flower-clusters sessile, or on peduncles shorter than the subtending leaves --59. 58b. Flower-clusters, or many of them, on peduncles longer than the leaves --61. 59a. Leaves linear-oblong =Bush Clover, Lespedeza virginica.= 59b. Leaves ovate or oval --60. 60a. Leaves and stem velvety or downy =Bush Clover, Lespedeza stuvei.= 60b. Leaves and stem glabrous, or with close appressed pubescence =Bush Clover, Lespedeza frutescens.= 61a. Leaves ovate or broadly elliptical; corolla conspicuously exceeding the calyx --62. 61b. Leaves linear-oblong; calyx about as long as the corolla =Bush Clover, Lespedeza manniana.= 62a. Stem erect or ascending --63. 62b. Stem trailing; peduncles much exceeding the leaves =Bush Clover, Lespedeza procumbens.= 63a. Villous-pubescent; inflorescence dense; some peduncles shorter than the leaves =Bush Clover, Lespedeza nuttallii.= 63b. Slightly pubescent or glabrous; inflorescence loose, on peduncles much longer than the leaves =Bush Clover, Lespedeza violacea.= LINACEAE, the Flax Family Herbs with simple leaves, and regular flowers, having 5 sepals, 5 yellow or blue petals, 5 stamens, and 5 styles. 1a. Flowers blue (3-6 dm. high; summer) =Flax, Linum usitatissimum.= 1b. Flowers yellow (3-8 dm. high; summer) (Wild Flax) --2. 2a. Middle stem-leaves below the branches opposite =Wild Flax, Linum striatum.= 2b. Middle stem-leaves below the branches alternate --3. 3a. Leaves narrowly lanceolate to linear, 1-4 mm. wide --4. 3b. Leaves oblanceolate to oblong, 4-6 mm. wide =Wild Flax, Linum virginianum.= 4a. Leaves entire =Wild Flax, Linum medium.= 4b. Upper leaves glandular-ciliate =Wild Flax, Linum sulcatum.= OXALIDACEAE, the Wood Sorrel Family Herbs, with alternate or basal compound leaves with 3 reverse heart-shaped leaflets; sepals, petals, and styles each 5; stamens 10. (Wood Sorrel) 1a. Leaves all basal; flowers white to pink-purple (1-2 dm. high; late spring) --2. 1b. Stem-leaves present; flowers yellow (1-5 dm. high; spring and summer) --3. 2a. Flower-stalks bearing a single flower =Wood Sorrel, Oxalis acetosella.= 2b. Flower-stalks bearing an umbel of several flowers =Wood Sorrel, Oxalis violacea.= 3a. Stem prostrate and creeping Wood Sorrel, Oxalis repens. 3b. Stem erect or ascending --4. 4a. Pedicels with spreading pubescence =Wood Sorrel, Oxalis corniculata.= 4b. Pedicels with appressed pubescence =Wood Sorrel, Oxalis stricta.= GERANIACEAE, the Geranium Family Herbs, with deeply lobed or divided leaves; flowers regular, with 5 sepals, 5 petals, 5 or 10 stamens, and a 5-celled ovary. 1a. Anthers 5 (spreading or ascending plants, 2-4 dm. high; flowers pink or purple, spring and summer) --2. 1b. Anthers 10 --3. 2a. Leaves pinnately dissected =Stork's-bill, Erodium cicutarium.= 2b. Leaves palmately divided into cuneate lobes =Crane's-bill, Geranium pusillum.= 3a. Leaves ternately divided, the lobes pinnatifid (2-4 dm. high; flowers purple, late spring and summer) =Herb Robert, Geranium robertianum.= 3b. Leaves palmately 3-11-lobed --4. 4a. Petals 12 mm. long or more (3-6 dm. high; flowers pale purple, spring) =Wild Geranium, Geranium maculatum.= 4b. Petals less than 10 mm. long (Crane's-bill) --5. 5a. Seed-bearing portion of the pistil smooth, glabrous or nearly so (low spreading plant; flowers purple, late spring and summer) =Crane's-bill, Geranium columbinum.= 5b. Seed-bearing portion of the pistil transversely wrinkled (widely branching. 1-3 dm. tall; flowers purple, summer) =Crane's-bill, Geranium molle.= 5c. Seed-bearing portion of the pistil pubescent (widely branching. 1-5 dm. tall) --6. 6a. Leaves divided almost to the base (flowers pinkish or white, spring and summer) --7. 6b. Leaves divided one-half to two-thirds the way to the base (flowers purple, summer) =Crane's-bill, Geranium rotundifolium.= 7a. Petals white or pale pink; flowers in compact clusters =Crane's-bill, Geranium carolinianum.= 7b. Petals pink-purple; flowers in loose clusters =Crane's-bill, Geranium bicknellii.= RUTACEAE, the Rue Family Shrubs or low trees, with compound leaves frequently dotted with translucent glands; flowers small, greenish-white, with 3-5 sepals, petals, and stamens. 1a. Leaflets 5-9; stems thorny =Prickly Ash, Zanthoxylum americanum.= 1b. Leaflets 3; stems not thorny =Hop Tree, Ptelea trifoliata.= SIMARUBACEAE, the Quassia Family Trees, with pinnately compound leaves and small greenish-yellow flowers in large panicles in early summer, ripening into winged fruits. One species in Michigan, escaped from cultivation chiefly in towns =Tree of Heaven, Ailanthus glandulosa.= POLYGALACEAE, the Milkwort Family Small herbs, with alternate or whorled simple leaves, and small irregular flowers; sepals 5, petals 3, stamens 6 or 8, more or less united with each other and with the petals. 1a. All of the leaves alternate --2. 1b. Some or all of the leaves in whorls (1-4 dm. high; flowers greenish, purple, or white; summer) (Milkwort) --6. 2a. Flowers few, loosely clustered, 15-20 mm. long (1-3 dm. high; flowers purple; early summer) =Flowering Wintergreen, Polygala paucifolia.= 2b. Flowers numerous, in a spike or raceme --3. 3a. Stem-leaves minute, linear-subulate; stem slender, erect, 3-7 dm. high (flowers pink; summer) =Milkwort, Polygala incarnata.= 3b. Stem-leaves narrowly oblong or broader; stem generally 1-4 dm. high --4. 4a. Flowers in a short thick obtuse very dense spike (flowers greenish or purple; summer) =Milkwort, Polygala sanguinea.= 4b. Flowers in a slender tapering spike --5. 4c. Flowers in a raceme; plants with subterranean flowers also (flowers purple; early summer) =Milkwort, Polygala polygama.= 5a. Leaves linear or nearly so (flowers purple; summer) --7b. 5b. Leaves lanceolate or oblong-lanceolate, 2-6 cm. long (flowers white; late spring) =Seneca Snakeroot, Polygala senega.= 5c. Leaves ovate to ovate-lanceolate (flowers white; late spring) =Seneca Snakeroot, Polygala senega var. latifolia.= 6a. Spike oval, thick, obtuse =Milkwort, Polygala cruciata.= 6b. Spike acute --7. 7a. Spike densely flowered, 1-2 cm. long =Milkwort, Polygala verticillata.= 7b. Spike loosely flowered, 2-5 cm. long =Milkwort, Polygala verticillata var. ambigua.= EUPHORBIACEAE, the Spurge Family Herbs, with alternate, opposite, or whorled leaves and usually milky juice. Flowers small or minute and inconspicuous, without petals and frequently without calyx. In our commoner species, several staminate flowers, each consisting of a single stamen only, and one pistillate flower, consisting of a single pedicelled 3-lobed ovary only, are included within a 4-5-lobed involucre, which is sometimes colored and resembles a calyx or corolla. 1a. Stem-leaves alternate; inflorescence axillary; flowers with calyx and several stamens (3-8 dm. tall; flowers greenish or purplish; summer) (Three-seeded Mercury) --2. 1b. Stem-leaves opposite, usually inequilateral at base; flowers as described for the family; apparent flowers in axillary clusters (summer and autumn) (Spurge) --3. 1c. Stem-leaves alternate; inflorescence a terminal umbel-like cluster, with its branches subtended by opposite or whorled leaves; flowers as described for the family (Spurge) --9. 2a. Leaves ovate or ovate-lanceolate; flower-clusters shorter than the subtending bract =Three-seeded Mercury, Acalypha virginica.= 2b. Leaves lanceolate to oblong; flower-clusters equaling or exceeding the subtending bract =Three-seeded Mercury, Acalypha gracilens.= 3a. Stem and foliage glabrous --4. 3b. Stem and foliage more or less pubescent (stems prostrate or ascending, 1-4 dm. long) --7. 4a. Erect or ascending, usually without basal branches (2-4 dm. tall) =Spurge, Euphorbia preslii.= 4b. Prostrate or spreading, branched from the base (stems 1-4 dm. long) --5. 5a. Leaves entire; plants of the shores of the Great Lakes =Spurge, Euphorbia polygonifolia.= 5b. Leaves serrulate --6. 6a. Leaves broadly oblong or obovate; seeds obscurely wrinkled =Spurge, Euphorbia serpyllifolia.= 6b. Leaves narrowly oblong; seeds with prominent transverse ridges =Spurge, Euphorbia glyptosperma.= 7a. Seeds black =Spurge, Euphorbia hirsuta.= 7b. Seeds red --8. 8a. Leaves oblong =Spurge, Euphorbia maculata.= 8b. Leaves elliptical to obovate; involucre split down one side =Spurge, Euphorbia humistrata.= 9a. Flowers subtended by conspicuous petal-like white appendages (part of the involucre) (4-10 dm. tall; summer) =Spurge, Euphorbia corollata.= 9b. Flowers not subtended by petal-like appendages --10. 10a. Stem-leaves below the inflorescence serrulate (2-5 dm. high; summer) --11. 10b. Stem-leaves below the inflorescence entire --13. 11a. Upper leaves acute =Spurge, Euphorbia platyphylla.= 11b. Upper leaves obtuse, rounded, or notched at the apex --12. 12a. Leaves of the involucre broadly triangular-ovate, widest near the base =Spurge, Euphorbia obtusata.= 12b. Leaves of the involucre broadly obovate to nearly circular, widest near or above the middle =Spurge, Euphorbia helioscopia.= 13a. Stem-leaves narrowly linear, less than 3 mm. wide (2-4 dm. high; late spring and summer) =Cypress Spurge, Euphorbia cyparissias.= 13b. Stem-leaves narrowly oblong-spatulate, more than 5 mm. wide, and more than 3 times as long as wide (2-6 dm. high; summer) --14. 13c. Stem-leaves obovate to nearly circular, not more than twice as long as wide (1-4 dm. high) --15. 14a. Leaves at base of umbel narrow, resembling those on the stem =Spurge, Euphorbia esula.= 14b. Leaves at base of umbel broad, resembling those of the inflorescence =Spurge, Euphorbia lucida.= 15a. Upper stem-leaves distinctly narrowed at the base; introduced species of waste places (summer) =Spurge, Euphorbia peplus.= 15b. Upper stem-leaves rounded at the sessile base; native species of woodlands (spring and early summer) =Spurge, Euphorbia commutata.= CALLITRICHACEAE, the Water Starwort Family Small herbs growing in water or in mud, with opposite entire leaves and small inconspicuous axillary flowers, with neither calyx nor corolla. (Flowers in summer). 1a. Completely submerged; leaves all linear =Water Starwort, Callitriche autumnalis.= 1b. Submerged leaves linear, emersed and floating leaves obovate =Water Starwort, Callitriche palustris.= EMPETRACEAE, the Crowberry Family Low evergreen shrubs, with the linear leaves completely rolled into a tube, and inconspicuous flowers without petals, in the axils of the leaves. One species in Michigan, 1-3 dm. high; leaves less than 1 cm. long; flowers in summer =Crowberry, Empetrum nigrum.= LIMNANTHACEAE, the False Mermaid Family Low herbs with alternate compound leaves and minute axillary flowers; sepals 3, petals 3, stamens 6. One species in Michigan, with stems 1-3 dm. long, and flowers in late spring =False Mermaid, Floerkea proserpinacoides.= ANACARDIACEAE, the Cashew Family Shrubs or small trees, with milky or resinous juice, alternate compound leaves sometimes poisonous to the touch, and small clustered greenish or yellowish flowers. 1a. Leaflets 7 to many (1-5 m. high) (Sumach) --2. 1b. Leaflets 3-5. 2a. Axis of the leaves wing-margined between the leaflets =Sumach, Rhus copallina.= 2b. Axis of the leaves not margined --3. 3a. Leaflets entire =Poison Sumach, Rhus vernix.= 3b. Leaflets serrate --4. 4a. Bark of the older stems glabrous =Sumach, Rhus glabra.= 4b. Bark of the older stems densely velvety-hairy =Sumach, Rhus typhina.= 5a. Terminal leaflet narrowed to a sessile base (5-20 dm. high) =Sumach, Rhus canadensis.= 5b. Terminal leaflet on a definite stalk, round or acute at base (3-8 dm. high, or climbing by hold-fast roots) =Poison Ivy, Rhus toxicodendron.= AQUIFOLIACEAE, the Holly Family Shrubs, with alternate simple leaves and small white or greenish axillary flowers in late spring and early summer; sepals, petals, and stamens each 4-6; fruit a berry. 1a. Leaves entire or nearly so, 1-3 cm. long (1-2 m. tall) =Mountain Holly, Nemopanthus mucronata.= 1b. Leaves sharply serrate, 5-8 cm. long (2-5 m. high) (Black Alder) --2. 2a. Leaves downy on the veins beneath; fruit red =Black Alder, Ilex verticillata.= 2b. Leaves nearly or quite glabrous; fruit orange =Black Alder, Ilex verticillata var. tenuifolia.= CELASTRACEAE, the Staff Tree Family Shrubs with simple leaves and inconspicuous flowers; sepals and petals each 4 or 5, the stamens of the same number and attached to a disk which fills the center of the flower; fruit showy, orange and red. 1a. Leaves alternate (climbing vine; flowers in racemes; late spring) =Bitter-sweet, Celastrus scandens.= 1b. Leaves opposite (flowers in axillary clusters) --2. 2a. Prostrate, with short erect branches; leaves broadest above the middle (spring) =Creeping Wahoo, Evonymus obovatus.= 2b. Tall shrub, with leaves broadest below or near the middle (early summer) =Wahoo, Evonymus atropurpureus.= STAPHYLEACEAE, the Bladder Nut Family Shrubs with opposite trifoliate leaves and small axillary clusters of white flowers in spring; sepals, petals, and stamens each 5; ovary 3-celled, ripening into a large inflated 3-celled pod. One species in Michigan (2-5 m. high) =Bladder Nut, Staphylea trifolia.= ACERACEAE, the Maple Family Trees or shrubs, with opposite, lobed or compound leaves and inconspicuous flowers; sepals about 5; petals the same number, or none; stamens 4-12; ovary 2-lobed, ripening into a pair of winged fruits. 1a. Leaves compound (tree; flowers appearing before the leaves) =Box Elder, Acer negundo.= 1b. Leaves simple (Maple) --2. 2a. Shrubs or small trees; leaves 3-5-lobed; the lobes with regularly serrate margins (flowers greenish-yellow, appearing later than the leaves) --3. 2b. Trees; leaves 3-7-lobed; margins of the lobes entire or incised, but never regularly serrate --4. 3a. Leaves finely and sharply serrate; twigs smooth; bark conspicuously striped with white lines =Striped Maple, Acer pennsylvanicum.= 3b. Leaves coarsely and bluntly serrate; young twigs pubescent; bark not striped =Mountain Maple, Acer spicatum.= 4a. Angles between the leaf-lobes rounded (flowers greenish-yellow, appearing with the leaves) --5. 4b. Angles between the leaf-lobes acute or obtuse, but not rounded (flowers purple, red, or yellowish, appearing before the leaves) --6. 5a. Leaves glabrous beneath, or minutely pubescent on the veins =Sugar Maple, Acer saccharum.= 5b. Leaves downy beneath =Black Maple, Acer saccharum var. nigrum.= 6a. Middle leaf-lobe usually more than half the length of the leaf, narrowed at its base; broken twigs with a strong odor =Silver Maple, Acer saccharinum.= 6b. Middle leaf-lobe usually less than half the length of the leaf, its sides parallel or broadened at the base; broken twigs without strong odor =Red Maple, Acer rubrum.= SAPINDACEAE, the Soapberry Family Trees, with opposite palmately compound leaves, and showy white or yellowish flowers in panicles in spring; sepals 5; petals 4 or 5; stamens about 7; fruit a smooth brown nut. 1a. Leaflets 7; buds viscid; corolla of 5 petals =Horse Chestnut, Aesculus hippocastanum.= 1b. Leaflets 5; buds smooth; corolla of 4 petals =Buckeye, Aesculus glabra.= BALSAMINACEAE, the Touch-me-not Family Smooth herbs, with alternate simple leaves and showy flowers; one petal-like sepal prolonged into a spur; fruit explosive when ripe (5-10 dm. high; summer). 1a. Flowers pale-yellow, with a few red-brown spots =Touch-me-not, Impatiens pallida.= 1b. Flowers orange, thickly spotted with red-brown =Touch-me-not, Impatiens biflora.= RHAMNACEAE, the Buckthorn Family Shrubs, with simple leaves and small flowers in axillary or terminal clusters in early summer; sepals, petals, and stamens each 4 to 5, or petals none. 1a. Leaves with a single mid-vein; flowers in axillary clusters, greenish (Buckthorn) --2. 1b. Leaves with 3-5 principal veins; flowers in dense terminal clusters, white (Red-root) --3. 2a. Lateral veins 3-4 pairs (stout shrub, frequently thorny, escaped from cultivation) =Buckthorn, Rhamnus cathartica.= 2b. Lateral veins 6-9 pairs (1 m. high or less; in swamps and bogs) =Buckthorn, Rhamnus alnifolia.= 3a. Leaves ovate, rounded or cordate at the base, 2-5 cm. wide or more (4-8 dm. high) =Red-root, Ceanothus americanus.= 3b. Leaves elliptical-lanceolate, 2 cm. wide or less (3-8 dm. high) =Red-root, Ceanothus ovatus.= VITACEAE, the Grape Family Shrubs, climbing by tendrils or hold-fast roots, with palmately lobed or palmately compound leaves and small greenish flowers in panicles or flattened clusters; petals and sepals each 4 or 5; fruit a berry. 1a. Leaves compound (summer) (Virginia Creeper) --2. 1b. Leaves simple (late spring) (Grape) --4. 2a. Branches of the tendrils chiefly ending in adhesive disks --3. 2b. Branches of the tendrils twining, or rarely with a few disks =Virginia Creeper, Psedera vitacea.= 3a. Stem and foliage glabrous =Virginia Creeper, Psedera quinquefolia.= 3b. Stem and foliage pubescent, at least when young =Virginia Creeper, Psedera quinquefolia var. hirsuta.= 4a. Leaves conspicuously pubescent beneath --5. 4b. Leaves glabrous beneath when mature, or pubescent on the veins only --6. 5a. A tendril or flower-cluster opposite each leaf =Fox Grape, Vitis labrusca.= 5b. No tendril opposite each third leaf =Summer Grape, Vitis aestivalis.= 6a. Pith continuous through the joints of the stem =Fox Grape, Vitis rotundifolia.= 6b. Pith interrupted by the solid joints --7. 7a. Leaf-lobes with rounded angles between them =Summer Grape, Vitis bicolor.= 7b. Leaf-lobes with sharp angles between them --8. 8a. Leaves coarsely toothed, unlobed or slightly 3-lobed =Frost Grape, Vitis cordifolia.= 8b. Leaves sharply toothed, prominently lobed =Frost Grape, Vitis vulpina.= TILIACEAE, the Linden Family Trees, with alternate, simple, palmately veined leaves, and clusters of fragrant white flowers in late spring arising from the middle of a leaf-like bract; sepals and petals each 5; stamens numerous, but united into 5 sets. One species in Michigan =Basswood, Tilia americana.= MALVACEAE, the Mallow Family Herbs with alternate leaves; sepals and petals each 5; stamens numerous, united by their filaments to form a tube surrounding the styles; ovary many-celled. 1a. Flowers yellow (summer and autumn) --2. 1b. Flowers pale-yellow, with a dark center (2-4 dm. high; late summer) =Flower-of-an-hour, Hibiscus trionum.= 1c. Flowers white to red or blue, never yellow --3. 2a. Leaves broadly heart-shape (10-15 dm. tall) =Velvet Leaf, Abutilon theophrasti.= 2b. Leaves ovate-lanceolate (2-5 dm. tall) =Sida, Sida spinosa.= 3a. Calyx subtended by 6 to many bractlets which are sometimes united at base (summer) --4. 3b. Calyx subtended by 3 bractlets, or by none --6. 4a. Flowers 2-4 cm. wide (5-10 dm. high; flowers pink) =Marsh Mallow, Althaea officinalis.= 4b. Flowers 7-15 cm. wide (8-15 dm. high; flowers pink to nearly white) (Rose Mallow) --5. 5a. Leaves densely pubescent below =Rose Mallow, Hibiscus moscheutos.= 5b. Leaves glabrous =Rose Mallow, Hibiscus militaris.= 6a. Petals prominently notched at the end or reverse heart-shape (Mallow) --7. 6b. Petals obtuse or truncate (summer) --11. 7a. Flowers 1-1.5 cm. wide --8. 7b. Flowers 2-5 cm. wide (3-8 dm. high; flowers in summer) --9. 8a. Stems procumbent, prostrate, or spreading (spring, summer, and autumn) =Mallow, Malva rotundifolia.= 8b. Stems erect (10-15 dm. high; summer) =Mallow, Malva verticillata.= 9a. Leaves with prominent but shallow lobes; flowers axillary =Mallow, Malva sylvestris.= 9b. Leaves deeply lobed or cleft; flowers in the upper axils, producing a raceme-like cluster --10. 10a. Lobes of the leaf dentate or incised =Mallow, Malva alcea.= 10b. Lobes of the leaf pinnately cleft into linear or narrowly oblong divisions =Mallow, Malva moschata.= 11a. Flowers white (1-2 m. high) =Virginia Mallow, Sida hermaphrodita.= 11b. Flowers purple or pink (3-5 dm. high, spreading) =Poppy Mallow, Callirhoe triangulata.= HYPERICACEAE, the St. John's-wort Family Herbs or shrubs, with opposite entire leaves dotted with translucent glands; flowers usually yellow (or pink); sepals and petals each 5; stamens 5 to many; ovary with 3-5 styles. (St. John's-wort.) 1a. Shrubs (4-8 dm. high; flowers yellow, summer) --2. 1b. Herbs (flowers in summer) --3. 2a. Styles 5 =St. John's-wort, Hypericum kalmianum.= 2b. Styles 3 =St. John's-wort, Hypericum prolificum.= 3a. Flowers pinkish, 15 mm. broad (3-5 dm. high, in swamps) =Marsh St. John's-wort, Hypericum virginicum.= 3b. Flowers yellow --4. 4a. Flowers about 4 cm. wide; principal leaves 5-10 cm. long (7-15 dm. tall) =St. John's-wort, Hypericum ascyron.= 4b. Flowers 8-25 mm. wide; stamens 15 or more --5. 4c. Flowers 1-10 mm. wide; stamens 12 or fewer (1-6 dm. high) --7. 5a. Petals dotted with black (4-8 dm. high) --6. 5b. Petals without black dots (2-5 dm. high) =St. John's-wort, Hypericum ellipticum.= 6a. Flowers 20-25 mm. wide; leaves of an oblong type, broadest near the middle =St. John's-wort, Hypericum perforatum.= 6b. Flowers 10-15 mm. wide; leaves of an ovate type, broadest below the middle =St. John's-wort, Hypericum punctatum.= 7a. Leaves minute, subulate, 1-3 mm. long =Pineweed, Hypericum gentianoides.= 7b. Leaves linear, with 1-3 principal veins, broadest near or above the middle =St. John's-wort, Hypericum canadense.= 7c. Leaves lanceolate, 4-6 times as long as broad, with 5-7 principal veins =St. John's-wort, Hypericum majus.= 7d. Leaves oblong, elliptic, or ovate, 1.5-3 times as long as broad --8. 8a. Uppermost bracts linear =St. John's-wort, Hypericum mutilum.= 8b. Uppermost bracts resembling the leaves in shape, but smaller =St. John's-wort, Hypericum boreale.= ELATINACEAE, the Waterwort Family Small marsh herbs, with opposite leaves without translucent dots, and inconspicuous axillary flowers. (Stems 2-5 cm. long; flowers in summer.) One species in Michigan =Waterwort, Elatine americana.= CISTACEAE, the Rock-rose Family Small herbs or shrubs, with opposite or alternate entire leaves; flowers regular, with 5 sepals, 3 or 5 petals, and 3 to many stamens. 1a. Flowers yellow (early summer) --2. 1b. Flowers greenish or purplish, minute, in panicles (late summer) (Pinweed) --4. 2a. Leaves crowded, closely appressed to the branches; flowers 7 mm. wide (2-4 dm. high) =False Heather, Hudsonia tomentosa.= 2b. Leaves spreading; flowers 15-30 mm. wide (3-6 dm. high) (Frostweed) --3. 3a. Petal-bearing flowers solitary =Frostweed, Helianthemum canadense.= 3b. Petal-bearing flowers few, racemose =Frostweed, Helianthemum majus.= 4a. Stem-leaves linear, 4 or more times as long as wide --5. 4b. Stem-leaves oblong or elliptical, about 3 times as long as wide (2-6 dm. tall) --8. 5a. Plant pale with dense appressed pubescence (2-4 dm. high) =Pinweed, Lechea stricta.= 5b. Plant green, pubescence sparse or none --6. 6a. Leaves thread-like, seldom exceeding 1 mm. in width (1-3 dm. tall) =Pinweed, Lechea tenuifolia.= 6b. Leaves 1-5 mm. wide (2-6 dm. high) --7. 7a. Leaves on the basal shoots narrowly lanceolate =Pinweed, Lechea intermedia.= 7b. Leaves on the basal shoots oblong-elliptic, about twice as long as wide =Pinweed, Lechea racemulosa.= 8a. Pubescence of spreading hairs =Pinweed, Lechea villosa.= 8b. Pubescence of appressed hairs =Pinweed, Lechea minor.= VIOLACEAE, the Violet Family Herbs with simple, alternate or basal leaves, and conspicuous irregular flowers with a spur (except in the first species); sepals, petals, and stamens each 5; ovary 1-celled. 1a. Flowers regular or nearly so, greenish-white, axillary; erect plant with leafy stem (3-5 dm. high; spring) =Green Violet, Hybanthus concolor.= 1b. Flowers irregular, blue, yellow, or white, conspicuous (Violet) --2. 2a. Plant stemless, the flowers all on leafless stalks and the leaves all basal (spring or early summer) --3. 2b. Stems leafy (spring and summer) --17. 3a. Petals yellow =Round-leaved Violet, Viola rotundifolia.= 3b. Petals blue, violet, or white --4. 4a. Principal leaves at time of flowering deeply lobed --5. 4b. Leaves oblong, ovate, or triangular, not narrowed to the petiole, and frequently sharply toothed or incised near the base --7. 4c. Leaves narrowly lanceolate, tapering to the base =Violet, Viola lanceolata.= 4d. Leaves heart-shape or kidney-shape, not lobed --8. 5a. Lateral petals bearded --6. 5b. Lateral petals not bearded =Bird-foot Violet, Viola pedata.= 6a. Leaves divided to the base into linear segments =Bird-foot Violet, Viola pedatifida.= 6b. Leaves irregularly divided into broader segments =Hand-leaf Violet, Viola palmata.= 7a. Leaves ovate-oblong, pubescent =Violet, Viola fimbriatula.= 7b. Leaves triangular-lanceolate, usually somewhat dilated at base, nearly or quite glabrous =Violet, Viola sagittata.= 8a. Flowers violet or blue (rarely white-flowered plants are found with the typical blue-flowered ones) (Blue Violets) --9. 8b. Flowers white, the 3 lower petals marked with purple (White Violets) --14. 9a. Lateral petals bearded --10. 9b. Lateral petals beardless =Great-spurred Violet, Viola selkirkii.= 10a. Foliage glabrous --11. 10b. Petioles and lower surface of leaves pubescent --13. 11a. Beard of the lateral petals with a knob at the tip of each hair =Blue Violet, Viola cucullata.= 11b. Beard of the lateral petals not knobbed --12. 12a. Spurred petal hairy =Wood Violet, Viola affinis.= 12b. Spurred petal glabrous =Blue Violet, Viola papilionacea.= 13a. Spurred petal villous =Blue Violet, Viola septentrionalis.= 13b. Spurred petal glabrous, or with a few scattered hairs =Common Blue Violet, Viola sororia.= 14a. Leaf-blade obviously pubescent --15. 14b. Leaf-blade glabrous or very nearly so --16. 15a. Lateral petals bearded =Sweet White Violet, Viola incognita.= 15b. Lateral petals not bearded =White Violet, Viola renifolia.= 16a. Leaf-blades strictly glabrous =Sweet White Violet; Viola pallens.= 16b. Leaf-blades with some minute white hairs on the upper surface near the base =Sweet White Violet, Viola blanda.= 17a. Stipules large and leaf-like, deeply pinnatifid and nearly or quite as long as the petioles --18. 17b. Stipules small, inconspicuous, entire or toothed, and much shorter than the petiole --19. 18a. Leaves serrate; flowers 1.5-2.5 cm. wide (1-3 dm. high; flowers of various colors) =Pansy, Viola tricolor.= 18b. Upper leaves entire or nearly so; flowers about 1 cm. wide (1-2 dm. high; flowers bluish-white) =Wild Pansy, Viola rafinesquii.= 19a. Petals yellow (1-4 dm. high) (Yellow Violet) --20. 19b. Petals violet, blue, or white --21. 20a. Foliage villous-pubescent =Yellow Violet, Viola pubescens.= 20b. Foliage nearly or quite glabrous =Yellow Violet, Viola scabriuscula.= 21a. Stipules entire (2-4 dm. high) =Canada Violet, Viola canadensis.= 21b. Stipules toothed --22. 22a. Lateral petals not bearded (1-2 dm. high) =Long-spurred Violet, Viola rostrata.= 22b. Lateral petals bearded --23. 23a. Flowers white or nearly white (1-3 dm. high) =Pale Violet, Viola striata.= 23b. Flowers blue (about 1 dm. high) --24. 24a. Leaves smooth =Dog Violet, Viola conspersa.= 24b. Leaves pubescent =Sand Violet, Viola arenaria.= CACTACEAE, the Cactus Family Fleshy, jointed leafless plants, armed with numerous thorns; flowers large (5-10 cm. wide), yellow, with about 10 petals and numerous stamens. One species in Michigan, on the shores of Lake Michigan; flowers in summer =Prickly Pear, Opuntia rafinesquii.= THYMELAEACEAE, the Mezereum Family Shrubs, with simple alternate entire leaves, and small yellowish flowers in clusters, opening before the leaves; petals none, the sepals somewhat petal-like. One species in Michigan, 5-15 dm. tall, with very tough bark =Leatherwood, Dirca palustris.= ELAEAGNACEAE, the Oleaster Family Shrubs, with opposite, silvery-pubescent, simple, entire leaves, and small clusters of inconspicuous yellow flowers in spring. One species in Michigan, 1-2 m. high =Buffalo Berry, Shepherdia canadensis.= LYTHRACEAE, the Loosestrife Family Herbs or shrubs, with opposite or alternate entire leaves; receptacle cup-shape or tubular, bearing the 5-7 petals and sepals at its margin, and the 6-12 stamens on its inner surface; ovary superior. 1a. Stem shrubby (aquatic, stems 1-3 m. long; flowers pink, summer) =Water Loosestrife, Decodon verticillatus.= 1b. Stem herbaceous (4-10 dm. high; flowers purple, summer) --2. 2a. Flowers solitary in the axils; leaves mostly alternate =Loosestrife, Lythrum alatum.= 2b. Flowers in terminal panicles; leaves opposite or whorled =Loosestrife, Lythrum salicaria.= MELASTOMACEAE, the Melastoma Family Herbs, with opposite leaves with 3-5 principal veins; receptacle urn-shape, bearing 4 sepals and 4 petals at its edge; stamens 8; ovary 4-celled, superior. One species in Michigan, 3-4 dm. high, with purple flowers in late summer =Meadow Beauty, Rhexia virginica.= ONAGRACEAE, the Evening Primrose Family Herbs with opposite or alternate simple leaves and regular flowers; sepals and petals each 4 (or 2 in one genus), stamens 8 (or 2 in one genus), attached to the summit or inside of a tubular receptacle; ovary 2-4-celled, inferior. 1a. Aquatic plant of shallow water or muddy ground, with prostrate stem (flowers minute, axillary; petals small or none, summer) =Water Purslane, Ludvigia palustris.= 1b. Land plants with erect or ascending stems --2. 2a. Petals minute, greenish (3-8 dm. high; late summer) =False Loosestrife, Ludvigia polycarpa.= 2b. Petals yellow --3. 2c. Petals white, pink, purple, or red --9. 3a. Sepals borne at the summit of the ovary (5-10 dm. high; summer) =False Loosestrife, Ludvigia alternifolia.= 3b. Sepals borne at the summit of the slender tubular receptacle, which is prolonged beyond the ovary --4. 4a. Stamens all equal in length (Evening Primrose) --5. 4b. The alternate stamens longer (3-8 dm. high; summer) (Sundrops) --8. 5a. Leaves deeply dentate or pinnatifid (2-5 dm. high; early summer) =Evening Primrose, Oenothera laciniata.= 5b. Leaves entire or undulate or finely toothed (5-12 dm. high; summer) --6. 6a. Hairs on the stem with broad reddish bases =Evening Primrose, Oenothera muricata.= 6b. Hairs on the stem none, or without swollen bases --7. 7a. Stem and foliage glabrous, or with sparse spreading hairs =Evening Primrose, Oenothera biennis.= 7b. Stem and foliage densely but closely appressed-pubescent =Evening Primrose, Oenothera rhombipetala.= 8a. Petals 5-10 mm. long =Sundrops, Oenothera pumila.= 8b. Petals 14 mm. long or more =Sundrops, Oenothera fruticosa.= 9a. Petals 2, reverse heart-shape, stamens 2 (flowers small, white, summer) (Enchanter's Nightshade) --10. 9b. Petals 4; stamens 4 or 8 --12. 10a. Leaves rounded at the base, denticulate (3-8 dm. high; fruit prickly) =Enchanter's Nightshade, Circaea lutetiana.= 10b. Leaves cordate at the base --11. 11a. Fruit 2-celled, bristly (2-4 dm. high) =Enchanter's Nightshade, Circaea intermedia.= 11b. Fruit 1-celled, with soft hairs (delicate plant 2 dm. high, or less) =Enchanter's Nightshade, Circaea alpina.= 12a. Petals entire (summer) --13. 12b. Petals notched at the end (flowers white or pinkish, less than 1 cm. broad, in summer) (Willow Herb) --15. 13a. Flowers 2-3 cm. wide, purple (7-20 dm. high) =Fireweed, Epilobium angustifolium.= 13b. Flowers about 1 cm. wide --14. 14a. Flowers red (2-5 dm. high) =Gaura, Gaura coccinea.= 14b. Flowers white, turning pink when old =Gaura, Gaura biennis.= 15a. Leaves entire, the margins usually somewhat revolute --16. 15b. Leaves toothed, flat (4-9 dm. high) --18. 16a. Plant densely pubescent with spreading hairs (3-8 dm. high) =Willow Herb, Epilobium molle.= 16b. Plant pubescent with appressed or incurved hairs --17. 17a. Leaves linear, the margin revolute (3-5 dm. high) =Willow Herb, Epilobium densum.= 17b. Leaves narrowly lanceolate, not revolute (2-4 dm. high) =Willow Herb, Epilobium palustre.= 18a. Seeds tipped with a tuft of reddish-brown hairs =Willow Herb, Epilobium coloratum.= 18b. Seeds tipped with a tuft of white hairs =Willow Herb, Epilobium adenocaulon.= HALORAGIDACEAE, the Water Milfoil Family Aquatic or marsh herbs, with alternate, opposite, or whorled leaves, and small, inconspicuous terminal or axillary flowers, frequently without petals (summer). 1a. Leaves none, or else very small and inconspicuous =Water Milfoil, Myriophyllum tenellum.= 1b. Leaves alternate (1-4 dm. high) =Mermaid Weed, Proserpinaca palustris.= 1c. Leaves opposite or whorled --2. 2a. Leaves entire (2-4 dm. high) =Mare's-tail, Hippuris vulgaris.= 2b. Leaves toothed or dissected (Water Milfoil) --3. 3a. Flowers in the axils of foliage leaves --4. 3b. Flowers in terminal spikes, subtended by bracts --5. 4a. Flowers above water, subtended by toothed or entire leaves =Water Milfoil, Myriophyllum heterophyllum.= 4b. Flowers submerged, subtended by dissected leaves =Water Milfoil, Myriophyllum farwellii.= 5a. Flowers solitary or in pairs at each joint of the spike =Water Milfoil, Myriophyllum alternifolium.= 5b. Flowers several at each joint of the spike --6. 6a. Bracts deeply pinnatifid =Water Milfoil, Myriophyllum verticillatum var. pectinatum.= 6b. Bracts entire or toothed =Water Milfoil, Myriophyllum spicatum.= ARALIACEAE, the Sarsaparilla Family Herbs or thorny shrubs, with alternate or whorled leaves, and small flowers in umbels; sepals 5, minute; petals and stamens each 5; ovary inferior, with 2-5 styles, ripening into a berry. 1a. Leaves simple, palmately lobed (thorny shrub; flowers greenish-white, in panicles, in June) =Devil's Club, Fatsia horrida.= 1b. Leaves once compounded, whorled (umbel one, terminal) --2. 1c. Leaves twice or thrice compounded (umbels several) --3. 2a. Leaflets sessile; flowers white, in spring (1-2 dm. high) =Dwarf Ginseng, Panax trifolium.= 2b. Leaflets stalked; flowers greenish, in summer (2-5 dm. high) =Ginseng, Panax quinquefolium.= 3a. Stem and petioles spiny or bristly (flowers white, summer) --4. 3b. Stem and petioles smooth or a little pubescent (flowers greenish-white) --5. 4a. Shrubby, with stout thorns (1-3 m. high) =Hercules' Club, Aralia spinosa.= 4b. Herbaceous, with slender bristles (4-10 dm. high) =Bristly Sarsaparilla, Aralia hispida.= 5a. Stem-leaves present; leaflets cordate at the base (8-15 dm. high; summer) =Spikenard, Aralia racemosa.= 5b. Leaf and flower-stalk arising from the ground; leaflets acute at the base (2-4 dm. high; spring) =Wild Sarsaparilla, Aralia nudicaulis.= UMBELLIFERAE, the Parsley Family Herbs, with alternate, usually compound leaves, the petioles dilated at the base; flowers small, in umbels or heads; sepals 5, minute or even wanting; petals and stamens each 5; ovary inferior, with 2 styles, ripening into a dry fruit. 1a. Leaves simple (flowers in summer) --2. 1b. Leaves compound, or at least deeply cleft --4. 2a. Leaves linear, sword-shape (4-10 dm. tall; flowers greenish-white) =Rattlesnake Master, Eryngium yuccifolium.= 2b. Leaves kidney-shape or almost circular (stems creeping, about 1 dm. high; flowers white) (Water Pennywort) --3. 3a. Leaves peltate, attached by the center =Water Pennywort, Hydrocotyle umbellata.= 3b. Leaves not peltate, attached by the margin =Water Pennywort, Hydrocotyle americana.= 4a. Flowers yellow or purple --5. 4b. Flowers white or greenish --13. 5a. Leaf-segments entire (4-8 dm. high) --6. 5b. Leaf-segments toothed or incised --7. 6a. Leaf-segments filiform (summer) =Fennel, Foeniculum vulgare.= 6b. Leaf-segments ovate to lanceolate =Golden Alexander, Taenidia integerrima.= 7a. Leaves pinnately compound; some of the leaflets incised or pinnatifid --8. 7b. Leaves ternately compound; the segments crenate or serrate --9. 7c. Leaves deeply palmately cleft or divided; flowers in head-like umbels --18a. 8a. Leaf-segments obtuse, rounded, or cordate at the base (6-15 dm. high; summer) =Wild Parsnip, Pastinaca sativa.= 8b. Leaf-segments narrowed to the base (4-8 dm. high; spring) =Prairie Parsley, Polytaenia nuttallii.= 9a. Terminal leaflets conspicuously stalked, their total length, including stalk, at least 50% greater than the length of the lateral leaflets (Meadow Parsnip) --10. 9b. Terminal leaflets not conspicuously stalked, their total length, including stalk, about equaling the lateral leaflets (4-8 dm. high; late spring) (Golden Alexander) --12. 10a. Flowers purple (4-8 dm. high; early summer) =Meadow Parsnip, Thaspium aureum var. atropurpureum.= 10b. Flowers yellow --11. 11a. Stem-leaves once-ternate; leaflets finely serrate (4-8 dm. high; early summer) =Meadow Parsnip, Thaspium aureum.= 11b. Many stem-leaves 2-3-ternate; leaflets coarsely serrate or incised (6-12 dm. high; early summer) =Meadow Parsnip, Thaspium barbinode.= 12a. Basal and lower stem-leaves 2-3-ternate =Golden Alexander, Zizia aurea.= 12b. Basal leaves simple; stem-leaves once-ternate =Golden Alexander, Zizia cordata.= 13a. Leaves once-pinnate (or the submerged leaves decompound, if present) (summer) --14. 13b. Leaves ternately, palmately, or 2-3-pinnately compound --16. 14a. Leaflets mostly ovate or ovate-lanceolate, some of them coarsely incised (3-9 dm. high) =Water Parsnip, Berula erecta.= 14b. Leaflets linear to oblong, serrate to nearly entire, not incised (6-15 dm. high) --15. 15a. Leaflets entire, or with a few low remote teeth =Cowbane, Oxypolis rigidior.= 15b. Leaflets finely but sharply serrate =Water Parsnip, Sium cicutaefolium.= 16a. Leaves principally basal, decompound; flowers in early spring (1-2 dm. high) =Harbinger of Spring, Erigenia bulbosa.= 16b. Leaves principally on the stem --17. 17a. Leaves palmately or ternately once-compound --18. 17b. Leaves 2-3 times compound or decompound --24. 18a. Flowers short-pedicelled, crowded in head-like umbels, greenish; ovary bristly (4-9 dm. high; early summer) (Black Snakeroot) --19. 18b. Flowers in open umbels, white --22. 19a. Styles short, not projecting beyond the bristles of the mature fruit --20. 19b. Styles long, projecting beyond the bristles of the fruit, and recurved --21. 20a. Staminate flowers on pedicels 3-4 mm. long, equaling or barely exceeding the fruit =Black Snakeroot, Sanicula trifoliata.= 20b. Staminate flowers short-pedicelled, concealed among the fruits =Black Snakeroot, Sanicula canadensis.= 21a. Fruit short-stalked, 4 mm. long or less =Black Snakeroot, Sanicula gregaria.= 21b. Fruit sessile, 6-7 mm. long =Black Snakeroot, Sanicula marilandica.= 22a. Umbel unsymmetrical, its branches irregular in length; plant slender (3-8 dm. tall; early summer) =Honewort, Cryptotaenia canadensis.= 22b. Umbel symmetrical with regular branches; plants tall and stout --23. 23a. Stem and leaves very pubescent (10-25 dm. high; summer) =Cow Parsnip, Heracleum lanatum.= 23b. Stem and leaves glabrous or nearly so (5-15 dm. high; early summer) =Masterwort, Imperatoria ostruthium.= 24a. Ovary and fruit bristly (4-10 dm. high) --25. 24b. Ovary and fruit smooth or winged, never bristly --27. 25a. Umbels loose, open, few-flowered; woodland plants blooming in spring (Sweet Cicely) --26. 25b. Umbels densely flowered; weedy plants blooming from summer to fall =Wild Carrot, Daucus carota.= 26a. Stem villous-pubescent =Sweet Cicely, Osmorhiza claytoni.= 26b. Stem glabrous except at the joints =Sweet Cicely, Osmorhiza longistylis.= 27a. Leaflets merely serrate (flowers in summer) --28. 27b. Leaflets coarsely incised, so that the leaf appears dissected --30. 28a. Umbel densely pubescent (8-15 dm. high) =Angelica, Angelica villosa.= 28b. Umbel smooth --29. 29a. Leaf-segments broadly ovate (8-15 dm. high) =Angelica, Angelica atropurpurea.= 29b. Leaf-segments lanceolate (8-15 dm. high) =Water Hemlock, Cicuta maculata.= 29c. Leaf-segments linear (4-10 dm. high) =Water Hemlock, Cicuta bulbifera.= 30a. Principal branches of the umbel 2-5; fruit linear-oblong; woodland plants blooming in spring (2-4 dm. high) =Chervil, Chaerophyllum procumbens.= 30b. Principal branches of the umbel 7 or more; fruit ovate to broadly elliptical (summer) --31. 31a. Native plants, growing in swamps (5-15 dm. high) =Hemlock Parsley, Conioselinum chinense.= 31b. Introduced plants, in waste places and along roads --32. 32a. Stems conspicuously spotted with purple (5-15 dm. high) =Poison Hemlock, Conium maculatum.= 32b. Stems not spotted with purple (2-5 dm. high) =Caraway, Carum carvi.= CORNACEAE, the Dogwood Family Trees, shrubs, or herbs, with alternate leaves and small flowers in rather crowded rounded or flattened clusters; sepals 4, minute; petals and stamens each 4; ovary inferior, ripening into a berry. In one genus the flowers are minute and greenish, with 5 sepals and petals minute or none. 1a. Leaves alternate --2. 1b. Leaves opposite --3. 2a. Flowers white, conspicuous, in flattened clusters (shrubs 2-4 m. high; flowers in late spring) =Dogwood, Cornus alternifolia.= 2b. Flowers greenish, inconspicuous, in small axillary clusters (tree; flowers in spring) =Sour Gum, Nyssa sylvatica.= 3a. Flower clusters small and dense, surrounded by a showy involucre of 4 bracts, resembling a corolla of 4 petals --4. 3b. Flowers in open flattened clusters, without petal-like involucre (shrubs 1-4 m. high; late spring) --5. 4a. Herbaceous, 3 dm. high or less (flowers in late spring) =Dwarf Dogwood, Cornus canadensis.= 4b. Tall shrub or tree (flowers in late spring) =Flowering Dogwood, Cornus florida.= 5a. Leaves distinctly pubescent beneath with woolly or spreading hairs --6. 5b. Leaves smooth beneath, or pubescent with short appressed hairs --9. 6a. Leaves rough above; fruit white =Dogwood, Cornus asperifolia.= 6b. Leaves smooth or finely soft-hairy above --7. 7a. Leaves at least twice as long as wide; branches brownish or purplish --8. 7b. Leaves less than twice as long as wide; branches greenish; fruit blue =Dogwood, Cornus circinata.= 8a. Branches purplish; fruit blue =Dogwood, Cornus amomum.= 8b. Branches brownish; fruit white =Dogwood, Cornus baileyi.= 9a. Branches bright red or reddish-purple =Dogwood, Cornus stolonifera.= 9b. Branches grayish =Dogwood, Cornus paniculata.= ERICACEAE, the Heath Family Herbs or shrubs, frequently with evergreen leaves; sepals 4-5; corolla regular, with 4-5 petals; stamens as many or twice as many; ovary 3-10-celled, with 1 style. 1a. Plants without green color; leafless or with scale leaves only --2. 1b. Plants with green leaves --4. 2a. Flowers solitary (1-2 dm. high; summer) =Indian Pipe, Monotropa uniflora.= 2b. Flowers in clusters --3. 3a. Petals united into a bell-shape corolla (3-9 dm. high; summer) =Pine Drops, Pterospora andromedea.= 3b. Petals all separate (1-3 dm. high; summer) =Beech Drops, Monotropa hypopitys.= 4a. Leaves all basal; herbaceous plants with terminal racemes (1-4 dm. high; summer) (Shin-leaf) --5. 4b. Stem-leaves present --12. 5a. Style straight --6. 5b. Style bent near the apex --8. 6a. Racemes one-sided, the flowers all turned in one direction (flowers white or greenish-white) --7. 6b. Raceme regular, the flowers not all pointing in the same direction (flowers white or pink) =Shin-leaf, Pyrola minor.= 7a. Flowers numerous in each raceme =Shin-leaf, Pyrola secunda.= 7b. Flowers only 3-7 in each raceme =Shin-leaf, Pyrola seconda var. obtusata.= 8a. Flowers pink or purple --9. 8b. Flowers white or greenish --10. 9a. Leaves cordate at base =Shin-leaf, Pyrola asarifolia.= 9b. Leaves rounded at base, not cordate =Shin-leaf, Pyrola asarifolia var. incarnata.= 10a. Leaves shining on the upper side; sepals one-third as long as the petals =Shin-leaf, Pyrola americana.= 10b. Leaves dull on the upper side; sepals one-fourth as long as the petals, or a little shorter --11. 11a. Leaf-blades mostly shorter than their petioles, thick and firm =Shin-leaf, Pyrola chlorantha.= 11b. Leaf-blades thin, usually longer than their petioles =Shin-leaf, Pyrola elliptica.= 12a. Petals nearly or quite separate from each other --13. 12b. Petals united into a gamopetalous corolla, the tube of which is as long as or longer than the lobes --18. 13a. Leaves opposite or whorled; stems herbaceous or nearly so (summer) --14. 13b. Leaves alternate; stems shrubby (early summer) --16. 14a. Flowers solitary; leaves broadly ovate to nearly circular (1 dm. high; flower white) =One-flowered Wintergreen, Moneses uniflora.= 14b. Flowers in clusters; leaves narrow (stems trailing, 1-3 dm. high; flowers white or pinkish) --15. 15a. Leaves broadest above the middle, green =Prince's Pine, Chimaphila umbellata.= 15b. Leaves broadest below the middle, spotted with white =Spotted Wintergreen, Chimaphila maculata.= 16a. Leaves 2-5 cm. long, densely woolly beneath (5-10 dm. high; flowers white) =Labrador Tea, Ledum groenlandicum.= 16b. Leaves 1-2 cm. long, pale beneath but not wholly (creeping; flowers pink) (Cranberry) --17. 17a. Leaves acute =Cranberry, Vaccinium oxycoccos.= 17b. Leaves obtuse =Cranberry, Vaccinium macrocarpon.= 18a. Leaves opposite or whorled; corolla saucer-shape (shrubs 3-8 dm. high; flowers purple, summer) --19. 18b. Leaves alternate; corolla bell-shape or salver-form --20. 19a. Branches and twigs cylindrical, not angled =Sheep Laurel, Kalmia angustifolia.= 19b. Branches and twigs with 2 sharp angles =Swamp Laurel, Kalmia polifolia.= 20a. Plants prostrate, or with a few ascending branches only (flowers white or pink) --21. 20b. Plants erect or ascending --23. 21a. Flowers 10-20 mm. long, very fragrant (early spring) =Trailing Arbutus, Epigaea repens.= 21b. Flowers 4-5 mm. long (late spring) --22. 22a. Leaves spatulate, broadest beyond the middle =Bearberry, Arctostaphylos uva-ursi.= 22b. Leaves oval, broadest at the middle =Snowberry, Chiogenes hispidula.= 23a. Leaves linear, white beneath, their margins strongly revolute (shrub 3-8 dm. high; flowers white, late spring) =Bog Rosemary, Andromeda glaucophylla.= 23b. Leaves oblong, scurfy beneath with rusty scales (bog shrub 4-10 dm. high; flowers white, in spring) =Leatherleaf, Chamaedaphne calyculata.= 23c. Leaves smooth, pubescent, or resinous beneath, but not scurfy nor white --24. 24a. Low shrubs 10-15 cm. high, erect from a creeping rootstock; leaves with the taste of wintergreen (flowers white or pink, summer) =Wintergreen, Gaultheria procumbens.= 24b. Bushy shrubs 3-8 dm. high; leaves dotted beneath with yellowish resinous dots; ovary 10-celled (flowers greenish-pink, spring) =Huckleberry, Gaylussacia baccata.= 24c. Shrubs 1 dm. to 3 m. high; leaves not resinous-dotted beneath; ovary 5-celled (flowers white or greenish-pink, spring or early summer) --25. 25a. Corolla bell-shape, the stamens projecting beyond it (5-15 dm. high) =Deerberry, Vaccinium stamineum.= 25b. Corolla cylindrical or urn-shape, the stamens not projecting --26. 26a. Filaments hairy (Blueberry) --27. 26b. Filaments glabrous (Bilberry) --32. 27a. Low bushy shrubs, usually less than 5 dm. and never more than 1 m. high --28. 27b. Tall erect shrubs, 1-4 m. high --31. 28a. Foliage pubescent =Blueberry, Vaccinium canadense.= 28b. Foliage glabrous --29. 29a. Leaves pale-green and glaucous, entire or nearly so =Blueberry, Vaccinium vacillans.= 29b. Leaves bright-green, distinctly serrulate --30. 30a. Fruit blue =Blueberry, Vaccinium pennsylvanicum.= 30b. Fruit black =Blueberry, Vaccinium pennsylvanicum var. nigrum.= 31a. Leaves downy beneath; fruit black =Blueberry, Vaccinium atrococcum.= 31b. Leaves smooth or minutely pubescent beneath; fruit blue =Blueberry, Vaccinium corymbosum.= 32a. Full-grown leaves less than 2.5 cm. long; low much-branched shrubs, mostly less than 5 dm. high --33. 32b. Full-grown leaves more than 2.5 cm. long; shrubs usually a meter high or more --34. 33a. Leaves entire; petals usually 4. =Bilberry, Vaccinium uliginosum.= 33b. Leaves finely serrulate; petals 5 =Bilberry, Vaccinium caespitosum.= 34a. Leaves serrulate, green beneath, acute; corolla globular =Bilberry, Vaccinium membranaceum.= 34b. Leaves entire, pale beneath, obtuse; corolla ovoid =Bilberry, Vaccinium ovalifolium.= PRIMULACEAE, the Primrose Family Herbs, with alternate or opposite simple leaves and regular flowers; petals more or less united; stamens attached one in front of each petal; ovary 1-celled with 1 style. 1a. Leaves all basal; flowers on leafless stalks --2. 1b. Stem-leaves present --5. 2a. Flowers nodding, the petals reflexed (3-6 dm. high; flowers showy, white or pink, in spring) =Shooting Star, Dodecatheon meadia.= 2b. Flowers erect or spreading; petals not reflexed --3. 3a. Corolla not longer than the calyx; flowers small and inconspicuous (1 dm. high; flowers white or pink, spring) =Androsace, Androsace occidentalis.= 3b. Corolla conspicuous, much longer than the calyx (flowers pink or purple, summer) (Primrose) --4. 4a. Leaves white-mealy beneath (1-4 dm. high) =Primrose, Primula farinosa.= 4b. Leaves green beneath (2 dm. high or less) =Primrose, Primula mistassinica.= 5a. All the stem-leaves in one whorl just below the flower-cluster --6. 5b. Stem-leaves several or many, scattered over the stem --7. 6a. Stem-leaves about 1 cm. long --3a. 6b. Stem-leaves 5-10 cm. long =Star Flower, Trientalis americana.= 7a. Flowers red, blue, or white (summer) --8. 7b. Flowers yellow (summer) --9. 8a. Leaves opposite; flowers axillary (stems spreading, 1-4 dm. long; flowers blue or red) =Pimpernel, Anagallis arvensis.= 8b. Leaves alternate; flowers racemose (1-4 dm. high; flowers minute, white) =Water Pimpernel, Samolus floribundus.= 9a. Stem creeping =Moneywort, Lysimachia nummularia.= 9b. Stem erect (Loosestrife) --10. 10a. Flowers in dense spike-like racemes (3-8 dm. high) =Loosestrife, Lysimachia thyrsiflora.= 10b. Flowers axillary or racemose (3-9 dm. high) --11. 11a. Corolla dotted or streaked with purple or brown; leaves punctate with dark spots --12. 11b. Corolla plain yellow; leaves not dark-dotted --14. 12a. Flowers in racemes --13. 12b. Flowers all axillary =Loosestrife, Lysimachia quadrifolia.= 13a. Flowers all in racemes; leaves opposite or some of them alternate =Loosestrife, Lysimachia terrestris.= 13b. The lowest flowers axillary; leaves opposite or whorled =Loosestrife, Lysimachia producta.= 14a. Leaves ovate, on slender ciliate petioles =Loosestrife, Steironema ciliatum.= 14b. Leaves lanceolate, sessile or short-petioled, pinnately veined =Loosestrife, Steironema lanceolatum.= 14c. Leaves linear, with one mid-vein =Loosestrife, Steironema quadriflorum.= OLEACEAE, the Olive Family Trees or shrubs, with opposite leaves and regular flowers; sepals 4, or calyx none; petals 4, united, or none; stamens usually 2; ovary 2-celled, superior. 1a. Leaves simple (shrub 2-5 m. high; flowers blue or white, in showy clusters in spring) =Lilac, Syringa vulgaris.= 1b. Leaves compound (trees; flowers greenish, inconspicuous, in spring) (Ash) --2. 2a. Lateral leaflets sessile =Black Ash, Fraxinus nigra.= 2b. Lateral leaflets stalked --3. 3a. Twigs sharply 4-angled =Blue Ash, Fraxinus quadrangulata.= 3b. Twigs not distinctly angled --4. 4a. Leaves pubescent beneath =Red Ash, Fraxinus pennsylvanica.= 4b. Leaves glabrous beneath --5. 5a. Leaves pale-green beneath, obscurely serrulate =White Ash, Fraxinus americana.= 5b. Leaves bright-green beneath, sharply serrulate =Green Ash, Fraxinus pennsylvanica var. lanceolata.= GENTIANACEAE, the Gentian Family Herbs, with opposite or basal, entire, usually simple leaves and regular flowers; sepals, petals, and stamens equal in number, 4-12; ovary superior, 1-celled. 1a. Leaves reduced to small scales (1-4 dm. high; flowers small, greenish-yellow, in summer) =Bartonia, Bartonia virginica.= 1b. Leaves rounded, floating (flowers white, summer) =Floating Heart, Nymphoides lacunosum.= 1c. Leaves compound (2-4 dm. high; flowers white or bluish, early summer) =Buckbean, Menyanthes trifoliata.= 1d. Leaves simple, whorled (1-2 m. high; flowers yellowish-white, summer) =American Columbo, Frasera caroliniensis.= 1e. Leaves simple, opposite --2. 2a. Corolla rotate, with spreading lobes, 2-4 cm. broad, pink (5-8 dm. high; summer) =Rose Pink, Sabbatia angularis.= 2b. Corolla bell-shape, each petal with a spur at the base, purplish or white, and not over 1 cm. long (1-4 dm. high; summer) =Spurred Gentian, Halenia deflexa.= 2c. Corolla bell-shape, tubular, funnel-form, or salver-form, not spurred --3. 3a. Corolla-lobes fringed (flowers bright-blue) (Fringed Gentian) --4. 3b. Corolla-lobes entire --5. 4a. Leaves lanceolate (2-8 dm. high; autumn) =Fringed Gentian, Gentiana crinita.= 4b. Leaves linear (1-4 dm. high; late summer) =Fringed Gentian, Gentiana procera.= 5a. Corolla 2 cm. long or a little less --6. 5b. Corolla 2.5-5 cm. long (late summer and autumn) (Gentian) --7. 6a. Upper leaves linear or narrowly lanceolate (2-4 dm. high; flowers pink-purple, late summer) =Centaury, Centaurium umbellatum.= 6b. Upper leaves ovate, with several principal veins (1-5 dm. high; flowers blue, late summer and autumn) =Gentian, Gentiana quinquefolia.= 7a. Calyx-lobes rough or ciliate at the margin (flowers blue, or rarely white) --8. 7b. Calyx-lobes smooth (2-8 dm. high) --10. 8a. Corolla-lobes spreading; leaves narrowly lanceolate, indistinctly veined (2-5 dm. high) =Gentian, Gentiana puberula.= 8b. Corolla-lobes erect or incurved; leaves ovate to ovate-lanceolate, with 3-7 principal veins (3-6 dm. high) --9. 9a. Calyx-lobes equaling or exceeding the calyx-tube =Gentian, Gentiana saponaria.= 9b. Calyx-lobes shorter than the calyx-tube =Gentian, Gentiana andrewsii.= 10a. Leaves ovate or ovate-lanceolate, somewhat cordate at base (flowers greenish-white or yellowish-white) =Gentian, Gentiana flavida.= 10b. Leaves narrowly lanceolate or nearly linear, not cordate (flowers blue) =Gentian, Gentiana linearis.= APOCYNACEAE, the Dogbane Family Herbs, with opposite simple entire leaves and regular flowers; sepals, petals, and stamens each 5; petals united; stamens attached to the corolla; ovaries 2, with a single style or stigma. 1a. Plant creeping or trailing; flowers blue, axillary, 2-3 cm. broad (spring) =Periwinkle, Vinca minor.= 1b. Plant erect or essentially so; flowers 1 cm. broad or less (4-12 dm. high) --2. 2a. Corolla pinkish, about 8 mm. long by 6-8 mm. broad (early summer) =Dogbane, Apocynum androsaemifolium.= 2b. Corolla white or greenish, about 6 mm. long by 4 mm. broad (summer) --3. 3a. Leaves petioled, acute at the base =Indian Hemp, Apocynum cannabinum.= 3b. Leaves sessile, rounded or truncate at the base =Indian Hemp, Apocynum cannabinum var. hypericifolium.= ASCLEPIADACEAE, the Milkweed Family Herbs, with simple entire leaves and regular flowers; juice usually milky; except in the first species, which is a twining vine. The flowers have an unusual structure: calyx of 5 sepals; petals 5, united with each other, and spreading or reflexed so that they conceal the calyx; stamens 5, united with each other and with the stigma to form a complex organ in the center of the flower; ovaries 2; on the back of each stamen is a colored projecting hood, which is frequently the most conspicuous part of the flower, and may be mistaken for the corolla. 1a. Twining vine, with dark purple flowers (summer) =Black Swallow-wort, Cynanchum nigrum.= 1b. Stems not twining --2. 2a. Leaves whorled (3-6 dm. high; summer) (Milkweed) --3. 2b. Leaves opposite or alternate --4. 3a. Leaves in whorls of 4, lanceolate (flowers pink) =Milkweed, Asclepias quadrifolia.= 3b. Leaves in whorls of 4-7, linear (flowers greenish-white) =Milkweed, Asclepias verticillata.= 4a. Umbel sessile (4-8 dm. high; flowers green, summer) =Green Milkweed, Acerates viridiflora.= 4b. Umbel peduncled --5. 5a. Leaves linear or narrowly linear-lanceolate (4-8 dm. high; flowers greenish-white, summer) =Green Milkweed, Acerates floridana.= 5b. Leaves lanceolate or broader (flowers in summer) --6. 6a. Leaves pubescent beneath --7. 6b. Leaves glabrous or nearly so --10. 7a. Flowers brilliant orange (3-6 dm. high) =Butterfly Weed, Asclepias tuberosa.= 7b. Flowers red or purple --8. 8a. Reflexed lobes of corolla merely purple-tinged (1-2 m. high) =Milkweed, Asclepias syriaca.= 8b. Reflexed lobes of corolla bright-red or purple --9. 9a. The erect hoods of each flower about 5 mm. long (7-12 dm. high) =Milkweed, Asclepias purpurascens.= 9b. The erect hoods of each flower about 3 mm. long (6-10 dm. high) =Swamp Milkweed, Asclepias incarnata var. pulchra.= 10a. Leaves broadly rounded and almost sessile at base (flowers purplish) --11. 10b. Leaves narrowed at the base, distinctly petioled (8-15 dm. high) --12. 11a. Umbel solitary, terminal and erect on a long peduncle (4-8 dm. high) =Milkweed, Asclepias amplexicaulis.= 11b. Umbels terminal or lateral, bent toward one side (7-12 dm. high) =Milkweed, Asclepias sullivantii.= 12a. Corolla (not hoods) red (1-2 m. high) =Swamp Milkweed, Asclepias incarnata.= 12b. Corolla (not hoods) greenish (8-15 dm. high) =Milkweed, Asclepias exaltata.= CONVOLVULACEAE, the Morning Glory Family Twining or trailing herbs (except one species), with regular flowers; sepals 5; corolla 5-angled or 5-lobed; stamens 5, attached to the corolla; ovary superior, 2-3-celled. 1a. Plants with green foliage and conspicuous flowers (summer) --2. 1b. Leafless brown or yellow plants, with very small flowers (Dodder) --7. 2a. Style divided at the top into linear or oblong stigmas (flowers white or pink) (Bindweed) --3. 2b. Style not divided at the top; stigmas sessile, capitate (Morning Glory) --6. 3a. Stem erect; leaves rounded or somewhat cordate at base, not hastate or sagittate (1-3 dm. high) =Bindweed, Convolvulus spithamaeus.= 3b. Stem trailing or twining; leaves sagittate or hastate --4. 4a. Calyx almost concealed by two large heart-shape bracts --5. 4b. Bracts at base of calyx none =Bindweed, Convolvulus arvensis.= 5a. Leaves triangular-hastate, with sharp basal lobes =Bindweed, Convolvulus sepium.= 5b. Leaves oblong-ovate, the basal lobes obtuse =Bindweed, Convolvulus sepium var. pubescens.= 6a. Stem smooth or nearly so; ovary 2-celled (flowers white) =Wild Potato Vine, Ipomoea pandurata.= 6b. Stem with reflexed hairs; ovary 3-celled (flowers of various colors) =Morning Glory, Ipomoea purpurea.= 7a. Introduced weed, growing as a parasite on clover =Dodder, Cuscuta epithymum.= 7b. Native species, on various shrubs and herbs --8. 8a. Flowers sessile --9. 8b. Flowers distinctly pedicelled --12. 9a. Sepals united below into a gamosepalous calyx --10. 9b. Sepals separate from each other --11. 10a. Calyx-lobes obtuse =Dodder, Cuscuta arvensis.= 10b. Calyx-lobes acute =Dodder, Cuscuta obtusiflora.= 11a. Flowers in dense rope-like twists on various species of herbs =Dodder, Cuscuta paradoxa.= 11b. Flowers in dense clusters on various species of shrubs =Dodder, Cuscuta compacta.= 12a. Tips of the petals inflexed =Dodder, Cuscuta coryli.= 12b. Tips of the petals erect or spreading --13. 13a. Capsule depressed at the summit =Dodder, Cuscuta cephalanthi.= 13b. Capsule pointed at the summit =Dodder, Cuscuta gronovii.= POLEMONIACEAE, the Polemonium Family Herbs with alternate or opposite leaves and conspicuous regular flowers; sepals 5, united; petals 5, united and bearing the 5 stamens in the corolla-tube; ovary superior, 3-celled. 1a. Leaves pinnately compound and alternate (2-4 dm. high; flowers blue, in spring) =Greek Valerian, Polemonium reptans.= 1b. Leaves fascicled, narrowly linear (about 1 dm. high; flowers pink-purple, in spring) =Moss Pink, Phlox subulata.= 1c. Leaves simple, strictly opposite --2. 2a. Corolla-lobes deeply 2-cleft to the middle (1-2 dm. high; flowers pink, in spring) =Cleft Phlox, Phlox bifida.= 2b. Corolla-lobes entire and rounded, or somewhat notched at the apex --3. 3a. Flowers in summer (8-15 dm. high; flowers purple) =Garden Phlox, Phlox paniculata.= 3b. Flowers in spring (3-6 dm. high) --4. 4a. Corolla blue-purple; stems ascending =Sweet William, Phlox divaricata.= 4b. Corolla pink or red-purple; stems erect =Sweet William, Phlox pilosa.= HYDROPHYLLACEAE, the Water-leaf Family Herbs with alternate lobed or divided leaves and regular flowers; sepals 5; petals 5, united; stamens 5, attached to the corolla-tube and projecting beyond it; ovary 1-celled. 1a. Leaves palmately veined and lobed (4-8 dm. high; flowers purple, early summer) =Water-leaf, Hydrophyllum canadense.= 1b. Leaves pinnately veined and lobed (2-6 dm. high; flowers blue or purple, varying to white) --2. 2a. Corolla-lobes much shorter than the corolla-tube (summer) =Phacelia, Phacelia franklinii.= 2b. Corolla-lobes much longer than the corolla-tube (late spring and summer) (Water-leaf) --3. 3a. Calyx with a small reflexed appendage between each pair of sepals =Water-leaf, Hydrophyllum appendiculatum.= 3b. Calyx without appendages =Water-leaf, Hydrophyllum virginicum.= BORAGINACEAE, the Borage Family Herbs with alternate entire leaves; sepals 5; petals 5, united, corolla generally regular; stamens 5, attached to the corolla-tube; ovary deeply 4-lobed with a single style. 1a. Corolla reddish-purple, about 8 mm. wide (4-10 dm. high; spring) =Hound's Tongue, Cynoglossum officinale.= 1b. Corolla blue with a yellow center, 4-8 mm. wide (1-5 dm. high; spring and early summer) (Forget-me-not) --13. 1c. Corolla deep orange, salver-form (2-6 dm. high; spring) (Puccoon) --15. 1d. Corolla white or blue, or lightly tinged with yellow or red --2. 2a. Corolla rotate, with a very short tube, bright-blue, about 20 mm. broad (3-8 dm. high; summer) =Borage, Borago officinalis.= 2b. Corolla tubular, funnel-form, or salver-form --3. 3a. Corolla 10 mm. long or more; its tube distinctly longer than the calyx --4. 3b. Corolla less than 10 mm. long; its tube equaling or shorter than the calyx --8. 4a. Flowers yellowish-white, or somewhat tinged with pink or greenish --5. 4b. Flowers blue or purple --6. 5a. Corolla-lobes erect; leaves sessile (3-8 dm. high; early summer) =False Gromwell; Onosmodium occidentale.= 5b. Corolla-lobes spreading; leaves decurrent (6-10 dm. high; summer) =Comfrey, Symphytum officinale.= 6a. Stem and leaves glabrous (3-6 dm. high; spring) =Bluebell, Mertensia virginica.= 6b. Stem and leaves pubescent (4-8 dm. high) --7. 7a. Corolla regular; leaves ovate or ovate-lanceolate (summer) =Bluebell, Mertensia paniculata.= 7b. Corolla irregular; leaves linear-oblong (summer) =Blueweed, Echium vulgare.= 8a. Ovary and fruit covered with hooked prickles --9. 8b. Ovary and fruit not prickly --12. 9a. Principal leaves 2.5 cm. wide or more --10. 9b. Principal leaves 2 cm. wide or less (3-8 dm. high; flowers blue or white, summer) (Stickseed) --11. 10a. Leaves chiefly basal, the racemes on long leafless peduncles (4-8 dm. high; flowers pale blue, early summer) =Wild Comfrey, Cynoglossum boreale.= 10b. Stems leafy (8-12 dm. high; flowers white, summer) =Beggar Lice, Lappula virginiana.= 11a. A bract at the base of each flower =Stickseed, Lappula echinata.= 11b. Racemes without bracts at the base of each flower =Stickseed, Lappula deflexa var. americana.= 12a. Racemes bractless, or bracted only at the base (1-4 dm. high) --14. 12b. Raceme with a bract at the base of each flower (flowers white or yellowish) --17. 13a. Corolla 4 mm. wide =Forget-me-not, Myosotis laxa.= 13b. Corolla 6-8 mm. wide =Forget-me-not, Myosotis scorpioides.= 14a. Calyx-lobes all of equal length (summer) =Scorpion Grass, Myosotis arvensis.= 14b. Calyx-lobes distinctly unequal in length (spring) =Scorpion Grass, Myosotis virginica.= 15a. Corolla-lobes denticulate =Puccoon, Lithospermum angustifolium.= 15b. Corolla-lobes entire --16. 16a. Flowers sessile; stem softly pubescent =Puccoon, Lithospermum canescens.= 16b. Flowers on pedicels 2-5 mm. long; stem hispid or bristly =Puccoon, Lithospermum gmelini.= 17a. Corolla white; fruit brown and wrinkled (weed 2-4 dm. high; spring and summer) =Corn Gromwell, Lithospermum arvense.= 17b. Corolla yellowish-white; fruit white and smooth (5-10 dm. high) --18. 18a. Corolla distinctly surpassing the calyx in length (spring and summer) =Corn Gromwell, Lithospermum officinale.= 18b. Corolla equaling or shorter than the calyx (spring) =Wild Gromwell, Lithospermum latifolium.= LABIATAE, the Mint Family Herbs with opposite leaves, square stems, and usually aromatic odor; flowers irregular, with united petals, or almost regular; stamens 2 or 4, attached to the tube of the corolla; ovary deeply 4-lobed, with a single style. 1a. Stamens 2 --2. 1b. Stamens 4 --15. 2a. Corolla regular or nearly so; flowers white, in dense axillary clusters; plants usually of wet grounds (2-8 dm. high; summer and autumn) --3. 2b. Corolla distinctly irregular and more or less 2-lipped --7. 3a. Calyx-teeth short, triangular, acute or obtuse (Bugle Weed) --4. 3b. Calyx-teeth narrow, acuminate or cuspidate (Water Hoarhound) --5. 4a. Stems and stolons bearing tubers =Bugle Weed, Lycopus uniflorus.= 4b. Stems and stolons not bearing tubers =Bugle Weed, Lycopus virginicus.= 5a. Leaves serrate; calyx-teeth sharp-pointed --6. 5b. Leaves coarsely incised; calyx-teeth awn-tipped =Water Hoarhound, Lycopus americanus.= 6a. Corolla twice as long as the calyx; leaves narrowed at the base =Water Hoarhound, Lycopus rubellus.= 6b. Corolla barely longer than the calyx; leaves sessile or nearly so =Water Hoarhound, Lycopus lucidus var. americanus.= 7a. Corolla blue, 3-4 mm. long; flowers in loose axillary clusters (1-4 dm. high; summer) (Pennyroyal) --8. 7b. Corolla 8-40 mm. long --9. 8a. Leaves serrate =Pennyroyal, Hedeoma pulegioides.= 8b. Leaves linear, entire =Pennyroyal, Hedeoma hispida.= 9a. Lower lobe of the corolla fringed, very much longer than the upper (5-15 dm. high; corolla pale-yellow; late summer) =Horse Balm, Collinsonia canadensis.= 9b. Lower lobe of the corolla nearly or quite as long as the upper and not fringed --10. 10a. Calyx narrowly tubular; its teeth about equal in size (5-10 dm. high; flowers in dense terminal heads, in summer) --11. 10b. Calyx campanulate, 2 of its teeth different in size from the other 3 (4-8 dm. high; flowers pink-purple, in terminal clusters in summer) --14. 11a. Corolla scarlet =Oswego Tea, Monarda didyma.= 11b. Corolla bright crimson or rose-red =Wild Bergamot, Monarda fistulosa var. rubra.= 11c. Corolla white, pink, pale-purple, or yellowish --12. 12a. Flower-clusters all terminal --13. 12b. Flower-clusters both terminal and axillary =Horse Mint, Monarda punctata.= 13a. Leaves and stem with soft spreading pubescence =Wild Bergamot, Monarda fistulosa.= 13b. Leaves and stem grayish with fine appressed pubescence =Wild Bergamot, Monarda mollis.= 14a. Upper calyx-teeth about 3 times as long as the lower =Blephilia, Blephilia hirsuta.= 14b. Upper calyx-teeth but little longer than the lower =Blephilia, Blephilia ciliata.= 15a. Calyx with a distinct protuberance on the back of the upper side (Skullcap) --16. 15b. Calyx without a distinct protuberance --20. 16a. Corolla 5-8 mm. long; flowers in axillary racemes (3-8 dm. high; flowers blue, in summer) =Mad-dog Skullcap, Scutellaria lateriflora.= 16b. Corolla 6-10 mm. long; flowers axillary, solitary (1-3 dm. high; flowers violet, early summer) =Skullcap, Scutellaria parvula.= 16c. Corolla 12-30 mm. long; flowers axillary or in terminal racemes (4-8 dm. high; flowers blue, summer) --17. 17a. Stem-leaves cordate =Skullcap, Scutellaria versicolor.= 17b. Stem-leaves not distinctly cordate --18. 18a. Stem-leaves sessile or nearly so; plant of swamps and river-banks =Skullcap, Scutellaria galericulata.= 18b. Stem-leaves with petioles 1 cm. or more long; plants of dry or moist woods --19. 19a. Stem glandular-pubescent toward the summit; corolla 16 mm. long or less =Skullcap, Scutellaria pilosa.= 19b. Stem not glandular; corolla 20 mm. long =Skullcap, Scutellaria incana.= 20a. Calyx-teeth 5, all equal or nearly so at the time of flowering --28. 20b. Calyx-teeth 5, one of them different in size and shape from the other four (2-6 dm. high; flowers light blue, summer) =Dragon Head, Dracocephalum parviflorum.= 20c. Calyx-teeth 5, two of them different in size and shape from the other three --21. 20d. Calyx-teeth 10, subulate (woolly plant 4-10 dm. high, with whitish flowers in axillary clusters in summer) =Hoarhound, Marrubium vulgare.= 21a. Corolla deeply split on the upper side and the stamens protruding; upper lip of the calyx much shorter than the lower (5-10 dm. high; flowers pink-purple, in terminal spikes, summer) (Wood Sage) --22. 21b. Corolla not deeply split on the upper side --23. 22a. Calyx canescent =Wood Sage, Teucrium canadense.= 22b. Calyx villous =Wood Sage, Teucrium occidentale.= 23a. Flowers in dense terminal head-like spikes, none axillary (1-5 dm. high; flowers pink-purple or blue, in summer) =Self-heal, Prunella vulgaris.= 23b. Some or all of the flowers in axillary clusters --24. 24a. Leaves linear, entire (1-4 dm. high; flowers purple, summer) --25. 24b. Leaves oblong to ovate (summer) --26. 25a. Pedicels shorter than the calyx =Summer Savory, Satureja hortensis.= 25b. Pedicels much longer than the calyx =Calamint, Satureja glabra.= 26a. Leaves 1 cm. long or less, entire (stems growing in mats, 1-3 dm. long; flowers purple, in summer) =Wild Thyme, Thymus serpyllum.= 26b. Leaves dentate (flowers purple, summer) --27. 27a. Flowers subtended by bracts as long as the calyx (2-5 dm. high) =Basil, Satureja vulgaris.= 27b. Flowers with minute bracts or none (1-3 dm. high) =Basil-thyme, Satureja acinos.= 28a. Corolla 2-lipped or nearly regular, the upper lip flattened, not conspicuously arched over the stamens --29. 28b. Corolla conspicuously 2-lipped, the stamens ascending under the concave upper lip --42. 29a. Flowers in dense terminal spikes; corolla 2-lipped (8-15 dm. high; summer) --30. 29b. Flowers peduncled, 1-4 in the axils of linear leaves --25b. 29c. Flowers in many-flowered whorls, which are axillary or terminal, or aggregated into terminal spikes or racemes --31. 30a. Corolla yellowish =Giant Hyssop, Agastache nepetoides.= 30b. Corolla purplish =Giant Hyssop, Agastache scrophulariaefolius.= 31a. Corolla distinctly irregular, the lower lip longer than the upper --32. 31b. Corolla almost regular, the lobes nearly uniform in size --35. 32a. Stem-leaves sessile or very nearly so (flowers blue) --33. 32b. Stem-leaves long-petioled --34. 33a. Leaves linear-oblong, acute at both ends (3-8 dm. high; summer) =Hyssop, Hyssopus officinalis.= 33b. Leaves oblong to ovate, rounded at the ends (2-4 dm. high; late spring) =Bugle, Ajuga reptans.= 34a. Leaves ovate to oblong, acute; flowers pink, white, or pale purple (6-15 dm. high; summer) =Catnip, Nepeta cataria.= 34b. Leaves nearly circular or kidney-shape; flowers blue (creeping; flowers in spring and summer) =Ground Ivy, Nepeta hederacea.= 35a. Flowers in terminal spikes, or the lower axillary (3-8 dm. high; flowers pink-purple or white, summer) (Mint) --36. 35b. Flowers all in axillary whorls (flowers pink-purple or white, summer) (Mint) --38. 35c. Flowers in terminal capitate corymbed clusters (4-8 dm. high; flowers white or dotted with purple, summer) (Mountain Mint) --41. 36a. Leaves sessile or with very short petiole =Spearmint, Mentha spicata.= 36b. Leaves with manifest petioles --37. 37a. Principal leaves less than half as broad as long =Peppermint, Mentha piperita.= 37b. Principal leaves more than half as broad as long =Bergamot Mint, Mentha citrata.= 38a. Stem glabrous; leaves ovate to obovate (4-8 dm. high) =Downy Mint, Mentha gentilis.= 38b. Stem pubescent, at least on the angles (1-6 dm. high) --39. 39a. Principal leaves distinctly petioled and somewhat rounded at base =Wild Mint, Mentha arvensis.= 39b. Leaves tapering to the base --40. 40a. Leaves and stem pubescent =Wild Mint, Mentha arvensis var. canadensis.= 40b. Leaves glabrous; stem pubescent on the angles only =Wild Mint, Mentha arvensis var. glabrata.= 41a. Leaves linear; calyx-teeth awl-shape =Mountain Mint, Pycnanthemum flexuosum.= 41b. Leaves narrowly lanceolate; calyx-teeth triangular-ovate =Mountain Mint, Pycnanthemum virginianum.= 42a. Stems decumbent to diffuse; leaves cordate to nearly circular (stems 2-5 dm. long or high; flowers in spring and summer) (Dead Nettle) --43. 42b. Stem erect; leaves palmately cleft; calyx-teeth spiny (6-15 dm. tall; flowers pink, in summer) =Motherwort, Leonurus cardiaca.= 42c. Stems erect or ascending; leaves ovate-lanceolate to linear (summer) --45. 43a. Upper leaves closely sessile (flowers red-purple) =Dead Nettle, Lamium amplexicaule.= 43b. Leaves all petioled --44. 44a. Flowers red or purple =Dead Nettle, Lamium maculatum.= 44b. Flowers white =Dead Nettle, Lamium album.= 45a. Flowers 2-2.5 cm. long, in loose terminal spikes (5-10 dm. tall; flowers rose-color) =False Dragon Head, Physostegia virginiana.= 45b. Flowers 1-2 cm. long, in axillary and terminal spiked whorls --46. 46a. Calyx-teeth spiny pointed (flowers pink or pale-purple) (Hemp Nettle) --47. 46b. Calyx-teeth acute to awl-shape, but not spiny (3-10 dm. high; flowers pale-purple) (Hedge Nettle) --48. 47a. Leaves ovate (3-8 dm. high) =Hemp Nettle, Galeopsis tetrahit.= 47b. Leaves linear to lanceolate (1-4 dm. high) =Hemp Nettle, Galeopsis ladanum.= 48a. Leaves glabrous --49. 48b. Leaves distinctly pubescent --50. 49a. Leaves ovate-lanceolate, serrate =Hedge Nettle, Stachys tenuifolia.= 49b. Leaves linear-oblong, entire or nearly so =Hedge Nettle, Stachys hyssopifolia.= 50a. Stem pubescent on the angles alone; leaves petioled =Hedge Nettle, Stachys tenuifolia var. aspera.= 50b. Stem pubescent on both sides and angles; leaves nearly sessile --51. 51a. Leaves oblong or oblong-lanceolate, more than 1 cm. wide =Hedge Nettle, Stachys palustris.= 51b. Leaves linear-lanceolate, 1 cm. wide or less =Hedge Nettle, Stachys arenicola.= VERBENACEAE, the Verbena Family Herbs, with simple opposite leaves and slightly irregular flowers in spikes or heads; petals 5, united and bearing the 4 stamens in the corolla-tube; ovary 1, 2-celled or 4-celled, with 1 style. 1a. Plants prostrate or spreading --2. 1b. Plants erect (flowers in summer) (Vervain) --3. 2a. Leaves serrate; flowers in short dense spikes (flowers pale-blue, summer) =Fog Fruit, Lippia lanceolata.= 2b. Leaves pinnatifid; flowers in loose bracted spikes (flowers light-purple, summer) =Vervain, Verbena bracteosa.= 3a. Spikes dense, continuous (flowers purple or blue, varying to white) --4. 3b. Spikes slender, interrupted, the flowers scattered (corolla white or pale-blue) --6. 4a. Leaves lanceolate, manifestly petioled (1-2 m. high) =Vervain, Verbena hastata.= 4b. Leaves sessile, not lanceolate (5-8 dm. high) --5. 5a. Leaves narrowly oblanceolate, tapering at the entire base =Vervain, Verbena angustifolia.= 5b. Leaves oblong to obovate, not tapering at the base =Vervain, Verbena stricta.= 6a. Leaves incised, tapering to a sessile base (5-10 dm. high) =Vervain, Verbena, officinalis.= 6b. Leaves serrate, petioled (1-2 m. high) =Vervain, Verbena urticaefolia.= SOLANACEAE, the Nightshade Family Herbs or shrubs, with alternate leaves and regular or slightly irregular flowers; sepals 5, united; corolla of 5 united petals, bearing the 5 stamens attached; ovary 1, 2-5 (usually 2)-celled, with a slender style. 1a. Corolla rotate; anthers close together (flowers in summer) --2. 1b. Corolla not rotate; anthers separate --5. 2a. Stem and leaves prickly (3-8 dm. high) --3. 2b. Stem and leaves not prickly --4. 3a. Flowers white or bluish =Horse Nettle, Solanum carolinense.= 3b. Flowers yellow =Buffalo Bur, Solanum rostratum.= 4a. Climbing vine; leaves frequently lobed (flowers blue) =Bittersweet, Solanum dulcamara.= 4b. Not climbing; leaves toothed (flowers white) =Nightshade, Solanum nigrum.= 5a. Climbing or trailing shrub, with purplish, white, or greenish flowers about 1 cm. wide (frequently thorny; flowers in summer) =Matrimony Vine, Lycium halimifolium.= 5b. Herbaceous plants, not climbing --6. 6a. Flowers white, red, or blue, 2.5 cm. or more wide (summer) --7. 6b. Flowers yellow, yellowish-white, or greenish-yellow (summer) --12. 7a. Corolla-tube 10 cm. long or more (5-12 dm. high) --8. 7b. Corolla-tube 5 cm. long or less --10. 8a. Stem finely pubescent; leaves entire or nearly so =Thorn-apple, Datura metel.= 8b. Stem glabrous; leaves coarsely toothed (Jimson Weed) --9. 9a. Stem green; corolla white =Jimson Weed, Datura stramonium.= 9b. Stem purple; corolla light-blue or purple =Jimson Weed, Datura tatula.= 10a. Corolla pale-blue (5-10 dm. high) =Apple of Peru, Nicandra physalodes.= 10b. Corolla, red or violet (2-4 dm. high) =Petunia, Petunia violacea.= 10c. Corolla white --11. 11a. Corolla all white (2-4 dm. high) =Petunia, Petunia axillaris.= 11b. Corolla with yellow center =White Ground Cherry, Physalis grandiflora.= 12a. Corolla 30 mm. wide or more, somewhat irregular; stamens declined to one side (3-6 dm. high) =Henbane, Hyoscyamus niger.= 12b. Corolla smaller, strictly regular --13. 13a. Flowers in terminal panicles; corolla tubular, with slightly spreading lobes (5-10 dm. high) =Wild Tobacco, Nicotiana rustica.= 13b. Flowers solitary in the axils; corolla short, widely spreading (3-8 dm. high) (Ground Cherry) --14. 14a. Annuals with branching slender roots --15. 14b. Perennials with thickened roots and rootstocks --16. 15a. Plants pubescent =Ground Cherry, Physalis pubescens.= 15b. Plants smooth, or with a few scattered hairs =Ground Cherry, Physalis ixocarpa.= 16a. Stem viscid-pubescent =Ground Cherry, Physalis heterophylla.= 16b. Stem glabrous or slightly pubescent, not viscid --17. 17a. Leaves and stem distinctly pubescent =Ground Cherry, Physalis virginiana.= 17b. Leaves and stem almost glabrous =Ground Cherry, Physalis subglabrata.= SCROPHULARIACEAE, the Figwort Family Herbs with opposite or alternate leaves and usually irregular flowers; corolla of united petals, bearing the 2 or 4 (or rarely 5) stamens attached; petals actually 5, but sometimes apparently only 2 or 4; a sterile fifth stamen sometimes present; ovary superior, 2-celled. 1a. Anther-bearing stamens 5 (6-15 dm. high; flowers in summer) (Mullein) --2. 1b. Anther-bearing stamens 4; a sterile fifth stamen may or may not be present --3. 1c. Anther-bearing stamens 2 --37. 2a. Leaves densely white-woolly; flowers yellow, in dense spikes =Mullein, Verbascum thapsus.= 2b. Leaves smooth or nearly so; flowers yellow or white, in loose racemes =Moth Mullein, Verbascum blattaria.= 3a. Flowers (not the bracts) greenish-yellow, yellow, or orange --4. 3b. Flowers blue, purple, brown, red, pink, or white, never yellow --16. 4a. Flowers in dense terminal leafy-bracted spikes --5. 4b. Flowers in loose racemes or axillary --9. 5a. Corolla 7 mm. long or less, or none --6. 5b. Corolla 12 mm. long or more --7. 6a. Leaves alternate (3-6 dm. high; early summer) =Synthyris, Synthyris bullii.= 6b. Leaves opposite (1-2 dm. high; summer) =Eyebright, Euphrasia arctica.= 7a. Stem-leaves entire (2-6 dm. high; summer) =Painted Cup, Castilleja pallida var. septentrionalis.= 7b. Stem-leaves palmately lobed, bracteal leaves scarlet (3-6 dm. high; early summer) =Painted Cup, Castilleja coccinea.= 7c. Stem-leaves pinnately lobed or incised (Lousewort) --8. 8a. Flowers in spring (2-4 dm. high) =Lousewort, Pedicularis canadensis.= 8b. Flowers in late summer (3-8 dm. high) =Lousewort, Pedicularis lanceolata.= 9a. Upper lip of the corolla very different in size and shape from the lower lip --10. 9b. Upper lip of the corolla resembling the lower lip in shape, and not very different in size (5-12 dm. high; summer) (False Foxglove) --13. 10a. Leaves alternate (2-5 dm. high; summer) =Butter-and-eggs, Linaria vulgaris.= 10b. Leaves opposite --11. 11a. Stem erect; leaves narrowed at the base --30b. 11b. Stem creeping or spreading (summer) --12. 12a. Leaves pinnately veined, ovate =Musk Flower, Mimulus moschatus.= 12b. Leaves palmately veined, circular or nearly so =Yellow Monkey Flower, Mimulus glabratus var. jamesii.= 13a. Stem glabrous --14. 13b. Stem pubescent --15. 14a. Principal stem-leaves pinnatifid =False Foxglove, Gerardia virginica.= 14b. Principal stem-leaves entire =False Foxglove, Gerardia laevigata.= 15a. Corolla hairy on the outside =False Foxglove, Gerardia pedicularia.= 15b. Corolla smooth on the outside =False Foxglove, Gerardia flava.= 16a. Leaves all basal; flowers on leafless stalks (1 dm. high or less; flowers pink or white, summer) =Mudwort, Limosella aquatica var. tenuifolia.= 16b. Leaves opposite (those subtending the flowers may be alternate) --20. 16c. Leaves alternate or irregularly scattered --17. 17a. Leaves entire --18. 17b. Leaves pinnately lobed or incised --8a. 17c. Leaves palmately veined and lobed; stem trailing (flowers blue, summer) =Kenilworth Ivy, Linaria cymbalaria.= 18a. Corolla-tube less than 1 cm. long, spurred --19. 18b. Corolla more than 2 cm. long, not spurred (3-8 dm. high; flowers red-purple, summer) =Snapdragon, Antirrhinum majus.= 19a. Stem and foliage pubescent (1-3 dm. high; flowers blue, summer) =Small Snapdragon, Linaria minor.= 19b. Stem and foliage glabrous (2-6 dm. high; flowers blue, summer) =Toad-flax, Linaria canadensis.= 20a. Leaves with 1 or 2 lobes near the base (3-5 dm. high; flowers purple, summer) =Gerardia, Gerardia auriculata.= 20b. Leaves linear (2-6 dm. high; flowers rose-purple, summer and autumn) (Gerardia) --21. 20c. Leaves lanceolate or broader, not lobed --26. 21a. Pedicels equaling or but little longer than the calyx, and conspicuously shorter than the subtending leaf --22. 21b. Pedicels much longer than the calyx, and generally equaling or exceeding the subtending leaf --24. 22a. Plants of moist ground, bogs, and shores --23. 22b. Plants of dry uplands =Gerardia, Gerardia aspera.= 23a. Corolla about 25 mm. long =Gerardia, Gerardia purpurea.= 23b. Corolla less than 20 mm. long =Gerardia, Gerardia paupercula.= 24a. Stem rough on the angles --25. 24b. Stem glabrous =Gerardia, Gerardia tenuifolia.= 25a. Leaves 2-5 mm. wide =Gerardia, Gerardia tenuifolia var. macrophylla.= 25b. Leaves thread-like, 1 mm. wide or less =Gerardia, Gerardia skinneriana.= 26a. Corolla 16 mm. long, or shorter --27. 26b. Corolla 20 mm. long, or longer --32. 27a. Corolla dull-purple, brown, or greenish; one sterile stamen present (1-2.5 m. high; flowers in summer) (Figwort) --28. 27b. Corolla blue or white (1-4 dm. high) --29. 28a. Sterile stamen purple =Figwort, Scrophularia marilandica.= 28b. Sterile stamen yellow =Figwort, Scrophularia leporella.= 29a. Flowers nearly or quite sessile (summer) --30. 29b. Flowers on pedicels 10 mm. long or more (spring) --31. 30a. Foliage-leaves prominently toothed --6b. 30b. Foliage-leaves entire, or with 1 or 2 small teeth at the base =Cow Wheat, Melampyrum lineare.= 31a. Corolla more than 10 mm. long, blue and white =Blue-eyed Mary, Collinsia verna.= 31b. Corolla 5-8 mm. long, blue and white =Collinsia, Collinsia parviflora.= 32a. Flowers solitary in the axils of the upper foliage-leaves (4-8 dm. high; flowers blue, in summer) (Monkey Flower) --33. 32b. Flowers in dense terminal or subterminal spikes (3-9 dm. high; summer) --34. 32c. Flowers in loose terminal panicles (flowers white or pale-violet) (Beard-tongue) --35. 33a. Leaves clasping at the base =Monkey Flower, Mimulus ringens.= 33b. Leaves petioled, not clasping =Monkey Flower, Mimulus alatus.= 34a. Stem and foliage glabrous (flowers white) =Turtlehead, Chelone glabra.= 34b. Stem and foliage pubescent (flowers purple) =Blue Hearts, Buchnera americana.= 35a. Stem finely pubescent (3-6 dm. high; flowers pale-violet, late spring) =Beard-tongue, Pentstemon hirsutus.= 35b. Stem glabrous below the inflorescence (6-12 dm. high) --36. 36a. Corolla-tube gradually enlarged from base to tip (flowers pale-violet, in early summer) =Beard-tongue, Pentstemon laevigatus.= 36b. Corolla-tube abruptly enlarged just beyond the calyx (flowers white, early summer) =Beard-tongue, Pentstemon laevigatus var. digitalis.= 37a. Corolla distinctly irregular, 2-lipped (1-4 dm. high; flowers yellowish or white, summer) --38. 37b. Corolla regular or nearly so and 2-lobed, or none --6a. 37c. Corolla regular or nearly so, 4-lobed --40. 38a. Leaves narrowed at the base, with mid-vein =Hedge Hyssop, Gratiola virginiana.= 38b. Leaves rounded or somewhat clasping at the base, with 3-5 principal veins (False Pimpernel) --39. 39a. Peduncles longer than the subtending leaves =False Pimpernel, Ilysanthes anagallidea.= 39b. Peduncles shorter than the subtending leaves =False Pimpernel, Ilysanthes dubia.= 40a. Leaves whorled (8-20 dm. high; flowers white or pale-blue, in spikes, summer) =Culver's Root, Veronica virginica.= 40b. Leaves alternate or opposite (Speedwell) --41. 41a. Flowers in racemes, which arise from the axils of the opposite leaves (flowers pale-blue to nearly white, late spring and summer) --42. 41b. Flowers solitary in the axils of leaf-like bracts, or in terminal bracted racemes (1-4 dm. high; spring and summer) --46. 42a. Stem and foliage glabrous; swamp plants 2-7 dm. high --43. 42b. Stem and foliage pubescent; plants of dry ground, 1-3 dm. high --45. 43a. Leaves linear or narrowly lanceolate =Marsh Speedwell, Veronica scutellata.= 43b. Leaves ovate or ovate-lanceolate --44. 44a. Stem-leaves sessile and somewhat clasping =Water Speedwell, Veronica anagallis-aquatica.= 44b. Stem-leaves on short petioles =Brooklime, Veronica americana.= 45a. Leaves narrowed at base into a petiole =Speedwell, Veronica officinalis.= 45b. Leaves rounded or heart-shape at the base =Speedwell, Veronica chamaedrys.= 46a. Bracteal leaves entire; stem glabrous or minutely pubescent --47. 46b. All leaves serrate; foliage pubescent (flowers blue) --48. 47a. Flowers white, about 2 mm. wide =Speedwell, Veronica peregrina.= 47b. Flowers pale-blue with darker stripes, 3-4 mm. wide =Speedwell, Veronica serpyllifolia.= 48a. Flowers nearly sessile, about 2 mm. wide =Speedwell, Veronica arvensis.= 48b. Flowers on slender pedicels, 5-8 mm. wide =Speedwell, Veronica tournefortii.= LENTIBULARIACEAE, the Bladderwort Family Small herbs, growing on rocks, in mud, or in water; calyx and corolla both 2-lipped; stamens 2, attached to the corolla; ovary 1-celled. 1a. Corolla purple --2. 1b. Corolla yellow (flowers in summer) (Bladderwort) --4. 2a. Leaves oval to elliptical, entire (about 1 dm. high, on rocks; flowers in summer) =Butterwort, Pinguicula vulgaris.= 2b. Leaves dissected or none, submerged (flowers in summer) (Bladderwort) --3. 3a. Flower-stalk with a single bract near the middle =Bladderwort, Utricularia resupinata.= 3b. Flower-stalk without bracts, except at the base of the pedicels =Bladderwort, Utricularia purpurea.= 4a. Stem and numerous dissected leaves floating in water =Bladderwort, Utricularia vulgaris var. americana.= 4b. Stem and minute leaves creeping on the bottom of ponds or in mud, while the flowers are borne on erect stalks, easily detached from the delicate stems --5. 5a. Upper lip of corolla conspicuous, as long or nearly as long as the lower lip; lower lip with a prominent raised palate --6. 5b. Upper lip of corolla half as long as the lower lip, or less --7. 6a. Spur of corolla very short and blunt =Bladderwort, Utricularia gibba.= 6b. Spur of corolla very long and slender =Bladderwort, Utricularia cornuta.= 7a. Spur of corolla very short and blunt, or almost none =Bladderwort, Utricularia minor.= 7b. Spur of corolla long and slender =Bladderwort, Utricularia intermedia.= OROBANCHACEAE, the Broom-rape Family Parasitic plants without green color and with scales in place of leaves; corolla 2-lipped, of united petals; stamens 4, attached to the corolla. 1a. Flowers in a widely branching panicle, numerous; growing under beech trees (1-5 dm. high; flowers white and purple, late summer) =Beech Drops, Epifagus virginiana.= 1b. Flowers sessile in a dense bracted spike (1-2 dm. high; flowers pale-yellow, early summer) =Squaw-root, Conopholis americana.= 1c. Flowers 1-15, each on a long erect naked peduncle (1-2 dm. high; flowers yellowish or pale-violet, spring and summer) (Cancer-root) --2. 2a. Stem erect and scaly, 5-10 cm. high =Cancer-root, Orobanche fasciculata.= 2b. Stem very short, almost below the surface of the ground, with long erect peduncles =Cancer-root, Orobanche uniflora.= ACANTHACEAE, the Acanthus Family Herbs with opposite simple leaves; corolla of united petals, 2-lipped or almost regular; stamens 2 or 4, attached to the corolla; ovary 2-celled. 1a. Corolla about 10 mm. long; flowers in dense heads (4-10 dm. high; flowers blue or white, summer) =Water Willow, Dianthera americana.= 1b. Corolla about 30 mm. long; flowers axillary (3-8 dm. high; flowers blue, in summer) (Ruellia) --2. 2a. Foliage glabrous or slightly pubescent =Ruellia, Ruellia strepens.= 2b. Foliage densely hirsute =Ruellia, Ruellia ciliosa.= PHRYMACEAE, the Lopseed Family Herb with opposite leaves and irregular flowers in long slender spikes; petals united, corolla 2-lipped; stamens 4, attached to the corolla; ovary 1-celled. One species only, 5-10 dm. high; flowers purple, in summer =Lopseed, Phryma leptostachya.= PLANTAGINACEAE, the Plantain Family Herbs with basal leaves and small white flowers in spikes; sepals 4; petals 4, united; stamens 4; ovary 2-celled. 1a. Leaves linear (1-4 dm. high; summer) --2. 1b. Leaves broader, lanceolate to broadly ovate or cordate (summer) --3. 2a. Spikes mixed with bracts several times longer than the flowers =Buckhorn, Plantago aristata.= 2b. Bracts about as long as the flowers =Plantain, Plantago purshii.= 3a. Leaves cordate, pinnately veined; plant of wet ground and marshes (4-8 dm. tall) =Plantain, Plantago cordata.= 3b. Leaves with 3 to many longitudinal ribs or veins --4. 4a. Leaves densely pubescent with grayish hairs --5. 4b. Leaves smooth or slightly pubescent --6. 5a. Flower-stalks 3-6 dm. high =Plantain, Plantago media.= 5b. Flower-stalks less than 3 dm. high =Plantain, Plantago virginica.= 6a. Flower-stalks 3-6 dm. high; spikes not over 10 cm. long =English Plantain, Plantago lanceolata.= 6b. Scapes 1-4 dm. high; spikes long and slender, usually equaling or longer than the peduncle; dooryard plantains --7. 7a. Leaves green at the base =Plantain, Plantago major.= 7b. Leaves reddish at the base =Plantain, Plantago rugelii.= RUBIACEAE, the Madder family Herbs or shrubs, with opposite or whorled leaves and regular flowers; sepals 4, or minute or almost wanting; petals 4, united; stamens 4; ovary inferior. 1a. Shrub (1-3 m. tall; flowers white, in spherical heads, summer) =Button Bush, Cephalanthus occidentalis.= 1b. Herbaceous --2. 2a. Leaves opposite --3. 2b. Leaves whorled; flowers white, green, or purple (Bedstraw) --6. 2c. Leaves whorled; flowers yellow =Bedstraw, Galium verum.= 3a. Leaves about as long as wide (trailing; flowers paired, white, in spring) =Partridge Berry, Mitchella repens.= 3b. Leaves at least twice as long as wide --4. 4a. Corolla salver-form, about 1 cm. wide; peduncles 1-flowered (about 1 dm. high; flowers blue or white, in spring) =Bluets, Houstonia coerulea.= 4b. Corolla funnel-form, about 5 mm. wide; flowers in clusters (1-2 dm. high; flowers white or pale-purple, summer) (Houstonia) --5. 5a. Basal leaves strongly ciliate =Houstonia, Houstonia ciliolata.= 5b. Basal leaves smooth =Houstonia, Houstonia longifolia.= 6a. Leaves in whorls of 4-7. 6b. Leaves in whorls of 6-8 --16. 7a. Ovary and fruit hispid with hooked bristles (3-7 dm. high; summer) --8. 7b. Ovary and fruit not bristly (early summer) --11. 8a. Leaves with 1 principal vein (flowers dull purple) =Bedstraw, Galium pilosum.= 8b. Leaves with 3 principal veins --9. 9a. Flowers bright-white =Bedstraw, Galium boreale.= 9b. Flowers greenish, yellowish, or purplish --10. 10a. Leaves acuminate =Bedstraw, Galium lanceolatum.= 10b. Leaves acute or obtuse =Bedstraw, Galium circaezans.= 11a. Corolla-lobes 3 (2-6 dm. high; flowers white or greenish) --12. 11b. Corolla-lobes 4 --13. 12a. Flowers in clusters of 2 or 3 =Bedstraw, Galium claytoni.= 12b. Flowers solitary in the axils, on long hair-like pedicels =Bedstraw, Galium trifidum.= 13a. Corolla brownish or purple (3-6 dm. high) =Bedstraw, Galium latifolium.= 13b. Corolla white (1-4 dm. high) --14. 14a. Flowers rather numerous in small cymes =Bedstraw, Galium palustre.= 14b. Flowers in clusters of 2 or 3, or solitary --15. 15a. Principal leaves spreading or ascending =Bedstraw, Galium tinctorium.= 15b. Principal leaves recurved or reflexed =Bedstraw, Galium labradoricum.= 16a. Ovary and fruit bristly or hispid --17. 16b. Ovary and fruit not bristly (summer) --18. 17a. Leaves narrowly lanceolate to linear, mostly 6-8 in a whorl (stem 5-15 dm. long; flowers white; spring and summer) =Bedstraw, Galium aparine.= 17b. Leaves narrowly oval or elliptical, mostly in whorls of 6; flowers in clusters of 3 (1-5 dm. high; flowers greenish, summer) =Bedstraw, Galium triflorum.= 18a. Leaves cuspidate or mucronate at the apex (flowers white) --19. 18b. Leaves obtuse at the apex (flowers white or greenish; 2-6 dm. high) --20. 19a. Flowers very numerous in terminal panicles (stem 3-8 dm. long) =Bedstraw, Galium mollugo.= 19b. Flowers in axillary clusters (1-3 dm. high) =Bedstraw, Galium tricorne.= 19c. Flowers few, in small loose terminal cymes --20. 20a. Stem smooth or nearly so (2-4 dm. high) =Bedstraw, Galium concinnum.= 20b. Stem hispid with reflexed bristles (5-15 dm. long) =Bedstraw, Galium asprellum.= CAPRIFOLIACEAE, the Honeysuckle Family Shrubs or herbs, with opposite leaves; corolla regular or irregular, petals 4 or 5, united; stamens 4 or 5; ovary inferior, 1-5-celled. 1a. Leaves compound (shrubs 1-4 m. high; flowers white, in large clusters in early summer) (Elder) --2. 1b. Leaves simple --3. 2a. Pith of the twigs white; inflorescence flattened or convex =Elder, Sambucus canadensis.= 2b. Pith of the twigs brown; inflorescence pyramidal =Elder, Sambucus racemosa.= 3a. Plant trailing; flowers nodding, in pairs (1 dm. high; flowers pink, summer) =Twin Flower, Linnaea borealis var. americana.= 3b. Erect herbs (6-12 dm. high; flowers dull-red, axillary, early summer) (Feverwort) --4. 3c. Shrubs, small trees, or woody vines --5. 4a. Leaf-bases broadly connate and 2-5 cm. wide =Feverwort, Triosteum perfoliatum.= 4b. Leaf-bases narrowly connate, not over 1 cm. wide =Feverwort, Triosteum aurantiacum.= 5a. Climbing vines (spring and early summer) (Honeysuckle) --6. 5b. Erect or spreading shrubs or small trees --11. 6a. Flowers in 2-flowered axillary clusters (flowers white or pink) =Honeysuckle, Lonicera japonica.= 6b. Flowers in terminal clusters --7. 7a. Leaves distinctly pubescent beneath (flowers yellow) --8. 7b. Leaves glabrous beneath, or very minutely puberulent --9. 8a. Leaves pubescent above =Honeysuckle, Lonicera hirsuta.= 8b. Leaves glabrous above =Honeysuckle, Lonicera glaucescens.= 9a. Corolla purple on the outside, glabrous within =Honeysuckle, Lonicera caprifolium.= 9b. Corolla yellow on the outside (or slightly tinged with purple), pubescent within --10. 10a. Corolla-tube 6-8 mm. long =Honeysuckle, Lonicera dioica.= 10b. Corolla-tube 11-14 mm. long =Honeysuckle, Lonicera sullivantii.= 11a. Corolla tubular at base; style long and slender --12. 11b. Corolla rotate or somewhat bell-shape, style very short (flowers white, late spring or early summer) --22. 12a. Flowers yellow or yellowish (spring and early summer) --13. 12b. Flowers white, pink, or red --18. 13a. Leaves serrate (5-10 dm. tall) =Bush Honeysuckle, Diervilla lonicera.= 13b. Leaves entire; flowers in pairs (Honeysuckle) --14. 14a. Each pair of flowers subtended by 2 broad leaf-like bracts (1-3 m. high) =Honeysuckle, Lonicera involucrata.= 14b. Bracts at the base of each pair of flowers linear or narrowly lanceolate --15. 15a. Native species of woods and bogs --16. 15b. Introduced species, growing mostly near dwellings; leaves very pubescent beneath =Honeysuckle, Lonicera xylosteum.= 16a. Peduncles 15 mm. long or more (1-4 m. high) --17. 16b. Peduncles about 5 mm. long (1 m. high, or less) =Honeysuckle, Lonicera coerulea var. villosa.= 17a. Leaves ciliate =Honeysuckle, Lonicera canadensis.= 17b. Leaves not ciliate =Honeysuckle, Lonicera oblongifolia.= 18a. Corolla irregular, over 1 cm. long (1-4 m. high; spring) =Honeysuckle, Lonicera tatarica.= 18b. Corolla regular, less than 1 cm. long (5-15 dm. high; flowers white or pink, in axillary clusters, early summer) --19. 19a. Flowers in axillary spikes =Wolfberry, Symphoricarpos occidentalis.= 19b. Flowers almost sessile in the axils --20. 20a. Flowers numerous in each axil =Indian Currant, Symphoricarpos orbiculatus.= 20b. Flowers 1 or 2 in each axil (Snowberry) --21. 21a. Leaves green beneath =Snowberry, Symphoricarpos racemosus.= 21b. Leaves whitened beneath =Snowberry, Symphoricarpos racemosus var. pauciflorus.= 22a. Leaves palmately lobed --23. 22b. Leaves not lobed --25. 23a. Outermost flowers of the cluster enlarged and imperfect (1-4 m. high) =Cranberry Tree, Viburnum opulus var. americanum.= 23b. All flowers of the cluster alike --24. 24a. Flower-clusters 4-10 cm. broad (1-2 m. high) =Arrow Wood, Viburnum acerifolium.= 24b. Flower-clusters 2-3 cm. broad =Squashberry, Viburnum pauciflorum.= 25a. Outer flowers of the cluster enlarged and imperfect (1-3 m. high) =Hobble-bush, Viburnum alnifolium.= 25b. All flowers of the cluster alike --26. 26a. Leaves finely serrate; the veins not prominent --27. 26b. Leaves coarsely serrate, all or most of the teeth terminating in a prominent vein --29. 27a. Peduncle of the flower-cluster, below its branches, at least 2 cm. long (1-3 m. high) =Withe-rod, Viburnum cassinoides.= 27b. Peduncle of the cluster 1 cm. long, or even shorter (3-8 m. high) --28. 28a. Leaves distinctly acuminate =Sheep-berry, Viburnum lentago.= 28b. Leaves obtuse or barely acute =Black Haw, Viburnum prunifolium.= 29a. Leaves densely pubescent beneath (6-15 dm. high) =Arrow-wood, Viburnum pubescens.= 29b. Leaves glabrous beneath, or with tufts of hairs in the forks of the veins (1-4 m. high) =Arrow-wood, Viburnum dentatum.= VALERIANACEAE, the Valerian Family Herbs with opposite leaves and small nearly or quite regular flowers; petals 5, united; stamens 3; sepals minute or wanting; ovary inferior. 1a. Stem-leaves pinnately cleft (3-10 dm. high; flowers white or pinkish, summer) --2. 1b. Stem-leaves entire or dentate (2-6 dm. high; flowers white, summer) (Corn Salad) --3. 2a. Leaf-segments parallel-veined Valerian, Valeriana edulis. 2b. Leaf-segments net-veined =Swamp Valerian, Valeriana uliginosa.= 3a. Upper stem-leaves entire =Corn Salad, Valerianella chenopodifolia.= 3b. Upper stem-leaves dentate =Corn Salad, Valerianella radiata.= DIPSACACEAE, the Teasel Family Herbs with opposite leaves, and small pale blue flowers aggregated in dense heads; calyx minute; petals 4, united; stamens 4, attached to the corolla; ovary inferior. One species in Michigan, 1-2 m. high, with prickly leaves and stem, blooming in summer =Teasel, Dipsacus sylvestris.= CUCURBITACEAE, the Gourd Family Herbs, climbing by tendrils, with alternate palmately lobed leaves and imperfect flowers; staminate flowers in showy clusters, with 5-6 petals and 3 stamens; pistillate flowers small. 1a. Leaves 5-angled or shallowy 5-lobed (flowers white, summer) =Bur Cucumber, Sicyos angulatus.= 1b. Leaves 5-lobed to about the middle (commonly cultivated and frequently wild; flowers white, summer) =Wild Cucumber, Echinocystis lobata.= CAMPANULACEAE, the Bellflower Family Herbs with alternate simple leaves and milky juice; sepals 5; petals 5, united; stamens 5, attached at the very base of the corolla; ovary inferior. 1a. Stem-leaves circular or nearly so, cordate-clasping at base (2-6 dm. high; flowers blue, axillary, in summer) =Venus' Looking-Glass, Specularia perfoliata.= 1b. Stem-leaves linear or nearly so, not over 1 cm. wide (summer) --2. 1c. Stem-leaves ovate to lanceolate, 2 cm. wide or more (flowers blue, in a terminal spike or raceme, summer) (Bellflower) --4. 2a. Stem and leaves glabrous (or rarely pubescent) (1-6 dm. high; flowers blue) =Harebell, Campanula rotundifolia.= 2b. Stem and leaves rough with reflexed bristles (marsh plants, with weak slender stems 3-10 dm. long; flowers white or pale-blue) (Marsh Bellflower) --3. 3a. Corolla 5-8 mm. long =Marsh Bellflower, Campanula aparinoides.= 3b. Corolla 10-12 mm. long =Marsh Bellflower, Campanula uliginosa.= 4a. Corolla rotate; flowers in spikes (6-15 dm. high) =Bellflower, Campanula americana.= 4b. Corolla bell-shape; flowers in one-sided racemes (4-10 dm. high) =Bellflower, Campanula rapunculoides.= LOBELIACEAE, the Lobelia Family Herbs with alternate simple leaves and milky juice; flowers irregular; petals 5, united; corolla split down the upper side; stamens 5, united by their anthers into a ring or tube surrounding the style; ovary 2-celled, inferior. Flowers in summer and autumn. 1a. Leaves all basal, tubular; flowers on leafless stalks (aquatic, 1-4 dm. high; flowers blue) =Water Lobelia, Lobelia dortmanna.= 1b. Leaves normal, on the stem --2. 2a. Flowers more than 2 cm. long (5-10 dm. high) --3. 2b. Flowers about 1 cm. long, or shorter (flowers light blue) --4. 3a. Flowers scarlet =Cardinal Flower, Lobelia cardinalis.= 3b. Flowers blue =Great Lobelia, Lobelia siphilitica.= 4a. Flowers in loose racemes, pedicelled --5. 4b. Flowers in slender terminal spike-like racemes, nearly sessile (4-10 dm. high, usually unbranched) =Lobelia, Lobelia spicata.= 5a. Foliage pubescent (3-8 dm. high) =Indian Tobacco, Lobelia inflata.= 5b. Foliage glabrous (1-4 dm. high) =Lobelia, Lobelia kalmii.= COMPOSITAE, the Composite Family Herbs, with various types of foliage, but with flowers of characteristic structure, resembling a sunflower, a thistle, or a dandelion. Each apparent flower is a head of numerous small flowers, attached side by side to the expanded end of the stem, and subtended and partly enclosed by a series of bracts, called the involucre, which resembles a calyx. The calyx of the individual flower is minute or actually wanting, and is usually modified to aid in seed dispersal. It appears at the base of the corolla, at the summit of the inferior ovary, and is known as pappus. The structure of the pappus is best observed in the ripe fruit. The corolla of the individual flowers consists of 5 (or rarely 4) united petals. In some flowers the petals are united to form a tubular or bell-shape corolla. In others they are united to form a flat or strap-shape corolla. The stamens are attached to the corolla, and are united by their anthers into a tube which surrounds the style, and above which the 2-lobed stigma protrudes. The apparent flower of a Composite, composed of several or many individual flowers, is termed a head. It may be composed entirely of tubular flowers, as the thistle or bone-set; or entirely of strap-shape flowers, as the dandelion; or of both sorts together, as the aster or sunflower. In the latter case, the tubular flowers invariably occupy the center of the head, called the disk, and the larger strap-shape flowers are at the margin, where their projecting corollas, called rays, may be very conspicuous. Such heads are called radiate. In a few composites (see 1a below) the flowers have minute corollas without colored parts. In identifying a composite, determine first whether the heads are composed of tubular flowers, of strap-shape flowers, or of both sorts together; and, secondly, observe the nature of the pappus, using preferably the ripe heads, or at least the oldest flower-heads available. No further difficulties will be encountered. 1a. Flowers without petal-like or brightly colored parts; staminate and pistillate flowers in separate heads (or rarely in the same heads); coarse weeds with inconspicuous flowers (summer and autumn) --2. 1b. Flowers with some petal-like parts, usually brightly colored or white --10. 2a. Leaves toothed or lobed --3. 2b. Leaves deeply pinnatifid or dissected (4-15 dm. high; flowers in erect spikes) (Ragweed) --7. 3a. Fruit or pistillate flowers thickly covered with sharp hooked spines (3-10 dm. high) (Cocklebur) --4. 3b. Fruit not spiny --8. 4a. With spines on the stem at the base of the leaves =Cocklebur, Xanthium spinosum.= 4b. Without any spines on the stem --5. 5a. Body of the bur smooth or slightly hairy =Cocklebur, Xanthium canadense.= 5b. Body of the bur and the spines densely pubescent --6. 6a. Body of the bur more than twice as long as thick; a common weed =Cocklebur, Xanthium commune.= 6b. Body of the bur less than twice as long as thick =Cocklebur, Xanthium echinatum.= 7a. Leaves twice-pinnatifid =Ragweed, Ambrosia artemisiifolia.= 7b. Leaves once-pinnatifid =Ragweed, Ambrosia psilostachya.= 8a. Leaves deeply 3-lobed (1-5 m. high) =Giant Ragweed, Ambrosia trifida.= 8b. Leaves serrate or obscurely lobed --9. 9a. Stem simple or sparingly branched; pistillate heads in the axils of the upper leaves (1-3 m. high) =Giant Ragweed, Ambrosia trifida var. integrifolia.= 9b. Stem much branched; heads all alike, in panicles =Marsh Elder, Iva xanthifolia.= 10a. Flowers all strap-shape; juicy milky. (The central flowers must be examined carefully, since they are frequently much smaller than the marginal ones) --11. 10b. Flowers all tubular, with regular. 4-5-lobed corollas --45. 10c. Flowers both tubular and strap-shape; heads radiate (in a few species the rays are small and may be overlooked by mistake) --108. 11a. Flowers blue (summer and autumn) --12. 11b. Flowers orange, yellow, white, or purplish --15. 12a. Heads 2.5 cm. wide, or larger --13. 12b. Heads 1.5 cm. wide, or smaller --14. 13a. Leaves linear; bracts longer than the flowers, heads 5-10 cm. wide (6-15 dm. high) =Salsify, Tragopogon porrifolius.= 13b. Leaves broader, mostly serrate; bracts shorter than the flowers; heads 2.5-4 cm. wide =Chicory, Cichorium intybus.= 14a. Heads in a narrow crowded cluster (5-15 dm. high) --30b. 14b. Heads in a spreading open panicle (Wild Lettuce) --22. 15a. Heads solitary at the summit of leafless stalks --16. 15b. Heads several, on leafy, naked, or scaly stalks --19. 16a. Basal leaves strictly entire; heads about 2.5 cm. wide (summer and autumn) --35a. 16b. Basal leaves toothed, lobed, or pinnatifid (spring and summer) --17. 17a. Heads 8-14 mm. wide (1-4 dm. high) =Dwarf Dandelion, Krigia virginica.= 17b. Heads 25-50 mm. wide (1-6 dm. high) (Dandelion) --18. 18a. Outer involucral bracts reflexed =Dandelion, Taraxacum officinale.= 18b. Outer involucral bracts erect or spreading =Dandelion, Taraxacum erythrospermum.= 19a. Pappus none; heads about 1 cm. wide (4-10 dm. high; summer) =Nipplewort, Lapsana communis.= 19b. Pappus of an inner row of bristles and an outer row of short scales; heads about 3 cm. wide (3-8 dm. high; early summer) =Cynthia, Krigia amplexicaulis.= 19c. Pappus of feathery bristles (summer) --20. 19d. Pappus of simple bristles --25. 20a. Flower-stalk scaly, without foliage leaves (2-6 dm. high) =Fall Dandelion, Leontodon autumnalis.= 20b. Stem leafy (3-10 dm. high) --21. 21a. Leaves entire, linear-lanceolate =Meadow Salsify, Tragopogon pratensis.= 21b. Leaves serrate, oblong-lanceolate =Picris, Picris hieracioides.= 22a. Pappus tawny in color (1-3 m. high) --23. 22b. Pappus white --24. 23a. Leaves pinnatifid =Wild Lettuce, Lactuca spicata.= 23b. Leaves undivided, dentate =Wild Lettuce, Lactuca spicata var. integrifolia.= 24a. Upper leaves entire; heads about 1.5 cm. wide (5-10 dm. high) =Wild Lettuce, Lactuca pulchella.= 24b. Upper leaves dentate or lobed; heads about 1 cm. wide (1-3 m. high) =Wild Lettuce, Lactuca floridana.= 25a. Achene tipped with a slender beak, bearing the pappus at its summit (summer) (Wild Lettuce) --26. 25b. Achene without a beak --29. 26a. Leaves hirsute or hispid on the mid-veins beneath --27. 26b. Leaves glabrous --28. 27a. Leaves pubescent on both sides (1-2 m. high) =Wild Lettuce, Lactuca hirsuta.= 27b. Leaves glabrous, except on the mid-vein (5-15 dm. high) =Wild Lettuce, Lactuca scariola var. integrata.= 28a. Leaves entire or sparsely toothed (1-2 m. high) =Wild Lettuce, Lactuca sagittifolia.= 28b. Leaves chiefly sinuate-pinnatifid (1-3 m. high) =Wild Lettuce, Lactuca canadensis.= 29a. Flowers white, cream-color, or purplish (summer and autumn) (Rattlesnake Root) --30. 29b. Flowers bright-yellow or orange --33. 30a. Heads nodding (6-20 dm. high) --31. 30b. Heads pointing in various directions, in spike-like panicles; involucres pubescent (5-15 dm. high) =Rattlesnake Root, Prenanthes racemosus.= 31a. Heads with 5-7 flowers in each =Rattlesnake Root, Prenanthes altissima.= 31b. Heads with 8-12 flowers --32. 31c. Heads with 20 or more flowers =Rattlesnake Root, Prenanthes crepidinea.= 32a. Pappus dark reddish-brown =Rattlesnake Root, Prenanthes alba.= 32b. Pappus pale-brown or nearly white =Rattlesnake Root, Prenanthes trifoliata.= 33a. Pappus tawny or brown in color (summer and autumn) (Hawkweed) --34. 33b. Pappus white --42. 34a. Heads 2.5 cm. in diameter, or larger --35. 34b. Heads 1-2 cm. in diameter (4-10 dm. high) --37. 35a. Leaves all basal (1-4 dm. high) =Hawkweed, Hieracium pilosella.= 35b. Stem-leaves present (4-15 dm. high) --36. 36a. Leaves rounded at the sessile base =Hawkweed, Hieracium canadense.= 36b. Leaves narrowed toward the base =Hawkweed, Hieracium umbellatum.= 37a. A rosette of basal leaves conspicuous at flowering time --38. 37b. No rosette of basal leaves at time of flowering --41. 38a. Leaves glabrous on the upper side --39. 38b. Leaves hairy on the upper side --40. 39a. Stem glabrous, leafless or with one or two leaves =Hawkweed, Hieracium venosum.= 39b. Stem with several leaves, hairy below =Hawkweed, Hieracium marianum.= 40a. Leaves with short scattered hairs above =Hawkweed, Hieracium gronovii.= 40b. Leaves and stem densely covered with very long hairs =Hawkweed, Hieracium longipilum.= 41a. Leaves glabrous =Hawkweed, Hieracium paniculatum.= 41b. Leaves very hairy =Hawkweed, Hieracium scabrum.= 42a. Bracts of the involucre smooth (5-20 dm. tall; summer and autumn) (Sow Thistle) --43. 42b. Bracts of the involucre hairy --44. 43a. The clasping leaf-bases acute =Sow Thistle, Sonchus oleraceus.= 43b. The clasping leaf-bases rounded =Sow Thistle, Sonchus asper.= 44a. Heads 2.5-5 cm. broad; involucre 2 cm. long (4-10 dm. high) =Sow Thistle, Sonchus arvensis.= 44b. Heads 1-2 cm. broad; involucre 6-10 mm. long (3-6 dm. high; summer) =Hawksbeard, Crepis tectorum.= 45a. Leaves or involucre or both spiny (thistles, burdock, etc.) --46. 45b. Neither leaves nor involucre spiny --60. 46a. Leaves 1-4 dm. broad, not spiny (flowers purple or white; summer) (Burdock) --47. 46b. Leaves narrower, not spiny --48. 47a. Diameter of involucre at flowering time 3-5 cm. (1-3 m. high) =Burdock, Arctium lappa.= 47b. Diameter of involucre at flowering time 1.5-3 cm. (5-15 dm. high) =Burdock, Arctium minus.= 48a. Each head 1-flowered; heads aggregated in a globular head-like cluster (1-2 m. high; flowers blue or white, summer) =Globe Thistle, Echinops sphaerocephalus.= 48b. Each head many-flowered --49. 49a. Principal involucral bracts with stout spreading spines 2-4 cm. long (5-15 dm. high; flowers purple, summer) =Milk Thistle, Silybum marianum.= 49b. Principal involucral bracts with slender spines or none --50. 50a. Pappus feathery; receptacle bristly (summer and autumn) (Thistle) --51. 50b. Pappus not feathery (flowers purple, summer) --59. 51a. Heads subtended by a circle of large leafy bracts (5-15 dm. high; flowers pale-yellow) =Thistle, Cisium spinoissimum.= 51b. Heads not subtended by several leafy bracts --52. 52a. Leaves conspicuously white-woolly on both sides (4-10 dm. high) --53. 52b. Leaves conspicuously white-woolly or brown-woolly below, not above (flowers purple or pink) --54. 52c. Leaves green on both sides (flowers pink or purple, rarely white) --56. 53a. Leaves deeply pinnately parted with linear divisions; flowers almost white =Thistle, Cirsium pitcheri.= 53b. Leaves irregularly pinnatifid; flowers purple-pink =Thistle, Cirsium undulatum.= 54a. Stem-leaves entire or shallowly lobed (1-3 m. high) =Thistle, Cirsium altissimum.= 54b. Stem-leaves obviously pinnatifid (1-2 m. high) --55. 55a. Leaves decurrent on the stem =Thistle, Cirsium lanceolatum.= 55b. Leaves not decurrent =Thistle, Cirsium discolor.= 56a. Outer and middle involucral bracts appressed, pointless or with weak short prickles --57. 56b. Outer and middle bracts erect, not appressed, acuminate into a long slender more or less prickly tip (4-10 dm. high) --58. 57a. Heads numerous 2-2.5 cm. broad, in close clusters (5-12 dm. high) =Canada Thistle, Cirsium arvense.= 57b. Heads few or solitary, 3-5 cm. broad (1-2 m. high) =Thistle, Cirsium muticum.= 58a. Principal bracts with a conspicuous viscid stripe down the middle; heads 6-19 cm. broad, solitary or few =Thistle, Cirsium hillii.= 58b. Principal bracts not viscid =Thistle, Cirsium pumilum.= 59a. Receptacle not bristly; heads 3-5 cm. wide (1-3 m. high; flowers pale-purple, summer) =Cotton Thistle, Onopordum acanthium.= 59b. Receptacle bristly; heads 2-2.5 cm. wide (5-12 dm. high; flowers purple to white, late summer) =Thistle, Carduus crispus.= 60a. Leaves basal; stem-leaves none or reduced to scales (2-8 dm. high; flowers whitish, in spring) --61. 60b. Stem-leaves present; basal leaves present or absent --62. 61a. Leaves toothed or lobed; flower-stalk not scaly =Adenocaulon, Adenocaulon bicolor.= 61b. Leaves deeply cleft; flower-stalk scaly --197a. 62a. Leaves compound or dissected (flowers in summer and autumn) --63. 62b. Leaves merely lobed, never truly compound or dissected --72. 62c. Leaves entire or serrate --78. 63a. Some of the involucral bracts leaf-like, longer than the heads (3-20 dm. high; flowers yellow or greenish, summer and autumn) (Beggar Ticks) --126. 63b. Bracts short and not leaf-like --64. 64a. Heads 7-20 mm. wide, in a flat-topped or convex cluster (3-10 dm. high; flowers yellow, summer) (Tansy) --65. 64b. Heads smaller, in spikes, racemes, or panicles (flowers yellow or greenish, late summer and autumn) (Wormwood) --66. 65a. Heads 7-10 mm. wide, numerous in a dense cluster =Tansy, Tanacetum vulgare.= 65b. Heads 10-20 mm. wide, few, 2-10 in a loose open cluster =Tansy, Tanacetum huronense.= 66a. Heads 2-3 mm. broad (4-15 dm. high) --67. 66b. Heads 4-6 mm. broad (3-10 dm. high) --69. 67a. Leaf-lobes narrowly linear, strictly entire =Wormwood, Artemisia caudata.= 67b. Leaf-lobes serrate --68. 68a. Heads in a loose spreading panicle =Wormwood, Artemisia annua.= 68b. Heads in axillary clusters, producing a leafy spike-like panicle =Wormwood, Artemisia biennis.= 69a. Leaf-lobes narrowly linear --70. 69b. Leaf-lobes oblong to obovate, not linear --71. 70a. Shrubby; involucre pubescent =Southernwood, Artemisia abrotanum.= 70b. Herbaceous; involucre glabrous or rarely pubescent =Wormwood, Artemisia canadensis.= 71a. Leaves finely gray-pubescent on both sides =Wormwood, Artemisia absinthium.= 71b. Leaves smooth or nearly so above, densely white-woolly beneath =Mugwort, Artemisia vulgaris.= 72a. Heads 2-4 cm. broad, purple, blue, or rarely white (3-6 dm. high; summer) --92. 72b. Heads 1 cm. wide or less --73. 73a. Leaves densely white-woolly beneath (flowers yellowish, late summer) --74. 73b. Leaves smooth or hairy, never white-woolly --75. 74a. Heads 6-8 mm. wide (4-8 dm. high) =Wormwood, Artemisia stelleriana.= 74b. Heads 3-4 mm. wide (5-10 dm. high) =Wormwood, Artemisia ludoviciana.= 75a. Principal bracts of the involucre 5, with frequently a few much smaller ones --76. 75b. Principal bracts of the involucre numerous --77. 76a. Heads few in small terminal clusters; foliage somewhat viscid-pubescent (6-15 dm. high; flowers yellow, summer) --114a. 76b. Heads very numerous in flat-topped clusters; foliage never viscid-pubescent (1-2 m. high; flowers white, late summer) --105c. 77a. Leaves broadly halberd-shape, 3-lobed (1-2 m. high; flowers white, late summer) --105b. 77b. Leaves lobed only at the base (5-10 dm. high; flowers yellow, summer) --93a. 77c. Leaves pinnatifid (2-8 dm. high; flowers yellow) --172. 78a. Bracts of the involucre dry and chaffy, at least at the tip; plants always pubescent and usually white-woolly --79. 78b. Bracts of the involucre green or colored, but never dry and chaffy --90. 79a. Pappus none; heads 3-4 mm. wide, in ample panicled spikes (flowers yellowish, late summer) --74b. 79b. Pappus a minute ring or crown; leaves crenate (5-10 dm. high; flowers yellow, summer) --93a. 79c. Pappus of hairs; heads in flat-topped clusters or slender spikes --80. 80a. Heads sessile or subsessile in small flat-topped clusters; flowering in spring or early summer; principal leaves basal (1-4 dm. high; flowers white or purplish) (Everlasting) --81. 80b. Heads in terminal spikes (2-6 dm. high; flowers purplish, summer) =Cudweed, Gnaphalium purpureum.= 80c. Heads in small or large flat-topped clusters, flowering in summer or autumn; principal leaves on the stem --88. 81a. Stolons from the basal rosette of leaves leafy throughout and ascending at the tip --82. 81b. Stolons prostrate throughout, leafy only at the tip --87. 82a. Basal leaves 2-5 cm. long, 1-nerved --83. 82b. Basal leaves 5-12 cm. long, 3-nerved --84. 83a. Basal leaves spatulate or oblanceolate, smooth above =Everlasting, Antennaria canadensis.= 83b. Basal leaves obovate, pubescent above =Everlasting, Antennaria neodioica.= 84a. Basal leaves smooth above =Everlasting, Antennaria parlinii.= 84b. Basal leaves dull green and pubescent above --85. 85a. Heads 6-8 mm. high =Everlasting, Antennaria plantaginifolia.= 85b. Heads 8-11 mm. high --86. 86a. Leaf-blade ovate or obovate =Everlasting, Antennaria fallax.= 86b. Leaf-blade spatulate, with rounded tip =Everlasting, Antennaria occidentalis.= 87a. Styles crimson =Everlasting, Antennaria neglecta.= 87b. Styles pale yellow =Everlasting, Antennaria petaloidea.= 88a. Erect; involucral bracts pearly white (4-9 dm. high) =Pearly Everlasting, Anaphalis margaritacea.= 88b. Erect; involucral bracts dull white or pale brown, somewhat pubescent (4-8 dm. high) (Cudweed) --89. 88c. Diffusely branched; heads in dense clusters; bracts brown (1-2 dm. high) =Cudweed, Gnaphalium uliginosum.= 89a. Leaves decurrent on the stem =Cudweed, Gnaphalium decurrens.= 89b. Leaves not decurrent on the stem =Cudweed, Gnaphalium polycephalum.= 90a. Twining vine (flowers white, summer) =Hemp Weed, Mikania scandens.= 90b. Not twining or climbing --91. 91a. Involucral bracts deeply fringed at the tip (flowers purple, blue, or rarely white, summer; 3-6 dm. high) --92. 91b. Involucral bracts entire or nearly so --93. 92a. Upper leaves linear or narrowly lanceolate =Corn Flower, Centaurea cyanus.= 92b. Upper leaves oblong or oblong-lanceolate =Knapweed, Centaurea nigra.= 93a. Pappus none or a short ring or crown (5-10 dm. high; flowers yellow, summer) =Costmary, Chrysanthemum balsamita var. tanacetoides.= 93b. Pappus of 2-4 stiff awns (2-15 dm. high; flowers yellow, late summer) (Bur Marigold) --130. 93c. Pappus of hairs or bristles --94. 94a. Leaves linear or narrowly lanceolate, entire; heads never in a large flat-topped cluster --95. 94b. Leaves not linear --99. 95a. Heads showy, purple, in a long spike or raceme (late summer) (Blazing Star) --96. 95b. Heads not showy, in a loose panicle or raceme --240b. 96a. Involucral bracts rounded at the tip, appressed (5-15 dm. high) --97. 96b. Involucral bracts pointed (3-6 dm. high) --98. 97a. Heads 8-12-flowered =Blazing Star, Liatris spicata.= 97b. Heads with 25 flowers or more =Blazing Star, Liatris scariosa.= 98a. Involucral bracts long-acuminate, spreading =Blazing Star, Liatris squarrosa.= 98b. Involucral bracts mucronate, appressed =Blazing Star, Liatris cylindracea.= 99a. Flowers yellow (2-8 dm. high) --172b. 99b. Flowers bright-red or purple, in flat-topped clusters (8-20 dm. high; late summer) (Ironweed) --100. 99c. Flowers blue (3-8 dm. high; late summer) =Mist Flower, Eupatorium coelestinum.= 99d. Flowers flesh-color, pink, cream-color, or white (flowers in summer) --103. 100a. Leaves glabrous beneath or minutely pubescent; heads 15-30-flowered --101. 100b. Leaves tomentose beneath; heads 30-50-flowered --102. 101a. Inflorescence densely crowded; usually 1 m. or less high =Ironweed, Vernonia fasciculate.= 101b. Inflorescence loose and open, 15-30 cm. wide; 1-2 m. high =Ironweed, Vernonia altissima.= 102a. Pappus tawny in color =Ironweed, Vernonia missurica.= 102b. Pappus purple =Ironweed, Vernonia illinoensis.= 103a. Leaves alternate --104. 103b. Leaves opposite --106. 103c. Leaves whorled (1-3 m. high; flowers pink or purple, late summer) (Joe-Pye Weed) --107. 104a. Heads 5-flowered (5-20 dm. high; flowers white or pinkish, late summer) (Indian Plantain) --105. 104b. Heads 10 25-flowered (5-10 dm. high; flowers white, late summer) =False Boneset, Kuhnia eupatorioides.= 104c. Heads with more than 50 flowers (3-20 dm. high; flowers white, summer) =Fireweed, Erechtites hieracifolia.= 105a. Leaves entire, with many veins from base to apex =Indian Plantain, Cacalia tuberosa.= 105b. Leaves sharply serrate =Indian Plantain, Cacalia suaveolens.= 105c. Leaves broadly triangular or kidney-shape, sinuate or entire =Indian Plantain, Cacalia atriplicifolia.= 106a. Leaves united at the base (5-15 dm. high) =Boneset, Eupatorium perfoliatum.= 106b. Leaves sessile but not united at the base (5-15 dm. high) =Upland Boneset, Eupatorium sessilifolium.= 106c. Leaves petioled (4-12 dm. high) =White Snakeroot, Eupatorium urticaefolium.= 107a. Inflorescence ovoid or pyramidal =Joe-Pye Weed, Eupatorium purpureum.= 107b. Inflorescence depressed or flattened =Joe-Pye Weed, Eupatorium purpureum var. maculatum.= 108a. Rays yellow or brown --109. 108b. Rays white to blue or red, never yellow or brown --197. 109a. Principal leaves basal, the stem merely with bract-like scales --110. 109b. Principal leaves on the stem, opposite or whorled --111. 109c. Principal leaves on the stem, alternate, or with smaller ones clustered in their axils --132. 110a. Flower-stalk 1-5 dm. high, 1-flowered (spring) =Coltsfoot, Tussilago farfara.= 110b. Flower-stalk 1-3 m. high, several-flowered (summer) =Prairie Dock, Silphium terebinthinaceum.= 111a. Ray-flowers pistillate (the 2-lobed style protrudes from their base) --112. 111b. Ray-flowers with neither stamens nor pistil --118. 112a. Principal leaves lobed (summer) (Leafcup) --113. 112b. Principal leaves toothed or entire, not lobed --115. 113a. Rays 10 or more (1-2 m. high) =Leafcup, Polymnia uvedalia.= 113b. Rays 5 (5-15 dm. high) --114. 114a. Rays shorter than the involucre or none =Leafcup, Polymnia canadensis.= 114b. Rays about 1 cm. long =Leafcup, Polymnia canadensis var. radiata.= 115a. Stem 6 dm. high or less; pappus of slender hairs (spring) =Arnica, Arnica cordifolia.= 115b. Stem usually 8-20 dm. high; pappus of short scales or none (summer) --116. 116a. Leaves united at base into a cup surrounding the stem =Cup Plant, Silphium perfoliatum.= 116b. Leaves closely sessile with a rounded base =Rosin Weed, Silphium integrifolium.= 116c. Leaves tapering to a short petiole; principal leaves whorled =Rosin Weed, Silphium trifoliatum.= 116d. Leaves abruptly rounded at the sessile base, all opposite (Ox-eye) --117. 117a. Leaves smooth =Ox-eye, Heliopsis helianthoides.= 117b. Leaves rough =Ox-eye, Heliopsis scabra.= 118a. Principal stem-leaves lobed or divided --119. 118b. Principal stem-leaves entire or serrate --127. 119a. Submerged aquatic; leaf-segments filiform =Water Marigold, Bidens beckii.= 119b. Terrestrial plants; leaves merely 3-lobed (3-8 dm. high; late spring and summer) (Tickseed) --120. 119c. Terrestrial plants; leaves compound or dissected (summer and autumn) --121. 120a. Leaf-lobes linear-oblong, all about equal =Tickseed, Coreopsis palmata.= 120b. Lateral leaf-lobes very much smaller than the terminal =Tickseed, Coreopsis lanceolata.= 121a. Leaf-segments entire (Tickseed) --122. 121b. Leaf-segments serrate (5-15 dm. high) (Tickseed Sunflower) --124. 122a. Leaf-segments numerous, linear or nearly so (4-10 dm. high) --123. 122b. Leaf-segments 3-5, lanceolate (1-3 m. high) =Tickseed, Coreopsis tripteris.= 123a. Rays yellow throughout =Tickseed, Coreopsis verticillata.= 123b. Rays brown, at least at the base =Tickseed, Coreopsis tinctoria.= 124a. Achenes wedge-shape, the inner ones less than 2 mm. wide --125. 124b. Achenes obovate, the inner ones more than 2 mm. wide =Tickseed Sunflower, Bidens aristosa.= 125a. Leaf-lobes lanceolate =Tickseed Sunflower, Bidens trichosperma.= 125b. Leaf-lobes linear =Tickseed Sunflower, Bidens trichosperma var. tenuiloba.= 126a. Outer leaf-like bracts 10-16; achenes brown =Beggar Ticks, Bidens vulgata.= 126b. Outer leaf-like bracts 5-8; achenes black =Beggar Ticks, Bidens frondosa.= 126c. Outer leaf-like bracts about 4 =Beggar Ticks, Bidens discoidea.= 127a. Bracts of the involucre all essentially alike in form and texture (flowers in summer and autumn) (Sunflower) --179. 127b. Bracts of the involucre in two distinct sets, differing in form or consistency or both --128. 128a. Leaves entire (3-8 dm. high; late spring and summer) --120b. 128b. Leaves serrate (late summer and autumn) (Bur Marigold) --129. 129a. Rays large and conspicuous, 2-3 cm. long (3-10 dm. high) =Bur Marigold, Bidens laevis.= 129b. Rays 1 cm. long or less --130. 130a. Outer bracts leaf-like, serrate, 3-8 cm. long (4-15 dm. high) =Bur Marigold, Bidens comosa.= 130b. Outer bracts 1-2.5 cm. long (2-15 dm. high) --131. 131a. Heads nodding after flowering =Bur Marigold, Bidens cernua.= 131b. Heads permanently erect =Bur Marigold, Bidens connata.= 132a. Heads small, seldom more than 1 cm. wide, including the rays, blooming in late summer and autumn; flowers numerous, crowded in spikes, racemes, corymbs, or panicles (Goldenrod) --133. 132b. Heads medium size or large, more than 1 cm. and usually exceeding 2 cm. in width, including the rays --165. 133a. Heads chiefly in clusters or short racemes in the axils of ordinary foliage leaves, or occasionally the upper compacted into a leafy cluster terminating the stem --134. 133b. Heads crowded at or near the ends of the branches at about the same distance from the base of the panicle, forming a rounded or flat-topped inflorescence --140. 133c. Heads more or less uniformly distributed along the length of the branches, forming a cylindrical or pyramidal inflorescence, never flat-topped --146. 134a. Stem and both sides of the leaves more or less pubescent or rough (4-10 dm. high) --135. 134b. Stem and both sides of the leaves essentially smooth or with very short hairs (3-10 dm. high) --136. 135a. Rays white =Goldenrod, Solidago bicolor.= 135b. Rays yellow =Goldenrod, Solidago hispida.= 136a. Basal leaves abruptly narrowed to winged petioles --137. 136b. Basal leaves not abruptly narrowed to winged petioles --138. 137a. Involucre 2-5 mm. long =Goldenrod, Solidago latifolia.= 137b. Involucre 8-12 mm. long =Goldenrod, Solidago macrophylla.= 138a. Lower leaves broadly oval, obtuse, thickish, crenate; achenes glabrous =Goldenrod, Solidago erecta.= 138b. Lower leaves lanceolate, acuminate, thin, sharply serrate; achenes hairy --139. 139a. Stem usually simple; heads few in very small clusters =Goldenrod, Solidago caesia var. axillaris.= 139b. Stem usually diffusely branched; heads numerous =Goldenrod, Solidago caesia.= 140a. Lower leaves ovate, oblong, or oval, pinnately veined (5-15 dm. high) --141. 140b. Lower leaves linear-lanceolate. 3-5-veined (3-12 dm. high) --142. 141a. Stem and leaves rough-hairy =Goldenrod, Solidago rigida.= 141b. Stem and leaves smooth =Goldenrod, Solidago ohioensis.= 142a. Heads very few in a small cluster; leaves few and scattered =Goldenrod, Solidago houghtonii.= 142b. Heads very many, in a large cluster; stem very leafy --143. 143a. Leaves hairy =Goldenrod, Solidago graminifolia var. nuttallii.= 143b. Leaves smooth --144. 144a. Leaves folded, 8-20 mm. wide =Goldenrod, Solidago riddellii.= 144b. Leaves flat, 1-8 mm. wide --145. 145a. Leaves 4-8 mm. wide, distinctly 3-5-ribbed =Goldenrod, Solidago graminifolia.= 145b. Leaves 1-4 mm. wide, usually with 1 mid-vein =Goldenrod, Solidago tenuifolia.= 146a. Only 2-5 stem-leaves below the inflorescence (1-3 dm. high) =Goldenrod, Solidago cutleri.= 146b. Stem-leaves numerous --147. 147a. Basal leaves much larger than the greatly reduced or bract-like upper ones --148. 147b. Leaves essentially uniform in size from base to summit of stem --157. 148a. Racemes or branches of the panicle either short and arranged along a more or less elongated central axis, or elongated and ascending, scarcely recurved, forming a narrow, more or less elongated panicle --149. 148b. Racemes or branches of the panicle usually elongated, spreading outwards, usually recurved, forming a widened panicle --153. 149a. Leaves mostly entire, the upper ones with smaller leaves fascicled in the axils (5-20 dm. high) =Goldenrod, Solidago speciosa.= 149b. Leaves mostly serrate, at least the basal ones --150. 150a. Heads on pedicels 5-15 mm. long; achenes pubescent; stems usually clustered (1-5 dm. high, or prostrate) --151. 150b. Heads on pedicels not over 5 mm. long; achenes smooth or nearly so; stems usually single (6-12 dm. high) --152. 151a. Basal leaves 7-12 cm. long =Goldenrod, Solidago racemosa.= 151b. Basal leaves 15-30 cm. long =Goldenrod, Solidago racemosa var. gillmani.= 152a. Leaves pinnately veined =Goldenrod, Solidago uliginosa.= 152b. Leaves 3-5-ribbed =Goldenrod, Solidago neglecta.= 153a. Both sides of the leaf pubescent or rough --154. 153b. Leaf not pubescent or rough on both sides --155. 154a. Stem closely pubescent (2-8 dm. high) =Goldenrod, Solidago nemoralis.= 154b. Stem glabrous (5-12 dm. high) =Goldenrod, Solidago juncea var. scabrella.= 155a. Leaves rough above, smooth below (6-15 dm. high) =Goldenrod, Solidago patula.= 155b. Leaves smooth on both sides (5-12 dm. high) --156. 156a. Branches of the panicle spreading or recurved =Goldenrod, Solidago juncea.= 156b. Branches of the panicle upright =Goldenrod, Solidago juncea var. ramosa.= 157a. Stem more or less pubescent or hairy throughout (5-20 dm. high) --158. 157b. Stem smooth, at least below the inflorescence --161. 158a. Involucre 2-2.7 mm. long =Goldenrod, Solidago canadensis.= 158b. Involucre 3-5 mm. long --159. 159a. Leaves pinnately veined, scabrous above =Goldenrod, Solidago rugosa.= 159b. Leaves 3-5-ribbed, pubescent but not scabrous above --160. 160a. Stem and lower side of leaves covered with short hairs; common species =Goldenrod, Solidago altissima.= 160b. Stem and lower side of leaves with distinct, loose, soft hairs (shore of Lake Superior) =Goldenrod, Solidago altissima var. procera.= 161a. Involucre 2-2.7 mm. long (5-20 dm. high) --158a. 161b. Involucre 3-6 mm. long --162. 162a. Racemes or branches of the panicle either short and arranged along a more or less elongated axis, or elongated and ascending, scarcely recurved, forming a narrow more or less elongated panicle (5-10 dm. high) =Goldenrod, Solidago speciosa var. angustata.= 162b. Racemes or branches of the panicle usually elongated, spreading outward, usually recurved, forming a widened panicle; leaves distinctly serrate --163. 163a. Leaves pinnately veined (5-12 dm. high) =Goldenrod, Solidago ulmifolia.= 163b. Leaves 3-5-ribbed (5-20 dm. high) --164. 164a. Leaves glabrous on both sides =Goldenrod, Solidago serotina.= 164b. Leaves slightly pubescent beneath =Goldenrod, Solidago serotina var. gigantea.= 165a. Ray-flowers pistillate (the 2-lobed style protrudes from their base) --166. 165b. Ray-flowers with neither stamens nor pistil --174. 166a. Principal leaves more than 2 dm. long (1-3 m. high; summer) --167. 166b. Principal leaves less than 1.5 dm. long --168. 167a. Leaves deeply lobed =Compass Plant, Silphium laciniatum.= 167b. Leaves toothed or serrate =Elecampane, Inula helenium.= 168a. Leaves narrowly linear (3-6 dm. high; late summer) =Sneezeweed, Helenium tenuifolium.= 168b. Leaves of a broader shape --169. 169a. Heads 1-2 cm. wide; flowers in spring and early summer (2-8 dm. high) (Ragwort) --170. 169b. Heads 2-5 cm. wide; flowers in late summer and autumn --173. 170a. Basal leaves cordate at base =Ragwort, Senecio aureus.= 170b. Basal leaves narrowed to the base --171. 171a. Basal leaves obovate =Ragwort, Senecio obovatus.= 171b. Basal leaves oblong =Ragwort, Senecio balsamitae.= 172a. Introduced annual in waste places (1-4 dm. high; spring and summer) =Groundsel, Senecio vulgaris.= 172b. Native biennial in moist ground (3-8 dm. high; summer) =Squaw Weed, Senecio discoideus.= 173a. Leaves 2-5 cm. long, sharply spinulose-serrate; involucre viscid (3-6 dm. high; summer) =Gum Plant, Grindelia squarrosa.= 173b. Leaves 5-12 cm. long, merely serrate; involucre gray-pubescent (5-15 dm. high; late summer) =Sneeze Weed, Helenium autumnale.= 174a. Disk hemispherical or oblong-cylindrical (Summer) --175. 174b. Disk flat or somewhat convex (Sunflower) (summer and autumn) --179. 175a. Disk yellow or greenish-yellow (1-3 dm. high) --176. 175b. Disk gray-brown or purple (5-15 dm. high) --177. 176a. Principal stem-leaves pinnately divided =Golden Glow, Rudbeckia laciniata.= 176b. Principal stem-leaves merely serrate =Yellow Ironweed, Actinomeris alternifolia.= 177a. Rays drooping; leaves pinnately divided =Gray-headed Coneflower, Lepachys pinnata.= 177b. Rays spreading when in bloom --178. 178a. Lower leaves deeply 3-lobed =Coneflower, Rudbeckia triloba.= 178b. Stem-leaves sharply serrate =Coneflower, Rudbeckia speciosa var. sullivantii.= 178c. Stem-leaves entire or sparingly serrate =Black-eyed Susan, Rudbeckia hirta.= 179a. Disk-flowers brown or purple --180. 179b. Disk-flowers yellow --182. 180a. Stem-leaves ovate or ovate-lanceolate; petioles prominent, not winged --181. 180b. Stem-leaves ovate or ovate-lanceolate, contracted at the base into a winged petiole (6-15 dm. high) =Sunflower, Helianthus atrorubens.= 180c. Stem-leaves oblong-lanceolate, very thick and rigid, gradually narrowed to a sessile or short-petioled base (5-20 dm. high) =Sunflower, Helianthus scaberrimus.= 181a. Disk less than 2 cm. wide (3-10 dm. high) =Sunflower, Helianthus petiolaris.= 181b. Disk more than 2.5 cm. wide (1-3 m. high) =Sunflower, Helianthus annuus.= 182a. Leaves all or chiefly at the base (5-10 dm. high) =Sunflower, Helianthus occidentalis.= 182b. Leaves chiefly scattered on the stem --183. 183a. Leaves mainly or all alternate, and not definitely 3-ribbed (1-4 m. high) --184. 183b. Leaves mainly or all opposite, lanceolate to ovate, and 3-ribbed --186. 184a. Stem glabrous =Sunflower, Helianthus grosse-serratus.= 184b. Stem hairy or rough --185. 185a. Leaves hairy beneath, rough above, lanceolate =Sunflower, Helianthus giganteus.= 185b. Leaves rough on both sides, elongated =Sunflower, Helianthus maximiliani.= 186a. Leaves sessile (5-15 dm. high) --187. 186b. Leaves petioled, or narrowed at the base into a petiole (5-30 dm. high) --189. 187a. Leaves wedge-shape at the base =Sunflower, Helianthus doronicoides.= 187b. Leaves rounded at the base --188. 188a. Stem glabrous or nearly so =Sunflower, Helianthus divaricatus.= 188b. Stem densely and softly hirsute =Sunflower, Helianthus mollis.= 189a. Stems rough, pubescent, or hispid --190. 189b. Stems glabrous or nearly so --193. 190a. Leaves narrowly lanceolate, more than 5 times as long as wide =Sunflower, Helianthus giganteus var. subtuberosus.= 190b. Leaves ovate-lanceolate, not more than 4 times as long as wide --191. 191a. Leaves rounded at base, above the petiole =Sunflower, Helianthus hirsutus.= 191b. Leaves narrowed to the base --192. 192a. Bracts of the involucre spreading =Jerusalem Artichoke, Helianthus tuberosus.= 192b. Bracts all appressed =Sunflower, Helianthus laetiflorus.= 193a. Heads 3 cm. wide or less, including the rays =Sunflower, Helianthus microcephalus.= 193b. Heads 4 cm. wide or more, including the rays --194. 194a. Leaves narrowed at the base into a winged petiole --195. 194b. Petiole slender, not winged =Sunflower, Helianthus decapetalus.= 195a. Leaves green on both sides; bracts longer than the disk =Sunflower, Helianthus tracheliifolius.= 195b. Leaves paler below than above; bracts not longer than the disk --196. 196a. Leaves minutely pubescent beneath =Sunflower, Helianthus strumosus.= 196b. Leaves conspicuously downy beneath =Sunflower, Helianthus strumosus var. mollis.= 197a. Leaves all basal, the flowers on scaly stalks (2-8 dm. high; flowers whitish, in spring) =Coltsfoot, Petasites palmata.= 197b. Stem-leaves present, opposite --198. 197c. Stem-leaves present, alternate --200. 198a. Leaves ovate, dentate, 2-6 cm. long (2-8 dm. high; summer) (Galinsoga) --199. 198b. Leaves lobed, 10-25 cm. long --113b. 199a. Pubescence sparse, appressed =Galinsoga, Galinsoga parviflora.= 199b. Pubescence abundant, spreading =Galinsoga, Galinsoga parviflora var. hispida.= 200a. Leaves dissected or deeply lobed or pinnatifid; pappus never capillary; rays white to pink (3-10 dm. high; summer and autumn) --201. 200b. Leaves entire or serrate --206. 201a. Heads 4-8 mm. wide (Yarrow) --202. 201b. Heads 12-50 mm. wide --203. 202a. Flower-clusters flat-topped =Yarrow, Achillea millefolium.= 202b. Flower-clusters very convex =Yarrow, Achillea lanulosa.= 203a. Principal leaves pinnatifid --213a. 203b. Principal leaves 1-3 times pinnately parted or dissected --204. 204a. Leaf-segments very narrowly linear; leaves 2-3-pinnate --205. 204b. Leaf-segments linear or lanceolate; heads 2.5-5 cm. wide =Camomile, Anthemis arvensis.= 204c. Leaf-segments ovate to ovate-oblong; heads 1-2 cm. wide =Feverfew, Chrysanthemum parthenium.= 205a. Foliage strongly scented =Dog Fennel, Anthemis cotula.= 205b. Foliage not ill-scented =Wild Camomile, Matricaria inodora.= 206a. Heads 3-6 mm. broad, including the rays (summer and autumn) --207. 206b. Heads 7 mm. broad or larger, including the rays --209. 207a. Rays purple (1-4 dm. high) =Horse Weed, Erigeron divaricatus.= 207b. Rays white --208. 208a. Leaves obovate to oblong (3-10 dm. high) --135a. 208b. Leaves linear or narrowly lanceolate (2-25 dm. high) =Horse Weed, Erigeron canadensis.= 209a. Pappus none, or minute and not of hairs (summer and autumn) --210. 209b. Pappus of hairs --214. 210a. Disk-flowers purple or brown (4-12 dm. high; rays pink) (Purple Coneflower) --211. 210b. Disk-flowers yellow or nearly white --212. 211a. Leaves ovate or ovate-lanceolate, most of them serrate =Purple Coneflower, Brauneria purpurea.= 211b. Leaves narrowly lanceolate, gradually narrowed at the base, entire =Purple Coneflower, Brauneria pallida.= 212a. Rays broadly obovate; heads 1-2 cm. wide (3-6 dm. high) =Sneezewort, Achillea ptarmica.= 212b. Rays oblong or narrowly elliptical --213. 213a. Leaves serrate (3-10 dm. high) =Ox-eye Daisy, Chrysanthemum leucanthemum var. pinnatifidum.= 213b. Leaves entire (8-25 dm. high) =Boltonia, Boltonia asteroides.= 214a. Involucral bracts all the same length or nearly so and narrow, or with a few short outer ones; plants blooming in spring and summer, or a few plants persisting in bloom until autumn (Fleabane) --215. 214b. Involucral bracts unequal, the outer successively shorter (or rarely nearly equal), loosely or closely overlapping; plants 3-15 dm. high, blooming in late summer and autumn (Aster) --221. 215a. Rays short and inconspicuous, barely longer than the pappus (1-5 dm. high; summer) =Fleabane, Erigeron acris var. asteroides.= 215b. Rays conspicuous, spreading, 3 mm. long or more --216. 216a. Rare plants of the Northern Peninsula, with entire leaves and stems 1-5 dm. high, from a thick woody root (flowers white or purple, summer) --217. 216b. Common species, with erect stems from fibrous roots; leaves toothed (except in one species) --218. 217a. Heads 3-5 cm. wide; rays about 100 =Fleabane, Erigeron glabellus.= 217b. Heads 1-2 cm. wide; rays 20-30 =Fleabane, Erigeron hyssopifolius.= 218a. Stem unbranched, except for the peduncles; leaves chiefly basal; heads 1-9 (2-5 dm. high; flowers pale-purple, spring) =Fleabane, Erigeron pulchellus.= 218b. Stem branched; principal leaves on the stem; heads usually numerous (3-12 dm. high; spring and summer) --219. 219a. Stem-leaves linear, entire =Fleabane, Erigeron ramosus.= 219b. Stem-leaves ovate-lanceolate, the principal ones toothed --220. 220a. Rays 100 or more, light-purple or pink =Fleabane, Erigeron philadelphicus.= 220b. Rays much fewer, white =Fleabane, Erigeron annuus.= 221a. Basal leaves petioled and heart-shape at the base --222. 221b. Basal leaves not petioled; stem-leaves with heart-shape clasping bases --231. 221c. Basal and stem-leaves sessile or petioled, but never heart-shape or clasping --240. 222a. Rays white or violet --223. 222b. Rays blue --225. 223a. Plant glandular, especially on the pedicels and branches of the inflorescence =Aster, Aster macrophyllus.= 223b. Plant not glandular --224. 224a. Leaves rough above =Aster, Aster schreberi.= 224b. Leaves smooth above =Aster, Aster divaricatus.= 225a. Stem-leaves clasping the stem by a cordate base =Aster, Aster undulatus.= 225b. Stem-leaves not cordate-clasping --226. 226a. Leaves entire --227. 226b. Leaves serrate --228. 227a. Leaves glabrous above =Aster, Aster shortii.= 227b. Leaves rough above =Aster, Aster azureus.= 228a. Involucre 4-6 mm. long --229. 228b. Involucre 6-10 mm. long --230. 229a. Leaves rough; petioles mostly winged =Aster, Aster lowrieanus.= 229b. Leaves smooth; petioles slender, not winged =Aster, Aster cordifolius.= 230a. Heads few, seldom more than 10, in a loose spreading cluster =Aster, Aster lindleyanus.= 230b. Heads numerous, in a rather elongate crowded cluster =Aster, Aster sagittifolius.= 231a. Stem hirsute or rough-pubescent --232. 231b. Stem smooth, or essentially so --236. 232a. Leaves conspicuously serrate =Aster, Aster puniceus.= 232b. Leaves entire or nearly so --233. 233a. Leaves narrowed toward the base and barely clasping, linear or oblong-linear --234. 233b. Leaves ovate-oblong or lanceolate, with a broad conspicuously clasping base --235. 234a. Involucre pubescent but not glandular =Aster, Aster amethystinus.= 234b. Involucre glandular =Aster, Aster oblongifolius.= 235a. Involucre very glandular and viscid; rays very numerous, violet-purple; leaves lanceolate =Aster, Aster novae-angliae.= 235b. Involucre slightly glandular or not at all; rays 20-30, generally blue-purple; leaves ovate-oblong =Aster, Aster patens.= 236a. Leaves of a linear type --237. 236b. Leaves broader than linear, at least 1 cm. wide --238. 237a. Bracts narrow, approximately equal in length --253a. 237b. Bracts of several lengths, the outer successively shorter --256a. 238a. Leaves smooth above =Aster, Aster laevis.= 238b. Leaves rough above --239. 239a. Leaves contracted below the middle and then abruptly dilated to the clasping base =Aster, Aster prenanthoides.= 239b. Leaves gradually narrowed toward the base =Aster, Aster puniceus.= 240a. Rays conspicuous --241. 240b. Rays minute or wanting =Aster, Aster angustus.= 241a. Stems and leaves gray with a silky pubescence =Aster, Aster sericeus.= 241b. Stem and leaves green, not silky --242. 242a. Bracts glandular-viscid; rays violet =Aster, Aster oblongifolius.= 242b. Bracts bristly-ciliate --243. 242c. Bracts smooth or pubescent, not glandular or bristly-ciliate --244. 243a. Leaves crowded, rigid; rays white =Aster, Aster multiflorus.= 243b. Leaves not crowded and rigid; rays blue --234a. 244a. Bracts narrowed at the tip into thickened firm green awl-shape points --245. 244b. Bracts acute or obtuse at the flattened tip --247. 245a. Involucre 4-5 mm. long --246. 245b. Involucre 7-8 mm. high =Aster, Aster polyphyllus.= 246a. Stem smooth =Aster, Aster ericoides.= 246b. Stem hairy; leaves linear =Aster, Aster ericoides var. villosus.= 246c. Stem densely white-woolly =Aster, Aster ericoides var. platyphyllus.= 247a. Leaves at most 4.5 cm. long --248. 247b. Leaves larger, at least the principal ones --249. 248a. Stems in clusters; leaves rigid, linear, with 1 vein; flowers blue =Aster, Aster linariifolius.= 248b. Stem solitary; leaves not rigid; flowers rose-pink =Aster, Aster nemoralis.= 249a. Heads solitary at the end of minutely leafy branchlets; leaves linear =Aster, Aster dumosus.= 249b. Heads in flat-topped clusters; leaves lanceolate or broader --250. 249c. Heads in more or less one-sided racemes --251. 249d. Heads in panicles or irregular clusters --253. 250a. Leaves rigid, linear-lanceolate =Aster, Aster ptarmicoides.= 250b. Leaves not rigid, lanceolate =Aster, Aster umbellatus.= 251a. Leaves lanceolate, sharply serrate --252. 251b. Leaves linear or narrowly linear-lanceolate, only the larger ones with a few teeth near the middle =Aster, Aster vimineus.= 252a. Stem glabrous or somewhat pubescent =Aster, Aster lateriflorus.= 252b. Stem woolly with long hairs =Aster, Aster lateriflorus var. hirsuticaulis.= 253a. Bracts narrow, approximately equal in length =Aster, Aster longifolius.= 253b. Bracts of several lengths, the outer successively shorter --254. 254a. Heads 10-15 mm. wide, including the rays =Aster, Aster tradescanti.= 254b. Heads 15-25 mm. wide, including the rays --255. 255a. Bracts with conspicuous dilated or subrhombic tips =Aster, Aster salicifolius.= 255b. Bracts without conspicuous green tips --256. 256a. Rays purple or rose; bog plant with linear leaves =Aster, Aster junceus.= 256b. Rays white, or slightly tinged with blue; leaves oblong to narrowly lanceolate =Aster, Aster paniculatus.= GLOSSARY =Achene.= A small, dry, hard, seed-like fruit containing a single seed. =Acuminate.= Taper-pointed. =Acute.= Ending with an acute angle. =Alternate.= Located singly on the stem, with other leaves above or below. =Annual.= Living but a single season. =Anther.= The (usually) enlarged end of a stamen, bearing the pollen. =Ascending.= Rising or curving obliquely upward. =Auricle.= An ear-shape appendage at the base of a leaf or other organ. =Auricled, auriculate.= Furnished with auricles. =Awl-shape.= Tapering to a slender stiff point. =Awn.= An awl-shape or bristle-shape appendage. =Axil.= The point on a stem just above the base of a leaf or branch. =Axillary.= Arising from or produced in the axil. =Basal.= Arising from or produced at the base. =Beak.= Ending in a prominent slender point. =Bract.= A small leaf near the base of a flower or flower-stalk, or in a flower-cluster. =Bracteal.= An adjective derived from bract. =Bipinnate.= A leaf with a pinnately branched axis, bearing leaflets on the sides of the branches. =Calyx.= The outer portion of the flower, usually green in color. In some plants it is colored to resemble (or replace) the corolla, and in others may be minute or wanting. =Capitate.= Shaped like a head; or arranged in a dense compact cluster. =Capsule.= A dry fruit with usually several seeds, opening at maturity. =Catkin.= A cylindrical or ovoid cluster of inconspicuous flowers, for example, the "pussy willow." =Cells of ovary.= The cavity or cavities within an ovary, in which the seeds are produced. =Ciliate.= Provided with hairs at the margin. =Clasping.= With the base of a leaf or other organ wholly or partly surrounding the stem. =Cleft.= Deeply divided toward the base or the mid-rib. =Closed sheath.= A leaf-sheath in which the margins are united to form a tube. =Composite.= A flower-cluster containing several or many small flowers, closely crowded together and provided with calyx-like bracts, so that the whole cluster resembles a single flower. =Compound.= Composed of 2 or more similar parts united, as a compound ovary. =Compound leaf.= A leaf with two or more separate leaflets on a single petiole. =Connate.= Grown together. =Cordate.= Heart-shape. A whole leaf-blade may be cordate, or the term may be applied to the base of a leaf only. =Cordate-sagittate.= Intermediate in shape between cordate and sagittate. =Corm.= An enlarged stem-base, of solid structure and usually underground. =Corolla.= The portion of a flower next to the calyx (in ordinary cases). It is generally the most conspicuous part of the flower, but may be completely absent, or inconspicuous, or replaced by the calyx. =Corymb.= A flat-topped or convex-topped flower-cluster. =Creeping.= With stems prostrate on the ground and rooting at intervals. =Crenate.= With round-pointed teeth at the margin. =Crenulate.= Finely or minutely crenate. =Cuspidate.= Ending with a short sharp stiff point. =Deciduous.= Not persistent for a long time; not evergreen. =Decompound.= Repeatedly branched with numerous leaflets. =Decurrent.= Extending with wing-like expansions down the stem. =Decumbent.= A stem prostrate at the base, but with the tip more or less ascending. =Dehiscent.= Breaking open at maturity to discharge the contents. =Deltoid.= Broadly triangular. =Dioecious.= Bearing staminate and pistillate flowers upon separate plants. =Dissected.= Finely divided into numerous small or narrow segments. =Divided.= With deep segments or lobes. =Elliptical.= Having the shape of an ellipse. =Elliptical-lanceolate.= Intermediate in shape between elliptical and lanceolate. =Entire.= With an unbroken margin, without teeth or lobes. =Epiphyte.= A plant growing attached to the bark of another plant, and without connection with the soil. =Erect.= Growing in nearly or quite a vertical position. =Evenly pinnate.= A compound leaf terminating in a pair of leaflets. =Filament.= The (usually) slender basal portion of a stamen, supporting the anther at its tip. =Floweret.= A small flower. =Gamopetalous.= Composed of united petals. =Gamosepalous.= Composed of united sepals. =Glabrous.= Smooth; without hairs. =Glandular.= Bearing glands. =Glaucous.= Covered with a thin bluish or whitish deposit, easily rubbed off. =Glume.= A bract at the base of a spikelet of a grass. =Half recurved.= Curved half-way backward. =Hastate.= Shaped like an arrow-head, but with the basal lobes pointing outwards instead of backward. =Head.= A dense cluster of flowers, about as broad as long. =Hirsute.= With stiff coarse hairs. =Imperfect.= Flowers which contain either pistil or stamens, not both. =Incised.= With deep, sharp, irregular, divisions. =Indehiscent.= Not breaking open at maturity to discharge the contents. =Inflorescence.= A cluster of flowers. =Internode.= A section of stem between two joints, or nodes. =Involucre.= A collection of bracts at the base of a flower-cluster. =Irregular.= Possessing similar parts of different size or form. An irregular flower is generally distinguished by petals of unequal size or shape. =Laciniate.= Cut into narrow pointed lobes or divisions. =Lanceolate.= Shaped like a lance-head, several times longer than wide, and broadest below the middle. =Linear.= Long and narrow, but with about uniform width. =Linear-lanceolate.= Intermediate in shape between linear and lanceolate; narrowly lanceolate. =Lip.= The largest and most conspicuous petal in an irregular corolla, usually applied to the lower petal of an orchid. =Lobe.= A segment or division of any organ. =Leaflet.= One portion of the blade of a compound leaf. =Lemma.= One of the bracts in the spikelet of a grass, and described in the treatment of that family. =Membranous.= Thin or membrane-like in texture. =Monoecious.= Bearing stamens and pistils in separate flowers, but on the same plant. =Mucronate.= Tipped with a short small abrupt tip. =Node.= A joint of a stem, at which leaves are borne and branches appear. =Oblanceolate.= Reversed lanceolate in shape. =Oblique.= With unequal sides. =Oblong.= Somewhat rectangular in shape, with parallel sides. =Oblong-lanceolate.= Intermediate in shape between oblong and lanceolate. =Oblong-spatulate.= Intermediate in shape between oblong and spatulate. =Obovate.= Reversed ovate in shape. =Obtuse.= Blunt-tipped; terminating in an obtuse angle. =Odd-pinnate.= A compound leaf terminating in a single leaflet. =Once-compound.= A compound leaf bearing leaflets at the end or along the sides of the main axis. =Once-pinnate.= A compound leaf bearing leaflets along the sides of the axis. =Open sheath.= A leaf-sheath with separate margins. =Opposite.= Situated in pairs on opposite sides of the stem or axis. =Ovary.= The basal, usually swollen portion of the pistil, within which the seeds are produced. =Ovate.= Egg-shape in outline. =Ovate-lanceolate.= Intermediate in shape between ovate and lanceolate; broadly lanceolate or narrowly ovate. =Ovate-oblong.= Intermediate in shape between ovate and oblong. =Ovoid.= Egg-shape. =Palmate.= With several organs or structures attached at or proceeding from the same point; applied chiefly to the arrangement of principal veins in a leaf and of leaflets in a compound leaf. =Panicle.= A loose, more or less irregular, branching cluster of pedicelled flowers, usually much longer than thick. =Parallel-veined.= With the principal veins of the leaf paralleling each other from the base to the apex, or (rarely) from the mid-rib to the margin. =Pedicel.= The stalk of a single flower. =Parasite.= A plant which grows attached to another and derives its nourishment from it. =Peduncle.= The stalk of a flower-cluster, or of a solitary flower. =Peltate.= Attached to the stalk by the lower surface, instead of the margin. =Perennial.= Living through several seasons. =Perfect.= Bearing stamens and pistils in the same flower. =Perfoliate.= Clasping the stem so completely that the stem seems to pass through it. =Perianth.= The calyx and corolla of a flower. =Perigynium.= A sac-like structure surrounding the achene of a sedge. =Persistent.= Remaining attached for a considerable time. =Petal.= One member or segment of the corolla. =Petiole.= The stalk of a leaf. =Pinnate.= With several organs or structures attached at the sides of an axis or stalk; applied chiefly to the arrangement of the principal veins in a leaf and of leaflets in a compound leaf. =Pinnatifid.= Deeply pinnately cut or divided. =Pistil.= The central portion of a flower, consisting of ovary, style, and stigma; the seed-bearing part of the flower. =Pistillate.= Bearing pistils. =Polygamous.= Applied to plants in which some flowers are perfect and others either staminate or pistillate. =Pubescent.= Hairy. =Raceme.= A more or less elongated flower-cluster, bearing pedicelled flowers along a single axis. =Racemose.= Arranged in racemes. =Receptacle.= The end of a peduncle or pedicel upon which the organs of a flower, or the flowers of a head, are attached. =Recurved.= Curved back. =Reflexed.= Abruptly bent back or down. =Regular.= Uniform in shape or structure. Flowers are generally considered regular when all the petals are of the same size and shape. =Retrorse.= Directed backward or downward. =Revolute.= Rolled backward or under. =Rootstock.= A horizontal subterranean stem, sending up leaves or stems. =Rotate.= Wheel-shape; essentially flat and circular. =Sac-like.= Inflated; sack-like. =Sagittate.= Shaped like an arrow-head. =Salver-form.= A corolla having a slender tube abruptly expanded at the summit into a flat or spreading portion. =Scape.= A peduncle arising directly from the base of the plant, leafless or bearing bracts only. =Segment.= One member or portion of an organ. =Sepal.= One member or portion of the calyx. =Serrate.= With sharp teeth at the margin. =Serrulate.= Finely or minutely serrate. =Sessile.= Without a stalk, petiole, or pedicel. =Sheathing.= Inclosing. =Simple.= In one piece; not compound; usually applied to leaves with a single blade. =Sinuate.= Wavy-margined. =Sinus.= The angle between two lobes or divisions. =Spadix.= A short fleshy spike. =Spathe.= A large bract or pair of bracts enclosing a flower-cluster. =Spatulate.= Shaped like a spatula, with a narrow base and an enlarged, more or less rounded summit. =Spike.= An elongated flower-cluster having sessile flowers upon an unbranched axis. =Spike-like.= Resembling a spike. =Spinulose-serrate.= Provided with teeth tipped with minute spines. =Spur.= A hollow projection from the calyx or corolla, usually slender in shape, and generally directed backward. =Stamen.= One of the organs of a flower, consisting of a filament and anther. =Staminate.= Bearing stamens. =Stolon.= A short stem arising from the base of a plant, prostrate or nearly so, and eventually taking root. =Striate.= Marked with fine stripes or ridges. =Style.= A portion of the pistil, usually slender, and connecting the ovary and stigma. =Superior.= A superior ovary occupies the center of the flower and is not attached to any other floral organs. =Subtending.= Situated at the base of an organ. =Subulate.= Awl-shape. =Ternately.= Divided by threes. =Tomentose.= Densely hairy with matted or tangled hairs. =Trifoliate.= With three leaflets. =Truncate.= Cut straight across at the tip, or nearly so. =Tube.= The more or less cylindrical portion of a gamosepalous calyx or a gamopetalous corolla, distinguished from the expanded or lobed terminal portion. =Tubular.= Shaped like a tube. =Twice-pinnate.= Same as bipinnate. =Two-lipped.= A calyx or corolla in which the upper half is decidedly different in size or shape from the lower. =Umbel.= A flower-cluster with several or many pedicelled flowers all arising from the same point. =Undulate.= With a wavy margin. =Viscid.= Sticky. =Villous.= With long soft hairs. =Whorl.= An arrangement of 3 or more leaves or flowers in a circle around a node. =Whorled.= In a whorl. =Wing.= A thin flat expansion on the sides or edge of an organ. INDEX Abies, 1 Abutilon, 72 Acalypha, 66 Acanthaceae, 107 Acanthus Family, 107 Acer, 70 Aceraceae, 70 Acerates, 90 Achillea, 130, 131 Acnida, 30 Acorus, 8 Actaea, 39 Actinomeris, 128 Adder's Mouth, 17 Adenocaulon, 118 Adlumia, 41 Aesculus, 70 Agastache, 97 Agrimonia, 55 Agrimony, 55 Agropyron, 6 Agrostemma, 33 Agrostis, 6 Ailanthus, 65 Aizoaceae, 31 Alder, 22 Alder, Black, 69 Aletris, 13 Alfalfa, 61 Alisma, 3 Alismaceae, 3 Allium, 13 Alnus, 22 Alopecurus, 4 Alsike Clover, 61 Althaea, 72 Alum Root, 50, 51 Alyssum, 42, 46 Alyssum, Yellow, 42, 46 Amaranth Family, 30 Amaranthaceae, 30 Amaranthus, 30 Amaryllidaceae, 14 Amaryllis Family, 14 Ambrosia, 114 Amelanchier, 55 American Columbo, 88 American Ipecac, 57 Ammophila, 4 Amorpha, 58 Amphicarpa, 59 Anacardiaceae, 68 Anagallis, 87 Anaphalis, 120 Andromeda, 86 Andropogon, 5 Androsace, 87 Anemone, 38, 39 Anemone, Rue, 39 Anemone, Wood, 38 Anemonella, 39 Angelica, 82 Anonaceae, 40 Antennaria, 120 Anthemis, 130 Antirrhinum, 103 Anychia, 31 Apios, 58 Aplectrum, 16 Apocynaceae, 90 Apocynum, 90 Appalachian Cherry, 54 Apple, 54 Apple of Peru, 101 Aquifoliaceae, 69 Aquilegia, 36 Arabis, 46, 47 Araceae, 8 Aralia, 80 Araliaceae, 80 Arbutus, Trailing, 85 Arceuthobium, 25 Arctium, 117 Arctostaphylos, 85 Arenaria, 32 Arethusa, 16 Arisaema, 8 Aristolochia, 25 Aristolochiaceae, 25 Arnica, 123 Arrow Arum, 9 Arrow Grass, 3 Arrow Grass Family, 3 Arrow-head, 3 Arrow Wood, 111 Artemisia, 119 Artichoke, Jerusalem, 129 Arum Family, 8 Asarum, 25 Asclepias, 90, 91 Asclepiadaceae, 90 Ash, 88 Ash, Mountain, 52 Ash, Prickly, 65 Asimina, 40 Asparagus, 10 Aspen, 19 Aster, 132-134 Atriplex, 29 Avena, 6 Avens, 56, 57 Baby's Breath, 34 Balm of Gilead, 19 Balsam, 1 Balsam Poplar, 19 Balsaminaceae, 71 Baneberry, 39 Baptisia, 61 Barbarea, 44 Barberry, 40 Barberry Family, 40 Barnyard Grass, 5 Barren Strawberry, 55 Bartonia, 88 Basil, 97 Basil-thyme, 97 Basswood, 72 Bayberry, 21 Beach Grass, 4 Beach Pea, 59 Beaked Hazel, 22 Bearberry, 85 Beard Grass, 5 Beard-tongue, 104 Bedstraw, 108, 109 Beech, 22 Beech Drops, 84, 106 Beech Family, 22 Beggar Lice, 94 Beggar Ticks, 124 Bellflower, 112 Bellflower Family, 112 Bellwort, 12 Benzoin, 41 Berberidaceae, 40 Berberis, 40 Bergamot Mint, 98 Berula, 81 Betula, 21, 22 Betulaceae, 21 Bidens, 123, 124 Bilberry, 86, 87 Bindweed, 91, 92 Bindweed, Black, 28 Birch, 21, 22 Birch Family, 21 Bird-foot Violet, 75 Birthwort Family, 25 Bishop's Cap, 51 Bistort, 28 Bitter Cress, 45, 47 Bitter Dock, 26 Bitter Nut, 21 Bittersweet, 100 Bitter-sweet, 69 Black Alder, 69 Black Ash, 88 Blackberry, 53 Black Bindweed, 28 Black Cherry, 54 Black Currant, 49, 50 Black-eyed Susan, 128 Black Haw, 111 Black Jack Oak, 22 Black Locust, 58 Black Maple, 70 Black Medick, 60 Black Mustard, 44 Black Oak, 23 Black Raspberry, 53 Black Snakeroot, 82 Black Spruce, 1 Black Swallow-wort, 90 Black Walnut, 21 Black Willow, 20 Bladder Campion, 34 Bladder Nut, 69 Bladder Nut Family, 69 Bladderwort, 106 Bladderwort Family, 105 Blazing Star, 13, 121 Blephilia, 96 Blite, 29 Bloodroot, 41 Bloody Dock, 26 Blue Ash, 88 Bluebell, 93, 94 Blueberry, 86 Blue Cohosh, 40 Blue-eyed Grass, 15 Blue-eyed Mary, 104 Blue Flag, 15 Blue Grass, 7 Blue Hearts, 104 Blue-joint, 5 Bluets, 108 Blue Violet, 76 Blueweed, 94 Boehmeria, 24 Bog Rosemary, 86 Boltonia, 131 Boneset, False, 122 Borage, 93 Borage Family, 93 Boraginaceae, 93 Borago, 93 Bowman's Root, 57 Box Elder, 70 Brasenia, 35 Brassica, 43, 44 Brauneria, 131 Braya, 47 Bristly Locust, 58 Bristly Sarsaparilla, 80 Brome-grass, 7 Bromus, 7 Broom-rape Family, 106 Buchnera, 104 Buckbean, 88 Buckeye, 70 Buckhorn, 107 Buckthorn, 71 Buckthorn Family, 71 Buckwheat, 27 Buckwheat, False, 28 Buckwheat Family, 25 Buffalo Berry, 77 Buffalo Bur, 100 Buffalo Clover, 61 Bugbane, 39 Bugle, 98 Bugle Weed, 95 Bug-seed, 28 Bulrush, 7 Bur Clover, 60 Bur Cucumber, 112 Burdock, 117 Bur Marigold, 124 Burnet, 57 Bur Oak, 23 Bur-reed, 2 Bur-reed Family, 2 Bush Clover, 61, 63 Bush Honeysuckle, 110 Butter-and-eggs, 102 Buttercup, 36, 37, 38 Butterfly Weed, 91 Butternut, 21 Butterwort, 105 Button Bush, 108 Cacalia, 122 Cactaceae, 77 Cactus Family, 77 Cakile, 45 Calamagrostis, 5 Calamint, 97 Calla, 9 Callirhoe, 73 Callitrichaceae, 68 Callitriche, 68 Calopogon, 16 Caltha, 36 Calypso, 17 Camassia, 14 Camelina, 42 Camomile, 130 Campanula, 112 Campanulaceae, 112 Campion, 33, 34 Canada Thistle, 118 Canada Violet, 76 Canadian Blue Grass, 7 Cancer-root, 106 Cannabis, 24 Caper Family, 47 Capparidaceae, 47 Caprifoliaceae, 109 Capsella, 46 Caraway, 83 Cardamine, 45, 47 Cardinal Flower, 113 Carduus, 118 Carex, 8 Carpet-weed, 31 Carpet-weed Family, 31 Carpinus, 21 Carrion-flower, 11 Carrot, Wild, 82 Carum, 83 Carya, 21 Caryophyllaceae, 31 Cashew Family, 68 Cassia, 60 Castalia, 35 Castanea, 22 Castilleja, 102 Catchfly, 33, 34 Catnip, 98 Cat-tail, 2 Cat-tail Family, 2 Caulophyllum, 40 Ceanothus, 71 Cedar, 1 Celandine, 41 Celandine Poppy, 41 Celastraceae, 69 Celastrus, 69 Celtis, 24 Cenchrus, 5 Centaurea, 121 Centaurium, 89 Centaury, 89 Cephalanthus, 108 Cerastium, 33 Ceratophyllaceae, 34 Ceratophyllum, 34 Cercis, 58 Chaerophyllum, 83 Chamaedaphne, 86 Chamaelirium, 13 Charlock, 44 Cheat, 7 Chelidonium, 41 Chelone, 104 Chenopodiaceae, 28 Chenopodium, 28, 29 Cherry, 54 Cherry, Ground, 101 Chervil, 83 Chestnut, 22 Chickweed, 32, 33 Chickweed, Mouse-ear, 33 Chicory, 115 Chimaphila, 85 Chiogenes, 85 Chives, Wild, 13 Chokeberry, 55 Choke Cherry, 54 Chrysanthemum, 121, 130, 131 Chrysosplenium, 50 Cichorium, 115 Cicuta, 82 Cimicifuga, 39 Cinquefoil, 52, 56, 57 Circaea, 78 Cirsium, 117, 118 Cistaceae, 74 Cladium, 8 Clammy Locust, 58 Clammy-weed, 47 Claytonia, 34 Clearweed, 24 Cleft Phlox, 92 Clematis, 35 Climbing Fumitory, 41 Climbing Rose, 52 Clintonia, 13 Clover, 61 Clover, Bush, 61, 63 Clover, Hop, 60 Clover, Prairie, 60 Clover, Sweet, 61 Cocklebur, 114 Cockle, Corn, 33 Coffee-tree, 58 Cohosh, Blue, 40 Colic-root, 13 Collinsia, 104 Collinsonia, 95 Coltsfoot, 122, 130 Columbine, 36 Comandra, 24 Comfrey, 93, 94 Commelina, 9 Commelinaceae, 9 Common Blue Violet, 76 Common Cat-tail, 2 Common Vetch, 59 Compass Plant, 127 Compositae, 113 Composite Family, 113 Coneflower, Gray-headed, 128 Coneflower, Purple, 131 Conioselinum, 83 Conium, 83 Conopholis, 106 Conringia, 42 Convolvulaceae, 91 Convolvulus, 91, 92 Coptis, 39 Corallorhiza, 16 Coral Root, 16 Coreopsis, 123, 124 Corispermum, 28 Cork Elm, 24 Cornaceae, 83 Corn Cockle, 33 Corn Flower, 121 Corn Gromwell, 94 Corn Salad, 111 Cornus, 83, 84 Corydalis, 42 Corylus, 22 Costmary, 121 Cotton Grass, 8 Cotton Thistle, 118 Cottonwood, 19 Cowbane, 81 Cowherb, 34 Cow Parsnip, 82 Cowslip, 36 Cow Wheat, 104 Crab, 54 Crab Grass, 5 Crack Willow, 20 Cranberry, 85 Cranberry Tree, 111 Crane-fly Orchis, 16 Crane's-bill, 64, 65 Crassulaceae, 48 Creeping Cedar, 1 Creeping Wahoo, 69 Crepis, 117 Cress, 43-47 Cress, Bitter, 45, 47 Cress, Field, 46 Cress, Garden, 45, 46 Cress, Lake, 45, 46 Cress, Mouse-ear, 47 Cress, Penny, 46 Cress, Rock, 46, 47 Cress, Water, 45 Cress, Winter, 44 Cress, Yellow, 43 Crotalaria, 59 Crowberry, 68 Crowberry Family, 68 Crowfoot, 35 Crowfoot, Cursed, 37 Crowfoot Family, 35 Crowfoot, Sea-side, 36 Crowfoot, Small-flowered, 36 Crowfoot, Water, 35, 37 Cruciferae, 42 Cryptotaenia, 82 Cuckoo Flower, 45 Cucurbitaceae, 112 Cudweed, 120, 121 Culver's Root, 104 Cup Plant, 123 Currant, 49, 50 Currant, Indian, 110 Cursed Crowfoot, 37 Cuscuta, 92 Custard Apple Family, 40 Cut-grass, 5 Cycloloma, 29 Cynanchum, 90 Cynoglossum, 93, 94 Cynthia, 115 Cyperaceae, 7 Cyperus, 8 Cypress Spurge, 67 Cypripedium, 18 Dactylis, 6 Daisy, Ox-eye, 131 Dalibarda, 56 Dame's Rocket, 47 Dandelion, 115 Dandelion, Dwarf, 115 Datura, 100 Daucus, 82 Day-flower, 9 Day Lily, 11 Dead Nettle, 99 Decodon, 77 Deerberry, 86 Dentaria, 44 Deptford Pink, 34 Desmodium, 62, 63 Devil's Club, 80 Dewberry, 53 Dianthera, 107 Dianthus, 34 Dicentra, 41 Diervilla, 110 Digitaria, 5 Dioscorea, 14 Dioscoreaceae, 14 Diplotaxis, 42, 43 Dipsacaceae, 112 Dipsacus, 112 Dirca, 77 Ditch Stonecrop, 49 Dock, 26 Dock, Prairie, 122 Dodder, 92 Dodecatheon, 87 Dogbane, 90 Dogbane Family, 90 Dog Fennel, 130 Dog Rose, 52 Dog's-tooth Violet, 12 Dog Violet, 76 Dogwood, 83, 84 Dogwood Family, 83 Downy Mint, 78 Draba, 42, 46 Dracocephalum, 96 Dragon Head, 96 Dragon Head, False, 99 Dragon Root, 8 Drop-seed, 5 Drosera, 48 Droseraceae, 48 Duckweed, 9 Duckweed Family, 9 Dulichium, 7 Dutchman's Breeches, 41 Dwarf Birch, 22 Dwarf Dandelion, 115 Dwarf Dogwood, 83 Dwarf Ginseng, 80 Dwarf Iris, 15 Dwarf Mistletoe, 25 Dwarf Raspberry, 53 Dwarf Water Plantain, 3 Dwarf White Trillium, 12 Dyer's Greenweed, 58 Echinochloa, 5 Echinocystis, 112 Echinodorus, 3 Echinops, 117 Echium, 94 Eel Grass, 3 Elaeagnaceae, 77 Elatinaceae, 74 Elatine, 74 Elder, 109 Elder, Box, 70 Elder, Marsh, 114 Elecampane, 127 Eleocharis, 7 Eleusine, 6 Elm, 24 Elodea, 3 Elymus, 6 Empetraceae, 68 Empetrum, 68 Enchanter's Nightshade, 78 English Plantain, 107 Epifagus, 106 Epigaea, 85 Epilobium, 79 Epipactis, 17 Eragrostis, 7 Erechtites, 122 Ericaceae, 84 Erigenia, 81 Erigeron, 130-132 Eriocaulaceae, 9 Eriocaulon, 9 Eriophorum, 8 Erodium, 64 Eryngium, 80 Erysimum, 43 Erythronium, 12 Eupatorium, 121, 122 Euphorbia, 67, 68 Euphrasia, 102 Evening Primrose, 78 Evening Primrose Family, 78 Everlasting, 120 Everlasting, Pearly, 120 Evonymus, 69 Eyebright, 102 Fagaceae, 22 Fagopyrum, 27 Fagus, 22 Fall Dandelion, 115 False Asphodel, 14 False Boneset, 122 False Buckwheat, 28 False Dragon Head, 99 False Flax, 42 False Foxglove, 102 False Gromwell, 93 False Heather, 74 False Loosestrife, 78 False Mermaid, 68 False Mermaid Family, 68 False Mitrewort, 51 False Nettle, 24 False Pimpernel, 104 False Solomon's Seal, 14 Fatsia, 80 Fennel, 81 Fennel, Dog, 130 Fescue Grass, 7 Festuca, 7 Feverfew, 130 Feverwort, 109 Field Cress, 46 Field Garlic, 13 Figwort, 103 Figwort Family, 101 Filipendula, 57 Fire Pink, 33 Fireweed, 79, 122 Five-finger, 55 Flax, 63 Flax, False, 42 Flax Family, 63 Fleabane, 131, 132 Floating Foxtail, 4 Floating Heart, 88 Floerkea, 68 Flowering Dogwood, 83 Flowering Raspberry, 54 Flowering Wintergreen, 65 Flower-of-an-hour, 72 Foeniculum, 81 Fog Fruit, 99 Forget-me-not, 94 Forked Chickweed, 31 Four-o'Clock Family, 31 Foxglove, False, 102 Fox Grape, 72 Foxtail, 4 Foxtail, Floating, 4 Fragaria, 56 Frasera, 88 Fraxinus, 88 Fringed Gentian, 89 Fringed Orchis, 19 Frog's Bit Family, 3 Frost Grape, 72 Frostweed, 74 Fumaria, 42 Fumariaceae, 41 Fumitory, 42 Fumitory, Climbing, 41 Fumitory Family, 41 Galeopsis, 99 Gale, Sweet, 21 Galinsoga, 130 Galium, 108, 109 Garden Cress, 45, 46 Garden Phlox, 92 Garlic, Field, 13 Gaultheria, 86 Gaura, 79 Gaylussacia, 86 Genista, 58 Gentian, 89 Gentiana, 89 Gentianaceae, 88 Gentian Family, 88 Gentian, Spurred, 89 Geraniaceae, 64 Geranium, 64, 65 Geranium Family, 64 Gerardia, 102, 103 Geum, 56, 57 Giant Hyssop, 97 Giant Ragweed, 114 Gillenia, 57 Ginseng, 80 Gleditsia, 58 Globe-flower, 36 Globe Thistle, 117 Glyceria, 7 Gnaphalium, 120, 121 Goat's Rue, 60 Golden Alexander, 81 Golden Currant, 49 Golden Glow, 128 Goldenrod, 125-127 Golden Saxifrage, 50 Golden Seal, 38 Gold-thread, 39 Good King Henry, 29 Gooseberry, 49 Goosefoot, 28, 29 Goosefoot Family, 28 Gourd Family, 112 Gramineae, 4 Grape, 72 Grape Family, 71 Grape Hyacinth, 14 Grass Family, 4 Grass of Parnassus, 50 Grass, Star, 14 Gratiola, 104 Gray-headed Coneflower, 128 Great Lobelia, 113 Great Solomon's Seal, 11 Great-spurred Violet, 75 Greek Valerian, 92 Green Ash, 88 Green Brier, 11 Green Foxtail, 4 Green Milkweed, 90 Green Sorrel, 25 Green Violet, 75 Grindelia, 128 Ground Cherry, 101 Ground Hemlock, 2 Ground Ivy, 98 Groundsel, 128 Gum Plant, 128 Gymnocladus, 58 Gypsophila, 34 Gypsophyll, 34 Habenaria, 18, 19 Hackberry, 24 Hair Grass, 6 Halenia, 89 Haloragidaceae, 79 Hamamelidaceae, 51 Hamamelis, 51 Hand-leaf Violet, 75 Harbinger of Spring, 81 Hardhack, 53 Harebell, 112 Hare's Ear, 42 Hawksbeard, 117 Hawkweed, 116, 117 Hazel, 22 Heather, False, 74 Heath Family, 84 Hedeoma, 95 Hedge Hyssop, 104 Hedge Mustard, 44 Hedge Nettle, 99 Helenium, 127, 128 Helianthemum, 74 Helianthus, 128-130 Heliopsis, 123 Hemerocallis, 11 Hemlock, 1 Hemlock, Ground, 2 Hemlock Parsley, 83 Hemlock, Poison, 83 Hemlock, Water, 82 Hemp, 24 Hemp, Indian, 90 Hemp Nettle, 99 Hemp, Water, 30 Hemp Weed, 131 Henbane, 101 Hepatica, 38 Heracleum, 82 Herb Robert, 64 Herb Sophia, 43 Hercules' Club, 80 Hesperis, 47 Heteranthera, 10 Heuchera, 50, 51 Hibiscus, 72 Hickory, 21 Hieracium, 116, 117 Hill's Oak, 23 Hippuris, 79 Hoarhound, 96 Hoarhound, Water, 95 Hobble-bush, 111 Hog Peanut, 59 Holly Family, 69 Holly, Mountain, 69 Honewort, 82 Honey Locust, 58 Honeysuckle, 110 Honeysuckle, Bush, 110 Honeysuckle Family, 109 Hop, 24 Hop Clover, 60 Hop Tree, 65 Hordeum, 4 Hornbeam, 21 Horned Pondweed, 2 Hornwort, 34 Hornwort Family, 34 Horse Balm, 95 Horse Chestnut, 70 Horse Mint, 96 Horse Nettle, 100 Horse Radish, 46 Horse Weed, 130, 131 Hound's Tongue, 93 Houstonia, 108 Huckleberry, 86 Hudsonia, 74 Humulus, 24 Hyacinth, Wild, 14 Hybanthus, 75 Hydrocharitaceae, 3 Hydrocotyle, 80 Hydrophyllaceae, 93 Hydrophyllum, 93 Hyoscyamus, 101 Hypericaceae, 73 Hypericum, 73, 74 Hypoxis, 14 Hyssop, 98 Hyssop, Hedge, 104 Hyssopus, 98 Ilex, 69 Illecebraceae, 31 Ilysanthes, 104 Impatiens, 71 Imperatoria, 82 Indian Cucumber-root, 13 Indian Currant, 110 Indian Hemp, 90 Indian Mustard, 44 Indian Pipe, 84 Indian Plantain, 122 Indian Tobacco, 113 Indian Turnip, 8 Indigo, Wild, 61 Inula, 127 Ipomoea, 92 Iridaceae, 15 Iris, 15 Iris Family, 15 Ironweed, 122 Ironweed, Yellow, 128 Ironwood, 22 Isopyrum, 39 Iva, 114 Jack Pine, 1 Jeffersonia, 40 Jerusalem Artichoke, 129 Jerusalem Oak, 29 Jimson Weed, 100 Joe-Pye Weed, 122 Jointweed, 27 Juglandaceae, 21 Juglans, 21 Juncaceae, 10 Juncaginaceae, 3 Juncus, 10 Juneberry, 55 Juniper, 1 Juniperus, 1 Kalmia, 85 Kenilworth Ivy, 103 Kentucky Coffee-tree, 58 King-nut Hickory, 21 Knapweed, 121 Knawel, 31 Knotweed, 26, 27 Knotwort Family, 31 Kochia, 28 Koeleria, 6 Krigia, 115 Kuhnia, 122 Labiatae, 95 Labrador Tea, 85 Lactuca, 115, 116 Ladies' Tresses, 16 Lady's Slipper, 18 Lake Cress, 45, 46 Lamb's Quarters, 29 Lamium, 99 Laportea, 24 Lappula, 94 Lapsana, 115 Large-toothed Aspen, 19 Larix, 1 Larkspur, 36 Lathyrus, 59 Lauraceae, 41 Laurel Family, 41 Lead Plant, 58 Leafcup, 123 Leatherleaf, 86 Leatherwood, 77 Lechea, 74, 75 Ledum, 85 Leek, Wild, 13 Leersia, 5 Leguminosae, 58 Lemna, 9 Lemnaceae, 9 Lentibulariaceae, 105 Leontodon, 115 Leonurus, 98 Lepachys, 128 Lepidium, 45, 46 Lespedeza, 61, 63 Lettuce, 115, 116 Lettuce, Wild, 115, 116 Liatris, 121 Lilac, 88 Liliaceae, 10 Lilium, 12 Lily, 12 Lily Family, 10 Lily of the Valley, Wild, 12 Lily, Pond, 35 Lily, Water, 35 Limnanthaceae, 68 Limosella, 103 Linaceae, 63 Linaria, 102, 103 Linden Family, 72 Linnaea, 109 Linum, 63 Liparis, 17 Lippia, 99 Liriodendron, 40 Listera, 17 Lithospermum, 94 Live-for-ever, 49 Lizard's Tail, 19 Lobelia, 113 Lobeliaceae, 113 Lobelia Family, 113 Locust, 58 Locust, Honey, 58 Lombardy Poplar, 19 Long-spurred Violet, 76 Lonicera, 110 Loosestrife, 77, 87, 88 Loosestrife, False, 78 Loosestrife Family, 77 Lopseed, 107 Lopseed Family, 107 Loranthaceae, 25 Lotus, 35 Lousewort, 102 Love Grass, 7 Love-in-a-mist, 38 Low Juniper, 1 Ludvigia, 78 Lupine, 59 Lupinus, 59 Luzula, 10 Lychnis, 33 Lysimachia, 87, 88 Lycium, 100 Lycopus, 95 Lythraceae, 77 Lythrum, 77 Madder Family, 108 Mad-dog Skullcap, 96 Magnoliaceae, 40 Magnolia Family, 40 Maianthemum, 13 Mallow, 73 Mallow Family, 72 Mallow, Marsh, 72 Mallow, Poppy, 73 Mallow, Rose, 72 Mallow, Virginia, 73 Malva, 73 Malvaceae, 72 Manna Grass, 7 Maple, 70 Maple Family, 70 Mare's-tail, 79 Marigold, Bur, 124 Marigold, Water, 123 Marrubium, 96 Marsh Cinquefoil, 57 Marsh Elder, 114 Marsh Harebell, 112 Marsh Mallow, 72 Marsh Pea, 59 Marsh Speedwell, 105 Masterwort, 82 Matricaria, 130 Matrimony Vine, 100 May Apple, 40 Meadow Beauty, 77 Meadow Parsnip, 81 Meadow Pink, 34 Meadow Rue, 39 Meadow Salsify, 115 Meadow-sweet, 53 Medeola, 13 Medicago, 60, 61 Melampyrum, 104 Melastomaceae, 77 Melastoma Family, 77 Melilotus, 61 Menispermaceae, 40 Menispermum, 40 Mentha, 98 Menyanthes, 88 Mermaid Weed, 79 Mertensia, 93, 94 Mexican Tea, 29 Mezereum Family, 77 Microstylis, 17 Mignonette Family, 48 Mignonette, Yellow, 48 Mikania, 121 Milfoil, Water, 79 Milk Thistle, 117 Milk Vetch, 60 Milkweed, 90, 91 Milkweed Family, 90 Milkweed, Green, 90 Milkwort, 66 Milkwort Family, 65 Millet, 4 Mimulus, 102, 104 Mint, 98 Mint Family, 95 Mist Flower, 121 Mistletoe, Dwarf, 25 Mistletoe Family, 25 Mitchella, 108 Mitella, 51 Mitrewort, False, 51 Mocker-nut Hickory, 21 Mollugo, 31 Monarda, 96 Moneses, 85 Moneywort, 87 Monkey Flower, 104 Monkey Flower, Yellow, 102 Monotropa, 84 Moonseed, 40 Moonseed Family, 40 Morning Glory, 92 Morning Glory Family, 91 Morus, 24 Moss Pink, 92 Motherwort, 98 Moth Mullein, 101 Mountain Alder, 22 Mountain Ash, 52 Mountain Holly, 69 Mountain Maple, 70 Mountain Mint, 98 Mouse-ear Chickweed, 33 Mouse-ear Cress, 47 Mud Plantain, 10 Mudwort, 103 Mugwort, 119 Muhlenbergia, 5, 6 Mulberry, 24 Mullein, 101 Mullein Pink, 33 Muscari, 14 Musk Flower, 102 Mustard, 43, 44 Mustard Family, 42 Myosotis, 94 Myrica, 20, 21 Myricaceae, 20 Myriophyllum, 79 Naiad, 2 Naias, 2 Najadaceae, 2 Narrow-leaved Cat-tail, 2 Nelumbo, 35 Nemopanthus, 69 Nepeta, 98 Nettle, 24 Nettle, Dead, 99 Nettle Family, 23 Nettle, Hedge, 99 Nettle, Hemp, 99 Nettle, Horse, 100 Nicandra, 101 Nicotiana, 101 Nigella, 38 Nightshade, 100 Nightshade, Enchanter's, 78 Nightshade Family, 100 Ninebark, 53 Nipplewort, 115 Nodding Pogonia, 18 Norway Pine, 1 Nut Grass, 8 Nyctaginaceae, 31 Nymphaea, 35 Nymphaeaceae, 35 Nymphoides, 88 Nyssa, 83 Oak, 22, 23 Oakesia, 12 Oats, 6 Oenothera, 78 Oleaceae, 88 Oleaster Family, 77 Olive Family, 88 Onagraceae, 78 One-flowered Wintergreen, 85 Onion, Wild, 13 Onosmodium, 93 Opuntia, 77 Orache, 29 Orchard Grass, 6 Orchidaceae, 15 Orchis, 17 Orchis, Crane-fly, 16 Orchis Family, 15 Orchis, Showy, 17 Ornithogalum, 14 Orobanchaceae, 106 Orobanche, 106 Orpine Family, 48 Osmorhiza, 82 Ostrya, 22 Oswego Tea, 96 Oxalidaceae, 64 Oxalis, 64 Ox-eye, 123 Ox-eye Daisy, 131 Oxybaphus, 31 Oxypolis, 81 Painted Cup, 102 Painted Trillium, 12 Pale Violet, 76 Panax, 80 Panic-grass, 5 Panicum, 5 Pansy, 76 Papaveraceae, 41 Papaver, 41 Papaw, 40 Paper Birch, 21 Parietaria, 24 Parnassia, 50 Parsley Family, 80 Parsley, Hemlock, 83 Parsnip, Cow, 82 Parsnip, Meadow, 81 Parsnip, Prairie, 81 Parsnip, Water, 81 Parsnip, Wild, 81 Partridge Berry, 108 Partridge Pea, 60 Pasque Flower, 38 Pastinaca, 81 Patience Dock, 26 Pea, 59 Peach-leaved Willow, 20 Pear, 54 Pear, Prickly, 77 Pearlwort, 32 Pearly Everlasting, 120 Pedicularis, 102 Pellitory, 24 Peltandra, 9 Penny Cress, 46 Pennyroyal, 95 Pennywort, Water, 80 Penthorum, 49 Pentstemon, 104 Pepper Family, 19 Pepper Grass, 46 Peppermint, 98 Perfumed Cherry, 54 Periwinkle, 90 Petalostemum, 60 Petasites, 130 Petunia, 101 Phacelia, 93 Phleum, 4 Phlox, 92 Phragmites, 6 Phryma, 107 Phrymaceae, 107 Physalis, 101 Physocarpus, 53 Physostegia, 99 Phytolacca, 30 Phytolaccaceae, 30 Picea, 1 Pickerel-weed, 10 Pickerel-weed Family, 10 Picris, 115 Pignut Hickory, 21 Pigweed, 30 Pilea, 24 Pimpernel, 87 Pimpernel, False, 104 Pimpernel, Water, 87 Pinaceae, 1 Pin Cherry, 54 Pine, 1 Pine Drops, 84 Pine Family, 1 Pineweed, 74 Pinguicula, 105 Pink, Deptford, 34 Pink Family, 31 Pink, Fire, 33 Pink, Meadow, 34 Pink, Moss, 92 Pink, Mullein, 33 Pink, Rose, 89 Pin Oak, 23 Pinus, 1 Pinweed, 74, 75 Piperaceae, 19 Pipewort, 9 Pipewort Family, 9 Pitcher Plant, 48 Pitcher Plant Family, 48 Plane Tree Family, 51 Plantaginaceae, 107 Plantago, 107 Plantain, 107 Plantain Family, 107 Plantain, Indian, 122 Plantain, Mud, 10 Platanaceae, 51 Platanus, 51 Plum, 54 Poa, 7 Podophyllum, 40 Podostemaceae, 48 Podostemum, 48 Pogonia, 18 Poison Hemlock, 83 Poison Ivy, 69 Poison Sumach, 68 Pokeweed, 30 Pokeweed Family, 30 Polanisia, 47 Polemoniaceae, 92 Polemonium, 92 Polemonium Family, 92 Polygala, 65, 66 Polygalaceae, 65 Polygonatum, 11 Polygonaceae, 25 Polygonum, 26-28 Polymnia, 123 Polytaenia, 81 Pond Lily, 35 Pondweed, 2 Pondweed Family, 2 Pontederia, 10 Pontederiaceae, 10 Poplar, 19 Poppy, 41 Poppy, Celandine, 41 Poppy Family, 41 Poppy Mallow, 73 Populus, 19 Portulaca, 34 Portulacaceae, 34 Potamogeton, 2 Potentilla, 52, 55-57 Prairie Clover, 60 Prairie Dock, 122 Prairie Fringed Orchis, 19 Prairie June-grass, 6 Prairie Parsnip, 81 Prenanthes, 116 Prickly Ash, 65 Prickly Pear, 77 Primrose, 87 Primrose Family, 87 Primula, 87 Primulaceae, 87 Prince's Feather, 27 Prince's Pine, 85 Proserpinaca, 79 Prunella, 97 Prunus, 54 Psedera, 71 Ptelea, 65 Pterospora, 84 Puccoon, 94 Pulse Family, 58 Purple Avens, 57 Purple Coneflower, 131 Purple Fringed Orchis, 19 Purslane, 34 Purslane Family, 34 Purslane, Water, 78 Putty Root, 16 Pyenanthemum, 98 Pyrola, 84, 85 Pyrus, 52, 54, 55 Quack Grass, 6 Quaking Aspen, 19 Quassia Family, 65 Queen of the Prairie, 57 Quercus, 22, 23 Radicula, 43, 45, 46 Radish, 45 Radish, Horse, 46 Radish, Wild, 44, 45 Ragged Fringed Orchis, 19 Ragweed, 114 Ragwort, 127, 128 Ram's Head Lady's Slipper, 18 Ranunculaceae, 35 Ranunculus, 35-38 Raphanus, 44, 45 Raspberry, 53, 54 Rattlebox, 59 Rattlesnake Master, 80 Rattlesnake Plantain, 17 Rattlesnake Root, 116 Red Ash, 88 Redbud, 58 Red Cedar, 1 Red Clover, 61 Red Currant, 50 Red Maple, 70 Red Mulberry, 24 Red Oak, 23 Red Raspberry, 53 Red-root, 71 Red Sorrel, 25 Red-top, 6 Reed, 6 Reed Grass, 5 Rein Orchis, 18 Reseda, 48 Resedaceae, 48 Rhamnaceae, 71 Rhamnus, 71 Rhexia, 77 Rhus, 68, 69 Ribes, 49, 50 River Weed, 48 River Weed Family, 48 Robinia, 58 Rock Cress, 46, 47 Rocket, Sea, 45 Rock-rose Family, 74 Rosa, 52 Rosaceae, 51 Rose, 52 Rose Family, 51 Rose Mallow, 72 Rose Pink, 89 Rosin Weed, 123 Round-leaved Orchis, 17 Round-leaved Violet, 75 Rowan Tree, 52 Rubiaceae, 108 Rubus, 53, 54 Rudbeckia, 128 Rue Anemone, 39 Rue Family, 65 Ruellia, 107 Rumex, 25, 26 Rush, 10 Rush Family, 10 Rush, Twig, 8 Russian Thistle, 28 Rutabaga, 43 Rutaceae, 65 Sabbatia, 89 Sagina, 32 Sagittaria, 3 Salicaceae, 19 Salix, 20 Salmonberry, 54 Salsify, 115 Salsola, 28 Sambucus, 109 Samolus, 87 Sandalwood Family, 24 Sand Bur, 5 Sand Cherry, 54 Sand Rocket, 42, 43 Sand Spurrey, 32 Sand Violet, 76 Sanguinaria, 41 Sanguisorba, 57 Sanicula, 82 Santalaceae, 24 Sapindaceae, 70 Saponaria, 34 Sarracenia, 48 Sarraceniaceae, 48 Sarsaparilla, 80 Sarsaparilla Family, 80 Sassafras, 41 Satureja, 97 Saururus, 19 Saxifraga, 50 Saxifragaceae, 49 Saxifrage, 50 Saxifrage Family, 49 Saxifrage, Golden, 50 Scarlet Oak, 23 Scheuchzeria, 3 Schneck's Oak, 23 Scirpus, 7 Scleranthus, 31 Scorpion Grass, 94 Scrophularia, 103 Scrophulariaceae, 101 Scrub Oak, 23 Scutellaria, 96 Sea Rocket, 45 Sea-side Crowfoot, 36 Sedge, 8 Sedge Family, 7 Sedum, 48, 49 Self-heal, 97 Seneca Snakeroot, 66 Senecio, 127, 128 Senna, Wild, 60 Setaria, 4 Shag-bark Hickory, 21 Sheep-berry, 111 Sheep Laurel, 85 Shepherdia, 77 Shepherd's Purse, 46 Shingle Oak, 22 Shin-leaf, 84, 85 Shooting Star, 87 Showy Lady's Slipper, 18 Showy Orchis, 17 Sicyos, 112 Sida, 72, 73 Silene, 33, 34 Silphium, 122, 123, 127 Silver Maple, 70 Silver Weed, 55 Silvery Cinquefoil, 66 Silybum, 117 Simarubaceae, 65 Sium, 81 Sisymbrium, 43-45, 47 Sisyrinchium, 15 Skullcap, 96 Skunk Cabbage, 8 Skunk Currant, 49 Slender Nettle, 24 Slippery Elm, 24 Slough Grass, 5 Small-flowered Crowfoot, 36 Small-fruited Hickory, 21 Small Snapdragon, 103 Small Solomon's Seal, 11 Smartweed, 27, 28 Smilacina, 14 Smilax, 11 Smooth Alder, 22 Snake Mouth, 18 Snakeroot, Black, 82 Snakeroot, Seneca, 66 Snakeroot, Virginia, 25 Snapdragon, 103 Sneezeweed, 127 Sneeze Weed, 128 Sneezewort, 131 Snowberry, 85, 111 Soapberry Family, 70 Soapwort, 34 Solanaceae, 100 Solanum, 100 Solidago, 125-127 Solomon's Seal, 11 Sorbaria, 57 Sorrel, Red, 25 Sorrel, Green, 25 Sorrel, Wood, 64 Sour Dock, 26 Sour Gum, 83 Southernwood, 119 Sparganiaceae, 2 Spartina, 5 Spear Grass, 7 Spearmint, 98 Spearwort, 36 Speckled Alder, 22 Specularia, 112 Speedwell, 105 Spergula, 32 Spergularia, 32 Spice Bush, 41 Spiderwort, 9 Spiderwort Family, 9 Spikenard, 80 Spike Rush, 7 Spiraea, 53 Spiranthes, 16 Spirodela, 9 Spotted Wintergreen, 85 Spurge, 67, 68 Spurge Family, 66 Spurred Gentian, 89 Spurrey, 32 Spring Avens, 56 Spring Beauty, 34 Spring Vetch, 59 Spruce, 1 Squashberry, 111 Squaw-root, 106 Squaw Weed, 128 Squirrel Corn, 41 Squirrel-tail, 4 Stachys, 99 Staff Tree Family, 69 Staphylea, 69 Staphyleaceae, 69 Star Flower, 87 Star Grass, 14 Star of Bethlehem, 14 Starry Campion, 33 Steironema, 88 Stellaria, 32, 33 Stemless Lady's Slipper, 18 Stickseed, 94 Stinging Nettle, 24 Stitchwort, 32 St. John's-wort, 73, 74 St. John's-wort Family, 73 Stone Clover, 61 Stonecrop, 48 Stonecrop, Ditch, 49 Stork's-bill, 64 Strawberry, 56 Strawberry, Barren, 55 Strawberry Blite, 29 Streptopus, 11 Striped Maple, 70 Strophostyles, 58 Stylophorum, 41 Sugar Maple, 70 Sumach, 68, 69 Summer Grape, 72 Summer Savory, 97 Sundew, 48 Sundew Family, 48 Sundrops, 78 Sunflower, 128-130 Sunflower, Tickseed, 124 Swamp Birch, 22 Swamp Currant, 49 Swamp Dewberry, 53 Swamp Laurel, 85 Swamp Milkweed, 91 Swamp Rose, 52 Swamp Valerian, 111 Swamp White Oak, 23 Sweet Birch, 22 Sweetbrier, 52 Sweet Cicely, 82 Sweet Fern, 20 Sweet Flag, 8 Sweet Gale, 21 Sweet Gale Family, 20 Sweet White Violet, 76 Sweet William, 34, 92 Sweet William Catchfly, 34 Sycamore, 51 Symphoricarpos, 110, 111 Symphytum, 93 Symplocarpus, 8 Synthyris, 102 Syringa, 88 Taenidia, 81 Tall Dock, 26 Tamarack, 1 Tanacetum, 119 Tansy, 119 Tansy Mustard, 43 Taraxacum, 115 Taxaceae, 2 Taxus, 2 Tear-thumb, 28 Teasel, 112 Teasel Family, 112 Tephrosia, 60 Teucrium, 97 Thalictrum, 39 Thaspium, 81 Thistle, 117, 118 Thistle, Canada, 118 Thistle, Cotton, 118 Thistle, Globe, 117 Thistle, Milk, 117 Thistle, Russian, 28 Thistle, Sow, 117 Thlaspi, 46 Thorn-apple, 100 Thorny Amaranth, 30 Three-seeded Mercury, 66 Three-square, 7 Thuja, 1 Thymelaeaceae, 77 Thyme, Wild, 97 Thymus, 97 Tiarella, 51 Tickseed, 123, 124 Tickseed Sunflower, 124 Tick Trefoil, 62, 63 Tilia, 72 Tiliaceae, 72 Timothy, 4 Tipularia, 16 Toad-flax, 24, 103 Tobacco, Indian, 113 Tobacco, Wild, 101 Tofieldia, 14 Toothwort, 44 Touch-me-not, 71 Touch-me-not Family, 71 Tradescantia, 9 Tragopogon, 115 Trailing Arbutus, 85 Tree of Heaven, 65 Trientalis, 87 Trifolium, 60, 61 Triglochin, 3 Trillium, 12 Triosteum, 109 Trollius, 36 Tsuga, 1 Tulip Tree, 40 Tumble Weed, 30 Turk's-cap Lily, 12 Turtlehead, 104 Tussilago, 122 Tway-blade, 17 Twig Rush, 8 Twin-leaf, 40 Twin Flower, 109 Twisted-stalk, 11 Typha, 2 Typhaceae, 2 Ulmus, 24 Umbelliferae, 80 Umbrella-wort, 31 Upland Boneset, 122 Urtica, 24 Urticaceae, 23 Utricularia, 106 Uvularia, 12 Vaccinium, 85-87 Valerian, 111 Valeriana, 111 Valerianaceae, 111 Valerianella, 111 Valerian Family, 111 Valerian, Greek, 92 Vallisneria, 3 Velvet Leaf, 72 Venus' Looking Glass, 112 Verbascum, 101 Verbena, 99-100 Verbenaceae, 99 Verbena Family, 99 Vernonia, 122 Veronica, 104, 105 Vervain, 99, 100 Vetch, 59 Vetchling, 59 Vetch, Milk, 60 Viburnum, 111 Vicia, 59 Vinca, 90 Viola, 75, 76 Violaceae, 75 Violet, 75, 76 Violet Family, 75 Violet, Green, 75 Virginia Creeper, 71 Virginia Mallow, 73 Virginia Snakeroot, 25 Virgin's Bower, 35 Vitaceae, 71 Vitis, 72 Wahoo, 69 Waldsteinia, 55 Walnut, Black, 21 Walnut Family, 21 Water Arum, 9 Water Cress, 45 Water Crowfoot, 37 Water Dock, 26 Water Hemlock, 82 Water Hemp, 30 Water Hoarhound, 95 Water-leaf, 93 Water-leaf Family, 93 Water Lily, 35 Water Lily Family, 35 Water Lobelia, 113 Water Loosestrife, 77 Water Marigold, 123 Water Milfoil, 79 Water Milfoil Family, 79 Water Parsnip, 81 Water Pennywort, 80 Water Pimpernel, 87 Water Plantain, 3 Water Plantain Family, 3 Water Purslane, 78 Water Shield, 35 Water Smartweed, 27, 28 Water Speedwell, 105 Water Starwort, 68 Water Starwort Family, 68 Water-weed, 3 Water Willow, 107 Waterwort, 74 Waterwort Family, 74 Weeping Willow, 20 White Ash, 88 White Campion, 33 White Cedar, 1 White Clover, 61 White Elm, 24 White Fringed Orchis, 19 White Ground Cherry, 101 White Lady's Slipper, 18 White Mulberry, 24 White Oak, 23 White Pine, 1 White Poplar, 19 White Snakeroot, 122 White Spruce, 1 White Sweet Clover, 61 Whitlow Grass, 42, 46 Whorled Pogonia, 18 Wild Bean, 58 Wild Bergamot, 96 Wild Camomile, 130 Wild Carrot, 82 Wild Chives, 13 Wild Columbine, 36 Wild Comfrey, 94 Wild Crab, 54 Wild Cucumber, 112 Wild Flax, 63 Wild Geranium, 64 Wild Ginger, 25 Wild Gromwell, 94 Wild Indigo, 61 Wild Leek, 13 Wild Lettuce, 115, 116 Wild Lily of the Valley, 13 Wild Mint, 98 Wild Onion, 13 Wild Pansy, 76 Wild Parsnip, 81 Wild Pea, 59 Wild Plum, 54 Wild Potato Vine, 92 Wild Radish, 44, 45 Wild Rice, 5 Wild Rose, 52 Wild Rye, 6 Wild Sarsaparilla, 80 Wild Senna, 60 Wild Thyme, 97 Wild Tobacco, 101 Wild Yam, 14 Willow, 20 Willow Family, 19 Willow Herb, 79 Willow, Water, 107 Winter Cress, 44 Wintergreen, 86 Wintergreen, Flowering, 65 Wintergreen, One-flowered, 85 Wintergreen, Spotted, 85 Witch Grass, 5 Witch Hazel, 51 Witch Hazel Family, 51 Withe-rod, 111 Wolfberry, 110 Wolffia, 9 Wood Anemone, 38 Wood-grass, 6 Wood Lily, 12 Wood Nettle, 24 Wood Rush, 10 Wood Sage, 97 Wood Sorrel, 64 Wood Sorrel Family, 64 Wood Strawberry, 56 Wood Violet, 76 Wormseed, 29 Worm-seed Mustard, 43 Wormwood, 119 Xanthium, 114 Xyridaceae, 9 Xyris, 9 Yam Family, 14 Yam, Wild, 14 Yard Grass, 6 Yarrow, 130 Yellow Alyssum, 42, 46 Yellow Birch, 21 Yellow Cress, 43 Yellow-eyed Grass, 9 Yellow-eyed Grass Family, 9 Yellow Foxtail, 4 Yellow Fringed Orchis, 19 Yellow Ironweed, 128 Yellow Lady's Slipper, 18 Yellow Lily, 12 Yellow Mignonette, 48 Yellow Monkey Flower, 102 Yellow Oak, 23 Yellow Sweet Clover, 61 Yellow Violet, 76 Yellow Willow, 20 Yew Family, 2 Zannichellia, 2 Zanthoxylum, 65 Zizania, 5 Zizia, 81 +---------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Notes: | | Page xlv: Changed lobel to lobed | | Page 10: Changed ocntains to contains | | Page 39: Changed second 38a to 38b | | Page 89: Changed second 4a to 4b | | Page 94: Changed augustifolium to angustifolium | | Page 108: Changed second 1a to 1b | | Page 109: Changed --21. to --20. | | Page 122: Changed (springi) to (spring) | | Page 130: Changed autum to autumn | | Page 146: Changed Eveyrlasting, Pearly to Everlasting, Pearly | +---------------------------------------------------------------+ 
61523	----	+-------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ THE MOTH DECIDES _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_: THE CHARMED CIRCLE A tale of Paris and an American boy who found on every hand romance hidden away. "As sunny as 'Seventeen' and as subtle as 'The Age of Innocence.' There will be thousands to delight in it with tears and chuckles."--_Wilson Follett_ THE WHITE KAMI The story of a mysterious island in the China Sea. "Has flavor, charm, and qualities of unusual distinction. We are swept so far from reality that we close the story with genuine regret."--_Boston Evening Transcript_ _NEW YORK: ALFRED · A · KNOPF_ THE MOTH DECIDES A NOVEL BY EDWARD ALDEN JEWELL [Illustration: Decoration] NEW YORK ALFRED · A · KNOPF MCMXXII COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY EDWARD ALDEN JEWELL _Published, September, 1922_ _Set up, electrotyped, and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y. Paper supplied by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York, N. Y. Bound by the H. Wolff Estate, New York, N. Y._ MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA TO HAROLD PAGET CONTENTS PART ONE: THE ARRIVAL 11 PART TWO: THE KISS 119 PART THREE: THE LIGHT 199 PART I THE ARRIVAL 1 When Louise opened her eyes she stared dreamily up at the slight abrasion in the shingle roof through which morning blinked. There were not many of these informal skylights, for the roof was not an old one. But there were a few, as there are likely to be in most summer cottages. When there was a violent downpour one had to hustle around distributing pans and kettles to catch an often ambitious drip. But this morning there was no rain. Louise's pretty face was not in danger of an unsolicited bath. It was a radiant summer dawn. For a moment she wondered how she had happened to wake so early. The July birds were all chattering in the woods. But why should _she_ waken out of deep slumber unsummoned? Presently, however, the reason for this phenomenon flashed vividly. Downstairs in the cottage living room, on the chimney-piece, stood an old Dutch clock. This clock possessed a kind of wiry, indignant tick, and a voice, when it was time to speak, full of a jerky, twanging spite. Louise could hear the sharp ticking. Then there came a little whirr--like a very wheeze of decrepitude--followed by an angry striking. One, two, three, four. And at the very first stroke she knew why she was awake at so almost grotesque an hour. The remembrance brought its half whimsical shock. In an hour Leslie would be cranking the engine of his little launch, and they would be chugging toward Beulah. However, even this did not impel the girl to spring out of bed. Indeed, she arose quite deliberately and only after a brief relapse into a dreaminess which was cousin to slumber itself. She allowed her mind to explore, quite fantastically and not a little extravagantly, the probable courses of the day just springing. She knew beyond any question that it was to be a day packed full of importance for her. Yet she proceeded with that air of cool possession which young persons often elect to display when they feel that the reins are snugly in their hands. As she looked up at the tiny point of aurora in the roof, Louise smiled. There was almost no trace left of the old trouble--that well borne but sufficiently poignant wound, which though her own, had added new lines to the Rev. Needham's already pictorial face. Richard? Oh, Richard was almost forgotten at length. This was as it should be. Defiantly, but also a little slyly (because it could hardly be reckoned a good Christian sentiment), Louise wished that Richard might somehow be here now to observe her triumph; above all--for the wound had still a slight sting--to see how finely calm she _had_ learned to be in these matters. There was a light step outside on the turf of the hillside. One unalert might not have noted it, or might not have known it for a human tread, where there was such a patter of squirrel and chipmunk scampering. But Louise was alert. She might be calm, but she was also alert. And she knew it was no squirrel out there. That was Leslie. He was lingering about under her window, undecided whether he ought to risk pebbles or a judicious whistle by way of making sure she was awake. At the faint sound of his foot she raised her head quickly from the pillow. "Louise!" he whispered. You might have thought it some mere passing sibilance of wind. But you could not be expected to know Leslie's voice as she knew it. The girl slipped softly out of bed. She did not want to rouse her sister. Hilda was sleeping with her. Hilda had given her own room to Aunt Marjie. When Louise stepped out on to the bare cottage floor, her feet encountered cool little hillocks of sand, the residue of sundry bed-time shoe dumpings. One could not live up here beside Lake Michigan without coming to reckon sand as intimately and legitimately entering into almost every phase of existence. Indeed, she trod on sand more or less all the way across to the single little window; then dropped lightly on to her knees before the window and peered down through the screen. "I'm awake, Leslie," she whispered. And the lad who had been eagerly gazing at this very window, vacant till now, smiled faintly, nodded, and made motions signifying that he would wait for her in the little rustic "tea-house." However, his smile was very brief; and his manner, as he went away toward the specified rendezvous, was manifestly dejected. When Louise turned back from the window, Hilda was stirring. Hilda lifted herself up on to an elbow and welcomed her sister with bright eyes. "Who's out there?" she asked. "Sh-h-h! It's Les. Go back to sleep, Hilda." "Is he going with you?" the younger girl persisted. "Only part of the way." "As far as Beulah?" "Yes." "Why doesn't he go all the way?" "Because I would rather go alone," replied the older girl with a quite fascinating fusion of firmness and mystery. But the manifest dignity of this response was slighted by Hilda, who merely remarked, in an unemotional yet still significant tone: "Oh, I see." "Well, isn't it natural?" "Isn't what natural, Lou?" "Isn't it natural I should want to be alone when I meet Lynndal?" "Oh, yes! I didn't just stop to think how it would be." "Not that it would really matter about Les," the other continued, slipping quickly into her clothes. "Les is only a boy, after all." "Oh, do you think so, Lou?" "Why, of course. Leslie isn't more than twenty, if he's _that_," she concluded rather doubtfully, twisting up her dark hair and fixing it loosely in place. "Oh, he is!" protested Hilda as vigorously as whisper-talk would allow. "Is what?" "Les _is_ twenty." Louise had turned away from the larger mirror in the dresser and was trying to focus the back of her head with the aid of a small hand mirror, as women do who are particularly concerned about appearing at their best. She looked across oddly at her sister, who in turn blushed, lowering her eyes. "Well, then, as you say. You seem to be pretty sure." "Les told me he was," cried Hilda, as though vaguely to shift some sort of responsibility. Louise relinquished the mirrors and sat down on the edge of the bed for the purpose of tying her shoes. "Listen, Hilda," she said; "you ought to go straight back to sleep. It's only four o'clock. Papa would be mad if he heard us." "Oh, but he can't," replied Hilda, with the air of one who knows very accurately the acoustic properties of the house in which she dwells. "But Aunt Marjie might," the other suggested. "Oh, she wouldn't tell. Aunt Marjie's a sport! Besides," she added, as though to place the matter altogether beyond dispute, "listen!" Both girls did. They gazed in silence toward the three-quarters partition beyond which Aunt Marjie was established. It was quite true. There were unmistakable dulcet sounds from that direction. Aunt Marjie had warned them she was a heavy sleeper. She had not deemed it urgent to be more specific. "Safe!" admitted Louise, with a sigh of mock-relief, adding, however: "Even so, you ought to go back to sleep." Hilda dropped on to her pillow, seeming without comment about to comply. But she was right up again with an earnest question: "Where's he now?" "Who?" "Les." "Sh-h-h! He's waiting for me outside." "Oh, Louise--I _wish_ you'd let me go with you!" The emphasis implied that the petition had been put hitherto--perhaps persistently. "Please _do_ let me go along--only as far as Beulah!" The person so earnestly addressed was dusting her face and neck with powder, which signified that she was about ready to depart. She flipped open her handkerchief box with a scene from Dresden on its cover and tucked a fresh handkerchief into her blouse. "Now be good and don't tease," she pleaded a little petulantly. Louise took a certain elder-sisterly attitude towards Hilda which had in it something of selfish authority. Once more Hilda dropped obediently back. But as she lay there, very wide awake indeed, she couldn't help sighing: "Oh, how I should _love_ to go to Beulah!" And there was another sigh to set it off. Now, it might be supposed, from the fervour of the young girl's tone, that this Beulah, of which both had repeatedly spoken, must be a wonderfully and peculiarly charming place. Yes, it must indeed possess rare attributes to make a girl beg to be allowed to abandon her nice snug nest at dawn for a mere sight of it. And yet, curiously enough, Beulah was hardly charming in any actual sense: just a tiny, poky, dull little hole of a town, a poor speck on a minor railroad. All things considered, Louise's advice sounded very sensible: "You know you're better off here on the Point." However, Hilda by no means thought so, and she shook her head with stolid vehemence. "And I thought," her sister continued, paying very little attention to her own words, "I thought there was to be a tennis match this morning." "Yes, there is," admitted Hilda. "Well, you know they couldn't possibly play without you." She forgot her phrases as fast as she uttered them. She was ploughing through her jewellery case for a certain brooch. It was one which Richard had given her, and which had somehow been overlooked when the other gifts had been sent back to him at the Rev. Needham's firm request. She meant, if she could find it, to wear the brooch this morning. It might be Lynndal would show himself too sure of her. She _might_ want to impress upon him the fact that her life had not been loveless. At length she found the ornament and put it on, with a little toss of coquetry. Of course Louise didn't mean really to hold off any regarding their engagement. Ah, no. That was a settled thing, as a glance at the correspondence must amply prove. Nevertheless, she decided on the brooch. Richard, with his faithlessness, had hacked two years right out of her life. But Louise had a new lover! The earlier affair was remote enough to stand a little harmless commercializing now. Hilda modestly deprecated the enviable light in which her tennis playing had been put by her sister. "You know that's not true!" she said. "What isn't true?" "What you said about them not being able to play the match without me. Besides," she concluded with a leap of thought which gave the words themselves a queer stamp of irrelevance, "_he's_ going to play in it, _too_." "Who is?" asked Louise blankly, brushing some strayed powder off her skirt. "Leslie." "Leslie? Well, I don't get the connection." Hilda nodded quite violently. Her sleep-tossed hair lay richly about her shoulders. One shoulder was bare, where the nightgown fell away from it. She was fresh and pretty. Perhaps not so pretty as Louise. But Hilda was only fifteen, just swinging into the earliest bloom of her womanhood. "Yes," she explained, "Les is going to play in the match. He told me he would have to get back in time for that. So you see, if it's only the tennis you're thinking about, you might just as well let me go along as far as Beulah." "Oh, he did?" asked her sister, rather sharply, it must be confessed, for one who had been so abstracted a moment before. "He said he'd have to get back?" "Yes, Lou. Why? What's the matter?" "Nothing." She thrust a pin into her hat. Hilda regarded her sister's back a moment in silence--as though a back might somehow reveal, if one but looked hard enough, what new emotion was passing through a heart. But when she spoke it was casually, and without further adherence to the theme. "My, Lou," she said, "you look grand this morning!" "Ha! My street suit!" "I know, but all our city clothes look grand up here in the woods." "Well, I guess Lynndal wouldn't recognize me in a jumper. Remember, he hasn't seen me since last winter," observed Louise, with an evident seriousness of tone which might almost lead one to suspect she really meant it _was_ necessary to dress up in order to be recognized. "Yes, but you've written every day," Hilda reminded her, renouncing the subject of clothes and skipping light-heartedly along the way of digression which had thus been opened up. "It isn't so!" her sister assured her. "Well, then, three times a week." "That's a very different matter." Suddenly she thought of Richard, and the fecund diligence, on her side at least, of their correspondence. She scowled. And then she went and bent over the girl in bed. "Can you see any powder on my face?" Hilda said she thought she could see just a tiny little bit of rouge. So Louise rubbed her face vigorously with a towel, by way of destroying any possible trace of artificiality, and bringing thus a heightened natural bloom. There really was very little artificiality about the Needham girls. The Rev. Needham was always nervously on the lookout for that. His great horror was such episodes as are dear to the hearts of novelists: episodes in which soul-rending moral issues appear. And he believed, and often quite eloquently gave expression to the belief, that a subtle germ of artificiality lay at the root of all emotional excesses. Louise's unhappy affair with Richard, the Rev. Needham was pleased to lay almost squarely at the door of Eastern Culture. To be perfectly candid, the Rev. Needham did not know a great deal about this so-called Eastern Culture. But he was persuaded--as are perhaps many more good souls in the Middle West--that it was something covertly if not patently inimical to those standards of sane, quiet living to which he almost passionately subscribed. Why had they ever sent her East at all? "It was that fashionable school that did all the harm," he would say, with a sigh in which there was more than a hint of indignation. Louise herself, whatever she might think of the Culture, admitted that half the girls in the school were deep in love affairs, most of which bore every promise of turning out badly. The school was in that paradise of schools, the nation's capital. It was a finishing school, and a judicious indulgence in social activities was admittedly--even a bit arrogantly--one of the features of the curriculum. Ah, yes. That was just where all the mischief began. If she had stayed home instead and received young men in her mother's own Middle Western parlour, she might have been spared--they might all have been spared--that terrible ordeal of the heart, with its gloomy envelope of humiliation. In plain terms, Richard had simply turned her down. One might argue about it, but one could not, in the end, really deceive oneself. He had turned her down, thrown her over, jilted her, after flirting desperately and wickedly--though in a manner which the Rev. Needham strongly suspected was looked upon as innocent and even rather proper by the decadence of that East he was always harping upon. Louise, artless and unworldly, as she had been trained to be from the cradle, found herself but poorly equipped to combat such allurements as the dreadful Richard exhibited. It was an old tale, but none the less terrible for all that. She believed everything he said to her, fatally misconstrued his abundant enough ardour, fell madly in love, and wanted to throw herself in the river when she realized at length that her beautiful dream was shattered. Naturally, the Rev. Needham was shocked. He was horrified when his daughter wrote of throwing herself in the river. He did not definitely visualize the Potomac, which he had never seen; it was the convulsing generality that gripped him. Mrs. Needham's conduct, at that time, had proved much more practical, if less eloquent, than her husband's. She went straight to her daughter, determined to bring her back home; and she left a distracted minister to make what progress he could with the Sunday sermon--agonized, as he was, by fevered visions of his child's body, gowned in an indefinite but poetically clinging garment, her hair tangled picturesquely with seaweed, floating upon the surface of a composite stream in the moonlight. Necessarily in the moonlight. The effect was more ghastly that way. And certain immortal lines of verse would ripple moaningly through his thoughts: "The tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight deepens, the curfew calls; * * * * * * Darkness settles on roofs and walls, But the sea in the darkness calls and calls...." The Rev. Needham was not himself a poet, but there was poetry in the family. A brother had written poetry and gone to the devil. The Rev. Needham didn't even read poetry very often any more (for of course he never thought of looking upon King James's Version as a poem). In fact, the Rev. Needham had almost a kind of sentiment against poetry, since brother Will had disgraced them all. But it was curious to observe that at times of intense inner tumult, appropriate metrical interlinings had a way of insinuating themselves out of the vast anthology of his youth. Thus, while Mrs. Needham was away looking after their broken-hearted daughter, the clergyman, struggling to evolve his sermon, had to combat such tragic dirges as: "One more unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!" And by the time the poor man got to those inhumanly personal stanzas: "Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister...?" he would be pacing the floor and not getting on one bit with his sermon. Mrs. Needham had the good sense to wire back that Louise was all right, and that she was bringing her home. The sermon was somehow completed. But its text was "Vanity, vanity!" and there were allusions in it to Culture which his congregation never truly grasped. "Good-bye!" whispered Louise. She gave one last flying peep into the mirror. "'Bye, Lou," her sister returned, presenting her lips for a kiss. "I hope he'll _come_ all right," she added, while Louise crossed the sanded floor as noiselessly as she could. "And--I'm just _dying_ to _see_ him!" The other girl nodded back hurriedly from the door, and was off downstairs. Hilda lay down again. She even closed her eyes. But she did not sleep any more. A horrid little fear clutched at her heart: What if he should not come? What if Lynndal Barry should turn out to be another Richard, after all? 2 Down in the kitchen Louise adjusted the generator of a small oil stove on which most of the household cooking was done. There was an old wood range in the kitchen also, but that was used only for baking. It generally smoked and occasionally went out--sometimes almost miraculously. Louise turned up the wicks of the stove burners, made sure that the fuel began soaking freely up into them, and finally applied the flame of a match. Then she put on the teakettle and fetched a frying pan from a hook nearby. Not even young ladies flying grandly off to meet their lovers ought to go without breakfast. Louise, though she might, perhaps, have been pardoned for overlooking so merely sensible a detail as this, was really treating the whole situation most rationally. It was part of her fine, mature calmness--the calmness she so wished Richard might behold. Playing now--and very convincingly, too--the rôle of cook, she measured coffee, got out eggs, cut some bread. Yes, all this was part of her magnificent calmness. It was indeed a pity Richard couldn't be here to see how altered she was--how unlike the impulsive, unschooled, hyper-romantic girl who had submitted to his fickle attractions. Her cheeks would burn, even now, with inextinguishable chagrin, when she reflected how painfully one-sided the wretched affair had been. Ah, it had constantly been he who did the attracting, she who fluttered about like a silly, puzzled moth. She would have gone without her breakfast every day in the week for Richard. But with Lynndal, thank heaven, all was quite different. Now it was obviously and admittedly she who was doing the attracting. Of course she admired Lynndal tremendously, and loved him. Oh, of course she loved him. She even loved him very much, else would she be engaged? No, but the point was that this time her eyes were open. They were wide open, as eyes should be. She wasn't, this time, blinded by a fatal glitter of wit and the subtle persuasion of manners other and more exquisite than any she had hitherto encountered. Lynndal was totally unlike Richard. Lynndal steadfastly adored her. He even worshipped her. He said so, though with homely and restrained rhetoric, in his letters. Yes, she knew that Lynndal was deeply and lastingly in love with her. So this affair couldn't, it was plain to be seen, turn out the way the other had. She sang, though very judiciously, under her breath, as she sped about preparing the hurried meal. The water boiled in the kettle. She poured it on the coffee grounds, tossed in an eggshell, left the pot to simmer. Louise was really quite a skilful cook. Even the Rev. Needham had to admit that this much, at any rate, had been gained from the unfortunate Eastern schooling. She set some cups, saucers, and plates on the kitchen table. Then she slipped out the back door of the cottage and along a path to a little rustic pavilion which they called a "tea-house"--though, as a matter of fact, tea never figured in its usefulness. In the "tea-house" Leslie now was waiting. The path leading to it had been blazed through thick forest growth. Dewy shoots and leaf clusters brushed her as she skipped by. The sun was already up, but under the trees, and especially down in the little hollow she had to cross, all was dusky and still night-touched. Leslie saw her coming and jumped up. He waited for her in the rustic doorway. "Good morning!" she called to him out of the tiny valley. "We mustn't wake the cottagers," she cautioned, coming to him and dropping for a moment, rather breathless, on one of the rustic benches. "People ought to get up earlier," observed Leslie in a voice he just noticeably wanted to keep quite as usual. "They don't know what they miss." "It is lovely, isn't it?" the girl agreed, abruptly turning and looking off to sea. The view from this perch was quite extensive. It was a nook particularly popular with admirers of sunsets. At this early hour the sun was not high enough to touch the smooth beach below, but it lighted the sky, in a lustrous, haunting way, and flashed against the wings of skimming gulls. However, exquisite though the morning undeniably was, it did not seem the proper occasion for any rhapsodising. Indeed, the occasion did not afford even space for decent enjoyment at all. To Louise the morning appeared busy rather than fair. She was still sufficiently young, for all her esteemed calmness, to look upon life, and in this case especially the operations of the natural world, with intensely personal eyes. Nature was rather an adjunct, even a casual one at that, than something infinitely greater than herself. She and her interests must come first. If convenience permitted, the glory of the sunrise might be saluted in passing. It could be said of Miss Needham that she had a bowing acquaintance with the universe. "I'm getting us a bite of breakfast, Les," she told him. "You don't mind eating in the kitchen?" "Hardly!" replied her companion, with the reckless air of one who would possibly like to explain that even kitchens would lose any customary odium which might attach to them, were she to grace them with her presence. Of course Leslie didn't voice any such sentimental and flamboyant thought. There was surprisingly little mawkishness about Leslie, despite his dangerous age. He seemed a serious fellow, though not perhaps exceptionally so. It was a seriousness which embraced all the lighter moods. Leslie was the sort of chap who could converse intelligently with older people, yet lure out the best laughs, too, from a juvenile crowd. It was this fortunate poise that guarded him, generally, against pitfalls of the heroic. "I suppose we might have been able to get some breakfast in Beulah," he said doubtfully. But he smiled with Louise as she shook her head. Breakfast would be more reliable in the Needham kitchen. And she rose and led the way back down the path. "You're sure the boat's in good condition for the run?" she asked anxiously over her shoulder. "Oh, yes." "It would be awful to break down half way over and miss the train." "It won't, Louise. You won't miss your train." He spoke a little bitterly. As a matter of fact, Leslie had been up half the night tinkering with his engine--which accounted for his fine assurance. Louise was painfully aware that the engine couldn't be consistently banked on. It didn't, as a general thing, receive the most scrupulous sort of care. The Leslian poise had its lapses. They crept with admirable stealthiness into the kitchen, whose habitual odour of spices and damp cereal products was now broken by the livelier aroma of steaming coffee. There was only one chair in the kitchen. When Eliza the cook received her young man, who was the porter of a resort hotel in Beulah, it was invariably in what the Rev. Needham liked to call God's Great Out-of-Doors--that most capacious and in many respects best furnished of receiving parlours, after all. Invariably--that is, of course, except when it rained. When it rained Eliza and her young man had an entrancing way of conceiving the single chair sufficient. Louise signified with a wave of the hand that Leslie was to go into the dining room, ever so quietly, and fetch another chair. He did so, and set both chairs beside the kitchen table, at the places marked out already with plates, cups, and imitation silver. Then he sat down, thrust his elbows on the oilcloth, and gazed ruefully between his fists at the young lady who, still in the guise of cook, was fluttering about in the manner of young ladies who do not perhaps feel quite at home in their work, yet who would defy you to point out one single item not accomplished according to the very best methods. He watched her with a mournful intensity, which, had it possessed a little less positive feeling, would surely be called a fixed stare. She turned round presently and discovered his attitude. "For goodness' sake," she whispered, "what makes you look at me that way?" He shifted his gaze to the still trees outside and began humming. "I didn't know I was looking at you any special way. And anyhow, if I was, you know why," he told her, with a slight effect of baffled yet defiant contradiction which was immediately muffled by a renewed humming. "Leslie, you know we talked it all over yesterday." "I know, I know." "And you said it was all right. You said you understood. There wasn't going to be any kind of misunderstanding...." "There isn't any misunderstanding. Why do you jump on me? I didn't begin talking about it." This was manifestly true. However, she handled it deftly. "You don't have to talk when you look that way." "Sorry!" snapped Leslie, who began moodily tapping with his fingers on the oilcloth. Without realizing it, he was tapping the same tune he had just been humming. She flushed a little, and felt a brief angriness toward him. Had she given words to what was, for a moment, really in her mind, she would have maintained, and not without honest warmth, that a man you have jilted hasn't any right to feel hurt. But a moment later this conception did not seem quite so honest. No, it didn't honour her. She knew it didn't. And ere she had drawn three breaths she was thinking of Leslie with considerably more tenderness. However, in this connection, as with the momentary impatience, sentiment did not spend itself in words. She merely asked him, in a very kindly way, how he liked his eggs best. "I don't care," he replied, employing the colourless masculine non-assertiveness usual in such cases. "Do you like them scrambled?" He nodded drearily. "Then we'll have them scrambled," she announced with a cheerful smile, breaking several eggs across the edge of a bowl, adding a little milk, as carefully measured off as though it were vanilla for a cake, and proceeding slightly to beat the combination. There seemed something ungraspably and very subtly characteristic in the decision to scramble them.... In no time the two were seated at breakfast. She grew chatty. "I'm sorry there isn't any toast, Les. We can't make decent toast over an oil fire. We've tried it," she expanded with labelled significance, spreading butter on a rather dry slice of bread. The bread that was dry today might be soggy tomorrow. It should be noted in passing that up here in the woods the supplies showed a tendency to grow either very soggy or very dry. In fact, the bread and pastry boxes were often the most infallible of barometers. Leslie perjured himself with an assurance that the bread was delicious. "In town," she went on, pouring the coffee, "we have an electric toaster. We have it on the table and make toast as we want it. I wish we had it up here!" "Could you make it work with oil?" asked her companion with sweet maliciousness. "Of course not," she sighed. "I always forget. I wish they'd run wires out here to the Point. I have an electric curler at home, too. It's such a bother sticking your iron down the chimney of a lamp." "I should think it would be," agreed Leslie, stirring his coffee and shepherding such of the grounds as floated upon the surface over to the edge of the cup, where they were scooped up and deposited on the saucer. They conversed for a time on casual and every-day topics, as people, even involved in mighty issues, have rather a way of doing, after all. She kept warning him, with pretty, prohibitive gestures, not to speak above the safe pitch established upon their entry. The warning was more picturesque than really necessary, however, for Leslie, just then, happened to be in a mood far from boisterous. "Oh, dear! I forgot to dash cold water into the pot before I took it off!" she cried in some dismay, as she observed his slightly exaggerated preoccupation with the floating intruders. "It boiled the last thing. I thought the fire was turned out under it, but it wasn't." "What difference does it make?" the lad protested with lugubrious gallantry. And he desisted from his efforts and drank his coffee down, grounds and all, in rather impolite gulps. Louise, just at this stage, turned her attention to her own cup. There was one lonesome ground drifting aimlessly and forlornly round and round in obedience to the impetus of a current set in motion by the recent stirring. She had poured her own cup last, which explained its being so much clearer than his. "Oh, look here, Les!" she exclaimed, following the solitary coffee ground in the air with the tip of her spoon. "There's just one. That means a visitor, doesn't it?" She coloured a little, and lifted the oracle up gently. Leslie shrugged, conspicuously bored, and devoted himself moodily to what remained of his share of the eggs. "I don't know," he said. But she couldn't be swayed from her zeal. She was determined to be agreeable--especially when it was possible to come upon such agreeable speculations as this. "There's something about finding money on top of your coffee," she embroidered, "though you can always make some come if you hold the pot high enough as you pour. But you see you can't make a _visitor_ unless there _is_ one." And Leslie heroically refrained from suggesting that even visitors might be warded off if one didn't forget the dash of cold water. However, he did remind her that there needed no signs to tell her there was a visitor on the way. And he added, with rather juvenile petulance: "I guess he'd come if there weren't any grounds in the _pot_!" But this riled her. "I don't mean to sit here and listen to you speaking disrespectfully of Mr. Barry! He's much older, and you can't treat him as you would one of the boys." "I don't want to," her friend returned, vaguely, yet still somehow pointedly. She smiled, erasing the friction from their talk. "In the case of the coffee grounds, as I understand it, if it seems soft it's a lady, and if it's hard it's a man. Am I all wrong? Is it tea leaves I'm thinking of? At any rate, we'll experiment!" She eyed her companion with coy and almost vicious pleasure. "Perhaps this one's only Aunt Marjie, who's already here." She carried the problematical atom to her teeth. The test, which she strove to make momentous, was one to which Leslie brought only a melancholy interest. She set her teeth firmly together. There was a little brittle crack. The indisputable fact that it was Lynndal Barry thrust between them a short silence. 3 It was a subject to which they had come round, almost automatically, at intervals, ever since the letter arrived. Ah, the letter, the fateful letter! The letter advising her that the man to whom she was virtually engaged would put in an appearance on such and such a day! Upon its receipt Louise had proceeded with real candour. The letter, or rather the important implication it contained, was discussed at once. Oh, yes. She went at once to Leslie with her sinister yet thrilling confession. Louise Needham was fundamentally an honest, an even straight-forward young person. Fundamentally: though the roots were not, it is true, always called upon. The mistakes she made were rather faults of judgment than altogether of a slumbering conscience. Indeed, there had been numerous occasions when her life would have moved much more smoothly had she been less blunt, or had her personal psychology possessed a few more curves. But this type of downrightness had been sternly inculcated. It was in the blood. The Rev. Needham maintained that a square, simple, stalwart attitude toward the world was the very cornerstone of security and peaceful living; and he had quotations out of the Scriptures to back it up. Yes, Louise had gone to Leslie at once. True, she hadn't just happened to speak about Lynndal before--that is, she hadn't quite painted the relationship in its true colours, which naturally amounted to the same thing. As for this silence--well, she would argue that it was in no real sense a deception, because the engagement (there was no ring as yet) wasn't public property. No, it was strictly an affair existing between herself and Lynndal. In a way, Leslie ought to consider himself honoured to be consulted at all. "Well, he'll be here in a few hours now," mourned the honoured individual as they walked along together through the woods toward Crystal Lake and the little launch. "Then goodnight for _me_!" "Les, please don't talk like that. You'd think we couldn't even be friends any more." "Friends!" He had been suffered to call her more endearing names throughout the span of the past few weeks. "I'm sure we'll always be the best sort of friends, Leslie." But he couldn't see it. "I'm going back to the city!" It was about as close to heroics as he ever verged. And following this highly dramatic climax there was a little space of silence. They walked on, side by side. Louise began to realize how unwise she had been. This walk through the forest of Betsey was ordinarily a very wonderful experience. Of course, however, upon this occasion, neither of the young persons concerned was in any mood to appreciate it. For her part, if consulted, Louise would reply that she had no time. Still, for all that, the experience was (potentially) a delight; for here one discovered a true, unspoiled natural loveliness, even a kind of sylvan grandeur. The way, all underneath greenery thickly arched, wound up and down. From every eminence the neighbouring valleys appeared sunk to an almost ghostly declivity; but from the valleys themselves, the uplands, with their rich tangled approaches, soared grandly toward a heaven invisible for leafy vaulting. At this early hour the summits were a little dusky, while the depressions slept in deep shade. The full, fair rays of the uprising sun shot across the exposed tops of the higher levels of forest, and here and there even the loftier stretches of path would be dappled with furtive annunciatory splashes. In the forest it was cool and buoyantly fresh, though heat was already quivering up off the open stretches of sand skirting the smaller lake. It promised to be one of the warm days of a rather grudging season. "Les," she said finally, "why do you talk about going back to the city?" "Because I don't care to stay up here and...." If concluded, the sentence would have run: "and see you together." But he thought better of it. Poise saved him. He compressed his lips. "Oh, Les, _don't_ make it so hard for me!" "You didn't spare _me_!" he replied grimly. "What do you mean?" Her eyes were a little wide. "H'm...." "Tell me, Les. We can't go on this way." She meant that she would find it uncomfortable--a cloud for her present satisfaction with life. "You knew how I felt. You knew all about it. Yet you didn't send me packing, or try to drop me. You didn't even give me a hint of how things were. Do you call that sparing a fellow?" His arraignment was almost bewildering in its complexity. But she chose one indictment and grappled with it valiantly. "Of course I didn't try to drop you. I never treated any man that way!" "Well," he replied dryly, "I wish you had." "You wish I hadn't had anything to do with you?" Such a proposition struck her as unpleasant, to a marked degree--even almost grotesque. He countered without replying: "Didn't you know how much I cared?" "Yes, but my goodness, Les, must a girl entirely _shun_ a man to prevent his falling--I mean, to keep him from caring too much?" "Oh, no," he answered with a sharp sigh. "Don't mind me. Don't mind anything I've said. I guess I'll get over it--especially since it seems that you didn't feel at all the way I did, and I was merely making a fool of myself." It was a cup of highly flavoured bitterness. "Oh, please don't say such a thing as that! You know I told you all along, Leslie, that I--that I had a friend in Arizona, and I--well, you see I somehow felt you'd understand. I didn't know the things we did--I mean I didn't realize our being together so much meant anything except that we--well, that we liked each other and wanted to be together...." She felt it was just a little lame, and began laying about for more forcible expression. Meanwhile, Leslie muttered: "No, those things never do mean any more, I guess." "But Leslie, dear--" She spoke unwisely. At the familiar word of affection, which had thrilled him so often during the unmolested weeks--that wonderful span shattered by the arrival of the letter from Arizona--Leslie momentarily forgot about his dark humiliation. He forgot everything but the fact of the woman beside him. He seized her swinging hand; gripped it. And then they paused, further progress along the sun-flecked way seeming inhibited by some subtle agent in league with the emotion which swept over them both. Oh, Eros! Are your agents everywhere? From gripping her hand he unexpectedly and rather bafflingly had her in his arms. And she presented, for just that charged moment, no resistance, but relaxed there with a little inarticulate, troubled, withal surrendering cry. "Louise!" "Oh, Les!" When they had kissed he broke the curious spell by demanding, with considerable passion, why, if she really did care, she was so willing to throw him over for another man. It seemed a pivotal question. It seemed an unanswerable one, even, in the light of what had just occurred. But Miss Needham, now the spell was broken and she could breathlessly begin getting hold of herself again, proved magnificently equal to it. The beauty of the Needham logic was just that it could always find an answer to every question, however pivotal--some kind of answer, that is. "Oh, Leslie!" she cried. "Don't you see? I'm _not_ throwing you over. Not the way you want to make it seem. I care for you just the same as--yes, as I ever did! Why shouldn't I?" she demanded, with vague defiance. "Only I--I suppose some of the things we've done--what we just did.... Well, and the other times, aren't--I suppose they wouldn't be quite right if I'm to be formally engaged. But you see I--I've looked upon this engagement--I mean I've looked upon it as not quite settled yet...." She faltered and spoke more thickly, as though getting down to cold facts somehow made the whole business a little tawdry. "I'm not wearing any ring yet, you see," she went on, waving her hand before them a trifle awkwardly, and laughing with constraint. "And as long as Mr. Barry and I _aren't_ really engaged--not quite in the usual way yet, I mean--I didn't see--I don't see now what harm there is in making--well, new friends." It was an amazing speech. It was a wonderful speech. He offered no immediate reply to it. What could he say? The fact is, he had never heard just such a speech as this in his life, and found himself, not perhaps unreasonably, a little bit bewildered by it. None of the lessons in feminine psychology he had learned thus far had just prepared Leslie for such a speech as this. As abruptly as they had paused, the two now resumed their walk. And from this moment his attitude toward her was also altered. Louise started slightly, as though for the first time fully realizing what had just taken place. She glanced at her wrist watch. It was ten minutes to five by the tiny dial. "I hope we can make it," she said anxiously. The return to her former preoccupations might have struck a disinterested observer as bizarre, though of course Louise wasn't conscious of anything like that. She was not conscious of anything bizarre at all. It was really extraordinary, at times, how free from any blemish of self-consciousness she seemed to be. This was her way: giving herself over entirely to one thing at a time. Curiously enough, it even had something to do with what has (carefully weighing values) been called her fundamental honesty; though here, as so often with her, the true spring was not involved. Concentration was one of the sturdy precepts expounded by the Rev. Alfred Needham. The influence of this father was very strongly marked in the daughter. But as for Leslie, he was keenly conscious, walking beside her through the lovely forest of Betsey, of a shift which seemed to him untimely and again humiliating. He grew reserved and cold; walked along in silence. However, his thoughts were busy. And the more he thought of it, the more convinced he was that that phrase of hers: "I don't see what harm there is in making new friends," sounded a warning which he must heed! Louise glanced again at her watch to make quite sure she had read the hour aright. "Les," she demanded, wholly consumed now with the apprehension lest she miss her train, "is your watch with mine?" "I have five minutes to five," he answered coldly, pressing open the case of his old-fashioned heirloom watch and quickly snapping it shut again. He snapped it as quickly as he could because he did not want to let his eyes rest on the picture pasted inside the case. "Do you think we can make it?" "I've made it in less time, a good deal." "Les," she entreated wanderingly as they emerged from the forest and scudded through the sand to the boathouse where he kept his little launch, "we simply _must_ be friends, whatever happens." She studied, though abstractedly, the settling look of antipathy on his face. She did not know what it meant, but instinctively she shuddered at it just a little. "Les, dear, you must let me be...." His curiosity was aroused, and he broke with a heavy bluntness into the groping silence. "What?" "Why, I was just going to say you must let me be"--the inevitable could not be restrained--"be like a sister to you...." And she smiled, even through her troubled abstraction. She laid a hand on his arm. "I know that sounds as though it came out of a book, but it expresses my thought as well as I know how. You know--you see I'm a little older than you--though I never think of that...." Leslie dropped his arm, and her hand slid off. It fell to her side in a limp way. She hardly noticed the fact, though. Her mind was swimming with the strange contending forces which seemed, so inexplicably, to compose her life. She seemed all at once not to see anything very clearly.... They entered the boathouse, but Leslie had not replied to the generous suggestion, and went with a moody briskness about the task of making the small craft ready for the nine-mile voyage. Then he helped her in; arranged a cushion or two. When he touched her there was a mitigated flash of the old thrill. But the thrill seemed subtly palpitating, now, with something else. It was a new and, oddly enough, a not altogether disagreeable sensation. For the first time, though Leslie didn't as yet clearly realize this, he was looking at Miss Needham critically. He had certainly never looked at her this way before. He noticed a tiny dash of powder she hadn't brushed off the collar of her jacket; observed a very faint and unobtrusive hint of the Roman in her nose. As for her nose, he merely wondered, as he coaxed the engine into activity, that he hadn't marked the true line of the bridge before.... It took nearly an hour to reach Beulah, at the other end of Crystal Lake. Louise, it fortunately developed, would make her train easily. Leslie moored the launch, which had behaved surprisingly well, and escorted his passenger through the tiny village to the railroad station. Little talk sped between them. He asked at what hour the expected steamer was due. Eight o'clock, she told him. He remarked that there would be a good bit of time to consume after she arrived in Frankfort, and she replied, in a mildly distracted way, that she didn't mind. But she added, all the same, with a little petitioning, blind burst: "I wish you were going the rest of the way with me!" "I will if you want me to," he answered listlessly. Or was he feigning listlessness by way of retrieving his rather severely damaged pride? "Oh, no!" she cried, merely voicing the instinctive contradiction which rose most naturally to her lips. The train was heard whistling in the distance. Then she remembered something, and spoke with greater assurance than had been displayed on her part since they left the forest of Betsey. "You're expected back, you know, to play tennis. You promised." She seemed almost relieved, in a way; yet she could not resist, too, the little muffled dig. And there was also something dark lurking beneath both the relief and the dig. "I promised?" "Didn't you tell Hilda you'd be back in time for the match?" "Oh--yes," he admitted. "So you see," she laughed, "you had no thought of going on any farther than Beulah!" His just expressed willingness to accompany her the rest of the way had depended directly upon her own sufficiently vehement exclamation: "I wish you were going!" But the way she laughed seemed to imply a kind of duplicity in him which brought a flush to his face. And he reminded her, with glacial tones: "You told me all along I could only take you as far as Beulah. You were very positive about it." The kindling distrust did not die out of his eyes. "Yes, I understand, Les. It's all right. Hilda will be watching for you." Suddenly the train came into view around a bend. Louise unconsciously straightened her hat and tugged at her gloves, as though Lynndal Barry were to be met aboard the cars instead of emerging, ever so much later, from the boat in Frankfort. "Good-bye, Les," she said warmly. "Good-bye." "Thank you so much for bringing me." He nodded away the obligation. Then the train started, and Leslie turned back toward his launch. A feeling of great and wholly unexpected tenderness came upon Louise. She leaned far out of the car window to wave. He looked back, saw her, and waved also; then sauntered coolly on toward the dock. 4 When Louise and Leslie walked together through the forest of Betsey they had not as a matter of fact passed entirely unobserved. Hilda, after her sister had gone downstairs, didn't remain long in bed. Right on the heels of that cloudy fear lest Mr. Barry fail to arrive and Louise's heart be a second time broken, there flashed, for Hilda, a fine little campaign in her own behalf. Hilda's education in the great school of love was already quite well launched. Of course she was as yet graded rather intermediately. But Hilda was an alert and ambitious young student. She told herself it would be very much worth while to observe how an engaged lady behaved in the company of other men. Louise was a pattern for her in so many ways--both papa and mama kept insisting. Why not in this also? She might very possibly have need of the lesson some day. However, the real, specific, if not exactly admitted impulse behind her nimble relinquishment of bed was the plain desire just to see Leslie. It did not take Hilda long to dress. For one thing, of course, she dressed very simply up here in the wilderness. Louise dressed simply also, but not so simply as Hilda. However, there was a reason for this--a reason of which Hilda was fully cognisant, and one to which she was perforce reconciled. Age made all the difference in the world. She consoled herself with enormous bows on her jumpers, but also with the promise that there would come a day when she, too, would dress less simply, even in the wilderness. Hilda was listening at the head of the stairs when her sister went up to the "tea-house" to summon Leslie. While the lower part of the cottage was thus momentarily vacant, the girl stole down, making comical faces of deprecatory concern at each separate creak. Then she sped quickly out of the house and off through the thicket in a direction oblique with the path which Louise and Leslie were later to take. Hilda's little by-way struck over two low hills and spilled itself recklessly into the broader road used by the cottagers of Betsey, at a point about a quarter of a mile along, toward Crystal Lake. She was an odd, inquisitive child, and had a genuine passion for watching the great world spin. Wherever was the most going on, there you would generally find Hilda, an earnest observer, if age or circumstance unfortunately forbade her active participation. She knew far more about the people who summered at Point Betsey than any one dreamed. Hilda had a hammock strung up in an invisible bower just beyond the spot where the little path lost itself. There was only a dust-powdered screen of boughs and bushes between it and the road. The hammock, handed down to her when the Rev. Needham invested in a fine new one for the cottage, had seen more than a season of unroofed service, and was consequently rather inclined to be stringy. It was, in point of fact, a very dilapidated hammock indeed. But Hilda esteemed it highly. She thought it a very estimable hammock--had a real affection for it. Hers was happily the age when rags are royal raiment--without the solemn, limiting balance of that sublime and classic exclamation. She reached this secret nook quite out of breath. Of course there was no real need for all this haste. She knew there wasn't. But youth does not loiter on such errands. She flung herself down in the hammock and for a time lay still. It was cool here, and hazy with dawn. To one side of her the scrub thicket, sprinkled with sturdier growth, lay almost stygian; to the other side was the Betsey road, a bright, tortuous band of morning, threading the Betsey woods as though it were the path of some exploring courier of Sol. Through the flimsy façade of leaves the light of morning streamed into Hilda's bower with a mistily tempered shine. Though ample, this screen afforded plenty of peepholes; and naturally Hilda knew them all. If a storm threshed through the forest and wrenched wisps of woodbine into a different position, or whipped the heavier undergrowth into a new pattern, temporary or permanent as the case might be, the girl was quick to perceive the new order of things and to train her eye to the altered scope of vision. She lay now in the hammock, regaining her breath, and swung herself gently back and forth with the aid of a stout wild grape tendon. There was a great deal of wild life all about her: birds and squirrels and chipmunks and queer little humming, whirring, chirping insects. Some seasons certain of the cottagers brought up household cats with them from town, when it might be observed that the birds and squirrels were much less in evidence--much more wary and reserved in their deportment. But as it chanced, this year there wasn't a cat on the Point, and the woods were full of day-long frolic. Hilda had some time to wait. The two persons on whom her innocent espionage was designed, loitered, as we have seen, through their breakfast; and the little girl was almost ready to persuade herself that Louise and Leslie must have taken the much longer, circuitous northern route, when suddenly she heard their voices. They appeared to be talking softly, as though still imbued with dawn-cautiousness, even where there was no longer the possibility of disturbing any one's slumber. Hilda, lying there so still and expectant, saw them walking together along the road. Leslie's eyes pursued the ground he was treading, but Louise was glancing anxiously up at him. "You would think we couldn't even be friends any more," she was saying. And then Hilda heard the lad beside her mutter: "Friends!"--in that tone that appeared to embody so much.... "I'm sure we'll always be the best sort of friends, Leslie," Louise said warmly. And then they were almost beyond hearing. However, Hilda caught Leslie's thick communication about going back to the city, and it troubled her a good deal. She slipped out of the hammock and peeped through the shielding leaves. She thought to herself: "How well they look together!" And she seemed suddenly full of a vague unhappiness. Out of a subsequent observation: "Louise always looks well with men," Hilda did not for some reason or other, glean the poor ounce of consolation, regarding Leslie, that might appear nestling there. She left her bower and returned to the cottage in a rather soberer mood, along the open road they had so recently traversed. The summer rising of the parent Needhams regularly occurred about seven. In town, during the season of lengthened nights, the household was suffered to slumber perhaps a half hour longer; but matinal "dawdling," as the Rev. Needham put it, was a symptom of decadence to be scrupulously shunned. The Rev. Needham had a rather definite persuasion that all the people in the East inclined towards late rising. He had a theory that a day well begun was bound to end well. It didn't, as a matter of fact, so far as he was concerned--at least there was nothing at all dependable about it; but these collapses, these drab failures of the real to coincide with the ideal, these sloughings off from a kind of Platonic scheme of perfection, constituted what stood as perhaps the reverend gentleman's most distinguishing quality. Here was a man marked for a kind of almost rhythmic disaster. The wheel of life never ran smoothly, but kept bumping over sly pebbles of chagrin and disappointment. The Rev. Needham was like a Middle Age (or perhaps early Chinese) delinquent, strung up for chastisement, his arms pinioned to a beam overhead, and the mere points of his toes permitted to touch the ground. An inch or a few inches relaxed, and he would be all right. If he could only get his heels down! But that, alas, was just the trouble with the Rev. Needham: however dignified and calm he might appear externally, there never was, there never could seem to be, an entire and sincere consciousness of solid ground under his feet. Sometimes he would sigh: "Ah, at last!" But anon there would be a devilish tingling in the heels, which would remind him that they were still upreared. The poor man's destiny seemed eternally a thing suspended. It dangled and flopped, like a rope's end in nervous, persistent gusts. Anna Needham relinquished sleep at the hour specified by her spouse cheerfully, as a rule, though there were also occasions when raillery and even discreet rib-proddings entered into the program. Mrs. Needham was, of course, well inured to these regularities of routine, just as her very fibre was toughened and moulded to the ministerial caliber generally. Fundamentally, she was a person of slightly less strenuous tendencies than her husband. Anna Needham was the type of woman whose life is very largely shaped, as is her destiny largely determined, by the man with whom she lives. Her nature was naturally somewhat more amenable than his. Still, she had her distinct rebellions, too. She could take a stand of her own in an hour of crisis. The Rev. Needham's was a nature that did not weather storms any too well. Yes, in time of storms Anna was the more seaworthy. For one thing, perhaps, she had fewer ideals. Thus she did not experience quite such blasting shocks over upheavals and cataclysms. But it must be confessed that this apparent stability was touched, perhaps one might say, rather, a little diluted by a few parts moral or intellectual laziness. Comparative criticism of the Needhams, husband and wife, usually fell into two major divisions. There were, in other words, two factions: those who maintained she was less profound than he, and those who would insist that she had more common sense. But that they were economically well-mated seemed pretty generally accepted. It was a coalition in which appeared the very minimum of waste, since one was always ready (or in her case perhaps merely inclined) to shut off the spigot of the other's temperamental excesses. On this particular July morning there wasn't a hint of friction over the proposition of getting up. The Rev. Needham began his brisk, determined stretching at the first stroke of seven. Anna lay passive till the last stroke; but as the strident and spiteful clangour of the Dutch clock downstairs resolved back again into a monotonous though hardly less crabbed _tick_-tock, _tick_-tock, the lady yawned deeply and with just a concluding gurgle of relish. There was a guest already in the house, another guest on the way. Hostesses, however soft the bed, aren't likely to surrender to tempting inertia under such circumstances. As a matter of fact, the bed was not a very soft one. Or rather, it was very soft in places and very hard in others. Perhaps one of the enduring charms of small resort cottage life is the amusing inequality of things. The best and the worst hobnob. Lo, here is a true democracy! And virtues utterly commonplace in your urban ménage may very easily be given a most heavenly lustre in the wilderness. "Well, Anna," he said, in his best tone of fresh, early morning cheerfulness, "I guess it's time to get up." "Alf, you don't mean to tell me that was _seven_!" She had counted the strokes; but it was customary to have a little conversation about the time of day before arising: a sort of pleasant, innocuous tongue-limbering, a lubrication of the way to more important themes later on. Such gentle, indirect prevarications may perhaps be looked upon indulgently, even when, as in this case, they crop out in clerical families. The Rev. Needham proceeded to dress and shave. He was in a good, confident, substantial mood today; rose singing. The Rev. Needham was very apt to arise with song in his mouth, bravely defying the chance of his going to bed with a wail. This morning the selection was that fine old _Laudes Domini_ which seemed peculiarly appropriate, both fitting the hour and reflecting the joyous state of the singer's heart. "When morning gilds the skies My heart awaking cries: 'May Jesus Christ be praised!'" The Rev. Needham had a tenor voice of fair quality, though not altogether true of pitch. In the wilderness, so far from pipe organs, pitch however, dwindled to comparative unimportance. It was the _spirit_ of song that counted. Now, one might observe that in this hymn the Rev. Needham would come out very full and strong on the more purely ecstatic lines (such, for instance, as depict the spread of morning across the heavens, the awaking of a fervent heart, etc.), and that, almost invariably, those more climactic, particularly the more ecclesiastical, lines would issue a little muffled, as the singer found it urgent to immerse his head in the washbowl's morning plunge, or apply a towel vigorously, or perhaps bend suddenly over to lace up his shoes--by this movement naturally cutting down the egress of breath. They were subtly odd, these mufflings. It was almost as though Fate had determined sedulously to deny to this unfortunate man an indulgence in his very life-mission: praising his Maker! For another than he the intervals of competition might very easily have fallen less saliently. Yes, another would have found it possible to cloud over, if necessary, the heavenly gilding and would have been suffered to come out free, triumphant, on the diviner phrases. But not the Rev. Needham. No, alas, not he. It was a part of the Rev. Needham's destiny that the better and more satisfying arrangement of life must be withheld, or temporarily awarded only to be broken rudely off. Inquiry ought to pause here. Yes, it delicately and righteously and above all humanely ought. No, it ought not to lead one away, fiendishly to lure one on to a certain door in one of the three-quarters partitions, beyond which the slumber of a human being was giving place, at this stage, to the more irregular sounds signifying a return to consciousness. Ah, better to leave out altogether the thought of any mortal responsibility for the muffling; better to cling decently just to the adverseness of an obdurate Fate. And yet, the tenor of the conversation which now ensued between the Rev. Needham and his wife might favour the suspicion--let us call it by no stronger name--that the person beyond that door in the three-quarters partition _had_ something to do, however slightly, with the matter of vocal emphasis. "Anna," he asked softly, "do you suppose your sister's awake yet?" "I don't know, Alf. Perhaps I'd better go tap on her door." "Oh, well, I wouldn't disturb her just yet. Eliza is always late with breakfast." He sighed as he beat up the lather in his mug. "We can't expect things to run along quite as smoothly as when we're just by ourselves." "I told Marjie we made a practice of getting up at seven," said Mrs. Needham a little anxiously. She slipped a coloured silk petticoat over her head and tied its tape strings round her waist. Mrs. Needham was growing a bit stout. "She told me if I didn't hear her moving around I'd better tap on her door." "It's this air, I suppose, makes people sleep so," he remarked. And then he added, displaying a strong touch of nervousness in his tone: "I think, Anna, your sister is changed, somehow." "You think so, Alf? How?" "Well, I don't know. Perhaps it's our not being used to her after so many years." "You may be right, Alf. But she talked real sensibly to me yesterday. We had quite a long talk in the afternoon, while you and Hilda were out after berries. She seems real sensible, Alf. Of course she does say things--" "Yes, she makes remarks, Anna, that I could rather prefer our girls not to hear." "You mean like what she said at dinner about the natives of Tahulamaji?" "Yes--things like that." And then he confessed with a nervous little gesture: "I can't seem to figure out where Marjory stands any more. She talks with a freedom.... Anna, I don't think I ever heard any one talk just the way Marjory does." "You mean--about religion, Alf?" "Well," he resumed, "it may be her way. But I can't say I ever knew a woman to talk like that. I think Marjory's very good-hearted. She no doubt means the best in the world. But somehow...." He turned toward his mate, poising the razor in the air. He looked, without of course suspecting it, almost terrible. But he went on with merely the same inflection of nervous timidity: "Anna, there are times when I suspect she doesn't believe the way we do any more." "Oh, Alf--do you mean--is it as though she'd gone into some other church?" "Well, I don't know." He resumed his shaving in a troubled, fidgety way. "Alf," she said solemnly, standing in the centre of the room with her hands on her hips, where they paused in the act of adjusting the band of her skirt, "Alf, you--you don't think she isn't a _Christian_ any more?" The Rev. Needham nervously cut himself a little. He laid down the razor with a startled sigh. "Anna," said he, "how do _I_ know? If it _is_ true, then it's one of the things I've always dreaded so--having atheism break out right in the family!" "Oh, Marjory _can't_ be one of those people!" her sister cried earnestly. "Alf, we ought not to judge her so harshly. She's lived in foreign countries so long that I suppose she's kind of gotten into new ways of speaking. She talked so sensibly yesterday, Alf--I kept wishing you could have been there to have heard." "Well, Anna," he said quietly, "Marjory's your sister, and, whatever the facts, naturally I've nothing to say." "You try and have a good talk with her, Alf. I never felt you two understood each other very well. She don't talk so flippantly when there aren't other people around. I'll fix it so you two can be alone together. Oh, Alf," she concluded, almost piteously, "Marjie may have gone into another church, but I _can't_ believe she's drifted any farther!" "I hope not, Anna." He tried to speak with an air of charitable calm; but the impression conveyed seemed rather that a disturbance of his own convictions was troubling his heart than that he was primarily moved with concern over his sister-in-law's spiritual well-being. All persons with whom he came in contact influenced the Rev. Needham. They influenced him one way or another, however transiently. In fact, when it came to that, there was seldom what one would call any really permanent influence exerted. Contacts with life merely kept him hopping back and forth or up and down. They augmented, were perhaps more largely than anything else responsible for, the poor man's perpetual inner unrest. He could not seem to settle down to cool, steady views; could not feel his soul impregnably at peace. But then, in this regard he seemed, though perhaps in a rather acutely pointed fashion, logical fruit of his time. To be, for the moment, quite ruthless in one's musing upon him, what would the world say if it could really pry into the tumultuous inner consciousness of the Rev. Needham? Might the world call him melodramatic, stagy? Could it actually be brought against this minister that he was, in a sense, theatrical? What a blow--and at the same time what a terrific coup of irony; for the Rev. Needham would be the very first himself to cry out against any such trait as staginess! Staginess, he would say, must certainly have something to do with the so-called "culture." But the world could never bring this charge against the Rev. Needham, because the world, one realizes with an instinctively grateful sigh, was denied the license of prying inside. No, to the world this minister appeared a being not essentially removed from the usual run of beings. The world by no means thought of him as a Chinese or Dark Age delinquent strung up for punishment in such a manner that his heels were perpetually off the floor. He might not, perhaps, strike people as a man of intense and dynamic, of unfailingly clean-cut personal persuasions about religion--or, for that matter, perhaps, about anything else in life. Nevertheless, he scarcely stood out as vivid or eccentric; scarcely like a sore thumb; because nobody realized what he was really like inside. But now, to return to cases, here was Marjory, his wife's own sister, lodged right under his roof; and she baffled him. He couldn't deny it--could not get away from it. Yes, she _baffled_ him. He felt nervous in her presence. Sometimes when she would laugh, or look at him in a certain way, it seemed to him--it seemed to him--why, as though he didn't know where he stood any more.... Marjory Whitcom was his sister-in-law, one of the family; and at his own hearthside, somehow, he could not feel quite free. He could not feel cheery and at ease. And dimly it troubled the Rev. Needham to realize that he felt this way. 5 That Miss Whitcom was indeed up and stirring became evident. They heard her gaily calling out to Hilda, who was coming up the stairs. "Dear child, see here a minute!" Two doors opened then: hers, briskly wide; the Rev. Needham's a furtive crack. "Yes, Aunt Marjie?" "Honey, there isn't any water in my pitcher--would you mind ...?" "Oh, I'll fill it right away for you, Aunt Marjie!" "Only half full, honey. I'd slip out myself to the pump, only I'm afraid of shocking Eliza with my wrapper!" "I won't be gone a minute, Aunt Marjie!" She took the pitcher, extended by means of a plump bare arm, and sped off with it. "Alf," said Mrs. Needham, "I forgot to tell Eliza the pitcher would have to be filled every day." "I suspect Marjory is a bit wasteful of water," he observed. Here at the Point there was water, water everywhere; yet the Needhams employed far less of the fluid in their daily toilets than they did in the town. This is perhaps not infrequently the case at summer resorts of the more primitive kind, where one attains the frugal attitude generally. Then, too, having to go out to a pump for water alters its preciousness. Besides, as all the Needhams would argue: "We go in bathing so often." So the pitchers weren't refilled _every_ day. They were generally refilled about two or three times a week. Miss Whitcom's pitcher, however, would have to be put in a class by itself. That was only too clear. The Rev. Needham tied his cravat before the dresser glass. A few tiny drops of perspiration stood out on his forehead. "Yes," he sighed, "it does upset things some." "What say, Alf?" asked Anna, who was bending over an ancient trunk in which clean linen was kept. "I say, Eliza will just have to get used to filling her pitcher every morning." "I guess so," agreed Mrs. Needham, straightening, her face flushed. She held a fresh towel in her hand, which he eyed with glancing suspicion. "I got to thinking," explained his wife. "Perhaps she's used to having a clean towel every morning, too." The minister compressed his lips almost imperceptibly as she went to her sister's door, the towel over her arm. Hilda, with the pitcher of water, arrived at the same moment, so that mother and daughter stood with their respective burdens on Aunt Marjie's threshold, and even spoke together, like rival hucksters proclaiming their wares. "Gracious!" cried the favoured lady, opening her door and accepting the alms. "Such magnificent service! Anna," she added, "don't you let me put you out. I can easily live on the view. You really don't know what this means, after being cooped up in a place like Tahulamaji!" Miss Whitcom was tall, and rather fine looking. She was a trifle taller, for instance, than her brother-in-law, and had a way, when any discussion with him was in progress, of standing up quite close to the minister, so that she created the illusion, a little, of towering over him. She was not, of course, actually a great deal taller, but how one could make the sly inch count at such times! Her sister looked almost dumpy beside her. "I suppose," observed Mrs. Needham, "you do feel kind of cooped up in those foreign places." That phrase of hers "foreign places," was in the nature of a stock term. It was expansive, elastic, comprehensive. She spoke of foreign places a little as her husband spoke of the East or of "culture." Neither had travelled any to speak of. In a sort of whimsical way it seemed to Mrs. Needham that one might expect to find Bombay and Peking supporting much the same conditions of life. Or even Dublin and Rome, for that matter. "I don't suppose," she added, "there's anything like this where you've been." "I should emphatically say _not_," her sister assured her. "At Rato-muh--that's the capital, you know--we've nothing but a dirty little river. I'm dying for a glorious swim!" "We go bathing nearly every afternoon, Aunt Marjie," Hilda announced. "You do? Well, I'm with you!" She was just a trifle loud. "Do there happen to be any convenient islands one could swim out to?" "Oh, no, Aunt Marjie, there aren't," replied the girl regretfully, almost with a touch of naïve apology. "Well, no matter. You can always swim round in a circle, of course. Only I do like having a definite goal." And then she paused a moment, even suspending her toilet; for having a goal--hadn't that been, with almost amusing steadfastness, her aim all through life? Of course, it was quite true: there had been perhaps a hundred goals, all told; but each, in its own way, and at its own time, had seemed the golden, final one. And always so incorrigibly _definite_. She had gone vibrantly and humorously on from one pursuit to another, determination taking multiple form. And yet there appeared now to have been, all along, just one permanent and unswerving determination: not to marry O'Donnell. Miss Whitcom sighed briefly and went on hooking herself up. "Speaking of swimming," she continued. "I won a gold medal once. Yep. A very long time ago." "A medal for swimming, Aunt Marjie?" The aunt nodded. "I entered a five-mile endurance and time. Entered against thirteen men, and got there first!" "Oh, how _wonderful_!" cried Hilda admiringly. "Yes, it was wonderful," the other admitted; then frowned. "The only trouble was that I had my subsequent doubts of its being really fair." Mrs. Needham, who had been standing in the doorway, a faint and musing smile on her lips, received the news of the swimming match with a hurried comment about having to go down and see how Eliza was getting on with breakfast. She was always, and especially with Alfred in mind, mildly shocked at the glib way in which her sister talked about men. "How do you mean it wasn't fair, Aunt Marjie?" demanded little Hilda, sitting down eagerly on the edge of the bed. "Came to suspect one of them." "One of the men?" "Um-hm." "Of _cheating_, Aunt Marjie?" "Um. Turning lazy at the finish." "You mean he let you win?" "Afraid so, Hilda." "But I've heard papa say that women ought to be treated...." "That men ought to go lazy at the finish and let you pull in ahead?" "Of course papa never put it _that_ way. I don't believe he knows about women going into regular contests like that, with men." "I daresay not, Hilda. Such things wouldn't conspicuously have entered into Alfred's training." "What did you do when you found out about it, Aunt Marjie?" "What do you mean--when I'd convinced myself he hadn't played fair?" "Yes." "Sent him the medal." She shrugged. "You _did_!" "Um. It belonged to him, not me. Yes, sir--it went right straight off to him, with a polite note. The note was terribly polite. I told him I hoped he'd get just lots of comfort out of it. Real, solid comfort." And she snorted with wrath. "_Then_ what did he say, Aunt Marjie?" "Then he said--say, look here, Hilda, what _is_ your capacity for asking questions?" "Oh, I'm sorry, Aunt Marjie! I didn't realize how many I was asking." And she really was sorry. Nevertheless, her eyes continued to shine very brightly. Aunt Marjie had a stimulating effect on Hilda--Hilda being just at the age of hero-worship. This age, in the life of the individual, is somewhat akin to the prehistoric age in human history; it bristles with ever such fabulous things. And the only natural thing to do when one encounters fabulous things is to ask as many questions about them as one can think of. But Marjory Whitcom hadn't, as a matter of fact, spoken with any dominant impatience. She had asked Hilda's capacity for questions in a spirit of ridicule which, in a conscious sense of boomerang satire, amply included her own loquacious self. And yet, for all that, there was a slight flush on her face. What brought the flush there? Ah, there are deep things in the human heart. The flush lasted quite a long time. Indeed, it had hardly faded out altogether when she was seated with the family at breakfast. The Rev. Needham asked the blessing in a faintly grim manner. He spoke it off with a defiant assurance. His sister-in-law, he had just been deciding, _wasn't_ to intimidate him at his own table. He kept his eyes tight shut and spoke on almost doggedly. There were a number of graces in the minister's repertory. He was in the habit of using now one, now another. This morning, though the choice was, of course, as always, entirely spontaneous and unconscious, he chose the shortest of them all. Breakfast was simple and bountiful. The Needhams were rather hearty eaters. There was no stomach trouble in the family, although very strong emotions had, naturally, the same effect on them as on most people. Following Louise's affair with Richard, as they remembered it, the unhappy girl had eaten almost nothing for months--or it certainly was weeks--and had grown extremely thin. In fact, during the first week following the sad climax _none_ of the Needhams had eaten quite normally, except little Hilda. She, only a child of twelve then, came up regularly enough for second helpings, despite her sister's trouble and the general depression of the household. Childhood is, when not perverted, a blessed span, the heart seeming to stand entirely out of touch with any of the homelier and more prosaic organs. This morning there were wild raspberries--early ones, and not very large--which the Rev. Needham and his younger daughter had themselves gathered in the woods and along the sunny roadways the afternoon previous, while Marjory was conversing sensibly with her sister. After the fruit came a cooked cereal, which Mrs. Needham was annoyed to find a trifle lumpy. And then after that there followed pancakes--pancakes, pancakes--_hundreds_, it seemed, coming in three at a time, which was the griddle's limit. Just subsequent to the blessing, Aunt Marjie occasioned a very slight flurry in the domestic arrangements by asking Anna if she might have a glass of hot water. "I'm supposed to drink it now," she explained, "before each meal. It's living so long in the tropics, I suppose." Mrs. Needham tinkled the bell for Eliza, and glanced, half unconsciously, at her husband. The Rev. Needham, it is to be feared, was growing rather opinionated about his wife's sister. There is, when one stops to view the matter wholly without passion, nothing really criminal in the request for a glass of hot water, just as there is nothing essentially felonious about using all the water you want up in your room. Of course, in such places as deserts it may often be essential to employ circumspection; but scarcely on Point Betsey, where there lay the vast resources of Lake Michigan behind even an extravagant indulgence. And as for having the water hot, well, what are kettles for? One poises the issue. Still, of course, such implications as these are hardly fair to the Rev. Needham, who was animated by no real spirit of parsimoniousness at all, but who merely disliked seeing vaguely devastated the quiet, orderly routine of the house. To tell the truth, while he didn't honestly grudge her the water, the clergyman looked upon his sister-in-law as something of an intruder. However legitimate it might be--and of course nobody could possibly deny that Marjory had a perfect right to be here in their midst--intrusion still was intrusion. The trouble was, he distrusted--all but feared her. And when men fear others, they will often be found taking exception to minor failings, real or fancied, which a sometimes surprisingly acute vigilance discovers in those who inspire their fear. The Rev. Needham, however, _said_ nothing: merely pressed his lips together, as he had previously done before the mirror upstairs when informed that his relative would have to have her pitcher refilled every morning. It was these repressions which permitted the world at large no too salient suspicion of what was really going on inside. A pleasant, wholly unremarkable conversation was kept up. It wasn't the sort of talk to invite preservation, but was, on the contrary, just a normal and uneventful flow. True, there seemed an unwonted excitement in the air. The day upon which Mr. Barry was to arrive must necessarily be considered a red-letter day, and might even be expected, in a sense, to deliver up talk of some special brilliance. But to tell the truth, the great event had already been discussed in all its possible phases and from all conceivable angles, there remaining at length absolutely nothing but for Mr. Barry to put in an appearance. Throughout breakfast the Rev. Needham maintained as consistent an attitude of dignified prosperity, beneficence, common sense, and scrupulously informal godliness as possible. Above all, he tried in his demeanour to emphasize an unobtrusive yet firm head-of-the-house bearing--and indeed succeeded, for the most part, so well as almost to persuade himself that he _was_ master of his destiny, after all; that his life was growing more solid, more dependable now. Hilda, of course, chattered a great deal, after her wont, acquainting her hearers, for one thing, with as full an account of Louise's early departure as seemed politic. She blushed, mentioning Leslie. Miss Whitcom noted that: noted it and sighed. It was obvious the blush was no accident. Another young thing, just starting out; the rough and not always so romantic world ahead of her--and boy-crazy! Marjory Whitcom sighed again. So futile, she told herself. But another valuation just slipped in: so sweet! Toward the end of the meal, the pancake process, hitherto quite smooth and regular, hitched very badly. No fresh cakes came in, and the supply on the table dwindled alarmingly. The Rev. Needham affected not to notice this. The management of the household, thank heaven! was not on his shoulders. His burdens were the weightier and more important _family_ matters--aside, that is, from the business of tending to his own rather unmanageable soul and looking after his flock. There was a great difference between household matters and family matters; pancakes were not in his department; so that, not being himself responsible for the present embarrassment, he could afford to keep up a very good and cheerful front indeed, even when his eyes assured him the kitchen door hadn't opened for fully five minutes. Mrs. Needham flushed. She always grew more or less excited when there was a break like this in the table service. As concerned her own plate, she, of course, stopped eating, directly it began to look as though the supply of cakes on the table could not possibly survive till there was a reinforcement from the griddle. She nibbled heroically at the cake already unavoidably on her plate, and suddenly began talking with great animation. Anna had always felt, obscurely yet unhappily, that her sister did not consider her a really expert housekeeper. In the old days, before weddings and deaths had disintegrated the family, it had always been Marjory who could do things best and most handily. She had seemed a very prize of domestic efficiency. Every one said Marjory would be married off first. There were even unkind asides to the effect that Anna would probably linger on and perhaps eventually run into perpetual maidenhood. Ah, the queer pranks of life! Anna had been carried off first, after all; and Marjory, the acknowledged flower, had gone all these years unplucked. Anna Needham was always anxious to make a good household impression on her sister. Of course, many sorts of allowances would be made up here at the Point. Still, there seemed no valid reason why the cakes should cease coming in. At last she tinkled her bell. She tinkled it resolutely. Her husband had just helped Miss Whitcom to the last cake. Hilda still had unmistakably a hungry look. Eliza opened the kitchen door and thrust in her head. "Did you ring, ma'am?" "Yes, Eliza, I did. We would like some more cakes." "Yes, ma'am." Eliza withdrew her head and closed the door. But while it yet remained within their view, the face of Eliza had something dark and ominous in it. They heard her making desperate sounds about the stove. One minute, two. Mrs. Needham grew more and more excited. She talked loudly and steadily. The Rev. Needham sat with his hands on the arms of his chair, like a statue of patience. Presently, however, he began to drum with his fingers. Miss Whitcom, realizing the dilemma, adjusted herself to it--made the last cake go a wonderfully long way. Finally Mrs. Needham pushed back her chair, excused herself hurriedly, and went out into the kitchen, the retreat being valiantly covered by her sister, who began telling her brother-in-law fresh tribal characteristics of the people of Tahulamaji. Out in the smudge of the kitchen Anna Needham faced her cook. "What is the _matter_, Eliza?" Eliza was hot and hopeless. She pointed to the griddle upon which were three cakes, still quite pasty, and which had obviously ceased baking. "What is the matter with the stove, Eliza?" "It must be the oil is all gone, ma'am." "But I thought there was plenty to last until the morning delivery from the store." "Well, ma'am, when I came down I found two burners going, and there was the remains of breakfast on the table. Did Louise go away somewhere early?" Eliza called the Needham girls quite simply by their first names. She might have honoured them by saying Miss Louise and Miss Hilda. But she hadn't begun that way. She hadn't done that at her last place, nor at any of the other places which constituted her Middle Western retrospect as a domestic; and Anna, in such comparatively unimportant matters as this, found it less frictional to let instruction slide. Louise had flown, leaving the burners on; there would be no more pancakes for the remaining Needhams and their guest. The Rev. Needham sighed, and somehow felt that the day was not beginning so very well. However, Marjory began laughing in a singularly hearty way. "It reminds me," she grinned, "of something in an old melodrama I saw years and years ago at an impossible little theatre. The 'comic relief' was a tramp, whose weakness was the flask. He pretended, as I recall it, to have palpitations of the heart, or something like that, and at one stage of the proceedings went into a series of alarming spasms, each of which would be instantly allayed by a swig from a flask belonging to one of the other characters. The other character dared not refuse the flask, for fear of fatal consequences, but eyed its diminishing contents with profound regret. How well do I remember! At length the tramp, in one of his worst spasms, was informed that the whiskey was all gone; whereupon he very decently revived, looked out at the audience soberly, and said, in his most mirth-provoking tones: 'Thank heavens there was just enough!'" The Rev. Needham, as they left the table, looked at her in a half startled way. These stories of hers were never in actually questionable taste, yet they somehow contrived to upset him. There seemed to be always something just behind them which might, as it were, spring out. It was such he seemed to fear most of all: the things in life that might spring out. "Hilda," said Aunt Marjie, still chuckling over the whole affair, "did you tell me Louise had a young man in the kitchen with her?" "Yes, it was Leslie. But Aunt Marjie ...!" "Ah, then that explains it!" "Oh, but Aunt Marjie, Leslie isn't the one. You see, Louise is _engaged_!" "She is?" demanded the lady more seriously, yet mockingly, too, as though the communication represented fresh news. "Well, then"--for Miss Whitcom refused to be daunted--"the empty burners are no doubt all the better accounted for, Hilda." She laughed again. Then she put her hands on Hilda's young shoulders. "Hilda," she said with great solemnity, "are you quite _sure_ Leslie isn't the one?" Hilda blushed, and did not look squarely at her aunt, but instead a little bit beyond her. "Oh, _yes_!" she cried softly. 6 The first sunlit hours of the day fully realized the brave promise of the dawn. The air was fresh and delicious, though inclined to sultriness as one travelled inland away from the coast. The song of the locust was shrill in the trees. Louise's way took her a good distance from sea and then brought her back to it again, circumlocutionary travel being one of the features of Point Betsey existence. It might fantastically resolve itself into a paradox: to go an inch you must go a mile. Her destination was the town of Frankfort, situated about four miles south of the great stone light-house and the cottages on the Point. The distance could easily be covered on foot, the pedestrian taking his way along the smooth curving beach of the "Big Lake." But Louise was rather a poor walker. She preferred to lie in a hammock, or, if ground _must_ be covered, to depend as largely as possible upon artificial locomotion. Those who declined to walk and had no motor, must, to reach Frankfort, enlist the respective conveyance of boat and train--an almost complicated journey. There was a regular passenger ferry running on Crystal Lake, back and forth between the resorts on the west shore and the village of Beulah. This ferry boat, propelled by gasoline, was called the _Pathfinder_--a name always preparing passengers new to the route for unimagined nautical adventure. Passengers seemed cheerfully and nonchalantly asked quite to take their lives in their hands, or rather, which might be even worse, to sign them over entirely into the precarious keeping of the boat's owner-pilot-engineer-and-fare-collector. And yet, after all, there was nothing so very terrifying about a trip from one end of Crystal Lake to the other. On the _Pathfinder_ Louise would doubtless have travelled this morning but for the fact that the official ferry service was never to be depended upon at so early an hour. Absence of competition had led to a really deplorable state of independence, so that Leslie's little boat was indeed a blessing at such times, in spite of its general decrepitude. He escorted her, as we have seen, the first nine miles of her journey, due east, away from Lake Michigan. Then the train carried her nine miles back again, though somewhere in the proceeding the four miles separating Frankfort and Point Betsey were annihilated. The journey consumed something like an hour and a half. Louise stepped out of the dilapidated coach. The station stood within a few rods of the seashore--a situation once accommodating the convenience of an enormous summer hotel, which a few years previous had taken fire and vanished in smoke. With it had vanished also the fondest hopes of the town. However, the ornate railroad terminus still stood just where it had stood during the days of glory. Thank God it was spared, for it had about it a relative magnificence which the impoverished hamlet could ill afford to lose. It might, of course, be more centrally located; still, there was a kind of grace in its sad vigil. Miss Needham, with considerable time to waste, surveyed the age-softened ruins of the vast hotel and quite cheerfully revived, for her amusement, memories of the time when she was Hilda's age and used to come here to dancing parties and occasional dinners with her family. She paced up and down upon what had once been the walk leading grandly to the hotel from the wharves and the railroad station. Now the way was rank with grass and weeds. Ah, yes. She had promenaded here in that long-ago time, nor had she walked alone, as she was walking now. Oh, no. And a slight flush, even after all these years, crept into her face as she remembered Harold Gates. Yes, he had walked beside her here, and they had talked together of many things, and laughed a great deal. How she had laughed in the old days! How gay they were! And over there on the channel pier, close to the bowling alley, she had let Harold kiss her, also. Before the summer was over she had let him kiss her rather a good many times. Of course they did not really _love_ each other. They were only just awfully good friends. Harold was residing in the hotel with his parents. Louise only saw him when the Rev. Needham decided they would go in to town and dine. Harold kept promising that he would come out to the Point some day and see her, but he never came. Oh, yes--how memories swarm back, once the tide of their return has set in! Yes, once he did come; but it was only as a member of a picnic party from the hotel. They brought baskets with them and had a fine revel on the beach, quite near the Needham cottage. In the evening they built a fire. But Louise saw her hero only for a moment on that occasion, after all. They walked down the dark beach a little way, and he put his arm around her, and she let him kiss her; but when he said he had to go back to the fire again, there was naturally nothing to do but let him go. The trouble was, he seemed to have a special girl in the picnic party on whom his attentions must be lavished. So young, yet already such a dashing man of the world! But for Louise it wasn't very satisfying. "What a fool I was!" she cried to herself, almost angrily, even at this comfortable distance. And then she laughed: "What a _silly_ little fool!" Harold Gates was all nicely married and settled down now; a Chicago girl, and they had a baby. Harold had mailed her a postcard with the baby's picture on it, and across the bottom of the picture he had written, in his firm business hand: "Merry Christmas from the three Gates." Was it not strongly to be doubted whether Harold at length even remembered how lover-like they had been that summer, he and she? Well, it was rather to be hoped he didn't remember; and yet, with a queer little pang for just a moment, Louise thought she couldn't endure his having _entirely_ forgotten.... Well, she had certainly been free enough with her affections in those days! Yes, she had been very free. As Louise quitted the ruins (which had an odd, symbolic aspect this morning) and wandered off along the beach, snatches of the prodigality of her past flared up, distressing her, thrilling her a little, filling her heart with gloomy though not exactly acute aversion. Ah, she thought, the kisses that had been spent in vain! And yet they had not seemed entirely in vain at the time--not all of them, at any rate. From a glancing inventory of those more trifling indulgences of her early days, she soared to the vastly more vital affair with Richard. That, indeed, was different. Yes, that was another matter altogether. Richard was her first real lover. The others were mere boy-sweet-hearts, or they were, like Harold Gates, just awfully good friends. Richard had always seemed mature to her: a _man_. She had always felt herself a woman in his presence. Their affair, wretchedly as it had turned out, was undeniably animated by the love that flashes between men and women. It had a new tenseness, a new dizziness, a new depth. It was magnificent and gripping; had the true ring of authority and surrender in it. Yes, it was a thing of intense intoxication, and maintained, so far, at least, as she was concerned, an unfaltering white heat. "And yet--for him," she told herself as she walked close beside the little waves, "it wasn't like that. No, it couldn't have been, even--even during those wonderful times, when we...." And she flushed, as though not even solitude were an utterly dependable guardian of her crimson thoughts. She lowered her eyes, lest impartial nature suddenly be caught up into an impersonation which should cry shame against her. Oh, yes. She had given her whole heart to Richard. Almost, almost.... She shuddered. "What a terrible thing it is!" she told herself. "What a terrible thing, being deceived in a man! But how is one to know? How can one always tell?" Ah, how indeed? She went on a little way, thinking darkly and arriving nowhere. "And yet," she wavered, a look of intenser and clearer pain drifting into her eyes, "he was--so dear! Ah...." If Richard were suddenly to come toward her out of the past; if he were to come toward her here, along this brown beach; if he should hold out his arms to her and bid her to come back.... No, no! She clasped her hands, for it was all so real. "No, no," she whispered. "I would not go back. I would not _dare_ go back." She had seen him coming toward her many times in fancy, stretching out his arms to her, speaking to her after his wont. And she had learned to play out her prohibiting side of the terrible ordeal so faithfully, so often, that at length the only emotion she felt was that sense of dullness that goes with things which are irrevocable. "No, Richard," she would say. "I gave myself to you once. You might have had me then. But not now. It is too late." She would dismiss him, calmly and sorrowfully; would permit her tongue to utter no words other than these. And yet.... She walked slowly along, pondering her life. What changes had come with the years! What changes! Now her heart was given to another man. This was another sort of love, another sort altogether. Lynndal and Richard were so unlike! Louise wondered whether the love of any two men could be so strikingly unlike as she saw the love of Richard and of Lynndal to be. Indeed, it rather pleased her, as she set them off, one against the other, that the distinction should be so great. It seemed to argue an indeterminate yet quite thrilling variety in herself--not of course, a mere vulgar facility in shifting or adapting herself to types as chance flitted them across her horizon--ah, no!--but a real sense of _understanding_, a genius for grasping the salient elements in many men, a cleverness in appraising their worth. She bolstered her troubled and ghost-ridden heart. Lynndal was the opposite of Richard, in every way--in every way, that is, except that he, too, loved her. No, she would say in _every_ way, for she knew now that Richard had never really cared, while Lynndal, that was certain, cared very deeply and enduringly. Her heart quickened now as she thought of her lover. She began reviving, in a happy, drifting way, the slender accumulation of noteworthy items in their romance, hers and Lynndal's: thought of their first meeting, in the lobby of the hotel in Arizona, when she was with her father on one of his infrequent "business" trips. The Rev. Needham owned a little property in the great dry-farming district of Arizona. "This is my good friend Mr. Barry," her father had said. And she had said she was pleased to make his acquaintance, and she had given him her gloved hand. She had thought little about him at the time. And that, perhaps more tellingly than anything else, argued the palpable differences. For Richard she had loved at first sight. He had captured her, madly and hopelessly, alas, quite at the outset. Not so Lynndal. Oh, no. Louise was much given to musing and contemplation of this sort, which often took, as now, an odd conversational expression. "I didn't love Lynndal at all, in the first place," she told herself, as though this were the first really definite understanding of the case. "I didn't begin to care until the week was half over. But I saw _he_ cared. I knew that I attracted _him_ from the beginning." And then she left the beach and strolled up into the village. Three couples passed by, arm in arm, youth and maiden, going for a promenade on the pier. They deported themselves in just the customary Middle Western summer resort manner. The couple ahead would confer in whispers. Then a simultaneous laugh would disturb the lazy stillness of the street. And then it might be that the girl would turn as she walked and whisper something in the ear of the girl behind her, who would laugh out also, at whatever it was the young man ahead had originally confided to his partner. And the companion of this second young lady would look bored and very much left out, while perhaps the young man behind him might mockingly exclaim that secrets in company weren't polite. Then the next minute all six would be singing the chorus of some contemporary rag. And when that was done there would be another chorus. Or else the young lady ahead would shout back to the young lady in the rear and demand of her in tones of such vehemence that they could be shared by all the town, whether she'd heard from John yet--or Harry or Jim or Robert, as the case might be. Whereupon the young man in the middle, who had been mocked by the young man in the rear, would very likely turn and grin, feeling, if rather obscurely, that the frivolous odds of the hour were now more evenly distributed. Louise glanced at these careless, gay young persons as they passed, and a feeling of comfortable security crept into her heart. "Well, I'm glad I'm past all _that_!" she thought with a sigh. "They all act this way at one time or another, and it's certainly a blessing when it's over!" She turned and looked after the noisy spooners as they bent their steps toward the pier. Suddenly, it seemed for no reason at all, she thought of Leslie. He seemed, quite vividly, to be right here beside her for a moment. It was ever so curious. She wondered why she should think of him so vividly just at this moment. Presently it occurred to her the reason was simply that Leslie, though so young, wasn't boisterous and silly, like the hoodlums she had just passed. No, she could not fancy his ever having behaved like that in his life. Nor could she conceive of his having yet to go through any such gauche, vapid period. With her he had always been very serious. Of course, she was a little older. But Leslie's whole nature was serious, she argued, and somehow--somehow _deep_. She was in the mood now, perversely, to do him the most elaborate justice. Yes, she thought he might be called, in a way, really deep. Certainly she had never known any one like him. She did not, just then, consider that she had never known any one just like Richard, either, when it came to that--or even any one like Harold Gates. All she could seem to think of, for the moment, was that Leslie had come to fill a unique place in her life. A feeling of tenderness crept upon her. Yes, they had grown intimate during the short span of their acquaintance. She had been rather lavish. It was Leslie's first summer on the Point. Vaguely she wished it might all have been otherwise, that he might have come into her life sooner, or that.... Ah, what was it she wanted? His voice seemed suddenly ringing in her ears, as it had rung when he cried: "Friends!" And she sighed. Oh, Eros, wicked god! She is waiting for one lover, and you torment her with others! You revive for her sweet, irrevocable loves of the past, when one would think the present love enough.... 7 Louise looked at her watch. It was half past seven. The day was clear and beautiful. Out against the marine horizon stood a ship. That must be Lynndal's. It would be in at eight. She decided she would stroll down the length of the main street and then return to the wharf. Although the hour was still so early, the little town displayed about as much life as it ever did. There were women with baskets on their arms, examining produce displayed in the few shops where supplies were procurable. There were carefree resorters already about, enjoying a freshness which must soon evaporate under the scourge of the mounting sun. The main street boasted a good many quaint little curio shops, which somehow managed to do a living business. A typical drowsy Northern Michigan small town--not much of a town, yet of course infinitely better than no town at all. Louise, as she walked down the one business street of the place, scarcely looked to right or left. She knew every nook and angle of the town--at least so she believed. Having come up now so many summers, wasn't it reasonable to suppose that one would eventually exhaust all the slender resources of a place like this? And yet, had her eyes been really open she would perhaps have been amazed to behold spread about her a wealth of life undreamed of. Something rich and new in _Frankfort_? Yes, possibly even here. For those individuals in aprons, weighing out sugar and measuring potatoes so humbly, are not, as a matter of fact, mere shop fixtures, as they have always seemed. The clerk at the soda fountain, who will cheerfully dish up ice cream for the hoodlums when they return hot and famished from their walk on the pier, has, after all, other interests in life than syrups and fizz--unimportant, it may be, yet interests, nevertheless. Yon fat and shabby patriarch, who sits so calmly all day long tilted back in a red armchair outside the drygoods store, is something more, at least potentially, than a painted barber's pole. Inside the drygoods store, although Miss Needham has overlooked her, is the old man's grand-daughter, busily working, dreaming. She works hard all summer so she can go to school winters in Grand Rapids. She has a sweetheart in Grand Rapids, who is taking a business course; they are planning to be married sometime in the sweet by-and-bye. But one with the enormous and stirring preoccupations of Louise Needham could hardly be expected to look on life with open eyes, or, so to say, analytically. Appreciations must bow and conform. A breezy, impressionistic sort of synthesis is the background such a mentally and emotionally active person seems inevitably to evolve. As it was with the sunrise, so was it also with the people of the world not personally bound up in her destiny. It really wasn't a deliberate narrowness, but simply a sensible recognition of time's limitations. Certainly the living of one's own personal life must always count first. Reminiscent and dreaming, she passed down the street, while out at sea the steamer drew closer and closer. In one gaily decorated shop window was displayed an array of summer fiction: alluring titles, with often most astonishing jackets--all the season's best sellers, backed up by certain surviving relics of bygone seasons. There were actually volumes in this window (though now badly faded and of course occupying appropriately inferior positions) which had been the avowed, the lauded best sellers during that summertime, long flown, when Louise and Harold Gates indulged in so free an interchange of kisses. There had been, as a matter of fact, rather a profusion of kisses in the best sellers that year, also: how true they were, after all, to life--that best of all best sellers! Miss Needham paused before the window. Her eyes were irresistibly drawn to examine the miscellany, fruitage of so many seasons, badges of so much smart selling. In the midst of the conglomeration she spied a certain volume, modest in title and hue as compared with some of the others, though still extravagant enough of text, which Leslie had been telling her about. It was a long historical novel, and Leslie had expressed himself as well pleased with it. He hadn't, as a matter of downright fact, read the book all through, but had skimmed along, omitting all descriptions and the pages where the author philosophized about life. But he had captured the gist of the story, and had retold it to Louise one afternoon while they strolled together in delicious solitude through Lovers' Lane. And she had promised him she would read the book some time and give him her opinion--it going without saying that her opinion, at least to him, would be of moment. Louise was no great reader--certainly not an inveterate reader of long historical novels. Nevertheless, as her eye now encountered it nestling there in the window, a sudden caprice swept her right inside the shop. It was a most amazing thing, but the next moment she found herself telling the clerk she wished to purchase the volume. And then--he fished it out. The clerk, it must be communicated--a man, by the way, with all sorts of interesting and even enthralling human complexes which Louise did not dream of suspecting, since she knew the town so well--was rather surprised that his early morning customer should desire this particular book rather than some of the more gripping things: _Diana's Secret_, for instance, which was easily one of the most successful works ever exploited in Frankfort. However, since he had long ago given up all hope of ever selling the historical romance, and since he expected to run out of _Diana_ copies before the season was ended, the clerk naturally offered no comment upon her choice. Covertly blowing a little dust off the book she had asked for, he wrapped it up, and handed it over the counter. Louise was by this time mildly self-reproachful. "How silly of me to walk right in like that and buy it!" she sighed. "With the money--let's see. What could I have bought instead ...?" But however nimbly her mind might exert itself in estimating the complete badness of her bargain, the book went under her arm. Just a kind of giddy, final fling, she argued. As she proceeded on her way, the girl kept assuring herself that the embrace of the historic romance was decidedly more playful than serious. It would be amusing later on--oh, perhaps a great deal later on--to show Leslie she had been as good as her word. Possibly she might actually _read_ the book--who could tell?--just to please him. Poor Les! After all, he was only a boy. She was two years his senior. It would be foolish of them to think of each other, even were her heart perfectly free. "Of course it's all right," she said, "for us to be the finest sort of friends; but it must stop there. If I'd guessed how serious a thing it was going to turn out for him I'd have seen it wasn't right to let him think he had any chance...." This, to tell the truth, tended to put it all rather more satisfactorily than had hitherto seemed possible. She was quite pleased, in fact, for it left her in the attitude of repeating "Poor Les!" Well, yes, she had thrown him over, she admitted--in a certain sense. But only in a sense; and anyway it had to be so. However shallow her reasoning might often appear to others--however often it might fail of horizon--Miss Needham was herself seldom conscious of the slightest insincerity at the time. She had inherited, it is true, a certain intellectual shiftiness from the parent most afflicted with a similar disorder; but however often she might fluctuate to a new point of view, so long as she actually held to it the conception possessed for her all the earmarks of probity and permanence. "Poor Les! No, no.... I shouldn't have encouraged him so much...." But she hadn't thought at first that Lynndal was coming. And Arizona is very, very far away--especially on fine summer nights, when one isn't wearing any ring.... Yet presently the book under her arm began to appear a somewhat awkward possession. However easy it might be for her to _tell_ Leslie they must be merely friends now, and however blithely she might _ask_ him, after an ancient and at best pretty hackneyed ideal, to look upon her as a sister, it was going to be very hard--for him. Wasn't it? Could it be otherwise than hard for him? Wouldn't her having bought the book, even, especially if he learned she had bought it, make it all still harder? Louise was naturally so quick in her sympathies that it troubled her when others couldn't attain as convenient solutions for their problems as she generally did for her own. And being herself party to another's unhappiness would, of course, tend to add certain pricks of conscience to any of the more abstract, though still altruistic, sentiments she might feel. "Well," she admitted, "I guess I shouldn't have bought the book, after all--at least not just now." But of course she could keep it hidden. "I needn't show it to Les right away." For that matter, need she ever show it to him? "I suppose--I really suppose I might drop it into the harbour, and be forever rid of it!" As though, indeed, determined to act upon this dramatic impulse, Louise turned and walked down amongst some fishermen's huts at the water's edge. Most of the fishermen were out at sea, having not yet brought in the morning's haul from the nets. The rude little huts, where the fish were cleaned and packed in ice for shipping, and where the nets were washed, stood idly open. The early sunshine lay across their doorsteps. Some children were at play, running in and out; and before one of the huts a very old woman sat mending a net, working her hard fingers in a quick, intelligent way. Louise walked out upon a little plank dock which was flung, at this point, into the harbour. The fishermen used the dock when they unloaded their cargoes of fish. It did not extend a great way; but from its extremity, as she faced westward, she perceived the approach of a steamer, still out in the "Big Lake," but nearing the harbour channel. It was probably Lynndal's boat, though it might possibly be one of the Ann Arbor car ferries from across Lake Michigan. She must hurry to the wharf. Still, the notion of throwing the book away persisted. She must rid herself of every vestige of the past. She must come to Lynndal--and it was quite thrilling to put it that way--empty-handed! This would seem to be a formal, a conclusive, even a rather grand way of marking a close to this surreptitious, this unfortunate, yet this of course sufficiently innocent little affair with Leslie--poor Les! Yes, it would be the fitting mark of conclusion; after that her heart would be swept clean. She grasped the book. At first she thought she would fling it far out; then that she would just quietly drop it in. But after all, she slipped the book under her arm again, and made her way hurriedly back to the village street. Her mind was busy with explanation and a readjustment not, a moment ago, foreseen. "It would have been foolish and stagy to have done that. No, it wouldn't have been _right_! Perhaps--" yes, perhaps Hilda would want to read it some day. She brightened. "Leslie said there was much instructive reading in it." Why, yes--the book would do for Hilda, if not for her. Mightn't Hilda even do for Leslie, now that she had thrown him over? Ah, it might be so! The idea occurred to Louise at first as a mere flash of whimsy; however, second thought made the possibility rather too possible to be altogether agreeable.... "Why, I should think it would be the most natural thing in the world," she assured herself. "Of course Hilda's awfully young, but I should think it would be perfectly splendid if they came to care for each other in time. I'm sure it would make it ever so much easier for _me_." She remembered how oddly her sister had behaved earlier in the day, whenever Leslie was mentioned; how Leslie himself had promised Hilda he would be back in time to play in the tennis tournament with her. "I think it would be just splendid!" she thought. "I'll encourage it, of course, all I can!" At last, she felt, there was a real solution in sight for poor Les. It would be the very thing! She was so pleased that she laughed aloud as she passed the fat and shabby patriarch tilted back in his red armchair before the drygoods store. But it is possible that even the patriarch, in a philosophy of age as opposed to that of youth, merely thought, as he saw her go by: "Another of the resorters." Indeed, it is even possible that he did not see her at all. The steamer drew in through the channel. It was the coast steamer from Ludington, and connected with the Milwaukee line. Louise stood eagerly beside the freight house, peering up at the passengers on the deck. Naturally she was very much excited, and experienced a swift, enveloping sense of joyous romance in being there to welcome the man she expected some day to marry. To marry! Suddenly it occurred to her that, after all, she had hardly thought of it _once_ that way! Yes, Lynndal was the man who would be her husband. Marrying him--no, she had somehow barely thought of that part.... Nevertheless, though the discovery was a little staggering, she strained her eyes quite gaily for a first glimpse of him; wondered if he would look to her just the way he looked during those few days when they had been together in Arizona. But just how, by the way, did he look then? All at once she thought of Lynndal Barry as an almost absolute stranger! It was an inexplicable but quite vivid, a rather terrifying sensation. It made the roots of her hair faintly prickle. No, for the life of her she couldn't think of any one's being a more perfect stranger than Lynndal! Louise wasn't mystically inclined. Yet what she felt seemed almost a kind of foreboding. Then she laughed to herself, a gay little nervous laugh. And she told herself it was only natural one should feel this way, and that it was all a part of her charming, her really absorbing romance. 8 He was standing by the rail on the upper deck of the steamer, beside a man with whom he appeared to be in conversation. She had no difficulty, after all, in recognizing him. Barry was still the tallish, brown-moustached, quiet-eyed man who had so generously exerted himself to make her brief stay in Arizona agreeable. She saw him first, the advantage giving her time to look away again before his eyes discovered her. Just why she should want to look away was in the nature of a mystery; yet avert her eyes she certainly did, as she might have done in the case of a stranger whose presence had casually attracted her notice. The feeling that, despite what had passed between them under the discreet propulsion of government postage, she did not really know this man, returned stronger than ever. She smiled a little--she had to--at her own manifest perversity; and flushed vaguely, too. As soon as Lynndal Barry discovered Miss Needham down on the dock his face lighted, and he grasped the arm of the man standing beside him. "There she is!" he cried. His companion looked, but was a moment or two trying to decide which of the several very possible young ladies standing about near the freight house might prove to be _she_. To facilitate the other's search, Barry pointed. And Louise, observing the gesture out of the corner of an eye, coloured and turned still more away, maintaining, after all, though she had been just on the point of abandoning it, the pretense that she had not yet seen the man to welcome whom she had risen so early and come so far. Somehow, a wrong note had been struck. Even the Rev. Needham--and his views on culture were widely known--had often cautioned his girls against pointing at persons or things in public. Lynndal ought not to have pointed. Yes, it was a wrong note--and a wrong note just at the most critical time. Of course in poising this action of his, Louise, it is quite patent, now failed to consider one thing; she failed, because perversely and momentarily she was out of mood, to consider that a young man who has travelled hundreds of miles to see a young lady he expects to marry would rather naturally be so carried away at the first sight of her that manners wouldn't count for the full weight of their every-day prestige. Great events sanction great exceptions. But Louise, now, was not prepared to make the requisite allowances. She had thought that her heart was swept clean; but it wasn't. What demon was it which had lured her into thinking so long about Richard and Leslie and--and all the others while she waited for the boat to come in? Yes, to her it really seemed that a wrong note had been struck. Miss Needham found herself in an oddly cool and critical mood--certainly not the mood she had anticipated. The next moment it softened; a feeling of shy warmth stole upon her. Still, she half wished that she had decided, after all, not to come to Frankfort, but had been content to await him quietly at home. That would have given her, if nothing else, a certain reserve of dignity, which she felt now was somehow sacrificed. Did not her being here on the wharf to meet him make her appear too eager? Would it not have been much better to come forward gracefully out of a romantic nowhere, perhaps even after keeping him waiting a few minutes? Then, at least, she needn't have undergone the minor humiliation--wasn't it almost that?--of being pointed at. She pressed the book under her arm. Suddenly she thought of Richard and his exquisite manners.... Lynndal was waving his hat now, trying desperately to attract her attention. The captain of the vessel was making rather a poor landing, and the sharp little reverse and forward signals in the engine-room kept sounding repeatedly. A strip of water still lay between the ship and the wharf, though crew huskies stood ready to heave out the gang-plank as soon as it became possible to establish shore connections. Louise interested herself in the rougher activities aboard ship, and did not yet raise her eyes to the man who now stood almost directly above her. She felt conscious of a sum of stares in her direction. All the girls on the wharf had taken full note of the pointed finger and the waving hat. Each knew--and some, perhaps, not without regret--that these demonstrations did not apply to _her_. A quick inventory of wharf possibilities had convinced all present that it must be Miss Needham who was the impetuously favoured individual. He had seemed to look quite squarely at her, and she alone had not bestowed on his pains the gaze of unfortunately lacking acquaintance. At length one of the younger girls, standing near her, touched Louise's arm. "Some one's trying to catch your eye," she said. And she nodded up toward Barry. He observed the girl's action and called down: "Louise, dear, here I am--up here!" And then it was that she relented, at last--thrilled a little--raised her face coyly to him, and smiled. No, she would not appear too eager. Let him not think he was winning her too cheaply. "Did you have a pleasant trip across?" she asked. Just the faintest shade of disappointment crossed his face. "Oh, yes," he replied. "Smooth as glass. How are you, dear?" She merely nodded. The historical novel slipped out from under her arm and fell to the ground. She stooped hurriedly and picked it up. "My, it's good to see you!" he communicated through a hubbub which really made it difficult to be heard. But she was again prevented, or spared, a reply, by having to step quickly aside as the gang-plank was run out. The ship was at last securely moored. Barry's grey-haired companion called his attention to this fact, and then the two men seized their bags and hurried down. Louise stepped aside to wait; realized an augmenting sense of strangeness and quandary--her heart in a kind of flutter. She felt now hot, now cold. An odd, frantic resolve raced through her brain: "He mustn't kiss me!" And yet--for there was a conflicting after-flash--to have him make no attempt would constitute the very essence itself of pique! In the midst of this rather extraordinary mood, Louise recoiled, as it were, and shook herself. She called her mental turmoil silly and maudlin; she even called it wicked. Then Lynndal came, and the terrible moment passed, leaving her banners waving. Emphatically it had been in his mind to kiss her; any one could plainly see that; the act itself, however (for he must _not_ feel too sure), she forestalled by a very delicate but at the same time unmistakable gesture of repulsion, unto which he bowed with a graceful disappointment that, for the time being, very materially lightened the prospect. She had won in the first skirmish; and the knowledge of victory, the delicious sense of power in her it seemed to emphasize, put her in an easier, more cheerful frame of mind. Instead of kissing Lynndal, she held out her hand to him with shy cordiality. She fancied, in a whimsical flash, that she was meeting him all over again, for the first time. A subtle sense of romance in this new aspect of their relationship quickened her heart.... Barry's shipboard companion was still at his side. Or rather not quite at his side, either, but holding discreetly back--even courteously discovering a sudden optical interest in another quarter of the compass. From this thoughtful detachment he was recalled and introduced as Mr. Barrett O'Donnell. Miss Needham was delighted to make his acquaintance--Miss Needham would have welcomed, just then, an acquaintance with the man in the moon, no matter how outlandish he might prove. For the moment, if in a way delightful, was also complex and curiously taut. O'Donnell jollied things up. His was a ready tongue, with, now and then, just a whisper of Irish; his smile was droll and cheering, though perhaps rather too facile--too facile, that is (for it was perfectly sincere), to be ever quite enveloping. Louise walked between them, and the three made their way to the railroad station, where the locomotive of a "resort special" was puffing quite prodigiously, and pretending, after the manner of locomotives, to be ever on the verge of pulling right out, mindless of schedule. Miss Needham skipped with hectic and perverse coquetry. She stimulated herself anew upon the assurance that it was great fun having a lover to meet. And it was really fine, for another thing, to be able so perfectly to dominate the scene, disposing all according to her whim--best of all, to have another man right there on the spot to behold these palpable wonders! She remembered, with a tiny obscure pang, how she had wished Richard might be present to see what amazing progress she had made. Richard she could not have; but fortune provided a substitute in the unsuspecting person of jolly Mr. O'Donnell. Louise's mood of almost saucy pleasure was sufficiently generous to overflow in Barry's favour, else the poor man would surely have shivered himself to death ere this. She smiled up at him with more artlessness than really consorted with her triumph. "Hilda was afraid you might not come," she chatted pleasantly, flirting a little with the corners of her mouth. "She was?" "Yes, she was dreadfully worried--you know how children are. She'll be awfully relieved when she sees you." "But you," he asked, half jestingly and half in faint earnest, "--you weren't afraid?" "I? Oh, no!" She laughed along with the denial. "Not _I_." The locomotive was coughing and wheezing and snorting, with an air of absurd importance. All at once there was a tremendous exhaust which sent steam geysering in considerable volume to either side. They were so close that the roar brought a tightening to the girl's throat. Barry touched her arm, gently insinuating her out of the path of the steam's dominion. She felt the momentary pressure of his fingers. And through the hiss and dizzy vibration in the air it was as though he were saying to her: "You are mine, all mine! You are mine forever and ever! You can belong henceforth to no one but me!" She trembled and felt faint. Her heart was beset with goblins and ghosts.... When they had settled for the diminutive journey, Louise was more than ever glad of Mr. O'Donnell's presence. But now it was no longer so much that he might behold the brilliance of her autocracy as that she might lean upon him while striving to adjust herself to the almost alarming situation Barry's arrival had precipitated. And O'Donnell, for his own part, was not a little flattered at being so deluged with attention from a pretty woman--especially since she had a real, live lover sitting right beside her! The lover himself took everything in a perfectly philosophical manner. Naturally she didn't want to reveal her heart to the wide world, his comfortable acquiescence seemed to say. She was reserving all that for him alone. And in the meantime it was very decent and intelligent of her to be nice to his friend. As a matter of fact, Miss Needham's conduct wasn't by any means so sheer and vivid as the complex which produced it; she was not behaving nearly so strangely as she felt. The journey back to Beulah, disproportionately lengthy if measured on the dial of one's watch, was under way. All the coaches were packed with resorters plying off in search of adventure--adventure which, in its most substantial form, could they but know it, they were to discover inside those mysterious covered baskets stowed away under seats and, sometimes rather precariously, on the metal racks overhead. For eating is, after all, the Great Adventure in Middle Western resort life. One might perhaps hesitate about putting it ahead of canoes in the moonlight, and that indispensable adjunct of every resort that ever was, the Lovers' Lane. But whereas the latter phenomena appeal to only a single age or mood of society, the adventure of filling the stomach appeals to everyone alike, old and young, mighty and humble. So far as the present excursionists were concerned, the furtive covers were soon flapping; and the air grew tropical with the persuasive aroma of bananas. Louise sat beside her lover in the midst of these not unfamiliar scenes; and the outcome of her half agreeable, half harrowing mental complex was a slightly hysterical gaiety. So long as Mr. O'Donnell was with them, she felt secure. But why _was_ this? Why was it she suddenly dreaded the thought of finding herself for the first time alone with Lynndal? Phantoms swarmed. In her letters she had given him every promise. Yet now he was with her again, she dared not let herself go. Phantoms of old delight; phantoms, too, projected into the scope of an imagined future.... The words she had seemed to hear while the steam brought that queer stuffiness to her throat, still echoed troublingly: "You are mine, all mine! You can belong henceforth to no one--but to me!" Her mind was all charged with a brooding unrest. Externally she sparkled and was blithe; but within lurked a vague fever of apprehension.... Things like this may conceivably be going on in almost any one's mind at almost any time; but they are never shown. We are adepts when it comes to guarding our guilty struggles. The train was winding its way through dismal swamp country. Stark trunks of trees, stripped of verdure, with the life in them long extinct, stood knee-deep in brackish water. Though the day was quite bright, an impenetrable veil of melancholy lay over the swamplands--a gloom never lifted, which seemed the child of silence and stagnation. The sad blight of the landscape seeped into her heart. She was twisting her life this way and that, absorbed, as usual, in the mystery of her own fascinating if at present rather menaced ego. Lynndal Barry and his companion, chatting, seemed unaware of the girl's momentary absorption; her curious, almost breathless, detachment. Although detached, she was nevertheless looking at Barry with serious, half-seeing eyes. And all at once she found herself thinking of him respectfully, even tenderly. There was something conspicuously ordered and kindly and calm about him. She seemed, abruptly, conscious of a great patience in this man who had come to her out of the West; had scarcely discovered in his letters how essentially mature he was. But the next moment this vaguely annoyed her. She seemed to miss in him the thrill of fire and passion which her nature craved. He seemed to be relaxed upon the snug hearth-rug of life--yes, in slippers! Barry was, actually, not much above thirty; but his seemed to her now a poise unwelcome. She fingered the book in her lap with nervous, groping fingers; even shuddered a little as she gazed off across the swamp. Barry, however, seemed aware of none of the girl's emotional fluxes. Why should he be? How _could_ he be? Barry didn't even in the least suspect that she had any such things as emotional fluxes in her make-up; nor, for that matter, was it likely he would quite know an emotional flux if he should meet it. This must not, however, be taken to signify that Barry wasn't sensitive, for he was. And he had a way, too, of biding his time, which sometimes deceived people into thinking him invulnerable to the finer antennæ of feelings. However, though his ear was not entirely deaf to the unstrummed music of life, he did not as yet suspect--or if so, not more than just glancingly--that there was to be a flaw in his eager little romance. "Oh, yes, it will surprise her completely, of course," O'Donnell was saying. "You haven't written at all, then?" "You see, I've only just learned she was back from Tahulamaji. I learned about it in town. I may say I learned of it only yesterday!" "It's queer, isn't it," remarked Barry, with almost a flash of imagination, "we should have happened to come up on the same steamer?" And then, being just a delightful, sane, normal individual, O'Donnell said what _had_ to be said--what is _always_ said when talk reaches such a point: He said that the world was small. Louise came back to them with an effort. The train was beginning to draw up out of the swamp region, and on to a plain better adapted to rural uses. The sunshine lay very bright upon the grass. An emotion of hope stirred in her heart. Everything was bound to turn out for the best--_her_ best, she thought. Of course it would! She felt all at once radiantly, boundlessly happy. And she forgot the words in the steam, when his fingers had touched her arm. The subject of this miraculous meeting of Barry and O'Donnell still animated a conversation which she entered with almost desperate eagerness. "You weren't acquainted before you met on the boat?" "Never laid eyes on each other," laughed the Irishman. "We began talking about dry-farming in the gentlemen's lounge, and from that, gradually...." "The fact is," put in Barry, who wanted to see what little mystery there was cleared up as quickly as possible, "we found we were both on our way to--" "--to besiege ladies living under the same roof!" concluded the other's readier tongue. Barry coloured a bit at the bluntness, but rather with pleasure than embarrassment. "I guess I don't quite understand," remarked Louise a little coolly. "Well, you see, the fact is we're very old friends, Miss Whitcom and I--" "Aunt Marjie!" "Yes--Marjie...." He repeated the name slowly, and with the sly relish of one who is not quite sure whether he would dare perpetrate such an indulgence in the presence of the adored herself. "Why, how perfectly _romantic_!" cried Louise. And she ceased entirely, for the moment, to be concerned about the puzzling and rather tangled romance of her own life. "You say you haven't seen each other for years?" "Five years," he nodded. "Oh, how surprised she _will_ be! I do certainly want to be there when she first sees you!" For of course it went without saying that they were lovers. Only fancy! Well--as much had been said outright. He was coming to besiege Aunt Marjie, just as Lynndal.... Her heart clouded a little with the mist of perplexity which seemed, now, to have begun settling the moment she heard Leslie's step outside on the hillside at dawn.... But O'Donnell went on nonchalantly enough: "Oh, but there'll be nothing remarkable at all. Miss Whitcom, if you'll pardon my speaking quite freely of your relative, has the most extraordinary control. Perhaps you've noticed it. I can tell you just what she'll do. She'll talk about the new wall paper in the throne room of the Queen of Tahulamaji's palace. Or else it will be still some perfectly commonplace remark about a tiresome old swimming medal. But exclamations in the true sense? No, there won't be any, Miss Needham, I assure you." Oh, Eros! Here, sitting all perplexed beside the man she has promised to marry--all besieged by ghosts of her past loves, and the ghost of one scarce passed as yet--is a woman. And yonder in a cottage, covering the unlucky shortage of pancakes with mundane chuckles, is another woman who has been pursued for twenty years by one dauntless lover, and who, when he comes, will talk about the paper on the wall. The journey drew to a screeching and bumping close; the brakes whistled, and the locomotive fell a-panting most lustily, as though to proclaim that it had done a mighty thing indeed in hauling a few laden coaches a dozen miles across the swamp-lands. The intrepid _Pathfinder_ lay at the dock, waiting. All Beulah had turned out, it really seemed, to welcome the train; and now all Beulah swarmed down to bid those who would embark farewell. There was the mayor--or so one fancied; and there were aldermen--could not one fairly see them sitting in solemn council? There was the Methodist minister in his half-clerical week-day togs; there were all the old men of the town, and all the old ladies; all the boys and girls and babies; together with just as many others as could possibly be spared from conducting the business of the town. The dock was quite crowded. Yet Louise and her two companions were the only passengers the _Pathfinder_ was to bear away. There always seemed something vaguely symbolic about these important departures of the _Pathfinder_. The townsfolk seemed to gaze off with a kind of wistful regret--yes, from the mayor down to the tiniest babe. It always was so: as though the _Pathfinder_ were bound for free, large spaces of ocean; for ports in Europe, or the Indies. And the townspeople could only assemble on the shore and silently watch this ship's glorious westward flight. So life went. Many are called, but few are chosen! PART TWO THE KISS 1 Leslie had some trouble with his engine on the return trip. It sputtered and it balked. The never very regular rhythm grew more and more broken, till at length there was no rhythm left at all. Finally the thing simply stopped dead; it wouldn't budge. The little craft rippled forward a few paces on momentum, then swung into a choppy trough and began edging dismally back toward Beulah. Leslie was glad then that Louise wasn't aboard. Yes, he was very glad indeed there were no ladies present. He sat down in the bottom of the boat and took the engine to pieces. Then he put it together again. And tossed and tossed. And drifted. And cursed like a man. When at last he limped up to the dock at Crystalia, missing fire horribly, and having to help along by poling as soon as the water was sufficiently shallow, he found Hilda waiting for him. She smiled very brightly. And somehow he felt the unpleasantness of the voyage fading into a plain sense of satisfaction over being back. It seemed a singularly long time since he had set out with Louise.... "Good morning!" Hilda called to him from the dock. He nodded and grinned; and poled, perhaps, the more vigorously. With his foot he desperately prodded the almost exhausted engine. "Why _Les_, what's the _matter_?" she cried. For he was, in truth, a sight. "Stalled two miles out," he replied bluntly, though not curtly, giving the engine a final kick by way of advising it that its labours for the day were at an end. "Why, Les--how dreadful! Oh, I can't help laughing. Your face is so funny!" He made a grimace and rubbed his cheeks with the sleeve of his flannel shirt, not particularly improving matters thereby. "I don't want the old thing any more--it's just so much junk!" He stepped out on the dock and moored the naughty little craft, though without any great enthusiasm, and rather as though he hoped a strong wind would come and carry the miscreant irrevocably to sea. Then he added: "Hilda, I've got an idea! I'll auction it off and turn over the proceeds to your father's missionary fund!" Her laugh rang. "Don't you think that would be a good idea?" "Oh, Les--you're _so_ funny!" She laughed a great deal as they walked along together through the hot white sand toward the Crystalia cottages, occupied mostly by Chicago-Oak Park people, and forming no part of what was generally known as the religious colony. Leslie was by this time entirely over his maritime grouch. He conceived, always in his elusively serious way, a delight in being quite as "funny" as he could. An outsider might have registered the impression that, even at his funniest, Leslie wasn't honestly amusing enough to elicit such frequent, rich, joyous peals of laughter; but Hilda was very happy--happy!--so happy that she needed no deliberate stimulus to mirth; so happy she could with the utmost ease shift her mood from grave to gay, or from gay to grave, matching the mood of her companion. "I know you've forgotten," she said, swinging along beside him and occasionally flashing up a most captivating glance. "Forgotten what?" "I'll never tell!" "Then how can I know what I've forgotten, if you don't remind me?" Though gossamer at best, it had an effect of logic--perhaps a rather graspable masculine logic, at that. "Maybe you'll remember--when it's too late." Her eyes sparkled. "Oh, you mean the tournament?" She nodded. "I hadn't forgotten it." "Well, you see I was afraid you had." He smiled. She was really quite delightful. "I'm so glad, Les. There'll be time for you to get into light things. Oh, I'm so glad your memory _didn't_ really fail!" He looked at her quietly a moment, but her gaze was now all on the sun-patterned turf. They had entered the forest of Betsey, and were pursuing the winding road toward the Point. "Oh, that's nothing," he said solemnly. "I never forget appointments with ladies." She laughed again, then ventured: "Tell me. Didn't you forget, just the tiniest little bit, when you were taking Louise across, or," she rather hurried on, "when you were out there in the middle of the lake and the engine was acting up? Please be ever so honest!" Leslie looked down again at the girl beside him. Odd he had never noticed how intelligent and shyly grown-up Hilda was! She had been merely Louise's little sister; all at once she became _Hilda_, a self-sufficient entity, perfectly capable of standing alone. Also she looked very fresh and charming this morning in her cool white jumper and skirt. He looked at Hilda in a kind of searching way; then, pleasantly meeting her eyes, he answered her question. "No, not even the tiniest little bit." Their walk together through the forest was enlivened with gay and unimportant chatter. As they passed the hidden bower where Hilda, at an earlier hour, had crouched to spy and listen, the girl almost danced at the thought of having so delightfully usurped her sister's place. And the best part of it was that it was perfectly all right; because Louise had gone to meet her own true lover. Leslie didn't belong to Louise; it seemed almost too wonderful to be true that he didn't! As it happened, Louise entered the lad's thoughts also as he and Hilda walked side by side along the sylvan path. Perhaps something of the same odd transposition weighed, even with him. He had gone this identical way with some one else, only a few eternities ago. He had held her in his arms a moment, and then.... Then what was it she had said? Friends! First she had said she cared, and after that she had said she wanted.... Did she really know _what_ she wanted? For weeks they had gone around together constantly. The moon had been wonderful. Then the letter had come from the West, and she had decided she had better begin being a nice, harmless sister. Still, she had let him kiss her once, even after the advent of the fatal epistle--a sort of passionate farewell surrender--wanted to let him down as easy as possible. Ugh! He was in no mood to spare her now. And then Leslie came slowly back; back to the bright, rare summer morning; back to the forest of Betsey, with its hopeful glints of sunshine; back--to Hilda. He sighed. At least he had learned something more about women. They came to Beachcrest Cottage, and, since Leslie's cottage was further along, in the direction of the lighthouse, it was here they parted. Before he ran off, however, to make himself presentable, Leslie underwent the ordeal (pleasant rather than not as it turned out), of being introduced to Miss Whitcom. She was seated on the second step of the flight leading up to the screened porch, seemed in very good spirits, and was writing a letter--employing a last year's magazine as base of operations. The ink bottle balanced itself just on the edge of the next step up: a key, if one please, to Marjory Whitcom's whole character. Had she been writing at the cottage desk in the living room, where everything was convenient, then she would never, never have spent her life doing wild and impossible things. And had the ink bottle been placed firmly instead of upon the ragged edge, then, having eluded Barrett O'Donnell all these years, she would not now be writing to him. "Aunt Marjie," said Hilda, her eyes shining and her cheeks flushed, "this is Leslie." He was pleased to meet Miss Whitcom, but assured her he must deny himself the pleasure of shaking hands. Look at them! He had had his engine all to pieces. He was going to auction off the boat now and give the Rev. Needham's missionary fund the first real boost in a decade. "Leslie!" hushed Hilda in great dismay. How did they know but the Rev. Needham might be within hearing distance? But Miss Whitcom laughed delightedly, whether or no, and said that after hearing such a gallant expression of religious zeal she simply must shake his hand, grime and all. And she did so. She had a way of winning young men completely. "And did you pilot my elder niece over to Beulah before we sleepyheads here at home were even stirring?" "Yes, Aunt Marjie. It was Leslie. You know!" And Hilda blushed at her very vagueness, which swept back so quaintly to embrace the pancake catastrophe. "Oh, yes," replied Miss Whitcom with dreadful pointedness. "I know--oh, yes. I know very well _indeed_! And I know of a certain young lady who departed and forgot to turn off the burners of the stove, so that plain, humdrum mortals must quit the table hungry--positively hungry!" Leslie somehow managed to establish connections. "Whatever happened, I'm afraid I was partly to blame, Miss Whitcom." "Aha! Only partly?" For she fancied his chivalry carried along with it a tone, so far as he was concerned, of extenuation. "Well, I suppose having me there, talking, helped to make her forget." "H'm!" She eyed him in her odd, sharp way. But he looked back with a half understanding defiance. "So you won't take _all_ the blame?" Leslie smote the lower step with his foot, then shyly glanced at Hilda. Hilda laughed and coloured. So Miss Whitcom said, looking drolly off to sea: "The plot thickens!" And she was right; there were greater doings ahead. Leslie sprang off along the ridge to get into tennis garb. He decided, as was only natural, that the one infallible way of cleansing himself was to plunge into the sea. He was consequently in his little cottage bedroom about two minutes, and then emerged in swimming apparel. Leslie was well-formed and sun-browned. He sped off over the sand to the shore, and thence dived straight out of sight. "Swims rather well," commented Miss Whitcom. "That crawl stroke isn't by any means the easiest to master." "Yes, Leslie's the best swimmer on the Point," said Hilda proudly. Miss Whitcom dipped her pen, but the ink went dry on it, and the letter lay uncompleted. "I do believe he's forgotten all about you and is going to swim straight across!" she declared. For Leslie was, indeed, streaking out in fine style, making the water splash in the sun, and occasionally tossing his head as though keenly conscious of life's delightfulness. "He'll turn back," said Hilda quietly. "You think so?" "I know he will!" she laughed. "Oh, you _know_?" "Why how ridiculous! Nobody could swim clear across, Aunt Marjie. It's seventy miles!" "Really?" "Did you ever hear of anybody swimming as far as that?" "I'm not sure I ever did," the other admitted. They were silent a little, both watching the swimmer. Then the lady remarked in a dreamy way: "They always look so fine and free when they're young, and the sun flashes over the water, and they make straight out, as though they never meant to stop at all." Hilda was a little at a loss to know how this rather curious speech should be taken. She felt dimly that there was something below the surface, as so frequently there seemed to be when Aunt Marjie spoke; but at first she couldn't imagine what it was. "So fine and free," Miss Whitcom repeated in the same tone. "They make straight out. But they always turn back." And then Hilda asked, giving voice to a sudden bold dart of intuitive understanding: "You mean men, Aunt Marjie?" Whereupon her aunt laughed away the odd impulse of symbolism. "Yes, the men, Hilda. They try to carry us off our feet in the beginning. They want us to believe they're young gods. And they can't understand why some of us are coming to grow sceptical, and why we're beginning to want to try our hand at a few things ourselves." "He's turning around now!" cried Hilda, who was not paying the very best sort of attention. "Yes, poor dears," the other persisted. "The other shore _would_ be too far off." "Oh, much too far!" agreed Hilda, jumping up to wave her hand. Whatever Aunt Marjie might be getting at, Hilda, for her part, was ever so glad of the sea's prohibitive vastness. 2 The Rev. and Mrs. Needham came out on to the porch, he preceding her through the doorway; there was just the faintest evidence of her shoving him on a little. Her whispered "Yes, Alf, yes!" might, of course, represent an exclamation apropos of almost anything. For instance, the words might form the tail-end of almost any sort of domestic conversation--or perhaps a talk about holding a Sunday School rally in the fall. The incomplete phrase might, in one's imagination, expand itself into something like this: "Yes, we really must. Nothing like a well-planned rally to stir up the interest of the young folks. Yes, Alf, yes!" But as a matter of fact, Mrs. Needham and her husband had not been discussing any such matters. The authentic conversation, to go back a little, which had just antedated egress from the cottage living room, ran, in fact, as follows: "Alf, I do want you two to get better acquainted!" "What?" "More intimate, and not...." "Well, Anna?" "Not quite so--so stiff, somehow...." "H'm-m-m!" "Alf, she's _so_ good-hearted. If it's true she has changed any way, who knows but you might have an influence ...?" He sighed heavily. They stood facing each other. It became a little formal. "Alf, this would be a splendid chance. She's right out there on the steps!" "Oh, well--really! Not this morning. No, not just now, when we're all keyed up about Barry. In the course of time, I daresay...." "Oh, _now_, Alf," she coaxed, in a very low, throaty, persuasive contralto. "Oh, do go out there now! I'll call Hilda in for something. There's--there's some mending--ought to be done right away," she quickly added, as the suspicion hovered between them that Hilda would be called in on mere pretense. "Anna, maybe this afternoon." "Now! Oh, Alf--_now_!" "Anna, I--" "Yes, Alf, yes!" And so he was gently pushed on to the porch. Hilda and Marjory looked up. There was a barricade of mosquito netting between them and the emerged pair. Hilda was flushed. She had just been waving to some one in the water. Marjory's eyes kindled with indefinite mirth, and at this kindling the minister's heart quaked a little. There was something about his wife's sister--yes, he thoroughly admitted it now; there was something about her. She was strange and incompatible. Had she, indeed, become inclined to be atheistical in her beliefs? Was that what made him feel so uncomfortable, always, in her presence? He a man of the pulpit, it would be natural that the ungodly should fill him with distrust; natural they should make him wary and cautious. Was it that in Marjory? _Was it that?_ "Hilda, see here a minute," said Mrs. Needham; and she beckoned discreetly. Hilda followed her mother into the cottage. This left the Rev. Needham on one side of the screening and Miss Whitcom on the other. Miss Whitcom still sat on the second step with the pen in her hand. She had dipped the pen a good many times, but the letter was no further advanced. She turned to watch Leslie get in the last full strokes and crawl out. He lay in the hot sand a moment or so before racing indoors. The Rev. Needham had sunk into the nearest chair, and sat there rocking, with just perceptible nervousness, clearing his throat from time to time in a manner which appeared to afford that portion of his anatomy no appreciable relief. It seemed a kind of moral clearing. It was the vague articulation of incertitude. As a matter of fact, Marjory had forgotten all about her brother-in-law. She was musing. At length a more desperate laryngeal disturbance than any that had preceded brought her back to contemporary consciousness. "Ho!" she cried. "I didn't know you were there, Alfred!" There were times when he thought her almost coarse. "I thought I'd just come out here a few minutes," he said. "It's quite cool on this side, till the sun gets round." The minister sighed. He had an uncomfortable inner feeling that he hadn't quite justified his presence. It was, to be sure, his own porch; but that did not make any difference. Dimly he hoped his relation would not relinquish her position on the second step. Marjory dipped her pen again, but the letter was doomed. With a gesture of languid, smiling despair the task was conclusively abandoned. "No, it's no use," she muttered, rather unintelligibly. "I never can concentrate at a resort." "Beg pardon, Marjory?" "I just want to dream and dream all day. Isn't it dreadfully delightful?" "Yes--we like it up here," he replied, the least bit stiffly. "Alfred, how did you ever happen to come so far?" "So far?" "Yes; aren't there any resorts in Ohio?" "Well, you see it was, to begin with, on account of the Summer Assembly...." She didn't fully fathom it until he had explained: "We're a sort of religious colony here on the Point." "Oh-h-h!" cried the lady then, with the air of one who is vastly--perhaps a little satirically--enlightened. "I understand now what Anna meant yesterday when she spoke about 'visiting clergymen.' You hold meetings, I presume, and then have some refreshments at the end?" "No refreshments," he replied, in a rather dry tone, reproving her at the same time, with an almost sharp glance. "Well," she agreed, with a touch of apology, "I suppose you wouldn't. I was thinking of some of our Tahulamaji pow-wows." To this he made no reply; but the somewhat chill dignity of the silence which ensued provoked, alas, an even more unfortunate question. "Alfred, I know you'll consider me perfectly awfully impossible, but it's been such a long time.... I've forgotten--I really have.... It--it isn't Methodist, is it ...?" "Methodist, Marjory?" "What I mean is, you're not.... Oh, Alfred, for _heaven's_ sake before I simply explode with chagrin, do quickly tell me _what you are_!" "My denomination?" he asked unhappily. "That's the word! Do please forgive a poor creature who's lived so long in out-of-the-way places that she's half forgotten how to be civilized!" "There are certain things," the Rev. Needham told himself icily, "one never quite forgets, unless one...." He started a little, raised his eyes wanly to hers, but shifted them quickly to the landscape. "I am a Congregational minister, Marjory," he said. "Oh, dear me! Of course! I'm sure I remembered subconsciously. Don't you think such a thing is possible?" "You mean ...?" He seemed unable fully to concentrate, either--though not primarily because this was a resort. "I mean remembering subconsciously. But you see it's all because in Tahulamaji we get so fearfully lax about everything." Was this his cue? He fidgeted, glanced sidewise to see whether his wife were within range of his voice. "I presume there's a great deal of laxness in Tahulamaji...." "Well," she pondered, accepting his wider implication. "Yes, I'm afraid so. Still, of course, one must never lose sight of the missionaries." "Yes!" brightened her brother-in-law. "We help support a missionary in Tahulamaji. Perhaps you--" "No, Alfred, no. I'm afraid I've never had that pleasure. You see I've been so busy, and the missionary seems always so busy, too." "There's much to be done," he reminded her simply. She was quite serious and respectful. He began to grow more at ease; more expansive; told her a great deal about what missionaries do in foreign lands, and especially what the missionary in Tahulamaji was doing. His talk grew really interesting. Then there was a shift which brought them round to the activities of the church in America. "We're trying to broaden out all we can," he told her. "Every year new opportunities seem to be opening up. We have to keep abreast of the times. For instance, there's the parish house--" Leslie's arrival interrupted them. He was now dressed in white and wore a purple tie. Hilda came skipping across the porch and ran down the steps to him. "You must wish us luck!" she called back over her shoulder. "Just bushels of it!" Miss Whitcom called loudly after them. Mrs. Needham had come to the door of the cottage. She stood surveying the situation so laboriously contrived. Having Marjory out there on the second step and her husband above in the rocker, with a wall of netting between them, did not somehow seem very auspicious. But she sighed and quickly withdrew; it was better than no situation at all. She thought of a text her husband had used once: "Be ye content with what the Lord giveth"--or something to that effect. The Rev. Needham cleared his throat, again privately a little nervous. For no reason at all there had seemed to him a godless twang to her gracious, full-voiced "just bushels of it!" Miss Whitcom recovered the threads for him. "Yes, yes, Alfred. Quite so. You were saying something about a parish house." "We hope to build one, in the spring ... if we can," he went on. "The money's partly raised. Of course it takes a long time--money doesn't seem very plentiful just now. But the parish house, when we get it"--his eyes lighted softly--"will add so much to our practical facilities." She noted this softness, and it touched her a little. All the same she had some not very soothing things to say. "Yes, I've no doubt. I'm quite amazed--I may say almost frightened, Alfred--at the development of the common-sense idea in America. You notice it especially, I suppose, coming in like this from a long absence. The change, I may say, quite smites one. It's baffling--it's bewildering! Good gracious, all the old, moony Victorianism gone! The whole ecclesiastical life of the community made over into something so dashing and up-to-date that I tell you frankly, Alfred, I'd be almost afraid to go into a church, for fear I might no longer know how to behave! It's amazing, Alfred--it really is--how 'practical' religion has grown. I tell you I never would have dreamed the church had such a future! I come back from my long sojourn in heathendom, and what do I find? I find religion all slicked up on to a strict business basis. At last the church of God has reached an appreciation of the value and importance of money! Everywhere you read of mammoth campaigns to raise millions of dollars. You have to have a real business head on your shoulders nowadays--don't you find it so, Alfred?--to be a minister. It's wonderful simply beyond belief! If Christ were to walk in suddenly I know he would have to show his card at the door. I _know_ they would ask him what he came about and how long the interview would take. Practical Christianity, you call it, don't you, Alfred?" "Marjory, I...." "Ah--now I've shocked you! Yes, I see I have. You mustn't mind my speaking out so bluntly. It's a way I've rather fallen into of late, I'm afraid. And when I say the new Christianity seems baffling to me, I mean it's quite splendidly baffling. Practical Christianity--what a fine idea it was! I wonder who thought of it. Yes, the church was always too exclusive. There can be no doubt of it. Practical Christianity--practical philanthropy--with the elaborate social service bureaus--they've just simply transformed everything. What a hustle and bustle--and what undreamed-of efficiency! Just _think_ how efficiently the church stood back of the war! And yet--you must pardon me--I somehow can't help feeling that even with all its slogans and its hail-fellow slaps across your shoulders.... You know"--she interrupted herself, in a way, but it was to pursue the same trend of thought--"I had quite an adventure on the train, coming from New York. I watched a Bishop retire! Oh, don't look so scandalized, Alfred. Of course it was quite all right." "I hope so, Marjory," he murmured limply. "I must tell you about the Bishop, Alfred. He was just the kind of man you would expect a Protestant bishop to be--his face, I mean. Calm--so very calm--and so gently yet firmly ecclesiastic! He wore an unobtrusive but stylish clerical costume of soft grey, and a little gold cross hung round his neck--you know. It struck me as never before how close the Episcopacy is snuggling up to Rome.... Oh, but I must tell you about the Bishop's going to bed!" The Rev. Needham sat there almost breathless on his screened porch. His dismay might have struck one as speechless--at any rate, he was speechless. "The Bishop," continued Miss Whitcom, "seemed very weary. There was a quiet, tired look in his eyes. He had his dinner early, sitting all alone at one of the little tables on the shady side. I ate my dinner at another of the little tables, and was quite fascinated. There was something so patrician about him. He was so subtly sleek! I didn't see him again until his berth was made up. But the making up, Alfred, was what fascinated me more than the Bishop himself! The porter was just fitting things together when I came in from my simple dinner. He spread down one mattress, and then--Alfred, I gasped to see it--he spread down another right on top of it!" "Another, Marjory?" The minister appeared quite absorbed, almost fascinated. "Had he taken the whole section?" she demanded. To this no reply was ventured, and she continued: "Or did he get them both as a kind of divine dispensation? Anyway, the bed, I must say, looked almost royal. There were four pillows instead of two, and they were given little special pats and caresses. All of a sudden I thought of Jacob's stone, Alfred. Wasn't it funny? I couldn't help it. And then I thought about 'the Son of Man hath not where to lay His head'--wasn't it curious? And then, only _then_, Alfred (you see how slow I am), it occurred to me that this must be a part of the new order of things! It came to me almost like an inspiration that the bed of the Bishop must have something to do with Practical Christianity. But I'm forgetting the last appealing touch, Alfred. The Bishop had a huge bag of golf sticks with him. _They reposed all night in the upper berth!_" She ended her rather long story about the Bishop; and its precise interpretation remained a thing of doubt for the minister. Was she serious? Or was she only laughing? His bearing now argued a preparedness for either mood. But whatever her motive, in a moment Miss Whitcom appeared to have forgotten all about the Bishop and to be busy with other matters. The Rev. Needham sat on his own side of the netting and didn't know just what he ought to do or say. What _was_ to be done, what said? Fortunately, at this vaguely uncomfortable juncture, there came another, and this time a really important, interruption. Steps were heard on the sparse planking which served for sidewalk between Beachcrest and the road to Crystalia. The minister, rising quickly, began rubbing his hands together. "It must be Mr. Barry," he said. Mrs. Needham appeared at the cottage door, as though bidden by some psychic intelligence. "Are they here?" she asked excitedly. "I can't see yet, for the shrubbery. But I think I hear Louise's voice." "I _see_ her," Miss Whitcom advised them from her position on the steps. "And what's more," she added, while her sister hastily patted and preened herself, "I see him also!" "Mr. Barry?" "Um. Rather tall. Not exactly bad looking.... But," she added darkly, "they're walking ever so far apart!" What did she mean by that? The Rev. Needham glanced a little nervously at his wife and unconsciously began humming the Invocation. They arrived. Lynndal was presented to Mrs. Needham, then to Miss Whitcom. He was, of course, very warmly greeted by the minister. Louise looked troubled.... The Dutch clock in the cottage living room set up a spiteful striking: one, two, three, four (each stroke tart and inimical), five, six, seven, eight (as though from the very depths of its mechanism it would cry out against the terrific irony of life), nine, ten.... Lynndal had come all the way from Arizona. 3 "My gracious!" cried Miss Whitcom loudly and cordially, "_I've_ been in Arizona!" "You have?" "Ra_ther_! I started a cactus candy business there before you were...." She paused, then wholeheartedly laughed a defiance at the very notion of grey hairs. "No, I won't say it. I won't go back so far as that. For I do believe you're thirty, sir, if you're a day." "I'm thirty-three," confessed Barry, looking older, for just a wistful moment, than his wont. "Well, then, when you were a youngster, we'll say, Marjory Whitcom was working fourteen long hours a day in an absurd little factory on the fringe of the desert--slaving like all possessed to make a go of it. The idea was a good one." "Yes," he agreed, "for we're turning out wonderful cactus candy now." "I know it. The idea was corking. Alas, so many of my ideas have been corking! But every one at that time said it was absurd to think of making candy out of cactus, and no one would believe the Toltec legend which gave us our receipt. Ah, yes--there's many a slip...." In her almost brazen way she cornered the new hero of Point Betsey--actually got between him and the others. But Miss Whitcom was shrewder, even, than she was brazen. You couldn't possibly deceive her when she had her reliable antennæ out. Had she not seen the landscape between them? Distinctly _seen_ it? Suspecting the imminence of a rather taut situation, this was her way of clearing the air. Louise did not altogether fathom her aunt's subtlety; but she was grateful, seizing the occasion to disappear. She flew up to her room, flung herself on the bed, and nervously cried a little. Lynndal was here. The long anticipated event had actually come to pass. But it wasn't the kind of event she had conceived. What was the trouble? Was he not as she remembered him? Yes, but with phantoms to dictate the pattern, how she had idealized him in the interim, and how the correspondence had served to build up in her mind a being of romance and fire which flesh and blood could never hope to challenge! Well, he had come, this stranger--with his quiet kindliness, his somehow sensed aura of patience, where she looked for passion. Ghosts of the past played havoc with her heart, and she thought: "Can I give myself to this man? Can I be his, all his? Can I be his for ever and ever? Can I belong henceforth to him and no one else?" The mood was one of general relaxation, however--though a relaxation she had, at an early hour, been far enough from anticipating. She reviewed the events of the day thus far. She had waked at flush of dawn; had risen full of a gay expectation, and had gone out to meet her lover. He had come; she had met him and had forestalled his kiss. Now he was here. Ten o'clock. And her heart was in a curious state of panic. But Barry, meanwhile, still down on the screened porch, was finding his fiancée's relative an intelligent and really engaging person. For her part, it had not taken long--with the cactus candy as bait--to lure him into enthusiasm over his dry-farming. She knew, it developed, very nearly as much about dry-farming as he did, and Barry, of course, knew nearly as much about it as there was to know. The Rev. and Mrs. Needham, having gone on into the cottage living room, expecting that Barry, momentarily arrested, would follow, stood a moment conferring in discreet tones. "What do you think of him, Anna?" "He seems like a real nice sort, Alf. What do _you_ think?" "I've always admired Barry," he said proudly, a bit complaisantly. "During several years of business connection...." "Yes, Alf he's certainly looked after our interests out West." Sly little wrinkles of worry just etched themselves across the Rev. Needham's florid brow. Those interests in the West--heaven knew how much they meant! They kept the wolf from the door--a mild wolf, of course, and one that wouldn't really bite; but still a wolf. Yes, they sustained the Needham establishment in a kind of grand way--certainly in a way which wouldn't be possible on ministerial salary alone. And it was Lynndal Barry's initiative which had built the dam: the dam generated electricity and paid dividends. Yes, they certainly owed a great deal--though of course it was all on a sufficiently regular business basis--to Mr. Barry. "He's a fine, fine man--one of God's own noblemen, Anna. It's only to be hoped...." "Hoped, Alf?" Anna was seldom able to supply, off-hand, what one groped for in one's perplexity. "That Louise," he began a little impatiently, "--that Louise...." "Why, where _is_ she?" asked Mrs. Needham, looking suddenly around. Ah, where indeed? The Rev. Needham experienced an uncomfortable shivery sensation in his stomach. Still, there was no reason other than what Marjory had said about their walking rather far apart. What did she mean? What did she ever mean? Ah, Marjory.... They looked at her. Yes, she had certainly captured Mr. Barry. Poor Marjory had a way.... "I wonder," sighed the Rev. Needham--a little ponderously to conceal an inner breathlessness. "I wonder...." "What, Alf?" He shook himself, looking dimly horrified. "Nothing, Anna." What he wondered was whether his wife's sister had ever fallen by the wayside.... "Alf," whispered Anna, on the point of slipping upstairs to make sure for the last time that the visitor's room was quite ready, "how did you two get on?" "I can't say very well," he answered with an inflection of nervous vagueness. "It was almost all about a Bishop on the train. Anna, I'm--I'm afraid it's no use. You know there are people in the world that seem destined never to understand each other...." "Oh, Alf--she's so good-hearted!" "That may be true," he replied, "but in Tahulamaji I'm beginning to be convinced she led--that she may almost have led...." "Oh, Alf!" "And she'd forgotten...." "What?" He spoke with troubled petulance: "My denomination!" When Miss Whitcom learned, as she did directly, that Mr. O'Donnell was at the Elmbrook Inn, down at Crystalia, she emphatically changed colour. However much she might like to deny it, a fact was a fact. And in addition to that, her talk, for at least ten seconds, was utterly incoherent. She simply mixed the words all up, and nothing she said made any sense at all. Of course she quickly regained her equilibrium and made a playful remark about "having had all that letterwriting trouble for nothing." But it must very plainly and unequivocally be set down that throughout those first ten seconds her colour was high, her coherence at zero. The ensuing hour at Beachcrest passed quietly, despite the fact that every one seemed moving at a high rate of tension. Mrs. Needham spent a considerable portion of the time in conference with Eliza. The advent of the grocer's boy occasioned the usual excitement. It must be understood that these arrivals mean ever so much more in the wilderness than they do in town. In town, supposing there is a certain item missing, you merely step to the phone and give your tradesman polite hell. But on Point Betsey there were no such resources possible. They did not even have electric lights, and it was merely possible, when things went wrong, to explode to the boy (which never did any good), or to explode in a grander yet still quite as futile way to the world at large. Fortunately, this morning (the morning of this most momentous day!) the supplies arrived in relatively excellent condition. The Rev. Needham, pacing up and down alone in the living room, paused nervously now and then to heed the muffled sounds issuing from sundry quarters of the cottage: the squeaky opening or closing of doors, which might somehow have a meaning in his life; the shuffle of steps (maybe portentous) across the sanded boards.... And most especially he pricked his ears--those small, alert ears of his, that were perpetually prepared for the worst--when the things came from the store. It would be horrible, with guests in the house, to have a short supply; although of course here again, as in the case of the pancakes, he was concerning himself outside his own department. But even if these responsibilities of the kitchen didn't really rest on his shoulders, nevertheless the Rev. Needham listened as each item was pronounced, upon its emergence from the huge market basket. Coffee, cheese, eggs--eggs, ah! we must look at them. One broken? Well, we should be thankful for eleven sound ones. Housekeeping, especially housekeeping in a cottage, develops a wonderful and luminous patience. This patience--like mercy, an attribute of God Himself--may even sometimes lead one to the tracing of quite Biblical applications. There were twelve disciples in the beginning, yet one of them, in the stress of events.... Bread, celery, carrots, frosted cookies. _Where was the roast?_ The Rev. Needham's heart stood still. He halted, petrified with horrid fear. The roast, the roast! Thank God they found it, down at the bottom of the basket. Oh, thank _God_! The pacing was resumed. Up and down, up and down. One would have perceived here, so far as externals went, merely a quiet, middle-aged clergyman strolling in his home. Yet in the cottage living room this clergyman and this angry Dutch clock together synthesized contemporary events. "Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble!" ticked the clock sharply. And each step in the Rev. Needham's pacing seemed a question. As the years crept by, broadening vision seemed not very materially to be quieting the good man's fidgets and perturbations. It seemed merely to give them longer tether; for his unsettled state was organic. It would never be really otherwise. Religion, science, feeling, thought, reason--all alike, in their several directions, seemed impotent to anchor him. The sea was too deep. He might, of course, _call_ himself anchored; but alas, the cruel little demons of doubt and quandary were bound, sooner or later, to insinuate themselves back into his heart. His walk was groping, indecisive. Each step was a question: "Whither? Why? How long? What is best? What is best? _What is best?_" Miss Whitcom stood meditatively before the somewhat wavy mirror in her little room. She was pondering past, present, future. Also, she was acknowledging that grey hairs had perceptibly multiplied since O'Donnell last saw her. Would he notice them? And if he did? Well? She contemplated herself and her life in the wavy mirror. Beyond his own three-quarters partition, Barry happened at the same moment to be standing before a mirror also--as men do sometimes, who would be sure to deny the charge were it publicly preferred against them. Yes, he was getting along. Not in any sense _old_, of course. To some a man of thirty-three seems still a young man. He tried to look at it that way. Still thirty-three was thirty-three. And Louise.... She was young, so young--and fresh, and sweet, and adorable.... His quiet eyes misted a moment as he thought of her. And for her sake he could wish himself one of those fabulous princes we read of in childhood. Ah, yes--a kind of prince--just for her sake! He regarded himself in the glass solemnly and critically. There were undeniable lines of salient maturity in his face; and princes, that was sure, never had any lines at all. So young, so sweet, so charming! He sighed and went about unpacking his things. That he should win her--that he should win this dear girl for his wife ...! "I have done nothing to deserve such happiness as this," he said softly. "In all my life, nothing, nothing!" And then he took a ring out of a little box and gazed at it. And when he had gazed at it a long time, he put it back in the box and put the box in his pocket. Louise, in the seclusion of her room, no longer wept, though she still lay on the bed. Tears had relieved the strain, and her heart was not so burdened. Slowly reviving, she lay in a sort of half pleasant lethargy--not thinking, exactly, nor even actually feeling, for the moment. Tears are like suave drugs: under their mystic persuasion life may assume the lovely softness of a mirage. But the softness is fleeting. It rests and it is gone. It is like false dawn. Or it is like a dream of light when the night is blackest. 4 Marjory and Anna met outside the cottage in a little rustic bower where there was a hammock, and where the Rev. Needham had constructed, with his own hands, a clumsy and rather unstable rustic bench. It had taken him nearly all one summer to build this bench. The clergyman had perspired a great deal, and gone about with a dogged look. They were all mightily relieved when the task was at last completed. It seemed to simplify life. Mrs. Needham sat on the rustic bench now, fanning herself with her white apron. Her face was flushed, her manner a little wild. She and Eliza had reached the agonizing conclusion that the raisins, indispensable to the Indian meal pudding, hadn't come, only to discover the little package lying out on the path where it had slipped from the grocer boy's basket. The pudding was saved, but what a shock to one's whole system! "Well, Anna," said her sister, dropping fearlessly into the hammock. None but newcomers possessed that sublime faith in hammock ropes! "I declare!" returned Anna. "Whew!"--her apron moving rapidly--"So warm!" "Well, have you been charging up hillsides, or racing Alfred on the beach?" Mrs. Needham looked a little startled at the irreverent allusion. "Oh, no, only planning with Eliza, and--" "You find Eliza a treasure, don't you?" "Yes, she's very capable." "I suppose a maid's capability must take on a special lustre in the wilderness. Don't you sometimes fancy you see a faint halo over Eliza's head? You people in this luxurious country have become so dependent, I don't know what you _would_ do if there should ever be a general strike!" "No, I don't know either," admitted Mrs. Needham. "Eliza talks of going back. It's so quiet up here--girls don't like it. We've raised her twice. I really don't know what's going to be the end of the help question. And wages ...!" She raised her eyes to the heavens. A short silence followed. Marjory swung gently back and forth in the hammock. She might have been pronounced an eloquent embodiment of perfect calm; and yet her heart was curiously bumping about. "Anna," she asked slowly, "do you remember Barrett O'Donnell?" Her sister looked at her queerly a moment. "Some friend, Marjory?" For Marjory had had, in her time, so many friends! "You'll remember him, I know, when you see him," she nodded. And then she continued: "He's here." "Here?" "Well," her sister laughed, "not quite on the Point, but at Crystalia." "Really?" "Dear old Barrett! I wonder...." "Marjory," the other asked, with an odd effect of conscious shrewdness, "is he--is Mr. O'Donnell _the_ man?" "For goodness sake, _what_ man, Anna?" "Why, I always felt," her sister replied quaintly, "that there was one man, all through the years--'way from the time we stopped telling each other secrets...." Marjory laughed loudly. But she seemed touched also. "It's a long time, isn't it, since we stopped telling secrets?" And Anna sighed, for perhaps her retrospect, if less exciting, was even longer than her sister's. The two sat, after that, a little while without speaking. Then Anna's large round face assumed a truly brilliant expression. "Marjory!" she cried. "Well?" "You say he's here?" "Um, though it seems impossible to credit such a thing. Perhaps it's all a myth. He's at the Elmbrook Inn. Is there," she whimsically faltered, "--is there honestly such a place?" "Marjie, I mean to have him up!" "Anna--you mean here?" "For _luncheon_!" In their excitement the two ladies were really all but shouting at each other. They realized it and smiled; sank to quieter attitudes both of bearing and speech. "You think he'd come, don't you Marjie?" "Come? Ra_ther_! Did you ever hear of a travelling man turning down a chance at home cooking?" "Then I'm going to send right over and invite him. It will be real fun! I suppose," she embroidered, with as great an effect of roguery as she could enlist, "I suppose he's followed you up!" "Obviously!" her sister replied, not apparently flustered in the least. "Think of it!" "Yes, it is rather dreadful, isn't it--especially at our ages!" "I think it's kind of splendid, Marjie." "Er--Alfred never was much of what you'd call the 'following' kind, was he Anna?" "Well, I can't seem to remember. It seems to me once...." "Oh, they'll nearly always follow _once_. It's keeping right on that seems hard. Of course," she added, "marriage puts a stop to all that sort of thing, doesn't it?" "Yes, I suppose, in a sense...." "Anna, there's just one way to keep 'em going: _don't marry_! Well, you see for yourself how it is." "Yes, but it seems kind of dreadful to put it that way, don't it?" "Dreadful? Oh, yes. Yes, of course it's dreadful. Still, it's rather nice." "M-m-m," murmured Anna. The philosophy of man's pursuit proved baffling. Here were two sisters who knew its bitters and its sweets. Yet it is doubtful if for either the bitter was all bitter and the sweet all sweet.... Hilda and Leslie came back from the tennis tournament. They were hot and in high spirits. "Who won?" asked Mrs. Needham cheerily. "We did, mama!" "Three cheers!" cried Miss Whitcom, sitting up enthusiastically in the hammock. "You never saw such excitement!" cried Hilda. "Most of the games were deuce for both sides before anybody got it!" "Very close," was Leslie's simpler version. Louise crept to her window and peered down into the bower. Hilda and Leslie were holding one racquet between them. It was his racquet and she was twining her fingers playfully in and out among the strings. A feeling of suffocation closed suddenly upon Louise's throat. And just then Barry walked into the bower. He had been exploring the delightful wild endroit, and hoping that Louise might suddenly appear, with some lovely tangle of wood and vine for background. For he hailed from a country where trees are scarce, and one's backgrounds from childhood are sand, desert sand. His life had grown suddenly so rich.... Barry was welcomed. Mrs. Needham made room for him beside her on the rustic bench. She looked at him a little shyly, but with the ecstatic admiration, also, of one who would say: "This is the man we're giving our daughter to!" But where _was_ Louise? Her mother had scarcely seen her since the return from Frankfort. How strangely she was behaving. "I believe she's lying down," said Barry, his tone warm with shielding tenderness and apology. "She got up so early to meet the boat. It was wonderful of her!" The two young champions were giving Aunt Marjie a fuller account of the tennis combat. They still held the racquet between them. Both were flushed, keen-eyed, ridiculously happy. How soon he had recovered! Louise, up at her window, remembered Leslie's mood at an earlier hour. At dawn she might have had him. Now it was too late. "Oh, the injustice of it!" she cried, her hands crushing her breast. But as she looked down into his glowing face, she realized a swift sense of humiliation. "He didn't care after all," she told herself. Hilda and Leslie evinced great willingness to convey the luncheon invitation to Barrett O'Donnell. Leslie, of course, volunteered to go, and Hilda, of course, said she simply _would_ go too. So off they raced, still holding the tennis racquet between them. Louise watched them go. In her hand was the book she had bought in Frankfort. Suddenly, under stress of very violent emotion, she pressed it against her cheek. Barry watched them out of sight. He was thinking of Louise. She had not yet kissed him. In his pocket was a little box, and inside the little box was a ring. Marjory also watched them go. She sighed even as she smiled: "Another young thing, just starting out--boy-crazy. So futile." But she smiled more radiantly in spite of herself, and the other valuation _would_ slip in: "So sweet!" 5 The portières between the dining room and the living room at Beachcrest are carefully drawn. The whole company is assembled, waiting. It is one o'clock, the vitriolic Dutch timepiece on the mantel having just snapped out the hungry truth. The clock, with its quenchless petulance and spite, is lord of the mantel. And what an entourage of vessels! Close up against it huddles a bottle of peroxide. Then, although disposed in some semblance of neatness and order, one discovers a fish stringer, an old pipe, several empty cigar boxes, heaps of old letters, a book opened and turned down, a number of rumpled handkerchiefs, some camera films, a bottle of red ink. There are two odd candlesticks, without any candles, a metal dish containing a vast miscellany of pins, collar buttons, rubber bands, and who knows what? Lo, on the other side of the clock loiter a curious pebble, a laundry list, a box of candy, some loose change and a little paper money, a pocket flash which no longer works, matches in a broken crockery receiver, perfumes, sandpaper, a writing tablet and some yellowing envelopes. And one glimpses, emerging from chaos, the frayed handle of a whisk broom which has seen immeasurably better days. Some woven grass baskets, too. Anything else? Yes, yonder is a box of tacks, and beside it a little pile of the Rev. Needham's socks, nicely darned. Also, strewn here and there, are various rail and steamship timetables, most of which bear the dates of seasons long gone by. An immortal miscellany! Oh, and one must not miss that curious creature squatting in a dim corner and peering ever alertly around with his little beady eyes: yes, a sad and much dilapidated Teddy Bear. One o'clock! There is a tendency on the part of every pair of eyes--even those of the Rev. Needham, or perhaps especially those--to direct from time to time a wholly unconscious glance of hope mingled with mild anxiety toward the tantalizing green portières, beyond which Eliza moves about with maddening deliberateness. One o'clock, snapping like a dry forest twig under the tread of some wild creature. Then an angry _tick_-tock, _tick_-tock. On and on and on, forever. Out in the kitchen Eliza was prodding the kettle of soup. She was dreamily thinking of the porter at the hotel in Beulah. Would he get over this evening? Oh, love is so wonderful! Eliza was quite gauche and unlettered; yet love, for her, was a thing which could rouse brilliant orgies of the imagination. Love, even for her, was something which transcended all the ineffable promised glories of Heaven itself. Yes, it was better than the streets of pearl and the gates of amethyst--or was it the gates of pearl and the streets of gold? When the soup was ready she served it, then thrust asunder the portières. "Lunch is served, ma'am," she announced, with a degree of majesty which would simply have terrorized the Beulah porter. They responded promptly--not exactly crowding ahead of each other, but stepping along with irreproachable briskness. Appetites beside the sea are like munition factories in wartime. There was a cheerful rattle of chairs and much scraping of feet under the table. Then a solemn silence, while the minister prayed. The Rev. Needham, of course, sat at the head of the table. Mrs. Needham sat opposite him at the foot. To the minister's right was Miss Whitcom, who found herself delightfully sandwiched in between a knight of the church and a knight of the grip. Needless to say, the latter was Mr. O'Donnell, looking his very nicest and smelling of soap like the Brushwood Boy. Next came Hilda, who flashed quite dazzling smiles across at her sister, smiles more subdued and shy at Mr. Barry. There was a flurry of conversation at first, while the paper napkins were being opened up and disposed where they would afford the most protection--not a great deal, it is to be feared, at best. And then--well, then there was almost no talk at all until after the soup. As they say in theatre programs: "The curtain will be lowered one minute to denote a lapse of time." Miss Whitcom and Mr. O'Donnell had employed quite as little formality in their meeting as the latter had prophesied during the trip up to Beulah. She hadn't, as a matter of fact, referred to the wall paper in the throne room of the Queen's palace. Instead she had remarked: "You know, it's curious. I was just dropping you a note. Yes. I wanted, for one thing, to express my regret over the unlikelihood of our seeing each other this trip, since you see I'm going right back. Jolly you should have happened along like this--and a postage stamp saved into the bargain!" While he, swallowing his disappointment over the prospect of her immediate return to Tahulamaji, had replied in like spirit: "How fortunate--about the stamp, I mean. It _has_ been a long while, hasn't it?" And now they were sitting side by side at the table, rather monopolizing the conversation--having a beautiful time, yet never quite descending from that characteristic, mutually assumed tone of banter. "I suppose you're still travelling, Mr. O'Donnell?" "Still travelling, Miss Whitcom." "Same firm?" "Same firm." It had been the same firm almost as far back as memory went. It always would be the same firm. There was little of change and perhaps nothing at all of adventure in this destiny. But there was a rather substantial balance in the bank, which, after all, is a kind of adventure, too. "Babbit & Babbit," she mused. "Members of the O. A. of C." "True. I'm afraid I'd forgotten the letters at the end." He nibbled at his celery. "And you, Miss Whitcom?" "Still mostly travelling, Mr. O'Donnell." "Same firm?" "Oh, dear no! There the interesting parallel must cease. One has to be progressive, you know. One must keep abreast of the times." She gave her brother-in-law a dreadful, broad wink. "What was I doing last?" O'Donnell grinned. "I believe--wasn't it piloting tourists through Europe?" "Do you mean to tell me it's been as long as that since I've seen you?" "As I recollect it--something of the sort." "Yes, yes. So it was. But that was before the war. You knew, of course, that I'd gone to Tahulamaji." "You answered several of my letters," he reminded her sweetly. "Ah, of course I did. And you should have felt highly flattered, for I may say I made no point of keeping up any sort of correspondence at all down there." "I should say not!" put in Mrs. Needham, laughing. "Oh, yes. I was flattered--flattered even if they were only postcards. But I haven't yet got it straight what you were doing in Tahulamaji. Was it the same sort of thing there?" "What! Piloting tourists?" She had a hearty laugh. Her brother-in-law started a little. One of Marjory's hearty laughs was always like an unexpected slap on the back. "You mean there aren't any sights to show?" asked O'Donnell meekly. "I don't even know where Tahulamaji is, and I haven't the faintest idea what it's like." "Oh," she laughed, "there are plenty of sights. It's ever so much better than Europe!" "Then why _not_ pilot?" "There aren't any tourists." "Not any at all?" "None, at least, who require piloting. You see, we haven't been sufficiently exploited yet. For some reason we've escaped so far, though I expect any day to hear that we've been discovered. Those who come are bent on plain, stern business. Most of them get away again the next day. Those who don't get off the next day, or at most the day after that, you may depend upon it have come to stay--like me." "So you are quite determined to go back again." "Quite. Why not?" They gazed quietly at each other a moment, while the minister began dispensing dried-beef-in-cream-on-toast--a special Beachcrest dish; French-fried potatoes. Mrs. Needham watched with quaking heart until it was patent there would be enough to go round. Then she began pouring the tea. There was always, at any rate, plenty of tea. But Miss Whitcom nearly occasioned a panic by asking for lemon. The rest took cream, if for no better reason than that it was right there on the table. The demand had been, like everything Miss Whitcom did, unpremeditated, and was immediately withdrawn. She tossed her head and laughed. Wasn't it absurd to ask for lemon in the wilderness? But Anna Needham rose to the occasion. It was a crisis. She tinkled the bell in a breathless yet resolute way; she so wanted to impress her sister as being a competent housekeeper. It amounted almost to a passion. Perhaps living so long with Alfred had rather tended to weaken belief in her own abilities. Eliza was gone a good while. But she triumphantly returned with the lemon. Mr. O'Donnell looked at Miss Whitcom's tea a little wistfully. He had already taken cream. Possibly he preferred lemon too. But it requires real genius to ask for what one doesn't see before one in this law-of-least-resistance world. This slight tension removed, the Rev. Needham resumed a quiet conversation with Barry about the affairs in the West. Everything, it seemed, was going finely. It began to look as though they might all grow positively rich off the desert! And it was owing to Barry--entirely to him. Well, Barry was a fine young man--so _completely_ satisfactory. If the Needhams had had a son, Alfred would have wished him to be like Barry. Sure, patient, untiring, generous--generous to a fault, yet with such solid faculties for business! And now, here he was, about to step right into the family. It was too good to be true. Yes, much too good. The Rev. Needham swelled with pride and beamed with affection. He beamed on Barry, and never noted how his daughter sat there beside this paragon, eating little, talking almost not at all.... Hilda was another member of the party who talked little. Her deportment, however, was quite different. Her cheeks were highly coloured, and her eyes sparkled. Aunt Marjie, who seemed somehow never too engrossed in anything to give good heed to everything else, looked curiously from Hilda to Louise, to Barry, from Barry on to her brother-in-law. Then she looked at Hilda again, recalling Leslie, and smiled. She looked at Louise again, also, then at Barry, and her expression grew more serious. She looked at Louise a third time, still with Leslie in the back of her mind, and thought of the forgotten stove burners.... Why was it, she asked herself, that men had to make such baffling differences in women's lives? 6 After luncheon the company broke up. The Rev. Needham announced, just a little stiffly (for he felt the upsetting gaze of his sister-in-law) that it was customary at Beachcrest to spend a quiet hour, at this point of the day's span, napping. He wanted to create an easy home atmosphere, and the most effective way seemed to be to impress outsiders with the fact that everything was really running along just as though none but the immediate family was present. Miss Whitcom yawned at once. "Good gracious!" she exclaimed. "I'm _horribly_ sleepy. Never would have dreamed what was the matter with me, Alfred, if you hadn't come to the rescue. I _am_ grateful!" And then--and then the Rev. Needham did a tremendous, a revolutionary, a gigantic and unforgettable thing. He simply overwhelmed himself and everybody else by making an almost low bow! Mrs. Needham uttered a tiny gasp--she really couldn't help it. What had gotten into Alfred? Then she laughed, a little too shrilly, as by way of heralding to all the Point the glorious, glad tidings that there was, at last, a genuine, wholesome, jolly home atmosphere established. Yes, the bow was inspired. There was no other way of looking at it. The bow was an inspired bow. And what had come over the Rev. Needham was this: He had suddenly, in a sort of buoyant flare, determined that Marjory's manner would have to be played up to! It was simply ridiculous--scandalous--to allow himself to be disturbed and even secretly harassed by his wife's own sister. Yes, it was little short of a scandal! And now, rather tardily, it may be admitted, the Rev. Needham had attained salvation. It was simply to make a low bow. How clever--and how exquisitely subtle! He laughed aloud with the rest. His feet were squarely on the ground, after all. Of course they were. And splendidly, magnificently he defied the prickly feeling to come again into his heels! The Rev. Needham was, in truth, privately so captivated with this curious and unforeseen twist in his fortunes that he forgot all about his own customary fatigue: forgot that this was the hour of quiet at Beachcrest--rendered so by immemorial precedent. He swaggered a little, without, of course, quite losing the ministerial poise; and spoke up, as his wife afterward phrased it, "real brisk and hearty." Cigars were passed to Barry and O'Donnell. The Rev. Needham bit into one himself. It is altogether possible he might, under the influence of this new heroic emotion, have distributed cigarettes, had there been anything so devilish on the premises. As the box went blithely back on to the mantel, Miss Whitcom, who was greatly enjoying what she perfectly fathomed, perceived an irresistible obligation to suggest that he had gone only half way around. The Rev. Needham looked perhaps just a shade startled. Could he bow again? And if not, how else was her manner to be played up to? Had he already struck a snag? Obviously it would be going a little too far to take her at her word and offer her a cigar. "One wants to be sociable, you know," she said, her eyes sparkling. "I know of a lady poet in the East who smokes cigars," volunteered O'Donnell. He spoke quite easily, as though for Miss Whitcom's special benefit, and to convey the impression that he had quite grown accustomed or reconciled to such dainty feminine indulgence. Indeed, he looked at her with shy sprightliness. "Oh, yes," she replied, "and, if you remember, a lady novelist started the custom." He didn't remember, but he chuckled. And she went on: "As a matter of fact, and just amongst ourselves, why shouldn't women smoke if they want to? And why shouldn't they _want_ to? Isn't it perfectly natural they should? I'm not, strictly speaking, championing the habit, for it's expensive and rather silly. But if half the human race wants to turn itself into portable smoke stacks, then by all means let the other half follow suit. So you see, Alfred, you'd really better let me have one. For you hear for yourself, Mr. O'Donnell knows of a poet who smokes. Of course," she admitted, "I'm not a poet." But O'Donnell was certainly in a romantic mood today. He wouldn't let her admission stand. "Yes, you are," he began, with an odd impulsiveness, adding in a quieter though quite as fervent tone: "--a kind of poet...." They eyed each other steadily a moment, as they had done once or twice before, that day. It was surely another O'Donnell than the O'Donnell of long ago--the O'Donnell, for instance, who had eased up at the finish and let her win the race. Was she, also, in a way, another Marjory? A Marjory, after all, rather less insistent upon, or who had grown just a tiny bit weary of, doing things simply to be independent--simply for the joy of doing them gloriously and daringly alone? When the gentlemen had repaired to the porch to smoke and to discuss, as is the custom at such times, matters too deep to be grasped by the feminine intellect, Miss Whitcom succeeded in confronting Louise. "Now," she said, with a warm, inviting firmness which brought a flash of tears to the girl's eyes. She laid an arm around Louise's shoulders, and they stood thus together a few moments in the middle of the cottage living room. Could the Rev. Needham have looked in upon this affecting picture, and could those small eager ears of his have partaken of the subsequent talk which passed between them, the cigar of confidence and authority would have dropped from his fingers, its brave spark dimmed forever. Yes, he would have forgotten completely the brilliant bow which had seemed to smooth away all of life's snarls by giving him, marvellously, in an instant, a positive, almost Nietzschean philosophy. But for the present he was safe. "How could things have gone so far without your realizing?" "I don't know." "But you must know how you feel toward him!" Louise shook her head miserably. "I thought I cared.... Perhaps I still do." "But aren't you sure?" "I--I don't believe I know. I don't seem sure of anything." "But, my dear child--" "I _thought_ I was sure." "And all those letters--" "Yes, yes," cried Louise tensely. "You see it was all letters, Aunt Marjie. And when I came suddenly to see him again...." "Oh, come, child, we don't fall in love with men's hats and the twist of their profiles. You must still love whatever it was you loved all those long months you were apart. Isn't it reasonable?" "I--I...." Oh, what was the use of asking her to be reasonable? What has a heart full of ghosts to do with reason? And Leslie.... She felt like crying. She began looking upon herself as almost a person who has been somehow wronged. Her emotion grew thicker. She drew shyly away. Aunt Marjie, as she let her go from her, realizing that words just now would get them nowhere, was thinking that in the midst of a universe full of souls and wheeling planets, one poor heartache was like a grain of dust. Well, perhaps she _was_ a kind of poet. But in a moment the impersonal millions, both of souls and of stars, vanished away, and this girl's problem ascended to a position of tremendous importance, if not quite of majesty. At length, after he had smoked his cigar, the Rev. Needham did retire to the couch of his wonted siesta, leaving the household, as he thought, pleasantly and profitably disposed. Of course, the fact that the host proposed to take a nap did not mean that all the others had to follow suit. It was just part of the device for making every one feel that nothing was being upset because of "company." It did not mean that O'Donnell, for instance, would have to subject himself to the rather embarrassing alternative of curling up on the short living room sofa. Miss Whitcom and Mr. O'Donnell happily repaired to the rustic bower. Hilda skipped off singing into the woods. Mrs. Needham--well, Mrs. Needham was still in the kitchen with Eliza. The latter was stolidly eating her luncheon of left-overs on the very table to which Louise and Leslie had sat down at dawn. Mrs. Needham stood solemnly before Eliza as she ate, her hands on her hips, her face growing flushed again, talking endlessly--about dinner. Louise and Lynndal Barry were on the porch. Lovers were so brazen, nowadays, they didn't mind at all if the partitions between their embraces and the outside world were mere mosquito gauze. The Rev. Needham, slyly recognizing this great truth, chuckled over it, in his new mood of sublime assurance, all the way upstairs. Each step cracked, and all the way up he was telling himself contentedly: "A fine young man--one of God's own noblemen!" And as gentle slumber wafted his soul into a peace which, especially on a full stomach, so often passeth understanding, he whispered dreamily: "Coming right into the family...." Thank God the Western interests were forever safeguarded! But meanwhile, out on the porch, the situation grew from moment to moment more poignant. Louise seemed suddenly to be sparring for time. She had decided--as well as her giddy little brain was capable, just now, of deciding anything at all--that the whole crux of the matter was her disappointment over the way Lynndal had turned out.... But what Aunt Marjie had said about not loving his hat and the twist of his profile anyhow had rather upset her again. Once she almost flung herself into his arms with a great, comfortable, forgiving, beseeching, surrendering cry. What a haven his arms might seem! But something in her heart, she imagined, warned her: "You cannot yet! Dare you? Remember--it would be irrevocable!" Time, time! There was obviously an issue to be faced. But with all the vital eloquence of desperation Louise reasoned that bitterness deferred might somehow lose a degree of its sting. Feeble logic, and logic not very profound; but she was scarcely in a frame of mind to evolve, at the present moment, any logic more substantial. Her problem was delicate, tenuous, like the sheen on the wings of a butterfly. Her tragedy was a thing of shades and of shadows--a thing wellnigh ungraspable. But it was none the less real. Oh, it was very real to her! In an orgy of the mañana spirit she abandoned herself to eventualities as they should develop. Her fate--whatever it was going to prove--would rush on and overtake her; she would not go out to meet it half way. Dared not. "I'm afraid you'll think me not very cordial," she said desperately, "but I have a headache, Lynndal, and I'm going to ask if you'd mind if I went up to my room for a little while...." "Oh," he cried, in real and honest distress, "I'm so sorry! Why didn't you tell me before? Perhaps the smoke has been annoying you?" "Oh, it's nothing," she answered, smiling in the wan way common to invalids for whom the end is in sight. "These headaches come on, quite suddenly sometimes. If I lie down for an hour, it will be gone, I think." "I'm sorry, dear," he repeated, touching her elbow as she turned to leave him. The contact emboldened him and he slipped an arm round her waist and bent over her a little as he walked with her toward the door. "You shouldn't have tried to meet me this morning, dear. It was too much." "I wanted to," she murmured huskily. "Will you come out again later?" he pleaded, content, under the circumstances, that she should leave him now. Louise nodded and passed into the cottage. "Couldn't we take a little walk on the beach later, if your head is better? Later on, when the sun isn't quite so hot?" She turned and murmured: "Yes." There was another impulse to throw herself into his arms; she longed to go to him and cry against his heart. But at the same moment she remembered Leslie--how close he had held her in the morning, how they had kissed.... The impulse was stifled. When she was gone from him, Barry sat down again on the porch to finish his cigar. It was the cigar which the Rev. Needham had given him after luncheon. It was a good cigar, for the Rev. Needham knew what was what, despite his intense holiness. Barry was one of those rare individuals who have never really loved before. Curiously, the insatiable god Eros had passed him largely by till now. But ah--the tardy fevers! They may be more virulent than those of timelier visitation.... His eye swept the curve of the white beach, ablaze with the mid-day sun. Later they would be strolling there together, he and she. He would be walking out there beside this dear girl whose love had thrilled to the dull roots of his bachelordom. And then he would tell her how he adored her; would open the little box and slip the ring on her finger.... It was so wonderful, after dwelling in the desert all his life! 7 She really did have a very little headache; though this was the least of her troubles. There sounded a whistle outside. In the midst of her wretchedness, Louise lifted her head and listened. Low and sustained, it had saluted her ear when dawn's pink flush was in the sky; but now it seemed far more eager; it seemed to glint through the sunshine. Springing to her window, Louise crouched there. The historical novel lay on the sill, where she had left it. Her fingers closed tensely about it, although she did not at first realize what it was she was clutching. Leslie was outside. She could see him coming on through the forest, and caught her breath in a little hysterical gasp of joy. Leslie! She couldn't let him go! She loved him! She had never, she felt, loved anybody as she loved Leslie. Oh, the injustice of it! That he must be denied her, though it was he she loved the best! But there _must_ be a way. Somehow, somehow she must contrive.... She must contrive, whatever it might cost, to keep him.... But she faltered. Wasn't it too late? His hands were in his pockets; his face was richly animated; his eyes were full of light. Leslie was almost handsome--ah, strangely more beautiful now than when she had wanted to be his friend. His brightness dazzled her; and she looked out at him through her perplexed tears. He had held her for a moment in his arms as they stood, so deeply enthralled, on that dappled forest road. Would he ever hold her in his arms again? "Leslie!" she murmured. He halted, looking quickly about. "I'm here," she continued, in the same unhappy tone, "--up here!" They were the very words Lynndal had used when he stood above her on the deck of the steamer. And it was plain, too painfully plain, Leslie had not been searching her window. At first he appeared a little embarrassed. An indefinite numbness closed about her heart. It seemed, all at once, as though retrospect embodied no mutual past for these two. Intimate strangers! For all at once Leslie seemed as essentially unknown and aloof from her destiny as Lynndal had seemed during that first curious, bewildering moment when his steamer was coming in. Leslie--merely a lad passing by outside, under her window. And she blushed at the thought of having dared to speak to him.... "Do you know where Hilda is?" he enquired, trying to throw a great deal of carelessness into both tone and posture. Louise miserably shook her head. "I was to meet her," Leslie explained simply. And, smiling, he turned with abruptness and began strolling off. He could be cool enough when it pleased him. "Leslie!" she cried out, though discreetly. For she dared not let Lynndal hear her. In volume her voice by no means matched its almost terrible intensity. The tone arrested him. "What?" And he stopped and looked bluntly back at the window. "Wait, Leslie, I think I know where Hilda is." "Where?" "Wait just a minute. I'm coming down. Will you come around to the back door?" He nodded, too indifferent to voice the curiosity he might normally be expected to feel over her desire to emerge from the back rather than from the front door of the cottage. As she flew, a sudden determination swayed her. Both men, she argued, were strangers again. _She must win Leslie back!_ When she stole out to him a moment later, he was loitering casually in the vicinity of a little shed where driftwood was kept. The Rev. Needham always made a point of talking about the rare quality of surf-wood blazes. The Rev. Needham had constructed this shed also with his own hands, just as he had constructed the remarkable rustic bench; only the shed had taken another summer, of course. This shed was really a Beachcrest institution; so was likewise the perennial lugging up of driftwood for storage therein recognized to be an almost religious adjunct of Point life. There was an informal rule--of ancient standing, playfully enough conceived, and of course playfully laid down--that no one should come in from the beach without at least one piece of driftwood. Much preferably, of course, a respectable, staggering armful. The rule _was_ wholly playful; and yet, should several days pass with no contribution at all to the shed, Mrs. Needham and the girls would be troubled, and perhaps even a trifle frightened, to behold the minister himself tottering in with a colossal load. He would cast reproachful glances their way. And it would sometimes be a long while before he regained any sort of serenity. Yet it was a favourite maxim with the Rev. Needham that they came up here to the cottage for sheer relaxation and amusement. Leslie had selected from the shed a smooth splinter, once part of a ship's spar. He had taken out his knife and was busy whittling. And he kept at this self-imposed task quite doggedly, seeming to find in it a certain sanctuary. His eyes scrupulously followed the slashings of the blade. Thus they avoided hers--for the most part without too deliberately seeming to do so. Louise was herself dimly grateful for the distraction. "What do you think I found in Frankfort this morning?" she demanded, trying to smile with something of the old bewitchment. The historical novel was clasped behind her. She had certainly not meant to show it to him; yet here it was. "I give _up_," he replied, accentuating the final word with a particularly telling stroke on the spar splinter. Then she drew the book slowly round into sight and half extended it, as though it were an offering that might effect a return, somehow, to that golden relationship which Lynndal's coming had broken off. "A book?" He went on whittling. "You haven't even read the title!" she cried, half pleadingly. "Something new?" "Why, Les...." Glancing back at the book, he merely muttered: "Oh." "You remember you were telling me about it. I happened to see it in a window." She spoke a little hysterically, and began wishing she had not come down. "Only think--in a town like Frankfort, of all places! I was so surprised that I walked right in and bought it! I--I expect to enjoy it very much," she ended miserably. Leslie whittled, still stubbornly taciturn. If he would ask about Lynndal--if he would only show _some_ kind of emotion: anything would be better than this awful silence. Finally, since he thus forced her hand, Louise reminded him that she had previously intimated a knowledge of her sister's whereabouts. "_Do_ you know where she is?" he looked at her with a furtive flash of interest. "I think she's gone to the tree-house." "Alone?" "Yes, I think so." "Long ago?" "No, not so very long." Leslie began humming, and shifted restlessly. "I think you'd find her there, Les, if you wanted to find her. But if...." She left it dumbly in the air. Still the boy hummed, his eyes never leaving the spar. "Are you two going for a hike, or something?" He stirred and looked up quickly at a little red squirrel chattering on a bough above them. "We're going to cut sticks for the roast tonight." "Is there to be a roast?" "The mid-summer Assembly Roast," he explained, a little pointedly. There seemed no reason for one's forgetting so important an event as the Assembly Roast. "Oh, yes," she replied. "I'd forgotten all about it, for the moment. Will it be over beyond the lighthouse?" "Yes, clear around the Point." "Sticks, you mean, for marshmallows?" How obvious it all sounded! "Marshmallows and wienies," he told her. "There will have to be at least three dozen sticks, so I guess I'd better...." The little squirrel chattered brazenly on above them. A locust was shrilling somewhere across the dazzling sand. She told herself she had given him every chance. "You mustn't let me keep you, Les." "Oh, that's all right." She had given him every chance. He did not care, after all. She had been deceived in him. Oh, the injustice of it all! "I must go find Mr. Barry," she said. "He'll wonder what's become of me!" And she forced a brief little laugh. "It will be lots of fun. I'd forgotten all about the mid-summer roast! I'll--we'll see you there...." "Yes," he answered. Their eyes suddenly met. She flushed, and her throat ached. He turned slowly away. "Good-bye, Les." "Good-bye," he answered. Louise reëntered the cottage by the back door. Eliza was singing over her work at the sink. And Leslie, smiling in a kind of baffling way, strolled off, still whittling the broken spar. And Eros skipped beside him. Eros knew well enough where the tree-house was. He didn't have to be shown, for as a matter of fact he had helped construct it, up in the crotch of a giant oak: had subsequently climbed nimbly to the tiny empire of its seclusion in the interest of many a summer twain. Yes, Eros knew the way quite well. However, for the sheer sake of companionship, he chose to skip along by the side of a lad who was whittling a broken spar and smiling in a kind of baffling way. 8 "The Queen of Tahulamaji," admitted Miss Whitcom, "was really a most amazing creature." "I should think it likely." They were sitting together on the rustic bench. At first he had been on the rustic bench alone. She had flung herself in the hammock. But the interest of their talk had brought her first to a sitting posture, then to a standing posture, and finally to a rustic bench posture. "Ah, but you mustn't think just because she was amazing that she wasn't also perfectly human--sometimes almost desperately so, O'Donnell!" "Yes, I suppose so. I can somehow picture her--especially the desperate times." "Well, of course she did have her eccentricities. For instance, her temper. To the last it remained most alarmingly and deliciously undependable." "To the last?" "Ah, yes--poor Tessie!" "Tessie?" "I always called her that. It wasn't strictly Tahulamajian, but she adored the name." "So the Queen is dead?" "Yes, Queen Tess died early in the spring. She was terribly old, but game right up to the last minute. You never saw such gameness. The funeral was immensely impressive." "Whole populace turned out, of course?" "Ra_ther_. Ostracism threatened against any who stayed away without a valid excuse! And they carried her along, all dressed up in her robes of state, and even with a crown on. Poor, dear Tessie! How often she used to say to me in private, when the mats were all snug over the doors: 'You know there are times,' she'd say, 'when I have my doubts about all this sovereign divinity business. It's down in the state books that I'm one of the direct line, descended from Mentise-huhu and the gods of the Sea Foam. But there are times when I have my doubts,' she used to say. 'There are times when I seem to be just Tessie, and between you and me, I'm coming to suspect that there never were any gods of the Sea Foam at all!'" O'Donnell smiled at her look of momentary abstraction. What a life Marjory's had been--what a life! Here he found her, at last, in the heart of a religious colony. But at one time she had sold bonds in Wall Street; she had been an agent for a Pacific steamship line; she had been a political organizer in the North-west; and she had once served as associate editor of a newspaper. Yes, she had always struck O'Donnell--himself so simple and homely of nature--as most violently revolutionary. He remembered how, in the early days, she used to march in suffrage parades. She had taken up Socialism and dropped it; had smoked; and he distinctly recalled her having used, in her time, quite sporty language. Once she had had something to do with the races, and had worn a derby. And yet.... "Well," he mused, "after all it's the same Marjory." "You think so?" She was amused. "Yes, the same old Marjory. I wonder if there ever was a time when you weren't 'advanced.'" "You call _me_ advanced? My dear fellow, I must refer you--" "I know, I know," he protested. "You forget I've come to know them all. Perhaps," he added slyly, "I'm growing just a little advanced myself!" "You?" "Can you imagine?" "Oh, well--" "In my old age--fancy that!" "True, I'd forgotten the poet." "Well," he admitted, "one lives and learns." "We all do that, you know." "Oh, yes." "Well, but do you mean we've nothing left to quarrel about? Has it really come to _such_ a pass?" "I do." He spoke almost solemnly. It was a little like the "I do" of the marriage rite. "Barrett! Good heavens! What's the world coming to?" "I don't know," he replied naïvely. "I only know there are no grounds left. I've capitulated, you see, at every point." "Tut, tut!" "_Every point!_" he insisted. No compromise would do. It might amaze her, might snatch the ground from under her feet; he would admit, at last, no compromise. She grew whimsical, then a new earnestness creeping into her voice: "You know," she said, "I've come to suspect some of this talk of being 'advanced.' I mean"--for she felt his enquiring gaze--"I've come at length to suspect that in just going ahead.... Barrett, for heaven's sake help me out!" For once in her life--and it was surely a portentous symptom--Miss Whitcom was groping. "Well," she went on at last, still speaking earnestly, if fumblingly, "I'm not sure I _can_ express at all what I feel. It's what I've been coming to feel more and more--no doubt a gradual development up out of the cocksure attitude of one's--Barrett, I've begun using a dreadful and ruthless word--one's immaturity ...!" She tossed her head. "It doesn't mean I don't still believe in all the fine, big movements. You know"--her voice for a moment grew almost tender--"I always looked upon myself as one of the first of the 'new' women. I wasn't going at things blindly. I was always following an ideal, Barrett, even when the things I did seemed most wild and inexplicable. But as I look back I seem to have been following strange roads in an effort to reach it! How strange! And now--yes, only fancy, as you say: in one's old age!--I'm afraid I see in a way that 'progress' can be overdone. That is, I've come to see that progress is something you can't _force_. Yet there have to be pioneers in the world, don't there, Barrett? People who are reckless, and pay the price, and aren't afraid of going too far.... Yes, I realize that, as I've always realized it. But oh, Barrett, Barrett--I'm afraid I'm getting to be very, very selfish. I've been a pioneer so long, and after all I don't quite want to be a pioneer to the very end of my days. I--I somehow feel I want to stop being one before--oh, Barrett, before it's quite too _late_ ...!" "I think," said O'Donnell slowly, his voice just a little shaken, "if the time has come for plain speaking like this, you'd better let me hold your hand. Do you mind?" "Listen to him!" she said, in one of her richest tones of banter. All the same, she let him have it. While these important events were proceeding, Louise, who had not gone to find Mr. Barry, after all, but who had returned to her room instead, slept a little. She was unused to such early rising, and she had been through a great deal since dawn. She slept, and had a dream. She dreamed that she and Leslie were to be married. She seemed to be very much excited, and to be surrounded by a crowd of indefinite persons, some of them friends she now possessed, and some of them friends she had known in her early girlhood. And all the while she was happily arguing: "I know I'm a little bit older, but we love each other so much that just a mere couple of years don't count." Waking with a start to problems more sinister than merely that involving a conventional disagreement of ages, Louise perceived that it had drawn to the golden midst of afternoon. Lynndal was waiting for her. As the curious, almost hypnotic quality of the dream wore off, she responded to another flash of new purpose. The dream still haunted and oppressed her; at first it had made her sad; but as it faded into a renewed appreciation of that humiliating conversation beside the driftwood shed, a mood of rebellion came upon her. She tossed her head haughtily: Leslie should be allowed to make no further difference to her. She would thrust him entirely out of her life. He ought never really to have entered it. No, she shouldn't have given herself to Leslie, even temporarily. It had produced an unpleasant situation, and afforded him an opportunity now to fling all her kindness back in her face. He had, indeed, treated her shamefully--not at all as he had treated her earlier in the day. At dawn.... But she murmured angrily: "This is the return one gets for trying to be nice to a man!" The new mood inclined her, in a subtle way, toward Lynndal--as abruptly as it had hardened her heart against Leslie. The emotion of the moment illuminated the former in an almost rosy manner. She began thinking of Lynndal warmly and romantically--as she had thought of him during those long months when they were far apart. Her attitude again became the attitude she had maintained throughout the period of their increasingly affectionate correspondence. And the sense of his nearness seemed no longer to distract or terrify her. Excitement stirred in her breast. It leapt to her eyes and trembled upon her lips. She had never loved Lynndal so almost tempestuously. Strong emotion of this sort always had a beautifying effect upon Miss Needham. Her face glowed as she encouraged the rekindling passion. She fanned the flame of her love for Lynndal, and at the same time a soft sense of steadfastness and assurance snuffed out the dismal quandary which had wracked and tortured her soul from the moment she saw him up on the deck of the steamer. Some mad whim, she argued feverishly, had filled her with a panic of indecision and dread; but that was gone now. She whipped the purging passion into new and fantastic fervour. Her laugh had a touch of wildness in it. Even Richard had never moved her like this! Suddenly, a little chill seized her heart. What if already it were too late? What if, by her coldness and aloofness, she had already created in Lynndal's heart a havoc which could not be rescinded? Was it not wholly conceivable that she had killed his love for her? Had she not shown herself perverse, cruel, and irredeemably fickle? Perhaps now the tables would be turned, and he would draw away from her, even as she had shrunk from him. The thought had a maddening influence: she felt momentarily faint and distracted. Then a new energy of determination blazed in her eyes. It must _not_ be too late. She _must_ win him back, however far her wretched conduct may have driven him. Louise dressed with elaborate care, giving heed to every eloquent detail of her toilette. She tore off the brooch Richard had given her and flung it into her jewel box with a gesture of gay scorn. No more toying and trifling! She was ready now to give herself completely and for all time--the more ready because of that uneasy little tremor of doubt lest she had killed his love. Yes, it was a wonderful moment--a moment so packed with the frenzy of giving that there remained no other thought at all in her mind. She lived for the moment alone. She made herself radiant for Lynndal, the emotion which swayed her growing more and more riotous. She surrendered herself to it. He was waiting for her. And she went down to him hopefully, wistfully, yet withal triumphantly. "Which way?" asked Lynndal as they descended the short bluff and reached the hard, surf-packed shore. "I don't care," she laughed up at him. "Shall we go this way?" It didn't matter to Barry. All ways were equal to him, since he was really and truly in love and spent no great amount of attention upon the scenery. He looked at her adoringly. His quiet eyes were dazzled. They strolled along close beside the little waves. It was rather a picture. She was charmingly gowned, and carried a small plum parasol. "Let me take your coat, dear," he suggested. She gave him the light silk wrap, and he carried it on his arm, crooked almost pathetically for the purpose. "I don't wonder you like it up here," he said, looking off over the sparkling water. "If we had this in the centre of the desert...." "I suppose it would make a difference." All at once she pictured the desert. She pictured herself living in the midst of the desert with Lynndal. Then the dry-farming expert went on to explain, at some length, just what would happen were this sea to be transported to the parched heart of Arizona. The words began falling a little dully on her ears. She was vaguely troubled. But she could not tell just why it should be so. There was a silence. They walked along slowly side by side. A wave of happiness stole upon the man; his hand, encountering hers, closed over it tenderly. She caught her breath a little. "Lynndal," she cautioned, "you mustn't...." But he clung to her hand. He had come so far! And again she seemed to hear those terrible words booming in her ears: "You are mine, all mine!" Slowly his arm crept round her waist. There was nothing overwhelming about the action: Barry was not an overwhelming man, and had not an overwhelming way with him. His was, rather, a kind of gentle, furtive passion, which displayed itself in a very slight trembling, an occasional queer huskiness of voice. All at once Louise grew alarmed. It seemed to her that a terrible and inevitable moment had come. She wasn't entirely prepared. _She must have more time ...!_ "Please take your arm away, Lynndal," she said tensely. "But why, dear?" "Please! The cottagers...." "But Louise, dear, there isn't a cottage in sight." They had, indeed, proceeded by this time well around the Point. "There's no one to see, and besides...." She glanced up shyly. His face was kind. His eyes were pleading and full of quiet reassurance. Did he suspect a little the turmoil within her? There was no reason why his arm shouldn't be about her; yet her mind went on groping. It was like being in a thick wood. Could she give herself to him entirely? Could she give herself to _anyone_ entirely? "Louise, I love you," he murmured, bending down so that his lips were close to her cheek. She trembled. But she told herself that he had come to her out of the desert; that he was her lover; and that she must give herself to him without any more restraint. Why had she led him on and on if she didn't intend to give herself fully at last? "Louise, dearest.... Louise!" "Yes, Lynndal...." "I love you so much!" The old panic surged again, but she fought it back. "For ever and ever--nobody but me...." Yet there were so many others.... Chaos again enveloped the girl. "Won't you kiss me?" His arms were adoringly about her. His lips came close to hers. It was time, now, to give herself. She raised her lips. They kissed. But a great cry was in her heart: "I _can't_!" It was almost as though he had heard it, for he let her slip way; and she stood there before him, her head lowered, her hands desperately covering her face. Louise thought blindly of Richard--what their first kiss had been like ...! And then she remembered how, afterward, she had longed for death. With what completeness the situation now was reversed! Now she was loved, and it was she who would break her lover's heart. Yet still the same swift longing for death.... They walked on slowly. Barry's head was lowered. Finally he asked thickly: "Don't you love me, then?" She bent her head lower and could not answer. The fault was her own, and he must suffer for it. Yet stealthy colour crept back into her cheeks; her mood grew muddy and subtly defiant. Was not he making _her_ suffer? It wasn't, she blindly felt, so much that she didn't love him, as that, strangely and tragically, he must be all to her--and she could not face it. How strange it was! How unpremeditated and utterly tragic! In his pocket huddling against the little box with its precious prisoner, was a letter in which the amplest and most ardent affection was expressed. It was a letter which expressed an earnest desire for his coming--so eager. Barry was bewildered. What did such lightning-swift changes of heart signify? Had she only _imagined_ herself in love? What was this that had come to him? Had he come out of the desert for nothing after all? Was all the promise of new life sheer illusion? They walked on a little way and then turned slowly back. PART THREE THE LIGHT 1 The Rev. Needham awoke from his siesta wonderfully refreshed. These benign afternoon snoozes had a peculiar and sometimes quite poignant effect. The minister dimly felt it must have something to do with psychology. For he always awoke feeling so spiritual, so calm and strong. Today, of course, there was particularly traceable cause: he had gone to sleep, one must remember, in a miraculously resolute, yes, a truly masterful, mood. Did we call it Nietzschean? Well, perhaps it really was almost that. At any rate, waking was delicious. There was a largeness, a breadth about life which made one want to square one's shoulders, step out proudly. Before the dresser mirror, in the act of resuming collar and tie, the Rev. Needham actually did square his shoulders a little. He even threw out his chest somewhat. Oh, it is sweet to be master of one's own destiny! Out on the porch he found his wife, rocking there all by herself and looking a little vacantly off at the shrubs and trees. "Ah, Anna," he said; then perched himself in a nonchalant, really an almost rakish manner, on the railing, throwing one leg over the other, and folding his arms. He yawned a little audibly, concluding that function with a kind of masterful, contented smacking of the lips--even whistled a few bars of a gay secular tune. "Did you sleep well, Alf?" Anna Needham spoke calmly, rocked calmly. She still eyed the shrubs and trees in a spirit of almost hypnotized calm. "I had a magnificent nap," he assured her. Anna rocked more slowly. "Alf," she hesitated. "Yes, Anna?" "Alf, I wonder if I can be getting old ...?" "Old, Anna?" He was really quite shocked at the suggestion. "Yes--I don't know. Sometimes...." "Nonsense!" "I don't know ..." she continued dreamily. "But why should you ever think such a thing?" "Well, lately there've been times when I've felt so kind of still. I don't know, but I thought--I thought it might be...." "Why, Anna ...!" he cried in vaguely frightened tones. "I don't know, Alf." Her manner retained its essential dreaminess. "Sometimes when I sit alone rocking, I feel so kind of still...." The minister laughed, then, with even an attempt at something like boisterousness; but it was plain something of his earlier flamboyancy had vanished. Abruptly, right in the heyday of his most glorious mood, the shortness of life struck him with uncanny force. Life's shortness, and, though he indignantly repudiated the insinuation, its relative futility, after all. Where had one come from in the beginning; just what was it one was up to now; and where was it one would go when the breath of life ceased flowing? Oh, what a piece of work is man! These were the secret inner workings. With a thrill of genuine horror the minister found himself asking what he knew, as a fact, after all these years of preaching it, about the immortality of the soul. It was terrible, _terrible_! Oh, that he should be afflicted with such doubts! And not ten minutes ago the Rev. Needham had squared his shoulders and flashed so grand a defiance at his own reflection.... Curiously enough, this sudden unpleasant sense of renewed insecurity was augmented, at the moment when it was most acute, by the rippling laughter of his approaching sister-in-law. Miss Whitcom and her friend were returning from their tête-à-tête in the bower. The laugh, whatever it might mean to the minister, signified that the lady was not, so easily, to be carried off her feet, and that, however thrillingly she might talk about not being a pioneer any longer, no mere travelling man was to capture her without at least a concluding scramble. Barrett O'Donnell knew quite well what the laugh signified. But it didn't, for all that, very greatly disturb him. Lord, he'd waited twenty years: he could wait twenty more, if necessary. There is not that hot impetuosity in the affection of souls matured which characterizes youth; not that fever, that restless, exquisite rush of heady devotion. Still, there is perhaps something in being quite sure your love isn't misplaced. Yes, in a way, to be sure may be even better than to possess. The return of Miss Whitcom and Mr. O'Donnell from one direction fell simultaneously with the return of Louise and Lynndal Barry from another. The porch became a very lively place, all at once, where a few moments before it had been so quiet, with only the minister's wife there, rocking.... Louise was greatly relieved that it should be so. To have returned to a silent and deserted house after what had passed between herself and Lynndal on the beach must have proved next to unbearable. As it was, the frantic difficulty of the situation would be lightened, if only temporarily. Marjory pounced at once upon the westerner, turning from her ancient suitor with a careless alacrity which seemed saying: "After all, I am free, quite superbly free!" And O'Donnell muttered an "Ah!" scarce audibly; and what he meant by it was this: "I know you'll come back to me. You always have and you always will. We are not _quite_ free, either of us, in one sense of the word." One glorious, indomitable sense of the word. Marjory wanted to know more about the dam in Arizona, and especially she wanted to get at the other side of this tragic love affair--this bit of high tragedy in humble setting. In art, she thought, tragedy has a way of being generally treated nobly and loftily; but in life, somehow, it often seems almost absurd. Yes, first it was the dam. But she did not really care two straws about the dam. She had got beyond all such things as dams in her pilgrimage. The Rev. Needham opened up a conversation about the Point with O'Donnell. But he kept eyeing his daughter, who leaned against the railing of the porch, her hands clasped before her. Alfred, despite his calling, was a wretched reader of souls. The look in one's eyes or the line of one's lips meant next to nothing, definitely--if only because these things might mean so bafflingly _much_.... If you actually shed tears, then he would be reasonably sure you must be unhappy. Hearty laughter signified, of course, a state of hilarity. However, the Rev. Needham's spirit, with Milton's, took, really, no middle course. There lay an almost blank chasm between tears and laughter--although, alas, the fact of its being a chasm did not make it any less conducive to prickles in one's suspended heels. "There's only one thing," O'Donnell was observing, "--only one thing I've got against this place." "What's that?" asked the minister. "There are so many signs!" It took the Rev. Needham just a moment to comprehend what was meant. "You mean the Assembly notices?" "I suppose that's what they are. If you'll pardon my saying so, it seems sometimes as though there's a sign on every tree. One says you mustn't peel the birch bark, and the next one announces a lecture on such and such a day." "I'm afraid they have multiplied the last few seasons," admitted the minister. "We don't seem to notice--so used to them, I suppose. There are picnickers, you know--come from other parts--and we have to look out for the natural beauty or it will be all spoiled. As for the lecture announcements," he concluded, "the--the church, you know, has to keep pace, nowadays. Yes, it--it has to advertise a little!" He spoke almost glibly, and sighed; but quite brightly, indeed almost chirpily. Miss Whitcom caught the confession. And she hopped down at once off Mr. Barry's fine Arizona dam--which diverted water into a huge reservoir, thus keeping off the Needham wolf--and administered what might vulgarly be termed a knock-out. "I should say it does have to advertise! Oh, yes, the church must _indeed_ hustle to keep pace! Even so, I hear the attendance is dropping off." "Marjory?" began her brother-in-law with unhappy and interrogative vehemence. The low bow, alas, would do no good at all here. This woman was unspeakable. She struck him as almost a monster! Not that this was manifest, of course; it was merely the way she struck his invisible soul. "Oh, gracious, Alfred, I don't mean _your_ attendance. I'm not referring to your particular church. I speak as a sociologist--a biologist!" She laughed. "Yes, I always try to consider these things in the broadest sense. And I don't see why you should look so shocked, for after all I'm only agreeing with you. Don't you see I am? The church _does_ have to advertise. Has to stir up public controversies for the sake of getting itself discussed--always biologically speaking, Alfred. It has to get itself recognized as a social force. That's the word: a social force! It must be a little sensational even, sometimes, to match the growing sensationalism of life. What more natural? An atmosphere of spry colloquialism. Yes, the modern church must compete. Why _not_ introduce the movies into Sunday School--?" "We haven't yet done any of these things, Marjory," declared the Rev. Needham earnestly, a trifle coolly. He seemed really to insist upon receiving all her shafts personally. "Some churches do though," volunteered O'Donnell--and laughed a little nervously. Mrs. Needham had been following the conversation, glancing first at one speaker then at another; now she spoke: "Marjory, how do you ever manage to keep track of everything that's going on here in America?" It was not the first time since her arrival amongst them that Anna's sister had amazed her with a grasp of home affairs--often with flashes of vision which had been closed to her before. "Oh," replied Marjory with pleasant lightness, "but you see such demonstrations as these exude an influence--it's a little like the wireless. One feels their thrill all around the earth." "Besides," interposed O'Donnell quite seriously, "you know Tahulamaji's awfully advanced." "Is it?" asked Mrs. Needham guilelessly, turning towards him. "Oh, tremendously," he assured her. "As I make it out Queen Tess was one of the most advanced women of her time. I tell you, things move in Tahulamaji!" Mrs. Needham had not hitherto felt, as she indefinitely put it to herself, very well acquainted with this travelling man friend of her sister's. Suddenly she found herself holding the centre of the stage with him. It amounted to a little thrill. "I suppose, after all, things aren't so different there--conditions, should I say?" "Well," hedged O'Donnell, beginning to perceive that he had entered somewhat dangerous waters. He glanced at Miss Whitcom, who merely shrugged her shoulders, which seemed equivalent to an assurance that, having involved himself unnecessarily in her behalf, he might just flounder along, so far as she was concerned, until kingdom come. "Maybe," suggested the minister's wife with a dart of genuine brilliance, "the churches do all those things in Tahulamaji!" Would it not seem to explain Marjory's being so uncannily well informed? The Rev. Needham inwardly fidgeted. He felt he ought to be in the forefront of the discussion, defending his cloth. But suddenly he seemed, within, sadly and impotently, to have nothing to say. There were times when he felt he didn't possess a single honest prejudice any more, or hold one single irrefragable opinion. What a fortunate thing for the soul is its kind bulwark of flesh! Anna's suggestion at length stirred Miss Whitcom, however. "Oh, no," she said quietly, "they don't." "Still," O'Donnell objected, "you told me the Queen was incorrigibly modern, and you said she adored the movies." "Oh, we're modern," replied Marjory with an ungodly smirk. "Yes, we're modern enough in Tahulamaji. I may say we're quite in the van of civilization. We're so modern that we _haven't_ any churches. So how _could_ we advertise?" "No churches, Marjory?" queried her brother-in-law. "But you seem to forget--" "Well, at least nothing you'd call a church, I'm sure, Alfred--outside of what the foreigners have imported, that is. A few little rude native altars.... That's all. You know, 'when two or three are gathered together'.... It's--well, I've sometimes felt it's the _spirit_ that counts in Tahulamaji, when it comes to matters of religion. Everything's very, very simple. We really haven't time to do it the grand way, even if we knew how." They hadn't time for church in Tahulamaji! The awful question which now wracked the soul of the minister was: If they hadn't time for church, what _had_ they time for? A dimly terrifying curiosity assailed him. The Rev. Needham had read vague things about the people of the tropics. And a flush overspread his lined, worried face. Yes, Marjory was an odd sheep, if not a black one. Perhaps she could hardly be called a _black_ one, though there were certainly times when the Rev. Needham saw her as through smoked glasses. Anyway, an odd sheep she certainly was. She did not seem to belong in the herd at all--let alone the family! The rest were all quiet, sensible, orthodox. But about everything Marjory said or did there was something unorthodox, something wickedly theatrical. What a past she had had! Just think of it! Just think, for instance, of spending five whole years of one's life in a place like Tahulamaji! Well, the ways of God were unsearchable. So, it seemed, were the ways of His satanic opponent. The reason she seemed different from themselves must be, fundamentally, that she had had a past. But why had she had a past? Yes, the minister's speculations always must terminate with the knottiest question raised and unanswered. It seemed a part of his destiny. And meanwhile, there stood Louise and Lynndal, not six feet apart, yet never meeting each other's look; never speaking. How unpremeditated and tragic! He had come all the way from Arizona, and now they had nothing to say to each other. Louise, leaning wretchedly against the railing, seemed, just now, able to realize nothing clearly. The episode on the beach had confused her. She felt herself baffled. As for Barry's state of mind, that, also, was considerably cloudy. It had happened--the inconceivable, the impossible--and it was now over. Yet was it really over? In just a swift moment like this had _all_ his dreams been broken? It seemed incredible: he could not believe it. He tried to reassure himself, endeavoured to keep hope alight. Something wise and still, deep in his heart, counseled patience. It might be she was only confused: it seemed strange to her, having suddenly a reality like this in place of her dreams. Louise was a dreamer--he knew that. And what might be going on inside her wayward little head, who could guess? So far Barry had only distinguished himself as a wizard of the burning sands. He was a man who could make deserts bloom like the rose. Yet who could say but perhaps he knew a little, too, about the subtler bloom of a woman's heart? Patience, he argued within himself. It might be she was only puzzled, and that she still loved him in spite of the thing that had happened. He would be patient a little while. If it turned out at last that there was no hope, why, then he would go back to the desert again. That was all. 2 It was nearly five o'clock when Leslie and Hilda emerged from the woods with their supply of roasting sticks. They had gone about their task in the most leisurely fashion, mutually animated by a curious half complacent acceptance of each other's presence. Merely being together had become such a complete yet informal delight that neither of them stopped to analyse it at all. And yet, if their hands chanced to brush, or, as happened once when a bee threatened, she laid her hand a little clutchingly on his shoulder, the emotion quickened. They hadn't much to say to each other, although a good deal of talk, such as it was, passed between them. Neither could remember afterward anything that was said. And all they had intrinsically to show for their afternoon was an armful of roasting sticks. "Where shall we keep them until it's time?" asked Hilda, as they tramped through the sand and up to the screened porch. He gazed dreamily off to sea. "Les?" she repeated, quaintly drawling. "Hm?" "What shall we do with the sticks? Leave them here? Or do you want to take them down where the fire's going to be?" "Oh," he said at last, "I don't care." And he let himself down slowly on to the steps. "I feel so dreamy I can hardly move. Did you ever feel like that, Hilda?" "Yes, many times," she replied, sitting down one step above him and clasping her knees. Her canvas hat was tossed aside, and the hair on her forehead was a little damp. There ensued a long, drowsy silence. At length she said: "I hope we cut enough, Les." He was still gazing off across the sea, which the declining sun was making flash in a splendid and quite dazzling way. It was merely a warm, hypnotic stare, and he really saw nothing at all; yet he was faintly conscious of things--above all, he was conscious of a feeling of simple young happiness. "Les?" "Hm?" "You do think we cut enough, don't you?" "Sure, I guess so." "It would be so funny," she laughed, "if there didn't happen to be enough to go round and some had to just sit and watch the others eat!" "Most of them do that anyway, don't they?" he murmured. "I mean they sit there and watch you work like a slave, and then swallow everything that's poked in front of their mouths. I guess all roasts are alike." "Well, anyhow, _we_ won't feed any of the lazybones tonight, Les. We'll eat our own! I'll feed you, and you feed me. Will you?" He glanced up at her and smiled. Then he slid down a step and lay back, resting his head against the step on which she sat, a little to one side. "You look quite different upside down," he volunteered. "How, Les?" "Oh--I don't know. Your eyes look so funny!" "Yours do, too!" He thrust a sun-browned arm over his eyes and crossed his legs. It was she who now gazed off over the blazing waves. Not exactly a classic tableau. You would never mistake them for Romeo and Juliet. And yet our little ubiquitous friend Eros viewed the picture not without a smouldering, an incipient satisfaction. Louise came out of the living room door on to the porch. She could see Hilda's head and shoulders, and she crossed over to the screen door at the top of the flight. Hilda looked round quickly. "Oh, hello, Lou!" Louise nodded, and made motions of salutation with her lips. There was no sound, however. She cleared her throat--tried to smile. Leslie drew himself hurriedly into a more dignified posture. "Hello," he smiled, rising a trifle uneasily. "Just see how many we got!" cried Hilda, jumping up and gathering the roasting sticks in her arms. Louise stood there looking down through the screen door. "You certainly got enough!" she exclaimed, a little shrilly--the result of her trying so desperately to be perfectly natural. "Well," Hilda went on, "you see I kept finding little trees so straight we simply couldn't pass them by. And Leslie just kept cutting. See how sharp they are?" Leslie, as though availing himself of the invitation (regardless of its not having been exactly addressed to him) placed a finger on one of the smoothly whittled points and withdrew it with a small, oddly juvenile howl of mock distress. The wounded finger went into his mouth. Leslie was certainly _not_ at his ease. Suddenly Hilda ran up close to her sister and asked, in a very low voice: "Have you been crying?" Louise's heart jumped. "Why, no," she replied. "It must be the sun in your eyes," said Hilda. "Yes, it must be." And she turned away from them and sat in the same chair her mother had occupied when she had demanded of Alfred if he thought she might be growing old. Louise rocked slowly, just as her mother had rocked. Yet her thoughts rushed madly to and fro. There was a battle of ghosts in her heart. Aunt Marjie came out breezily, accompanied by Mr. O'Donnell, who was about to take his departure. The parent Needhams stood side by side in the cottage doorway, hospitably bowing, but seeming to realize, with a kind of fineness, that they should come no further, and that the very last rites must be performed by the lady for whose sake he had been asked. Mr. O'Donnell extended a hand of farewell to Louise, who rose. "Oh, are you going?" she asked. "Yes--simply have to. They'll decide at the Elmbrook that I'm lost, strayed, or stolen and will have a search party out!" "Good-bye, Mr. O'Donnell," said Hilda, prettily holding out her hand. She was deliciously unspoiled. He held her hand a moment, looked from her over to Leslie, then at the bunch of sharpened sticks. And he brazenly winked at Miss Whitcom, who, glancing discreetly in the direction of her elder niece, remarked that there was likely to be a gorgeous sunset. O'Donnell and Leslie shook hands. "See you again tonight?" asked the boy politely. "Yes, indeed!" Mrs. Needham called out. "He's coming over to the roast." "You'll have a devil--I mean, it's very dark in the woods," said Leslie. He was quite horrified at the slip, and hurried on, expressing quick generosity by way of gaining cover--a generosity more generous, no doubt, than he had at first contemplated. "You'd better let me come and light you through." O'Donnell patted the lad's shoulder in a very kindly manner, just as he might pat an obliging bellhop in one of the hotels on his route, who volunteered to get him up for a five o'clock train. "Oh, no," he said. "Don't you bother." "No bother at all," replied Leslie, suddenly seeming to grow quite enthusiastic over the idea of lighting Mr. O'Donnell through from Crystalia. His eye encountered Hilda's. It was finally agreed, and O'Donnell departed, in the very best sort of spirits. When he had disappeared, the Rev. and Mrs. Needham strolled out on to the porch. The Rev. Needham was slowly gaining back his ruffled poise. He and O'Donnell had been smoking some more of the good cigars, and Marjory hadn't ventured anything so very revolutionary since the remark about not having time for church. He slipped an arm, just a tiny bit stiffly, about his wife's waist. He didn't exactly cuddle her; still, thus fortified, he looked across at his sister-in-law with an inner mild defiance. "Well, I must run along," said Leslie, drawing a deep and very leisurely breath. "Do you _have_ to go so soon?" Hilda stepped down toward him. He nodded, thrust his hands into his pockets, drew them out again, was painfully conscious that Louise was sitting up there on the porch. Hilda came down another step and stood close to him. "It's awfully early, Les." Then a brilliant idea sent her unexpectedly scurrying up the steps and on to the porch. She whispered something in her mother's ear, upon which Mrs. Needham looked somewhat startled and shook her head. She and Eliza had planned so carefully. Leslie seemed almost like one of the family; but what if there shouldn't be enough? Hilda tossed it off gallantly. She tripped back down the steps and said she would go with Leslie as far as the choke-cherry tree. "Good-bye," said Leslie politely to the porch. "Good-bye, Leslie," said the Rev. and Mrs. Needham in unison. And it never occurred to them as odd that their younger should be accompanying Leslie as far as the choke-cherry tree. Oh, the incredible blindness of parents! Oh, what strangers one's children really are, after all! And yet, how could it be otherwise? Quaint souls--perhaps they did not even remember, now Lynndal had come, that it was to the choke-cherry tree their elder had been wont to go.... Louise called out: "'Bye, Les." She was rocking more vigorously. Her hands were clasped behind her head and her cheeks were flushed. There was a curious wild look in her eyes. Aunt Marjie thought her actually handsome just then. At the choke-cherry tree Leslie and Hilda indulged in a very desultory leave-taking. Yet their talk was utterly devoid of anything either poetic or romantic. "You'll get your shoe all full of sand, Les." He was scuffing it mechanically back and forth in the dust of the roadway. "I don't care." "I hate to have sand in my shoes." But he laughed: "I don't know what it is _not_ to." Then he patted the bark of the choke-cherry tree and ran his palm up and down it, as though he were a lumberman and knew all about trees. And he gazed up at the tiny ripening berries. Suddenly he stopped patting the trunk and turned, leaning his back against it. He stood there, confused a little, tapping first one heel and then the other against a projecting root; for his exploring hand, as it chanced, had encountered a certain recently carved set of initials within a rude heart. All that was so long ago! "What shall we do about the sticks?" asked Hilda. "Shall we have papa carry them down to the fire?" "No, I'll carry them down. I'll come over and get them." "But you're going to light Mr. O'Donnell through from Crystalia," she reminded him--then waited breathlessly. He didn't disappoint her. "_Please_ come along--won't you?" "You mean when you go to light him?" "Yes." "You really want me to?" He nodded. A man was approaching them. He came round a bend in the road. It was Lynndal Barry. "I've been for a little stroll," he explained. "These woods are certainly wonderful!" "Yes, we like them," replied Hilda, in a very polite but at the same time very friendly tone. She was just a tiny bit afraid of the man who had come so far to marry her sister--not because Mr. Barry was the kind of man who spreads about him an aura of awe, but because Hilda knew there was something the matter. Yes, something seemed to be wrong. But Hilda did not guess _how_ wrong. "Were you going back to the cottage?" she asked. "Yes, I thought I would." "Then I'll walk back with you, if you don't mind." "Well, good-bye," said Leslie. "Good-bye, Les. You'll come for me?" "Yes." "What time?" "Whenever you say." "Right after dinner?" "All right." "So long." "So long, Hilda." He departed, scuffing foolishly and happily in the sand. "We were cutting sticks for the roast," explained Hilda as she walked back beside Lynndal toward Beachcrest. "It will be jolly," he remarked. "You know, I've never been to one of these beach roasts in my life." "You never have?" "No. And I've looked forward to the beach roasts ever since--well, ever since I knew I was going to be up here this summer." "You see, you came just in time!" "Yes, didn't I?" "The mid-summer Assembly Roast is the biggest roast of all." "I'm in luck," he murmured. And so they chatted together until Beachcrest was reached. 3 On the porch, where Miss Whitcom had been regaling her relations with, it must be admitted, a rather sensational account of how the inhabitants of Tahulamaji had formerly been cannibals, the absence of Lynndal Barry was noticed. "Where is he?" asked the Rev. Needham, with a quick inward flash of nervousness. Louise was assailed by a great longing to come out, wildly and fully, with some superb flow of words which should ease the burden of her heart. It seemed urgent, in fact, that she explain his absence. Aunt Marjie braced herself for an expected scene. But just then the missing man put in an appearance. Hilda preceded him up the steps. Instead of crying out that her heart was breaking, Louise felt suddenly an insane desire to laugh. Hilda was leading Lynndal back, as though to compensate for leading Leslie off! "Well, well," began the Rev. Needham, with all the hospitable bluffness he could summon. "We were talking about you!" "--Wondering where you were," continued Mrs. Needham. "--Fearing you might have embarked for the wicked city of Beulah," Marjory gaily carried it on, "where young men are not safe, and the song of the siren never dies away!" The Rev. Needham looked startled, then rather grim, then again just vaguely uneasy. Barry explained that he had been strolling in the woods. "No danger of getting lost, at any rate," declared Miss Whitcom, "since the church advertises so efficiently!" There promised to be a rather pained silence; but Mrs. Needham rose, smoothed down the front of her skirt, and announced that she must go and dress for dinner. "Ah, yes," lamented her sister cheerfully, "one must dress, even in the wilderness." "Oh, we don't really make anything of it, Marjie. Only it sort of rests you--to make a change." "Dress! Isn't it absurd? Yet how we dote on it! In this respect we aren't, after all, civilized to any dangerous degree. Why, in Tahulamaji--" "Marjie, there isn't a bit of use of your changing. You look lovely." "Thanks," replied her sister. "Still, one must." "We all do just as we please up here in the woods, you know." "Ah, but the men, the men," whispered Miss Whitcom with delicious vulgarity behind her hand. "And after all, we must have some regard for the conventions." Her tone was just a little pointed. "Yes, Marjie, I suppose, in a way...." Anna admitted. "And then--there's the church," Miss Whitcom persisted, almost brutally whimsical. "The church?" "Since it tries so very hard to keep abreast of the times--one might say, _à la mode_!" The sisters went into the cottage. Louise rose. "I must dress too," she announced, crossing quickly to the door. "I like that gown ever so much," said Lynndal. She turned and cast him a rueful glance. "Thank you. But I really must change." She smiled faintly. The high colour had faded, and her eyes had lost their look of splendid wildness. "Wait for me!" cried Hilda, making a tomboy dive for the door, and capturing her sister's waist, hanging on her affectionately as they went in together. "At any rate, we don't have to dress," laughed the Rev. Needham quite jovially. "You're sure? I'd begun to get rather scared. You see I didn't bring out anything...." The minister laughed again. "No, the men up here are more sensible." "What did Miss Whitcom mean," asked Barry after a short pause, "when she spoke the way she did about the church?" "The church, Barry?" "Something about it being _à la mode_." "Oh, I--the fact is, Barry, I don't quite know myself. I'm sure she didn't mean anything in particular. That is, you see Marjory has a kind of playful way of speaking.... You have to know her well to understand her." "She seems like a very jolly sort." "Yes, yes. She's ever so jolly. Sometimes I feel.... Well, of course, every one has their times of being jollier than at other times, don't they?" There seemed something here appealing, a little pathetic, even--as though Alfred Needham, if he only _could_ one day get his heels down, would turn out really very jolly himself. The conversation was growing thin, a little vague. It was a relief to have the talk drift into other and more concrete channels. "Well," remarked Barry, "just before I left for the East we got the final engineering report on the new San Pedro reservoir. It looks pretty good to me." "Something to open up a whole new area?" "Yes, that's it. By building another dam--" And he explained the rather technical proposition. "A good deal like the Santa Cruz, isn't it?" asked the minister. "Yes, a good deal like that. You can be pretty sure of the water near the source, but of course the farther downstream you go, the less dependable the flow is. Sometimes there will be floods, and then again sometimes the bed will go entirely dry." "Yes, yes," said the Rev. Needham meditatively, and almost as though in these fluxes of the Arizona rivers he recognized a subtle resemblance to life's fluxes which kept him ever hopping. "Let's see," he continued, "do I own anything just there, in the San Pedro valley?" "You certainly do," replied Barry, and he drew a map out of his pocket, spread it on his knee, hitched his chair a little closer, and traced the Needham holdings with his pencil. "This strip in Cochise County--that little triangular patch there where Pinal and Pima join.... It ought to add quite a bit to your income, when the deal is really swung." The Rev. Needham sighed appreciatively. "I wouldn't have any of these opportunities if it weren't for you being right there on the spot to look out for things." "Oh, I do what I can," said Barry quietly. He folded up the map and put it away. "You see I'm very much interested in Arizona--new settlers coming all the time--new homes under way...." His eyes were dimly wistful. "Pretty soon we'll he getting another man in Congress...." "Barry, do you suppose later on you'll be getting into politics?" "Politics?" He laughed it away a little, yet at the same time clung to it, too. "Oh--you never can tell." As a matter of fact, as Louise could have told her father, the spring of a secret ambition had been touched. "Just now there's too much to do, developing--opening up the country.... There are plans in the air for another big power plant near Yuma. By the way, I can get you some shares there, if you like. As for politics...." The Rev. Needham folded his arms with quiet pride. This was a man after his very heart. Perhaps he would be a Representative at Washington some day. Perhaps he would be Governor some day. And in the meantime, here he was, coming right into the family! No, the Rev. Needham could not have been any prouder of a son. Upstairs all the ladies were in the midst of their toilettes. "O, world! O, life! O, time!" "Are you girls putting on low neck?" demanded Miss Whitcom in her shrill way. "Lou is," replied Hilda. "She always dresses when there's anything to go to, but I never do." She sighed. "Just think, Aunt Marjie, I haven't got a single low neck!" "Cheer up, little one!" the aunt called over the three-quarters partition. "Your time's coming. I don't see--achu!--what you do about sunburn up here! _Achu!_" She was deluging her neck and face with powder. Fortunately they were only going to a roast, and there wouldn't be much light, especially after the fire began to die down. Then she started slightly and frowned. Why on earth should one be concerned about a little sunburn? And yet--there was a thrill in the question, too. Miss Whitcom admitted she never would have been so concerned in the old days. These were new days. After all, Barrett seemed the only reality there was left. Yet there had seemed so many realities to begin with. "Louise, what's the matter?" whispered Hilda, as she slipped a fresh jumper over her head and began tying its lace. "What makes you think there's anything the matter?" asked her sister thickly. "I know there is! You don't act like yourself at all. Is it--is there something about you and Mr. Barry?" Louise's throat ached. She did not start, nor did she flush and cry out: "How did you guess?" Her throat ached; it ached cruelly. "Lou, dear--_tell_ me what's the matter!" implored Hilda, throwing her arms around her sister, and laying her cheek against the other's shoulder a moment. "I--I can't," faltered Louise. "Yes, you can. I knew there was something!" Louise shook her head wretchedly. "Doesn't he seem the same?" "Don't, Hilda!" She wriggled nervously. "Louise!" "I--I...." She pushed herself free of an embrace which possessed, just now, no comfort. "Please don't say anything more. You mustn't." "Well, I won't, Lou dear. Only it makes me feel bad to see you look this way. And I know there's _something_ the matter." "No, there isn't," replied Louise woodenly. Hilda discovered, far in an unfrequented corner of her own little special chest of drawers which had been moved in out of Aunt Marjie's way, a fine new scarf. It was a scarf she had never worn before. Indeed, she had forgotten all about it. Now she remembered it had been put away carefully, with the understanding that it was to be brought out for some very special occasion. Her heart told her the golden hour had come. Her heart was so full of news that it began singing. "We're going to light Mr. O'Donnell through to the roast!" "Who?" asked Louise. She spoke impulsively, as all the Needhams were in the habit of speaking. Had she thought a moment she would not have asked. Hilda told her, with a thrill of most abundant happiness. She hugged her happiness; she did not know what it cost her sister. Louise braced herself. The evening had to be got through somehow. But after tonight--then what? Her father would be expecting Lynndal to come to him to talk it over. And how terrible! Would it, perhaps--her thoughts were flying helter-skelter--would it perhaps make some fatal difference in the Western business? Would Lynndal continue to look after the interests, just as before? Could any one reasonably expect the relations all around to remain _quite_ what they had been? Remorse stole dully over her. She had come between her father and his friend. Could he forgive her? And could her father? Why had she done such a thing? But _was_ it final? All those letters.... At length he was here ... had come so far ... and what had she done? In the morning she had gone to meet her lover. It had seemed fine and romantic. She had told Leslie they must be only friends now. It had all appeared quite easy and rather delightful. Then Lynndal had come, and ... and then what? What was it that had happened? It had seemed to her that she could not give herself up.... If only she could have a sudden change of heart! One read of such things, now and then. If only she could rush joyously down to him, where he sat talking with her father, and tell him she _did_ love him! But after all, she could only go on dressing, miserably dressing. "Do I look all right, Lou?" asked Hilda, much as Louise had put the same question to her at dawn. Her sister told the plain truth in a syllable. Yes. She certainly did. Of course a jumper, even with so fine a new sash under its collar, wasn't quite as nice as low neck. But Hilda was undeniably charming. Louise felt a sudden elemental pang of jealousy. Hilda's heart was in a great flutter. She liked Leslie ever so well. She didn't know any other boy she liked so well as Leslie. Have a care, little Hilda. Ah, have a care! Your age protects you. But later, when you have substituted loving for liking, things will be different. When Louise was your age she let Harold Gates kiss her a great many times. She let him put his arm around her, and when he had to leave her on account of the girl he had brought along with him to the picnic, she did not care--very much. Or at least she did not care very _long_. But now see, Hilda. Your sister has become a woman. She has learned to love, and play quite fearlessly with love. But love is a terrible thing, and your sister is not very wise. Have a care, Hilda! As you value what is precious and fine in life--beware! Oh, Hilda, beware, when the heart has matured, that you do not reap a whirlwind of ghosts.... 4 At dinner Miss Whitcom was treated to an entrancing account of the Assembly Roast, viewed as an institution. "Of course," explained the Rev. Needham, "in the largest sense it's a religious function--a kind of general get-together, before the lecture season opens." It seemed a now more cautious way of reiterating that the church must advertise. "But you see," contributed Mrs. Needham, "it was started by the Goodmans. He's a clergyman from Cleveland." "It's their anniversary," added Hilda. Thus, piecemeal, the momentous facts came out. "Anniversary?" "Yes, Aunt Marjie." "Let's see--how many is it this year?" asked Mrs. Needham turning to her husband. "Twenty-seventh or twenty-eighth, I think," he replied. "Oh, Alf, do you think the Goodmans have been married that long?" "You know," declared Miss Whitcom, "all this is interesting but terribly mysterious. Thanks, Anna, I've had the pickles. I'm mystified by these Goodmans from Cleveland. So I understand the Midsummer Roast is in the nature of an anniversary party also?" "Well, yes," replied Anna Needham. "It was started, I guess, more than twenty years ago, even before we began coming up here. There were only a few families at first. Alf, were the Goodmans the first to begin coming up?" "Unless it was Blakes," he suggested. "But didn't the Blakes begin coming because the Goodmans did, Alf?" "Well, maybe so. Marjory, can't I help you to a little more of the lamb?" "No, no," protested his sister-in-law. "I'm doing famously." "Alf, Marjie will have some more potatoes, I'm sure." "No. Doing _fam_ously. Never mind my plate, but do let's get it straight about the Goodmans. Thanks, Hilda, I will have another biscuit. It all sounds terribly romantic!" "Yes, it is," Hilda boldly assured her. "They always kiss right before everybody on their anniversary. And in the morning--" "Hilda!" cautioned her father, rather sternly. The girl endeavoured to conceal her confusion by addressing herself very elaborately to the spreading of a biscuit. "Oh, now, Alfred," remonstrated his sister-in-law, "you're worse than a war censor! Since it's quite apparent the whole Point knows about the kissing--Anna, _may_ I trouble you for another glass of water?--why shouldn't I be admitted to so very large a secret? There's surely room for one more, and you may pledge me to profound secrecy if you like. I'm dying to know what it is they do in the morning!" Hilda was gaining back her nerve. "They run away and have breakfast together at the hotel! That's what they do, Aunt Marjie!" "Oh, how charming!" "Yes, Aunt Marjie, they've done it every year since they were married!" "They have? Well, now, I call that pure romance! How coy! How it must carry them back! I think I'd really like to know the Goodmans. There isn't such a great deal of pure romance available nowadays. People are too self-conscious." "You'll meet them tonight," was the hope Mrs. Needham held out. And then, while her husband began carving fresh slices of lamb, and since the subject of the Midsummer Roast seemed about exhausted, Anna went chattily on: "Marjie, I must say I like Mr. O'Donnell real well." "Speaking of pure romance?" her sister sparklingly interpolated. "Yes," she continued, "Barrett's a good chap. Used to be a bit egregious, you know, in the old days. But he's mellowed wonderfully. I--I'll let you in on a tremendous secret," she added, with mock breathlessness, and addressing herself to Alfred behind her hand. "If he should happen to ask me again--I'm only saying _if_, you understand...." She finished eloquently in pantomime. The Rev. Needham dropped his fork, but quickly recovered it and went on eating. He had just told himself that no matter what new monstrosity his sister-in-law might enunciate, he would magnificently let it pass. He would not appear to notice it. He was a clergyman. There was a certain dignity to be preserved in spite of everything. But good heavens, she had said it behind her hand! "Oh-h-h!" said Hilda. She giggled. "Barrett _is_ an old peach," continued Miss Whitcom quite brazenly. "He's stood by me through everything!" The Rev. Needham nearly dropped his fork again. That awful word. Everything! And she could be so damnably cool about it! Was he narrow or old-fashioned to feel the way he did? Yet would not feeling any other way be simply debauching oneself? Ah, if, instead of his changing his own point of view, she might somehow drop off into a deep, painless slumber.... And never wake.... "Well, then," said Anna, who had kept perfectly her head, and was also rather thrilled, "I hope he will, Marjie." Marjory looked dreamily off through the open window. A few birches caught the evening light mistily, and were dyed a delicate pink all along their slim white trunks. Would he? Ah, of course! And yet.... Well--hm?... If not, why.... She mentally tossed her head. But what she told herself was not quite so haughty: "In that case I could hardly blame anybody but myself...." By this time it might be said that the edge, at least, of hunger was taken off. All had eaten quite heartily, except Louise. But even Louise, though she dimly felt this was not as it should be, had found it possible to do at least a little nibbling. Of course it would be out of the question to expect her to eat like the rest. It was another case of Richard. Probably she would not eat just like the rest for a good while to come. Still, she would manage to keep going. One always did that in real life. The Rev. Needham, however, was at length coming definitely to notice things. Louise, some more of the lamb? No? Surely more of the creamed carrots? But you're so fond of them! Ah, yes. There were sharp and anxious glances in the direction of this baffling elder daughter. She wasn't eating right. And when any of the Needhams didn't eat right, you could be very sure there was something wrong with the heart. But now, anxious paternal orbs, let your troubled gaze shift to another plate--the next plate nearer your own. Oh, man of God, what cheer? Barry, another slice? Ah, but never you mind that--no one stops at a second helping here! No more potatoes, either? Tz, tz! Oh, reverend sir, what a load to fetch back to your expectant flock in the fall! Oh, if anything should happen now--now, just as life was becoming so kind! Oh, now--and those prickles in the heels occurring with less and less frequency, even despite the upsetting presence of Marjory! To have something go wrong--at his time of life.... To find the world running all to sixes and sevens.... Oh, it must be a wild and overwhelming fancy, nothing more than that! Barry (he rambled wildly in his mind) for mercy's sake more carrots? And aloud: "Just a few more, Barry?" _Good!_ No, no, one hasn't heaped them up. One only wants to be sure. And if there is no absolute assurance in this hard world, one so beset can be forgiven for taking refuge behind appearances--even behind appearances of one's own manufacture, in an extremity like this! Yes, by hook or by crook one must contrive to keep the best foot foremost! Barry, as a matter of fact, was doing pretty well and feeling pretty wretched. He had got through the afternoon coolly enough on a kind of momentum generated partly by the decision that he had simply been a fool to dream such dreams, and partly by that hopeful, wise, desperate little word of counsel, that fine word, patience. But here, all at once, was a pang of reaction. All the old, warm, wistful love came rushing back. The ancient dreams of home and wife and children returned to taunt and torture him. Only last night, on the deck of the steamer, with the moon so soft on the sea--ah, only last night.... How he had let himself go! How he had even pictured things: the fireplace here, perhaps the piano there.... And how his cigar had gone out, and he hadn't noticed. But now he was sitting beside her at her father's table, and he did not know whether she loved him or not. And in his pocket was a box with a ring inside it--a ring for which there might never be any use. Mrs. Needham noticed, too. But Louise had already explained that she had a headache. The mother did not suspect that there was anything necessarily portentous in the air, and her heart beat placidly enough. Her life seemed settling and settling. The current grew more and more tranquil. She had times of feeling so kind of still. Later the talk centred in Arizona. Barry glanced at Louise, and found her, as it happened, gazing sadly, quizzically, and with some abstraction at him. He looked away at once, trembling a little; and he carried on the theme: "Of course Arizona strikes people in different ways. Some find the flatness and the sand depressing." "Is it sand all over?" asked Hilda. "Oh, dear no!" replied Miss Whitcom, with a vehemence which served to remind them all that she had been a pioneer in the cactus candy business and knew what she was talking about. Even the Rev. Needham contributed something to his younger daughter's enlightenment. "There are lots of trees along the irrigation ditches. Barry, what kind of trees are they? I never can seem to remember." "Cottonwood, mostly," he answered. "The foliage is a very delicate green." "Oh, it must be lovely!" sighed Hilda, who romantically saw herself walking along beside Leslie beneath an everlasting row of the most beautiful trees anybody could possibly imagine. "How I should love to go out there!" "Yes," mused Miss Whitcom, "and we mustn't forget the broad fields of alfalfa--so dark--the very greenest green in all the world." Barry nodded slowly. "Yes, the river valleys are always quite fertile. Then comes the great Arizona desert, with cacti and mesquite and greenwood and sage. And beyond all that"--he had begun a little monotonously, but came at length to speak in a rather rapt way--"beyond all that, the dim blue of the distance, the lonely peaks of the mountains...." "Grand old mountains!" added Miss Whitcom. And it was odd, and no doubt sentimental, but the mountains all at once reminded her somehow of O'Donnell. Yes, O'Donnell was something like a mountain. Her heart quickened a little. "Oh, I know I should just love it!" cried Hilda. And then she asked, in her almost breathless manner: "Are there any birds in Arizona?" "Birds?" repeated Barry, a little abstractedly. "Birds? Oh, yes--all through the irrigated districts. There are orchards, you know. It's a fine sight to see them in full bloom. And the trees are alive with birds--meadow larks and mocking birds, mostly. And there are blackbirds, too. They sing in a wonderful chorus. And almost everywhere you'll hear the little Mexican doves." "Oh, I remember the doves!" cried Louise suddenly, forgetting her wretchedness. He looked at her wistfully and solemnly. "Some people say the doves have the sweetest song of all. There's a very plaintive note--you remember?" "Yes," she whispered thickly, avoiding his eyes. The breath of Fate seemed faintly to animate her having remembered the little Mexican doves. "I think," he said, "they have the saddest song of any of the birds." 5 A remark, dreadful yet tantalizing in the vistas it opened up, was overheard by the Rev. Needham as he was coming out on to the screened porch. It was a remark which set on foot an increasingly turbulent desire to know, unequivocally and without expurgation, just what had been the nature of his sister-in-law's life on the distracting island of Tahulamaji. Mrs. Needham had retired to the kitchen for a final fling with Eliza about breakfast, leaving the minister alone in the living room with his daughter. Miss Whitcom and Mr. Barry had passed out on to the porch, and Louise had dropped down in a nice shadowy corner with a book--just as young ladies naturally and invariably do after dinner, when the light is beginning to fail, and their lover is waiting for them outside. The Rev. Needham, whose suspicions had already been rather alarmingly roused, now felt sure not all was well. Why should Louise behave like this if all were well? And even Barry--Barry wasn't, of course, one of those romantic fellows who would always be sighing and rolling their eyes; but there were subtler manifestations.... They had gone walking together in the afternoon--thank God! There was that much to cling to. Yes, thank heaven they had done that much anyway! But the Rev. Needham was so full of perplexity that he hardly knew what to do next. He told himself, in desperation, that everything _must_, in reality, be all right--rather much as his daughter had assured herself on the train that all must work out for the best: her best. He knew, as a matter of fact, that this was not quite honest persuasion. But it helped. Oh, it was a very present help. To tell the truth, it sufficed to carry him quickly out of his daughter's presence. In his heart, the minister knew that the issue ought to be faced at once. Yes, he ought to call Louise over on to his knee, just as in the old days, before any of the unhappy love troubles began, and ask her to tell him what had gone wrong. But he didn't call her over. Instead he began humming in a perfectly unconcerned manner, and strolled outside. It was just as he reached the door that the Rev. Needham overheard the all but blood-curdling remark. "You must realize," Miss Whitcom was saying to his daughter's fiancé, "that it's much too hot there to wear any clothes!" It being patently too late to turn back, the clergyman came on; somehow reached a chair. He sat down quickly and began rocking. He rocked helplessly, yet withal in a faintly ominous way--perhaps, deeper still, with a movement of guilty curiosity: for after all he was but human, poor man. The sun had just dipped, and the sky and the sea were alive with the fire of this august departure. A wraith-like distribution of cloud still received direct beams and glowed like a bit of magic dream-stuff; but the lower world had to rest content now with reflected glory--a sheen of softening brightness which would grow steadily thicker and thicker, like quandary in the clergyman's breast, till at length the light was all gone and darkness had settled across the sea and the sand. Ah, peaceful eventide! Good-bye, sweet day! But the heart of the minister was all full of horrid little quick jerks and a settling mugginess. The conversation his appearance had served to interrupt did not continue as it had evidently begun. Yet even at its worst it appeared to have constituted merely a laughing digression from the major theme, which had to do with the perfectly proper topic of dry-farming. No one would think of calling the topic of dry-farming improper. But the tenor of the talk which succeeded the minister's arrival in their midst did not, for all its unimpeachable correctness, serve to diminish the poignancy of that awful phrase: too hot to wear any clothes! "Mr. Barry," she explained to her brother-in-law, "has been telling me a lot of interesting things about the sorghums." Alfred Needham cleared his throat--just as he always did, for instance, before ascending the pulpit on Sunday--and nodded. But he was not thinking about the sorghums--just as sometimes, it is to be feared, in the very act of coming out of the vestry, and with the eyes of the congregation upon him, he failed to keep his mind entirely on the sermon he was about to deliver. "It seems they've made enormous strides since my day," she went on. "Mr. Barry, how many varieties did you say are now possible?" "Well," he replied solemnly, his eyes large with helpless unhappiness, "the sorghums now include common or sweet sorghum, milo maize, Kaffir corn--and of course broom corn. These have become standard crops, and we're introducing them more and more into the southern district." He rocked a trifle self-consciously. All three rocked a moment in silence. "There's considerably less rainfall down there," commented the Rev. Needham. The statement had been carefully equipped with earmarks of the interrogative, so that, should it happen to prove incorrect, refutation would take the form of a simple answer to an ingenuous and perfectly natural question. The Rev. Needham found it urgent to keep his inflections always slightly interrogative. There was even a sly, sneaking hint of the useful question mark throughout the reverend man's theology. Ghastly as the thing must sound spoken right out, it is really doubtful whether the Rev. Needham would be caught altogether napping were the entire Bible suddenly to be proved spurious! Of course when Barry admitted that there _was_ less rainfall in the southern part, then the minister rocked with subtly renewed purpose, slapping the arms of his chair exactly as an acknowledged authority on rainfall might be expected to do. But of course it was all ever so much subtler than this makes it appear. It was infinitely more delicate than any mere I-told-you-so attitude. "You know," continued Barry, who felt an unpleasant thickness in his throat, "the sorghums have to be able to withstand a great deal of drought. They roll up their leaves and seem to sleep for months at a time; and when the rain comes again they revive quickly and make rapid strides." Inside the cottage sat Louise. She was huddled miserably over a book. She was not reading the book, though it chanced to be a very absorbing historical novel. It is hard to conceive of a young lady's not reading such a work with avidity and even breathlessness, under the circumstances. But to be perfectly accurate, Louise hadn't even opened the historical novel. It simply lay in her lap, and she was huddled over it. Her eyes were dry. She was utterly miserable. And just outside, in the full, fresh sweetness of diminishing dayshine, sat the man who had come all this way to put a ring on her finger. He was sitting out there in the romantic richness of the tinted evening, and he was talking about the sorghums! Oh, a wise plant is the sorghum. When there is a drought it rolls up its leaves and waits till it is time for the refreshment of another rain. The sorghum knows well how to plan and bide its time. The _sorghum_ would not give itself too easily.... Out on the rustic bench which her dear father had so laboriously constructed sat Hilda. She was listening for steps in the sand. She would know whose steps they were when they drew close. It was growing quite dusky underneath the trees. The stars would soon be appearing. There had been a slight breeze all the afternoon, but it had died away; and on the beach the tiny waves were whispering that it had passed that way and was now still. The trees stood very quiet, but occasionally a squirrel would whisk by overhead. The squirrels, however, were turning in for the night now, and soon there would be no stir left save only the night stir of the woods. Far off sounded at intervals the shouts of young children--children younger than Hilda, and unfettered as yet by any sweet obligation of sitting very breathless, listening for steps in the sand. "How lovely everything is!" thought Hilda. When she saw Leslie she ran out to meet him--no mooning pretense at not having heard. "Oh, Les, why don't you light it?" He carried a Japanese lantern and was swinging it about in a very reckless way. "Shall I?" he asked. "Now?" "Oh, yes! It isn't quite dark yet, but it will be so much fun!" "The candle's pretty short, Hilda. Do you think it will last?" "Let me see." They bent their heads eagerly over the paper lantern. "It isn't very long, is it Les? I guess we'd better put in a new one. There are lots of them at the cottage." And before he could protest she was flying off. On the screened porch she found the entire household assembled. Mrs. Needham had completed her session with Eliza and was now pleasantly rocking. Ah, there was a rhythm in her rocking--especially of late years. It was the sort of rhythm the vers librists have so entirely broken away from. It was a rocking which rarely went slower or faster. Perhaps it was the Homeric hexameter. Or it was stately blank verse, with maybe the quaint rhyming couplets of Crabbe and Cowper. No one could ever think of mistaking it for Edgar Lee Masters! Louise had come out also. Hilda, as she flew by and on into the cottage, saw her sister sitting beside Lynndal Barry on a rocking settee. There was, as a matter of fact, not a single stationary piece of furniture on the porch. To Anna Needham, rocking was pleasant and even actually profitable. To her husband--well, to the Rev. Needham it seemed a kind of muscular necessity. And the girls had always been used to it. So all the chairs rocked. Aunt Marjie sighed briefly as Hilda ran by. Boy-crazy. Well, life wasn't made for waiting and working alone. Somehow, this sea air--these lustrous, still nights--were stealing away her resistance. Yes, O'Donnell was a kind of mountain. And yet, curiously enough, he was only a travelling man, too, just as he had always been. Yes, he travelled for Babbit & Babbit. But she would go home to him at last. She would put her head on his shoulder, if he would let her, just like a silly young thing. Suddenly she saw her life as a restless confusion of ambitions and beginnings. Oh, to have spent it so! To have waited as long as this! To have been so afraid of giving herself too easily.... Hilda came running out again. She clutched a new candle in her hand. Her eyes were quite wonderful. "Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Needham, appearing a little bewildered by this cyclonic going and coming. "He's out there; we're going to start now!" There was just sufficient coherence to bring Miss Whitcom to her feet. Always impulsive, she stepped to the screen door and thence down on to the path. "Hilda!" "Yes, Aunt Marjie?" "You're going to light O'Donnell through to the Point?" "Yes, Aunt Marjie." "Well, be sure you don't lose yourselves!" No, even Marjory, with her amazing retrospect of brass, did not quite dare to say: "Don't lose _him_!" And yet, so far as her heart was concerned, it really amounted to that. The last thing Hilda heard, as she sped off, was the patient voice of Lynndal Barry. The minister had asked him another question about the sorghums. "Yes," Barry was saying, "there are about as many varieties of Kaffir corn and milo maize as of the saccharine sorghums. Only a few have been tested in the South: red Kaffir corn, black hulled white Kaffir, standard milo maize, and dwarf milo maize. But we intend--" Hilda, skipping with happiness, heard no more. 6 The procession through the forest of Betsey was a very romantic affair. First came Hilda and Leslie, the latter carrying the lighted Japanese lantern swung over his shoulder. And behind them walked Mr. O'Donnell, like some great monarch; and he must indeed, just then, have felt himself at least the king of all travelling men. What would his colleagues of the grip think if they could see him now? Had any of them, for all their store of timetables and their samples and routes and customers, ever marched through so royal a forest, on such a night, lighted by young love and a gay paper lantern? Over the hills and through the valleys of Betsey! It was a wonderful lark. Of course it wouldn't last. Real larks never did. He would go back to his grim bag of samples, and she would go back to her beloved Tahulamaji. There would be thousands of miles between them once more, and life would settle back into the uneventful dog-trot which had become the established gait. But tonight! Tonight he was parading the forest of Betsey like a very king, and his way was lighted by a bright paper lantern which danced at the end of a bough. "Now," he thought slyly, "if I were a poet...." However, being no poet, but only a travelling man in the employ of Babbit & Babbit, our friend simply walked along, like the plain mortal he was; and was content, if with a sigh, things should be as they were. "Ah, this is fine!" he would exclaim in his quiet way. And Hilda, for all her heart was so richly moved, would merely reply: "Yes, we like it." It had been agreed upon that O'Donnell should be led directly to the scene of the Assembly Roast instead of being brought all the way round to Beachcrest first. The Needhams, Miss Whitcom, and Barry were to walk up the beach, when it was time. It was at length about as dark as it ever gets in moonlight season. The moon had not yet risen, but would be coming up soon. The Rev. Needham suggested that it was time to start. Miss Whitcom was on her feet at once. There followed quite a little flurry about wraps. The Rev. Needham and Barry strolled on ahead down to the beach. They walked slowly, and the ladies were to overtake them. Both men were smoking cigars, the ministerial supply seeming happily inexhaustible. If one's faith might be as inexhaustible! Being a little ill at ease, they talked of obvious things: the broadness of the beach just here, the firmness of the sand, its pleasant crunch under the feet. "We tried to have a board walk down from the cottage," observed the Rev. Needham, "but every winter the sand drifted all over it and buried it, so we had to give up the idea." He was wondering nervously whether Barry would seize this occasion to ask for his daughter's hand. "You really don't need a walk," replied his guest. "It's an agreeable change from the city this way." "Yes--yes, it's a change." There was a short, awkward pause. Then Barry remarked. "You've got an ideal location here." And the minister answered: "Yes, we like it." They trudged on a little way in silence. "There certainly are a lot of stars out tonight," commented Barry, transferring his gaze rather abruptly from the sands to the heavens. "Um--yes. Yes, there are a great many. And there will be a full moon, later on." "Yes, I know. The moon was wonderful last night on the lake. I sat out on deck a long time." "You said you had a good trip across, didn't you?" "Oh, yes--perfectly smooth." Another silence--an ominous desperate silence. "Well," quoth the Rev. Needham, turning around and peering back, "I wonder if they're not coming?" "I think I see them coming now across the sand," remarked Barry. "Yes--yes, I believe I do, too," the other agreed. "That's Louise in the white dress." "Yes, that's Louise." It wasn't long before the ladies overtook them. The tension was at once both relieved and heightened. Anna Needham claimed her husband's arm, Louise walked beside Barry, and Miss Whitcom walked alone with her thoughts. However, the groups were not isolated. Yes, there was safety in numbers. Single encounters began to be desperately unpleasant. What was the matter? In Anna's day, young folks had been given, she remembered, to wandering significantly off by themselves on such rare nights as this. But Louise and Lynndal kept close. Anna was troubled about this--even whispered about it to her husband as they walked along. Alfred started and began to talk about something else. They ought to face this thing. They ought to face it squarely and with courage. But Alfred couldn't. He told himself they must be only imagining things. They passed the lighthouse, so shadowy and gaunt itself, yet with so beaming an eye! Adjoining the tower was the keeper's residence. There were lights in some of the rooms. A child was calling. A dog was sniffing about. He was quite used to resorters, and did not even bark as the party approached and passed the premises. Louise stooped to pat the dog's head. Barry said: "Hello, sir!" The dog wagged his tail slowly, but did not follow them away from the house. He had learned all life's lessons in puppyhood. He would never stray. What a grand thing, never to stray! When they were rounding the final curve of the Point separating them from the rendezvous, Mrs. Needham cried: "Oh, look--they're lighting it already!" The cone-shaped pile was visible, and fire was leaping all about the base. Flame shot up quickly to the very peak, and thence on up, higher and higher, toward the stars. There was quite a crowd assembled about the fire when the people from Beachcrest arrived. O'Donnell and his delightful escort arrived from another direction at almost the same moment. Then they all sat around in the sand, and kept jumping up to introduce and be introduced. Naturally the Needhams knew everybody on the Point; and it was always quite a thing to have guests. Here were the Goodmans, smiling hosts to the entire assembly. Had they not started the thing long ago when their married life was in its springtime? Ah, the Goodmans! Miss Whitcom remarked afterward that she felt as though she were shaking hands with royalty. "It honestly reminded me," she said, "of my first meeting with Queen Tess!" In the excitement, of course the roasting sticks had been forgotten, and of course Hilda insisted upon running all the way back with Leslie to Beachcrest after them. By the time the sticks were there, the fire had flared itself into a condition inviting the approach of wienies and marshmallows. A ring of resorters hovered round the fire with sticks held hopefully out and faces shielded by an arm. Naturally there were some mishaps. Some one, by deftly turning and turning, would coax a marshmallow to the point of the most golden perfection, only to have it plump dismally down in the sand at last. Then there would be a chorus of sympathy and disappointment from a group of sitters, each of whom had perhaps more or less hoped to be favoured with the delicious smoking confection. Or else it would be a frankfurter that plumped. But there never was a roast without tragedies. And everywhere romped the children. Sometimes they would throw themselves on to their stomachs and begin ambitiously digging in the sand toward water. Then they would leap and chase each other, or they would go about thrusting fallen faggots back into the fiery heart of the blaze. The provision baskets stood hospitably open. In one might be discovered a wealth of cool, slippery frankfurters; in another heaps of split and buttered buns; in still another dill pickles, a pot of mustard. And of course there were always marshmallows. Some preferred marshmallows to frankfurters and some preferred frankfurters to marshmallows. But the majority ate ravenously of both alike, displaying little or no preference. The eastern sky grew lighter and lighter. The trees stood out mysterious and very black against it. "Look, look!" cried the children. For the moon was rising now. The young boys grew restive. Their stomachs were simply closed to the incursion of any more refreshment; it was a pity, no doubt, but full was full. The boys began enlarging their area of prowess. There was a great sand bluff inland a short way, where a rift in the hills cut a deep, barren gash across the face of the forest. The boys crept far up the bluff and then leapt out, down and down. The east was luminous, and the great moon crept higher and higher. When the boys leapt, their bodies were silhouetted against her bright disc. They would appear out of the shadow of nothing, poise a moment, leap into space, disappear. "Well," observed Barry, in some surprise, "I see you've brought a book along." She had really forgotten the book was in her lap, as she sat huddled over it so miserably in the cottage living room after dinner. When she had gone out on to the porch afterward she had carried it with her automatically, and so had brought it all the way to the roast without thinking. Louise had a grimly whimsical feeling that she couldn't get away from the book. "If I'd only thrown it into the harbour this morning!" she thought. But to him she merely replied, a manufactured gaiety edging the words without lightening them: "Oh, yes--it's a book I picked up by chance." She handled it carelessly, and her quick glance shot to a distant group. Leslie was lying stretched out in the sand, his chin in his hands. He was looking up at Hilda, who appeared to be recounting something of great interest. Louise felt her face go hot with jealousy. "I--I don't know much about it," she went on, flapping the cover of the book listlessly back and forth. "It was recommended to me by some one who had read it." "What is the name?" Barry asked politely. She held the book up in the firelight, flaunting it in the face of the man who had come so far with his love and his brave little ring. It was the darkest hour of her pilotless groping. Leslie's laugh rang. The little group took it up. Then Leslie himself appeared to become the centre of interest. He began telling a story which involved a great many gestures. At one stage he even jumped up and turned a cartwheel, and one of the girls in the crowd exclaimed: "Can't you just see it?" "Oh, what shall I do?" thought Louise, fighting her tears. The moon climbed slowly up the sky, and the young boys, one after another, with loud shrieks of joy, silhouetted themselves darkly against her gleaming face. And then the speech making began. The Rev. Goodman led off. He had something in the nature of a set speech for the occasion, which varied surprisingly little from year to year. It bade the guests welcome, always in the same felicitous terms, and contained the same allusions to the salubriousness of the climate, the unmatchable beauty of their Point. Alluding to God's Great Out-of-Doors, the Rev. Goodman would invariably employ the same grand gesture. "And now," he concluded, "I am sure, dear friends, we feel a gratitude in our hearts to the Father of All Goodness, who has guided our footsteps," et cetera, et cetera. "And may we all bow our heads with the Rev. Needham, and join him in prayer." The Rev. Goodman sat down and the Rev. Needham scrambled to his feet. He closed his eyes very tight and prayed quite loud--as though defying Marjory to prevail against him here. It was the next thing to being right in the pulpit! But he felt her gazing at him in that shrewd way of hers which seemed saying: "Alfred, have you really got truth in your heart?" What did Marjory mean by looking at him that way? What right had she to question his faith and to speak of truth? It was really a very good prayer, though perhaps just a little more earnest than the occasion actually required. When the prayer was finished, he sat down. (Naturally there was no applause.) All the other speakers would be applauded, but no applause lightened the sitting down of the Rev. Needham. However, there was a general stir in the camp, just as there is in church when backs, wearied with the Sabbath bending, straighten cheerfully for another seven days of sin. And then the Rev. Goodman, who was the official toastmaster, jumped up and told a humorous story, which every one had heard before; after which he turned to the Rev. Blake and asked him to recite _The House By the Side of the Road_, a very great favourite at the Point. Then the congregation sang that cheering and beautiful hymn, _Rock of Ages_, under cover of which most of the boys escaped and ran violent races up and down the beach. Then the host told another moderately humorous story, in which he very cleverly incorporated something about the brother clergyman upon whom he meant to call for the next selection. This clergyman (who hailed from Dubuque, Iowa), not to be outdone, scored heavily by telling a humorous story he had learnt off from _The Ladies' Home Journal_, but which in the telling he so miraculously manipulated that the Rev. Goodman became its hero! There always was a vast amount of pleasant playfulness at these Assembly Roasts. Later on the congregation, sitting, sang that sublimely joyous hymn called _Jesus, Lover of My Soul_. Since there was no judicious organist at hand to speed things up, the singing was inclined to sag, and one half of the camp finished a little bit behind the other. But this was a very small matter indeed, because, as every one knows, it is the spirit that counts most, especially at such times. Innumerable other speakers, many of them purely secular, were called upon. And Mrs. Goodman, who was quite an elocutionist, read a little story which only the innermost circle could hear. And Miss Whitcom nudged her friend. They slipped away and strolled along the beach together. "I thought I'd rescue you, Barrett," she said. "But I was immensely enjoying myself," he smilingly protested. "Yes, I shouldn't wonder--especially the singing! You know, I was so desperately afraid they might call upon me--just as a curiosity, you know--and how I should have shocked them!" "You think so?" "Why, of course. I never open my mouth without shocking somebody or other. I don't really set out to do it. I simply don't seem able to help myself." "You don't shock me." "Perhaps not--any more." "But you know you never really did." "Never?" "No. At worst you only opened my eyes." "Well, Barrett," she said, after a short silence, "I think I've always rather felt that: that you understood, deep down--that you weren't quite shockable, in fact." "Yes," he said meditatively. They strolled along, saying nothing more for a little time. At length she asked: "Do you remember the time we swam for the Allenhurst medal?" "Of course I do," he nodded. "You remember how even we were--how we outdistanced all the others?" He smiled queerly. "They hadn't a chance!" "Right-O, Barrett. We knew how to stroke in those days! Well," she continued after a moment, "and you haven't forgotten how I won the race--and why?" "A sudden cramp--I thought I was done for!" "Oh, no, my friend." They were both smiling. "Time has played tricks with your memory. It wasn't a cramp. Now think, think _hard_. You went lazy at the finish. And so how could I help pulling in ahead in spite of myself?" "Marjory, I--" "Be not forsworn, my friend. Let's agree that you went lazy at the finish. After all these years, can't we? It was a singular thing," she went on, half gravely and half smilingly. "You know I was just at the age.... Well, it had a most singular effect upon me. Yes, I may say it altered the whole course of my life, Barrett." She laughed softly. "Great heavens, Marjory, you don't honestly mean ...!" "Well, you see, I was one of the first of the 'new' women, and I just simply rebelled. That was all. You haven't forgotten how I sent the medal back to you?" He looked quite serious. "I know," he said softly. "I was stupid about it for a long time. There didn't seem to be any sense in your sending it back. In fact...." He hesitated. "Do let's be perfectly frank!" she invited, with another short laugh. "Well, I thought it a wilful and childish attitude to take. I didn't want them to say I'd beaten a woman. We were still living on the fringe of chivalry, you know, when it was more important to walk on the proper side of a woman and tip your hat to her at a certain angle than to give her the vote. I was brought up in a delightful Victorian atmosphere, where it wasn't considered the thing even to beat a woman at tennis, if you could decently help it." "Ah, yes!" cried Marjory. "Just think of it! But gradually you grew wiser, Barrett--you and the world." "Yes," he muttered, "I and the world." "You came to see...." "Yes, I came at last to see that you can't go lazy at the finish any more. I told you, and I meant it, that at last I've capitulated--capitulated at every point." They walked on a little way in the moonlight, close to the waves. All at once a bold thrill of tenderness came on him. He drew the woman into his arms. She responded slowly. Afterward she professed to be not quite sure whether they had kissed. But there was a witness. Oh, yes--there was a witness who could emphatically and joyfully testify that they did kiss, and that they kissed more than once. The witness, of course, was our ubiquitous little pagan god, who had abandoned at least a half dozen most promising cases at the roast to chase for a moment down the beach after this pair of obdurate mortals who had held off for twenty years. 7 At about ten o'clock the Rev. Needham took out his watch and thought it was time he and his little party set their faces homeward. Mrs. Needham had been talking gentle gossip with Mrs. Blake and the wife of the minister from Dubuque; but she got up at once and obediently took her husband's arm. "We go to bed early at Beachcrest," she explained. They went to bed early in town, for that matter, though the full truth went uncommunicated. "Where are the girls?" demanded the Rev. Needham, looking anxiously round. Louise came up hurriedly, followed by Barry. "Are you starting home now, papa?" she asked, with what sounded strangely like eagerness. "Well, we thought we'd just be starting along. It's--it's not late yet, you know. We'll just slip on ahead and get the cottage lighted." "I think we'll go along now too." "Oh, I wouldn't hurry. The fire's quite good yet." "Lynndal is tired," she insisted. "He didn't sleep more than a couple of hours on the boat." And she gave him a very complex glance in which there was something whisperingly like an element of tenderness. "Well," capitulated Mrs. Needham. But Louise was only one daughter. Where was Hilda? Where indeed? Where _was_ she? Anxious eyes explored the assembled company. Most of the young people had mysteriously made off, some this way and some that, but all alike into the friendly embrace of the darkness which lay so thick beyond the glow of the fire. Where was Hilda? "I think I saw her with the lad--is it Leslie?" said Lynndal Barry. "Oh--Leslie," repeated Mrs. Needham. "You didn't notice which way they went?" asked the minister. "No, I'm afraid I didn't." Then Louise came to the rescue. She pointed miserably, yet also with a faint, new fact-facing grimness, toward the lake. "They haven't taken out the _canoe_ ...!" Alfred Needham was horror struck. "It's perfectly calm, papa," Louise reminded him dryly. Then, indeed, they saw the canoe, on the moonlit water. Both Leslie and Hilda were paddling. But they were not exactly paddling toward the shore. "She knows it's not allowed, out like this at all hours of the night!" cried the minister. But his wife reassured him in her gentle way. "Alf, I wouldn't worry. Leslie will look out for her." Louise lowered her head. Then she moved almost imperceptibly closer to Lynndal. At length the homeward march was begun. But the Rev. Needham stopped again suddenly, looking at his wife in a helpless way. "Anna, _where's your sister_?" "Dear me!" cried Anna Needham. "We were starting right off without her!" "Is that Miss Whitcom?" asked Barry. "Who?" "Where?" "The lady just ahead, coming this way." It was true. There was a lady approaching along the beach. But she was with a man, and the man.... "Alf!" whispered Anna, gripping her husband's arm. "Well?" "Oh--_look_!" "What is it, Anna?" She murmured in almost an ecstasy: "Why, he's got his arm right round her waist!" The awful intelligence that this was indeed Marjory, and that a man had his arm around her waist, smote the minister's consciousness with peculiar and climactic force. Hilda and Leslie took their own good time about coming in off the lake. It was so wonderful out there in the moonlight. "I've had a perfectly grand time!" she told him, her voice thrilling richly with conviction. She knew she had had a grand time, and whatever might be the sequel when she faced her parents, the grandness would never, never diminish. They ascended the slight sand elevation and reached the steps leading up to the porch. Moonlight patched and patterned the steps. They did not go any farther. Hilda sat down, drawing her knees and chin together, while Leslie whistled softly. "Will your father be mad?" he asked. "Oh, no!" the girl exclaimed, with the full and emphatic authority of one who is gravely in doubt. "Why?" she added. "It isn't late, is it?" Leslie pulled out his watch. "N-o-o. Only twenty after eleven." "Twenty _after_ eleven? Twenty after _eleven_! Oh, my goodness! I didn't have any idea it was so late. It seemed as though we were only out there a couple of minutes!" "It did to me, too," admitted Leslie. The lateness of the hour, however, appeared to exert no immediate influence upon either his recognition of the wisdom of departure or hers of withdrawal to bed. Leslie swung back and forth, clinging to a slender birch tree which grew quite close to the cottage. Its silver leaves crashed gently together, as though a breeze were thrusting its way through. "I could simply sit out here all night!" Hilda declared. Leslie admitted he could too. Presently he did sit down. He sat down beside Hilda, but, as before, one step below her. It was certainly a lovely night. His head somehow found her knee; then Eros could hardly contain himself! Hilda ran her fingers very lightly through his hair. They did not bother to talk much. At length he asked: "Shall we go out after raspberries tomorrow? Would you like to?" "Oh, Les--that would be lots of fun!" "All right." "Shall we take a lunch so we won't have to hurry?" "Good idea." "What time will you come, Les?" "What time do you want me?" "Oh--I don't know." "Right after breakfast?" "Oh, yes!" Her answer to this question held no slightest inflection of doubt. "What time do you have breakfast?" "Never later than eight o'clock, and it only takes me a minute to eat!" Leslie appeared to have forgotten all about going back to the city, after all.... There was another warm silence. The boy had no idea of starting for his own cottage, nor had Hilda any idea of going to bed. It didn't, for some strange reason, occur to either that the parent Needhams might be waiting up in there, and that the minister, harassed over dim prospects of ruin perceived in the relationship of his daughter and the man who handled the Western interests, was attaining an attitude of really appalling austerity. No, they didn't bother their spoony young heads about any of these things, until all at once the cottage door opened, letting out upon them a flood of light from the living room. "Hello, papa!" cried Hilda, guiltily and very affectionately. She jumped up. The Rev. Needham did not say much out on the porch; but when Leslie had crept off, after hurriedly squeezing the girl's hand, and Hilda had been marshalled within, the law was laid down with unusual vigour. Mrs. Needham took it all rather more quietly, primarily because she did not share, in its full poignancy, her husband's alarm over Louise. Of course she was concerned. But the poise of climax was beginning to assert itself. No doubt tomorrow, if a reign of chaos really did set in, Mrs. Needham would rule over the turmoil like a very judge. She would become dominant, as when she went to rescue her daughter from the Potomac. It was perhaps her only complex. Hilda had just been sent up to bed, rather subdued, but in her heart immensely radiant, when Marjory arrived home. O'Donnell wanted to hang around awhile, but she wouldn't let him. No, she positively refused to linger any longer in the moonlight. She reproved herself a little. She reproved him a little, too. They had already been quite romantic enough for one night. And she hustled him off with a lack of ceremony which went with her years and her temperament. All the same, he managed to steal a glancing kiss. And Eros--who I forgot to say had remained in hiding out there--Eros told himself that this was infinitely better for his purposes than a mere handshake! When he had gone, she sat down on the steps alone, for a moment. It was so wonderful--life was--and the night. She watched the moon declining over a just-troubled sea. Then abruptly she became conscious of voices in the cottage living room. "Now, your sister!" "Well, Alf?" "_She's still out!_" "Oh, Marjory knows the way." "But at such an hour!" "It's only a quarter to twelve, Alf." "I know how the Point will be talking tomorrow!" "Alf, I--" "Oh--I've nothing to say. No, Anna, I realize she's your sister. But I must tell you what I think." And he was back once more on the topic that so turbulently absorbed him. "I think Marjory has been led into an unfortunate way of living. She's always run so free and never cared what people thought or said. I really don't know how the Point is going to take her." And after a moment's pause, during which the minister could be heard pacing up and down: "Anna, what do we know about the nature of her life in Tahulamaji? Has she told you anything definitely about that? No. But she's hinted...." He paced on, and presently added: "Now here she is, just back; and the very first thing she does is walk all over with a man's arm round her!" Miss Whitcom abandoned the wonderful night. When she entered, her sister smiled and brightened generally. But her brother-in-law seemed rather taken off his feet. Marjory wanted to make the minister feel perfectly at home, so she sat down and began rocking cosily. "How snug you're fixed here!" she murmured. "How happy you ought to be, Alfred, in your little nest! Ah, it's fine to be in the bosom of a family again. You know, I feel somehow as though I'd come back from an absence of nearly a lifetime. It's a curious feeling, to come back like this. Like a sort of prodigal, Alfred--just fancy! But I _did_ have to go away," she pleaded earnestly. "In the beginning, it was quite necessary! You see there were such a lot of things I wanted to find out, and I felt from the very first--Anna, you remember how I used to talk to you about life, and all that?--well, I somehow felt I shouldn't find out anything just sitting in the front parlour with a family album spread open on my lap. You see, it wasn't what the others were like that I wanted to be like, and it wasn't what all the others had done that I wanted to do in the world. So I broke away. Yes, the prodigal left, to roam far and wide. Now that we're chatting here all snug, I may tell you, Alfred, that it's been pretty interesting and pretty broadening." "Marjie, dear--" "Now, Anna, _don't_ let's go up to bed just yet. Not _just_ yet. It is so cosy down here, and I'm much too excited to sleep. Just a little while. I--I want to visit with Alfred a little about my life in Tahulamaji." The atmosphere in the living room grew subtly electric. The minister sat rigid. But the speaker went on in a cheery, simple way: "Just think, just think! When you would be sitting down in your nice house in Ohio, there I was...." She interrupted herself with a laugh. "It does sound rather dreadful, now doesn't it? You in Ohio and me.... Fancy my going way off there alone--for you know the Tahulamajians were once cannibals!--all by myself, and--and _living_! Gracious, how extraordinary it does sound!" She rocked with folded arms and peeped at her brother-in-law out of the wicked corners of her eyes. "But it's such fun," she went on, a little solemnly, "keeping your personal life all ship-shape--all ship-shape, Alfred--and yet really feeling, as you go along, that you're not missing a single thing that's worth while. No, not a single blessed thing, Alfred. When I went to Tahulamaji I hadn't an awfully clear notion of what I was going to do there. You see I thought I'd just have a look-around, as we say. Oh, Alfred," she chatted, "such a lovely spot! So warm and tropical, with music at night over the water.... Alfred, how you would love it there!" He shifted uneasily, and she went on: "What I did, though--what my life in Tahulamaji really turned out to be--wasn't after all very poetic, or even essentially tropical, when it comes to that. Yes, I've often thought I might have chosen a more harmonious vocation. But one must grasp what one can and be content. The fact is, Alfred, I went into the drygoods business." "Drygoods!" cried her sister. "Yes--just think of that--and after all the really exciting things I've done in my life! But that's exactly what I did, Anna. Yes, that's what my life was in Tahulamaji. And you've simply no idea how the thing took! The natives, you see, were just beginning to wear clothes--regular clothes, I mean, dear brother. And in a few months I had an establishment--an _establishment_, I tell you, with departments and counters and clerks.... It was perfectly beautiful to see them skipping about, and the little cash boxes running on their tracks overhead...." "Marjie, _really_?" "Yes, indeed. Of course that came just a little later on, after electricity had been introduced. The arrangement was somewhat crude, but it worked. Anna, you've no idea the things you can do if you really set your heart on them! Yes, in time we even had cash boxes overhead, and there was I, up in the cage where all the cash boxes went to, making change and keeping the books! That's what makes me laugh so, when I think of it: you living in your nice house in Ohio, and me up in the little cage with the cash coming in by trolley!" "Marjory, Marjory!" "The third year I had a dressmaker over from San Francisco, and the business trebled at once. The poor dears had been trying to make their own clothes, but of course they didn't know much about styles. I had a circulating library of pattern books, but it was a great day, I tell you, when the dressmaker arrived! They closed the schools, and a reception was held. Even the Queen came down the line! I have a manager now," she concluded, "running the business. I said I simply had to get off for a rest. Alfred," she soared to her climax, "your sister has worked herself weary and rich. How much will the new parish house cost?" The Rev. Needham gasped. This is really not an exaggeration. He gasped--and it was, this time, no merely inner gasping, either. Marjory--the new parish house ...! "Why, Marjory!" he cried, his heart deeply touched. There sounded again here that former note of appeal or even pathos. Nevertheless, long afterward, when the fine new parish house was all finished, and the church could hold its own a little while longer in a world which was changing so rapidly, a grim spectre stalked between the minister and her magnificent donation. It was the spectre of the Bishop whose bed she had seen made up. Did Marjory think _he_ would sleep on two mattresses, like the Bishop? And buy an upper for his golf sticks? Miss Whitcom had risen to bid them good night. The indignant cottage lamp had begun to sputter and fail. It had never before been kept burning so late. But she lingered long enough to give them the full benefit of one of her delightful and so characteristic shafts of bluntness. "O'Donnell," she said, "has stood by all these years. Think of it! Think of its taking so long as that to be sure! Of course it wasn't that I ever cared two straws for anybody else. O'Donnell's never had any active competition, except from my overwhelming notions about being free to work out my life. Well, I've had my freedom, and I've worked it out. And now--well, he's asked me again--tonight. But what do you think? I haven't given him a definite answer yet--not _yet_! I'm going over to the Elmbrook Inn as soon as the sun's up, though. I guess I'll stand down under his window and call out to him softly. And when he comes to the window, I'll say: 'Barrett, I've had my fling!' Alfred--you don't think I could find my way through tonight ...?" "Marjory! Of course not! Tomorrow, if you must...." But she chattered gaily and unquenchably on. "I don't know how it's all going to turn out, I'm sure--about our future, I mean. You see, if he'll come along to Tahulamaji, I'll sell him a half interest in the business, and we could let the manager go. But I doubt if he'll do it. It's so far, and then, you see, he's been with the Babbits so long. I can fancy one's growing very much attached to the Babbits!" "And if he doesn't want to go to Tahulamaji?" asked her sister. "If he doesn't? If he doesn't? Well, then I'll have to follow _his_ lead." The Rev. Needham had a sudden flash of wholly disorganizing inspiration. "Marjory, you don't mean Babbit & Babbit?" But it was just exactly what she did mean! "Yes, in that case I'll travel for Babbit & Babbit. Must be doing something, I can tell you, with all these parish houses to be built! And it won't be my first job on the road, by any manner of means, either!" Then she kissed her sister affectionately on the mouth and her brother-in-law affectionately on the cheek. And then the cottage lamp went out. 8 When Hilda went up to bed she thought Louise already asleep, for she lay there with her eyes closed. Hilda undressed as stealthily as possible, and crept in beside her sister. At first she felt so excited that it seemed to her she must surely lie awake all night. But as a matter of fact, her eyes drooped at once, and in five minutes she was asleep. Then it was that Louise stirred and opened her eyes. They were very wide and very full of perplexity. She had not been sleeping, but had feigned sleep because she dreaded the ordeal of talking. She wanted to be alone, and she wanted to think--all night. A feverish zeal was upon her. Barry was abed too. His light had gone out and his room was quite silent. Was he asleep? She wondered. Or was he, too, lying there in the dark with eyes wide open, thinking? The walk back from the roast had been a very silent one. The day had been crowded with emotion, and during the journey back to Beachcrest the tenseness had seemed, curiously, to be eased a little. At least there seemed a tacit understanding that, whatever the further developments might be, tomorrow must do. Tomorrow, tomorrow! Tonight all was hazed and half drowned in unshed, groping tears. Even emotion itself, through sheer, blessed weariness, was subtly obscured. So the walk had been silent, while somehow both had felt as though the air had cleared a little. It was easier to breathe. They had stood together a moment on the porch. "Goodnight," she said huskily. "Goodnight, Louise," he returned gravely, giving her hand just a frank, brief pressure. She wanted to throw herself at his feet. The impulse to do something splendid and expiating swept over her almost irresistibly. She wanted to implore his forgiveness--would that set their lives in order? If this were to be the end, she felt there ought to be something at least vaguely stupendous about it. "Louise, dear--what is it?" he asked, quite tenderly and calmly, yet with an intensity, too, which seemed like a hot, reproachful breath against one's very soul. She swayed a little, almost as though she might be about to fall in a faint. He touched her arm gently. The opportunity passed. "It's nothing," she murmured. "I'm tired, that's all--so tired!" And she did not throw herself at his feet, or do anything splendid at all. It was true, she was very tired. She expected to drop at once into a merciful drugged sleep. It had been like that after the affair with Richard. But now, lo! she found herself more wide awake, it seemed, than she had ever been. The weariness seemed all slipping from her, and her mind grew quite vibrant, as with a slowly dawning purpose. Ah, tomorrow! Would the situation be as tragic then? Could it be otherwise than tragic? But perhaps--perhaps they would see things more clearly.... "Yes," she thought, "I'll go to sleep now and let tomorrow bring what it must." Mañana, mañana! But this was not to be. She closed her eyes. She tried to turn into a snug and sleepy position. But she could not woo sleep; and every effort merely sharpened her senses. Again she found herself lying in the dark with wide eyes, and went on thinking, thinking. What was the meaning of this strange commotion? Phantoms--of the past--presaging phantoms endlessly to follow.... At dawn she had gone out blithely enough to welcome her lover. He had come. And then.... But even before his coming, that curious battle had set in. Not his hat or the twist of his profile.... Phantoms. Phantoms rising up in her heart like some sinister cloud of retribution. And their single adversary: "You are mine, all mine...." Now, in this sombre hour shunned by sleep, the conflict achieved an effect of climax: she felt it to be that, obscurely yet with a desperate poignancy--felt that an issue precious in the scheme of her unfolding destiny faced decision. Legions of spent loves went by in marshalled battle trim. With an inward cry she watched them as they passed. Perfume still lingering in the house, though with the guest departed. Ghosts of a many-vizaged passion, homing at length, for the fulfilment of a barter Faust-like in its essence. How lavish she had always been: how free! Shambles, now the glamour was gone stale. A monstrous cheapening--a heart flung out to-let in a public street. Yes, how easily and extravagantly she had spent herself--a profligate spending, for what the moment could return. Here, at last, was a love that demanded: "You must be mine, all mine--you must belong to me forever!" Curious, that of them all--of all the voices that had spoken of love before--it should be Lynndal's which, in fancy, thus first framed a so momentous contract! He had been always so modest; in the beginning, to be loved in return had figured for him as a too, too generous conjecture. Gradually, however, there had been a return. Their lives had drawn together. The fact that this love had, from almost the very beginning, been challenged to the bridging of such distance began to assume for Louise a new and arresting significance. There had been something in it, in its very fibre, rising above any mere convenience of contact: a phenomenon unique, it struck her, in the long and turbulent history of her heart interests. Those letters.... "That was just it," she had groped when confronted by Aunt Marjie. Romancing appeared to have carried her far, how far! Mirage. And yet, behind the mirage a something deeper lurked. She sensed this now; but all the weary day she had sensed it also, dimly. Lynndal. Hitherto, the man himself had barely figured. Yet ever he had been there, too. He had come from far in the west to put a ring on her finger, and had found her in a panic of goblin doubt. That fancied voice in the shriek of steam: "Mine--mine!" Then the kiss which exposed her dilemma. But _behind_ these things--the man; the man himself. And what was this that seemed for so long, in a fine and utter silence, to have been building? Sanctuary!... Her mind, as she lay here in the dark, became indeed a battleground for this ultimate climax of struggle. An unimagined realm they made of it. Her heart beat faster and her cheeks grew hot. To-let, in a public street. "Richard! I have done what he would have done--what he did! I am no better--no better!" She writhed, and the bitterness did not leave her--carried her instead to a yet more awful conclusion: "I am no better than a--than a--" The terrible word scorched across her heart, leaving a scar behind. Sobs shook her body, and the tears were bitter tears of hopelessness and regret. But then, slowly, the bitterness eased a little; and, full of amazement, she felt a shy presence of freshness stealing mysteriously in, as from some empire where struggle is no citizen. A strange and beautiful sense of disentanglement. In the previous moment of unwithheld relentless purgatory, she had caught the rhythm of that something--that something behind the mirage! So that, in time, as she lay relaxed, with tears undried on her face, it came to her that just one fact remained, of all the febrile facts which, out of a long inglorious past, had attained the immortality of ghost-hood. Just one--one "living" fact: Lynndal! Until today he had but filled a niche--but carried on the pattern of the many; now, however, the power to stem this ruinous tide revealed itself as at hand, just waiting to be seized--the courage to give herself completely, and to achieve a love as steadfast and unchanging as his had proved to be. The night wore on. The moon grew sleepy and drooped in the starry western sky. But Louise did not sleep. There was high drama in her heart, and she could not sleep till it was all played out. She began laying plans. What would her life be like if she married Lynndal? Dry-farming. But later he would run for Congress--perhaps he would be Governor some day. And in the meantime, love--and there would perhaps be children.... Security! Peace! An anchorage--something to steady her and set her wayward heart at rest! "I'm the kind of girl," she told herself, with a grimness which still went hand in hand with the orgy of honesty and fearless insight that had been making these dark hours so memorable, "--the kind that _must_ be married. I--I'm not safe otherwise--not to be trusted." And then her mood lightened again a little and grew grimly whimsical: "They say a minister's children are always the worst!" She must have fallen into a little sleep; for she opened her eyes with a start and gazed up at a slight abrasion in the shingle roof through which morning blinked. For a moment she wondered why she had waked so early. The July birds were all aflutter outside. It was a radiant summer dawn. Hilda lay beside her, sound asleep. The house was very still. It was tomorrow! Downstairs on the mantelpiece in the cottage living room the Dutch clock was ticking in its wiry, indignant way. There came a whirr--_so_ like a wheeze of decrepitude. And then it struck: one, two, three, four.... Very quietly Louise slipped out of bed. She did not want to waken Hilda, but she had a sudden desire to be out under the sky. Quickly putting on her clothes, she stole from the cottage. The morning was very still and fresh. She felt as though she must shout the gladness that was in her. Tomorrow! Who could possibly have foreseen that it would be like this? Louise climbed up out of the valley toward the little rustic "tea-house" where Leslie had waited for her yesterday at dawn. She thought she would sit there a long, long time, trying to realize her great new contrite happiness. She reached the door. A figure stirred. Lynndal was there. He had risen even before she was awake, for slumber had not come to him at all. When he saw her face, he could not believe the new happiness that seemed rushing upon him out of the dark chaos of their yesterday. She stretched out her hands to him. She snuggled up against him with a brief, glad sigh. "I want to be yours, all yours, Lynndal," she said softly and just a little humorously. "I want to be yours forever and ever. I don't want to belong to any one but you!" 
46269	----	produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) [Illustration: WE SHUT UP THE DOORS AND COUNTED UP TO SEE WHAT WE'D DONE] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ MARK TIDD IN BUSINESS BY CLARENCE B. KELLAND AUTHOR OF "Mark Tidd" "THIRTY PIECES OF SILVER" ETC. GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK By arrangement with Harper & Brothers ------------------------------------------------------------------------ MARK TIDD IN BUSINESS Copyright, 1915, by Harper & Brothers Printed in the United States of America ------------------------------------------------------------------------ MARK TIDD IN BUSINESS CHAPTER I The Wicksville paper told how there wouldn't be any school for six weeks, on account of somebody getting diphtheria. That same afternoon my father didn't get out of the way of an automobile and got broke inside some place, so he had to go to the hospital in Detroit to have it fixed. "James," says my mother--that's my real name, but the fellows call me Plunk--"I've--I've got to go with--your father." She was crying, you see, and I wasn't feeling very good, I can tell you. "And," she went on, "I don't know what--we shall ever do." "About what?" I asked her, having no idea myself. "The store," she says. I saw right off. You see, my father is Mr. Smalley, and he owns Smalley's Bazar, where you can buy almost anything--if father can find where he put it. With father gone and mother gone there wouldn't be anybody left to look after the store, and so there wouldn't be any money, because the store was where money came from, and then as sure as shooting the Smalley family would have a hard time of it. It made me gloomier than ever, especially because I didn't seem to be able to think of any way to help. Mother went up-stairs to father's room, shaking her head and crying, and I went outdoors because there didn't seem to be anything else to do. I opened the door and stepped out on the porch, and right that minute I began to feel easier in my mind, somehow. The thing that did it was just seeing who was sitting there, almost filling up a whole step from side to side. It was a boy, and he was so fat his coat was 'most busted in the back where he bulged, and his name was Mark Tidd. That's short for Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd, and you maybe have heard of him on account of the stories Tallow Martin and Binney Jenks have told about him. Yes, sir, the sight of him made me feel a heap better. "Hello, P-plunk!" he stuttered. "How's your f-f-father?" "Got to go to the hospital," says I, "and mother's goin', too, and there won't be anybody to mind the store, and there won't be any money, and we don't know what we're a-goin' to do." I was 'most cryin', but I didn't let on any more than I could help. "W-what's that?" asks Mark. I told him all over again, and he squinted up his little eyes and began pinching his fat cheek like he does when he's studying hard over something. "L-looks bad, don't it?" he says. "Awful," says I. "M-must be some way out," he says, which was just like him. He never bothered fussing about how bad things looked. As soon as they began looking bad he started in to find some way of fixing them up so they'd be better. Always. He kept on thinking and then he turned to me, and I saw right off he'd seen something to do. "N-no school for six weeks," says he. "I know," I says, not seeing what that had to do with it. "G-gives you and me and T-tallow and Binney all the t-time to ourselves," says he. "Sure," says I, not seeing yet. He wrinkled his pudgy nose sort of disgusted at me. "D-don't you figger," says he, "that four b-boys is 'most equal to one m-m-man?" "Maybe," says I. "Even if the man is your f-f-father?" Then I saw it, and it sort of scared me. It looked to me like a bigger job than Mark ever tackled yet. "You don't mean for us boys to run the store?" I says. "Sure," says he. "But runnin' a store's business," says I. "B-b-business," says Mark, "hain't nothin' but makin' m-money out of somethin' you like to do. P-poor business men is them that tries to make money out of somethin' they d-don't like to do." "Um," says I. "We'll enjoy runnin' the Bazar," says he, as if the whole thing was settled. "I'm afraid," says I. "S'pose we was to bust the business." "We won't," says he. "L-let's talk to your ma about it." We went in, and after a while my mother came down-stairs. I felt sort of foolish when I told her Mark's idea, and it didn't get any better when she said, "Bosh!" But I was forgetting about Mark. He started in to talk to mother, and he spluttered and stuttered along for fifteen minutes, arguing and wiggling his stumpy fingers, and explaining to her how easy running a bazar was, and just why he and Tallow and Binney and I were a lot better able to do it than anybody else on the face of the earth. Why, I began to believe him myself! So did mother. Mark knew just how to go at it. At the start, when she didn't want to listen, he talked so fast she couldn't find a chance to tell him to keep quiet, and by the time he was beginning to slacken up mother was bobbing her head and almost smiling, and saying, "Yes, yes," and, "Do you honestly think you could?" and, "I _don't_ see why I didn't think of it myself," and things like that. "Why," says Mark, "you d-d-don't need to worry about the Bazar a minute. Just look after Mr. Smalley." "I wish I could ask your father's advice," mother said to me, finally, "but I daren't. I'll just have to decide myself. And it seems like there wasn't but one way to decide. I won't say a word to father about it.... You can try, boys ... and it will be a--miracle--a blessed miracle if it--comes out all right." Then she started to cry again. Mark, he waddled over and patted her on the back and says, soothing-like, "Jest you t-t-trust _me_, Mrs. Smalley--and don't worry--not a mite." It ended up by mother giving me the keys to the Bazar, and kissing me and Mark, and telling us she was proud of us, and--hurrying out of the room so we couldn't see her cry any more. Mark looked at me and scowled. "Looky there, now," he says. "Looky there. Guess we g-g-got to make a go of it. Calc'late she's got trouble enough without us makin' it worse.... C-come on." We went out and found Binney and Tallow. At first they wouldn't believe us when we told them, but when they did believe they set up a whoop like somebody'd up and given them a dollar to spend for peanuts. Anybody'd think running a bazar was some kind of a circus, which it isn't at all, because I've worked for dad holidays and Saturdays sometimes, and I know. "When do we start?" asks Tallow. "F-f-first thing in the mornin'," says Mark. "When they goin' to take your father?" Binney asks me. "On the five-forty to-night," I told him, "and I guess I'll be goin' home to see if there hain't somethin' I can help with." "Where you goin', Mark?" "Home, too. I got consid'able th-thinkin' to do. How'd you expect me to m-make money with this business if I don't study it some?" Anybody'd 'a' thought it was his business, to hear him talk, and I guess he'd already begun thinking it was. No matter what he tackled, he was just that way. Every time he set his heart on doing something, whether it was for himself or for somebody else, he went at it like he owned the whole shebang and had to come out on top or get dragged off to the poorhouse. I started to walk off, but Mark called after me: "B-b-better gimme those keys. I'll be down 'fore you are in the mornin', and maybe I'll have to go down to-night." Well, sir, I handed over the keys and didn't say a word. I could see who was going to be the head of that business while dad was gone, and that feller's name wasn't Plunk Smalley. "I hope," says I, after thinking it over a minute, "that you'll at least give me a job." "Huh!" snorts Mark. "If you don't git wider awake than you usually be I dun'no's the business can afford to h-have you around." But right after that he grinned, and when Mark Tidd grins nobody can be mad with him or envy him or think he is bossing the job more than he ought to. "T-tell your mother not to worry," he yelled after me. It was possible for mother to go with father and leave me at home because Aunt Minnie was there. Aunt Minnie was my father's sister, and she lived with us because if she hadn't she would have had to live alone, and she couldn't live alone because she was afraid. One day I started to count up the things Aunt Minnie was afraid of, but it wasn't any use. I guess if she was to set out and try she could be afraid of _anything_. She was afraid of pigs, and of thunder, and of tramps, and of bumblebees, and of the dark, and of sun-stroke, and of book agents, and of-- Why, once she lay awake all night and shivered on account of a red-flannel undershirt hanging on the line. I'd rather have stayed at Mark's house or somewheres than with her, but it wasn't any use. There's no fun staying with a woman that's all the time squealing and squinching and jumping like somebody shoved a pin into her. That night, after father and mother were gone, Aunt Minnie wouldn't let me go out of the house, because, says she, like as not burglars have been watching for just such a chance for years, hanging around Wicksville, waiting for this house to be left with nobody but her in it. It didn't seem to me like it would be worth a burglar's time to wait many years for a chance at what was in our house. But you couldn't reason with Aunt Minnie, so I had to sit in the house right when I wanted to see Mark Tidd the worst kind of way. Along about half past eight there come a rap at the door, and Aunt Minnie let out a yell that startled me so I was close to seeing burglars myself. It wasn't, though; it was Mark. "Come in," I says to him. "I'm pretty busy keepin' out robbers, but I guess I can find a minute to talk with you." He just grinned, because he knew Aunt Minnie. "I've b-been down to the store," says he. "Oh!" says I. "Just lookin' around," says he, "to g-git an idee." "Did you git one?" says I. "I did," says he. "I got the idee that n-n-nobody could find what he was lookin' for in that Bazar 'less he did it by accident." "Pa used to have that trouble," says I. And it was a fact. I've known pa to spend the whole morning looking for a spool of darning-cotton--hours after the customer that wanted it had got tired and gone home. But pa never got provoked about it; he always kept on till he found it, and then put it handy. Next day if somebody come in for a brush-broom that pa couldn't find, he'd try to sell them the darning-cotton instead. Old Ike Bond, the 'bus-driver, used to say that if pa didn't have anything to sell but one spool of thread, and that was hanging by a string in the middle of the store, he never would find it without the sheriff and a search-warrant. "F-first thing for us to do," says Mark, "is to f-find _everything_. Got to know what we got to sell 'fore we can sell it." That sounded likely to me. "And," says he, "we got to hustle." "Why?" says I. "To get a head start," says he. "A head start of what?" "The other bazar," says he. I grinned because I thought he was joking, and said to git out, because there wasn't any other bazar. "Worse'n a bazar," says he. "It's one of those five-and-ten-cent stores." "Be you _crazy_?" I says. "They've rented that vacant s-s-store of Jenkins's, and there's a big sign sayin' they'll be open for b-business Monday." Well, sir, I was what Aunt Minnie calls flabbergasted. Why, Wicksville wasn't big enough for two bazars--it was hard enough for _one_ to make a living. "I--I hope it's a mistake," says I. "Oh, I dun'no'," says Mark, sort of squinting up his little eyes. "I g-guess we'll git along somehow--and it'll be more fun." "Fun?" I says. "Fun," says he. "Hain't it more f-f-fun to play a ball game against another team than it is to bounce a ball against the side of the house all alone?" Now, wasn't that just like him! If a thing was easy he didn't take any interest in it, but just the minute you put some kind of a _contest_ into it, then Mark couldn't start in fast enough. "Maybe it'll be fun for you," I told him, "but what about the Smalley family that expects that Bazar to pay for what they eat?" "Plunk," says Mark, "don't git licked before the f-f-fight begins." "We can't sell as cheap as those five-and-ten-cent stores. I've heard pa say so." "I hain't so s-sure," says Mark. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.... You be d-down to the store at seven o'clock," says he, and waddled off home. Now, wouldn't anybody think it was _his_ store? Wouldn't they? It looked to me like he was trying to be the whole thing, but you can bet I didn't feel that way before we were through with it. I was all-fired glad Mark Tidd was around with his schemes and his plans and his way of running everything in general. CHAPTER II I thought I'd steal a march on Mark Tidd next morning, and got to the Bazar at half past six instead of seven. I figured he'd come mogging along in half an hour and I'd have some pretty smart things to say. But when I got there I found the door open, and inside was Mark with his coat off and dust on his nose and dust on his hands, digging around among the stock to see what was there. "There's enough st-stuff here for three bazars," he says to me like he judged it was _my_ fault. "All the more to sell," says I. "There's truck here you couldn't t-t-trade to Injuns for pelts," says he, and then he grinned, "but maybe we can sell 'em to white folks for m-money." "When does the new store open?" "Monday." "And this is Wednesday." I expect I said it sort of downhearted, for Mark wrinkled his nose like he does when he doesn't like anything, and says: "Figger on shuttin' the door and lettin' 'em have the t-town to themselves?" "No," says I. "Then," says he, "git a box of starch from the grocery and f-f-fix up your spine with it." "They'll have a grand openin'," says I. "To be sure. And we'll have somethin' that'll make a grand openin' look like scratchin' a match at the eruption of Vesuvius." Right there I saw he had a scheme already hatched, but he didn't go any further with it and I knew it wasn't any use to ask questions. He'd tell when he was ready. "Come on," says he, "and let's find out what's here to sell." We began rummaging around, and every minute or so we'd find something that father had tucked away years ago and forgot. Every shelf was full. There'd be a row of things in front, and then rows of other things behind that had been pushed out of sight. I had a sort of an idea it was that way, but in half an hour I was so surprised at the things we'd dug up that there wasn't any more room for surprise in me. By that time Binney and Tallow got there and Mark set them to work. "Th-there's goin' to be _system_ in this store," he says. "Each of you has got to be one of these things they call specialists." My, how he spluttered on that word! "As how?" asked Binney. "Each feller will take so much of the s-store, and he's got to know where every single thing in his department is so he can put his hand on it in the d-dark." We poked around and overhauled things and sorted and fixed up till 'most noon. A couple of folks came in to buy things and stopped to talk and grin at us, and one old lady predicted we'd turn the Bazar into what she called a Bedlam in a week. Nobody seemed to think it was anything but a joke, but it wasn't any joke to us, I can tell you. We were _working_. Yes, sir, if anybody ever worked, we did. Along about eleven in come a man I never saw before. He was pretty tall, and half of him looked like it was neck. That neck stuck out through his collar so far you had to keep lifting your eyes a full minute before you got to his head. His hair was kind of pinkish, and his eyes were so close together they almost bumped when he winked. Outside of that he looked like any other man except for a wart just on one side of his nose. It was the finest wart you ever saw, and he must have been proud of it. I don't know as I ever saw a wart that came anywhere near it. I went up to wait on him. "Howdy, my lad?" says he, sort of oozy-like. It made me mad right off, because there's nothing that riles a boy so as to have some man grin soft-soapy and call him a lad. What is a lad, anyhow? I never saw one, and I never saw anybody that would own up to being one. But you mustn't get mad at customers, so I was as polite as a girl at a party. "Pretty well, sir. What can I do for you?" "Is the proprietor in?" he wanted to know. "No, sir," says I. "He's out of town and we don't know just when he'll be back." "Who's in charge durin' his absence?" says the man, talking like a college professor looking for a job. I was going to say I was, but before I spoke up I knew _that_ wasn't the truth. Not a bit of it. Mark Tidd was in charge, and don't you forget it. Being in charge was a habit he'd got, and nobody will ever cure him of it. "Why," says I, "Mark Tidd is the boss right now." "I'd like to speak to him," says he, so I turned and called. Mark came waddling up with the dust still on his nose and more dust on his fingers, and what you might call a freshet of sweat cutting streaks down his face. "This," says I, "is Mark Tidd, our manager," and then I stood off to see what would happen. Mr. Long Neck wrinkled his nose till his wart moved up almost to his eyebrows and squinted at Mark. "I hain't here to be made fun of," says he, mad-like. Mark turned his head on one side, and that's a dangerous sign. When you see him pull his cheek or turn his head on one side or go to whittling--well, you want to look out, for something is going to happen. "What can I do for you?" Mark asked, without a stutter. "I want to see somebody in authority," says Mr. Long Neck. "I'm the b-b-best we got," says Mark, smiling sweet as honey. The man looked all around and didn't see anybody older than we were, so I guess he must have believed Mark. He took hold of the end of his nose and bent it back and forth a couple of times as if he expected it was going to help him talk better. "I," says he, "am Jehoshaphat P. Skip. The P. stands for Petronius." "I know him," says I before I could think. "He's in _The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_. Mark's father knows that by heart." "Huh!" Mr. Long Neck sniffed. Mark looked at me out of the corner of his eye, and after that I kept still. "P-p-pleased to meet you," says Mark. "What can I do for you?" Mr. Skip straightened up and lengthened his neck till he looked as dignified as a turkey gobbler. "I," says he, "am the sole proprietor of the Gigantic Five-and-Ten-Cent Stores, a branch of which is now being located in your village." You could see right off that Mr. Skip wouldn't start to argue with anybody who said he was a great man. Mark didn't say anything; he just waited. "I came," says Mr. Skip, "to talk business--serious business." Right off Mark looked serious. He did it fine. I don't believe there's an undertaker can look more serious than Mark when he's a mind to. "I came," says Mr. Skip, "to warn you." "Oh," says Mark, "to warn us? Oh." "I," says Mr. Skip, "propose to sell articles for five and ten cents. In some measure your Bazar will conflict with me--you will be almost a competitor." He stopped and bent his nose back and forth again. "Yes," says Mark, "I calc'late we will--almost." "But," says Mr. Skip, "it will not be a real competitor." "Um," says Mark. "Why?" "Because," says Mr. Skip, "I'm here to warn you not to encroach on my business." "Um," says Mark, again. "What was your ideas about en-encroachment?" "Simple," says Mr. Skip. "I sell things for five and ten cents. You mustn't. You can sell for a penny or for fifteen cents or for five dollars--but not for a nickel or a dime. That's _my_ business." Mark began tugging at his fat cheek. "I calc'late," says he, as gentle as a lamb, "that there's some such law, eh? You got a law passed sayin' nobody but you could s-s-sell for five and ten cents." "I don't need any law. I say you mustn't. That's enough." "T-to be sure," says Mark. "But if anybody was to g-go right along and pay no attention, what then? Eh, Mr. Skip? What if somebody did?" "In that case," says Mr. Skip, scowling until his two eyes looked like one slit, "in that case I'd bust 'em. Bust 'em, is what I'd do. Nobody can go against Jehoshaphat P. Skip and be the better for it." "You're willin'," says Mark, "that we should s-s-sell for fifteen cents, and for a quarter, and for a d-d-dollar?" "Yes," says Mr. Skip, beginning to smile like the cat that ate the canary-bird. Mark thought a minute; then he says, "We'll m-make a trade with you, Mr. Skip." "What is it? Glad to oblige if possible," says Mr. Long Neck. "We'll swap you the r-right to open a store in Wicksville for the right to sell whatever we please," says Mark. Mr. Skip kind of clouded up and I judged he was getting ready to thunder a bit. He did. He roared and grumbled, and made a sight of noise about it, too. "Don't make fun of me, young feller. Don't make fun of Jehoshaphat P. Skip. Nobody ever did and failed to regret it. I've told you you can't interfere with my trade, and you can't. This is the first and last warnin'. Don't dare sell a nickel's worth or a dime's worth or you'll suffer the consequences." Mark looked sort of meek. "My f-f-father says competition is the life of trade," he says. "I won't have no competition," says Mr. Skip. "Maybe not," says Mark, still as meek as a sheep. Then all of a sudden he perked up and looked right into Mr. Skip's narrow eyes. "Maybe not," he says, again, this time some louder, "but I'm calc'latin' you _will_. I'm calc'latin' you hain't ever seen any competition till n-n-now." He swept his hand around the store. "This Bazar," says he, "is full of stuff to sell for five and ten cents--and it's goin' to be sold. It's g-g-goin' to be made a _specialty_ of. I was plannin' on bein' fair. I was figgerin' on makin' it as easy for you as I could, but now, Mr. Skip, you're goin' to find your store's got the liveliest c-c-competition in Michigan. We'll s-sell what we like for how much we like.... Now, Mr. Skip, good mornin'. We're pretty b-busy." Not another word did he say, but turned his bulging back on Mr. Long Neck and walked to the back of the store. Mr. Long Neck swallowed a couple of times so you could see it all the way from his collar to his ears, and went out muttering to himself. Mark grinned at me and winked encouraging. "There," says I, "now see what we're up against." "Hain't it b-b-bully? Better 'n I hoped," says he. "He'll bust us," says I. "He's more likely to bust his neck," says Mark. "What you going to do?" "I'm goin' to give Mr. Skip the time of his life," says Mark. "I'm goin' to give him c-c-competition till he's so sick of it he won't be able to eat it with molasses." "But he's a business man, and he's got lots of money." "Hum!" says Mark. "His Grand Openin' 'll draw everybody in Wicksville, and maybe they'll never come here any more." "Plunk," says Mark, "Mr. Skip 'll think his Grand Openin' has a smallpox sign stuck up on it." "How?" says I. "Folks'll never n-n-notice it's goin' on," says he. I was beginning to feel some better, for it was as plain as the wart on Mr. Skip's nose that Mark had hit on a scheme. "Why won't they?" I asked. He asked a question back: "What had Wicksville folks rather g-g-g-go to than anythin' else?" "Fires and weddin's and auctions," says I. "We won't have a f-fire," says Mark, "nor a weddin', but you can kick me seven times, Plunk, if we don't have the rippin'est, roarin'est, bang-up-est auction ever held in the county." I sat right down on the floor, kerflop. I might have known it. He'd hit on the very thing, and done it as easy as wiggling your thumb. Almost anybody can cook up a scheme, but Mark Tidd always cooked up _the_ scheme, the one that was copper-bottomed and double-riveted, and guaranteed to do just the business where it was most needed. "Where," says I, "will you git an auctioneer?" "M-me," says he, and walked off to go to work just like he'd said he'd play a game of miggles. CHAPTER III "What'll we auction off?" I asked Mark. "That," says he, "is what we've g-got to find out." "Let's auction everything," says Binney. Mark just looked at him. It was enough. You could see how disgusted he was, and I can tell you Binney kept pretty quiet after that. "We'll auction old stuff," says Mark. "There's l-l-lots of things here nobody could sell any other way. Whatever we get out of them 'll be clear gain." So we went to rummaging, and the mess of things we found was enough to make you blink. We took all the rest of the day for that. Next morning Mark had us clean tables up in front. About eleven o'clock we got that part pretty well done. "Now," says Mark, "we got to advertise." "How?" says I. "We hain't got money to spend in the paper, and, besides, it don't come out till the auction's over." "L-lots of ways," says Mark. "Binney, can you get your pa's horse?" "I guess so," says Binney. "And the spring wagon?" "Sure." "All right, then. Now come on." He led us to the storeroom back of the Bazar and set us to work making a frame. This didn't take long. The frame was shaped like a tent. When it was done we tacked some white cloth on the sides so it was tight and smooth, and Mark got the lampblack and the brush and began to paint signs on it. He could make letters as good as a regular sign-painter, too, and that fast you wouldn't believe it. The same sign was on both sides of the tent. It said: GRAND AUCTION SALE Anything You Want For What You Want To Pay For It AT SMALLEY'S BAZAR Monday, September 30 MARK TIDD, Auctioneer "Now," says Mark, "f-fetch down your horse and wagon, Binney. We'll set this sign on the wagon. You can drive, and Tallow 'll sit inside and bang on this drum." "Where'll we go?" "Out in the c-country this afternoon. To-morrow you'll ride around town." As soon as they had their dinner they started off, and Mark and I were left in the store. "F-first thing's to fix the windows," says he. We picked out the showiest things and put them where folks could see them--and there was everything from a patent churn to a toy duck that waggled its head. One window was like that--just everything put in so folks could get an idea what was going to be sold. The other window Mark fixed up like a town. He used a lot of toys to do it, but we had a lot to do it with. When we were through it was a regular sight, and I'll bet nobody in Wicksville ever saw anything like it before. There were streets and houses and horses and wagons driving along, and a train coming into the depot, and a band playing in the square, and a fire-engine going to a fire that Mark fixed in a house with yellow paper for flames. It looked pretty real. There were churches and stores, and folks shopping, and kids playing. It was pretty fine. Next Mark made some more signs--one great big one to stretch across the front of the store, and others on stiff paper to tack upon fences around town. We were to do that after we closed up at night. All this time we didn't see a thing of Jehoshaphat P. Skip, but we found out he'd gone to the city about some of his stock that was slow coming. We were just as glad, because he'd be more surprised than anybody when he saw what we were up to. "Bet Mr. Skip 'll most strangle all the way down his neck," I says, "when he sees what's goin' on." Mark's little eyes got bright and twinkly, but he didn't say a word. Next day was Friday, and we spent that arranging stock. Mark had tables moved to the middle of the store, and we covered them with all sorts of things. This wasn't for the auction, but for regular business. The first table was a five-cent one, the next was a ten-cent one, and so on. You didn't have to ask the price of a thing. That made it handy for us and for customers. "L-lots of folks'll buy things they hain't got any use for," says Mark, "just because they look cheap." "Shouldn't think so," says I. "Wait," says he. "Let 'em rummage around and see things all marked plain. Right off they'll b-begin wantin' things. And they'll buy. You see." And I did see, Saturday. Those signs and windows got folks all riled up with curiosity, and they began droppin' in to see what kind of a mess we were making of it. Everybody acted like they thought it was a big joke for Mark and us to be keeping store, but we didn't care. Mark said that was a good thing, because good-natured folks buy more than folks that don't think they've got something to laugh at. We had more folks in the store that day than we ever had before, I believe, unless maybe nights before Christmas. We let them joke us all they wanted and didn't try to sell them things. What we wanted them to do was walk around and sell things to themselves. That was Mark's idea. You haven't any idea how people like to poke around by themselves and stick their noses into things. They right down enjoy it. The more they poked the more they bought. It kept Mark and me busy, and we wished a lot of times that Binney and Tallow were there to help us. But we did the best we could, and they were there after supper, of course. We kept open till ten o'clock, and anybody'd have thought we were running a free show to see how the place was jammed. Mark got the idea of setting a phonograph going, and we had music all the while. Along about nine o'clock we saw Mr. Long Neck come pussy-footing in. He stood in the door a minute and scowled and then walked all around slow, and slinking, to see what we were doing and how we were doing it. Mark said to let on we didn't know him, and then went up to him like he thought he was a customer, and says: "Anythin' s-s-special you was lookin' for, sir?" Mr. Skip was like to have swelled up so he cracked his long neck right there, and the way he woggled his nose back and forth was enough to have put it out of joint. "You're a-havin' that auction Monday just to interfere with my Grand Openin'," he says, savage-like. "Was you havin' a Grand Openin', Monday?" asks Mark, innocent as could be. "You know I be," says Mr. Skip. "N-now hain't that too bad!" says Mark, still looking as serious as a wall-eyed pike. "I hope it won't draw away from your crowd any." "You better mark my word, young feller," says Mr. Long Neck, "and put it off. I won't have no interferin' with my plans." "Um!" says Mark. "And these here five-and-ten-cent tables," says Mr. Skip. "You got to do away with 'em." "We're doin' away with 'em now," says Mark, with just the beginning of a grin, and he pointed at the tables that were surrounded by folks like flies on a lump of sugar. "Don't look like there'd be much l-left, does it?" "You're a young smart Alec," says Mr. Skip, and then he hurried out like he was afraid he'd burn up if he stayed. Mark turned and winked at me. Everybody was interested in the auction and we were answering questions about it all day. You could see folks picking out things they figured on bidding for and making memorandums of them, and that pleased us a good deal and made me feel a whole heap better about our chances of making a showing against Mr. Skip. When everybody was gone we counted the money we had taken in, and it was a hundred and sixty-two dollars and ninety-five cents. Once I heard pa say a hundred and forty-five was the biggest day he ever had. I tell you we were tickled. And the best of it was everything we sold was at regular prices. Yes, sir. We didn't reduce a cent. Before we left the store I wrote mother a long letter and told her about it all and bragged considerable, and let on I guessed we were going to get as rich as Mark Tidd's father had out of the turbine-engine he invented. Then we all signed it and sent it off. I was pretty proud, but when you come to think of it, there wasn't anything for _me_ to be very stuck up about. Mark was the fellow who had a right to think he was some pumpkins, but he didn't act like he'd done anything out of the ordinary. That was the way with him. If he was to be elected President of the United States to-morrow, it wouldn't even make him blink. He'd just go ahead and _be_ President like he was used to it all his life. Sometimes it made me mad to see how cool he took things. But he says you can think a lot better when you're calm-like than you can when you're all het up and flabbergasted. I guess he's right about it, too. CHAPTER IV Sunday afternoon Mark came and got me to go for a walk. "Where to?" I asked him, because I was pretty tired and didn't feel like I needed to do any unnecessary scattering around. "Uncle Ike Bond's," says he. Then I knew there was a reason for it, so I didn't make any complaint. Uncle Ike drives the 'bus in Wicksville when he isn't too busy fishing--which is mostly. He's a great friend of ours, and if anybody in the world admires Mark Tidd more than he does then I want to see that person. Uncle Ike would get up in the middle of the night to stand on his head in the middle of the road if Mark was to ask him. So we went to his house, which is close to the river and just outside of town. Uncle Ike was sitting on the front stoop, whittling out one of the things he's always working on--this time it was a double chain with ten links and a sort of a bird-cage with a ball in it at the end. "Howdy, Uncle Ike!" says Mark. "Um?" says Uncle Ike, not speaking to us at all, "if 'tain't that Mark Tidd ag'in. Um! Alfiredest smartest kid in town is what I say, and I been drivin' 'bus here long enough to know." "G-goin' to be busy to-morrow, Uncle Ike?" asked Mark. "Middlin' busy, middlin' busy." "We're goin' to have an aw-aw-auction," says Mark. "Um!" says Uncle Ike. "Auction, eh? Um! Calc'late I may find a minnit or two somehow. Auction. Um! Where?" "Haven't you seen our signs?" "To be sure. To be sure." We knew he was just pretending, and that he knew all about the auction all the time. "Was them your signs?" "Yes," says Mark. Then he wrinkled up around his eyes like he does when he's going to think of something especially smart. "What's the m-main difficulty with auctions, Uncle Ike?" "Auctioneer's wind gives out," says the old fellow. "N-no," says Mark. "Nobody to buy," guesses Uncle Ike. "N-no. It's gittin' f-folks to bid as much as you want 'em to." "'Course," Uncle Ike said. "Never'd 'a' thought of that. Never! Beats all how this Mark Tidd thinks of things. Quicker 'n greased lightenin' he is. Twicet as quick." "If there was s-somebody in the crowd," says Mark, "that folks didn't suspicion b'longed to the auction, it might help some." "F'rinstance?" says Uncle Ike, making one word of it. "If," says Mark, "the real bid wasn't h-high enough, then the auctioneer could m-make some kind of a sign, and the feller in the crowd could give her a boost." "Um!" says Uncle Ike. "S'pose the bid was a d-d-dime," says Mark, "and the thing you was sellin' was worth more. What happens? Why, the auctioneer he wiggles his thumb like this--and the feller in the crowd bids fif-fifteen cents. See?" "Calc'late to," says Uncle Ike. "Comin' to the auction?" says Mark, grinning like everything. "Calc'late to," says Uncle Ike, grinning back. "Got t-time to stay around?" "Put in the whole day," says Uncle Ike. "Wigglin' the thumb means raise it a nickel," says Mark. "Wigglin' both thumbs means raise it a d-dime." "Listen to that, now," says Uncle Ike to himself. "Easy, hain't it? Jest as easy as swallerin' slippery ellum. But it took _him_ to think of it." Then he looked at Mark and says, "Your Uncle Ike'll be there, you can bet you; and will he bid? Jest you lissen to him holler." "You m-might sort of act mean, too," says Mark. "That'll make the other folks that's biddin' get _mad_. If they get good and mad they'll bid high just out of spunk." Uncle Ike slapped his knee and laughed all over, though you couldn't hear a noise. That's the way he always laughed. To see him you'd think he was hollerin' loud enough to bust a gallus, but there isn't a particle of sound. "G'-by, Uncle Ike," says Mark. "G'-by, boys," says he, and Mark and I came away. Monday morning bright and early all four of us boys were at the Bazar, getting things ready. The first thing we did was to fix up a place for Mark to do his auctioning from. That was easy. We put two big packing-boxes side by side against the front of the store, and on one of them we put a smaller box to use for a table. We covered these all over with flags and bunting and signs. This was done before another store on the street opened up. Even Jehoshaphat P. Skip wasn't stirring around yet. The whole front of his place was covered with big signs and flags. Between us we made Wicksville look like it was the Fourth of July. Pretty soon we saw Skip come down from the hotel. He walked past our place with his nose in the air and never looked. My! but he was mad! He went into his store and opened up. For his Grand Opening he had four clerks he'd brought from some of his other stores, because he figured he'd have a whale of a crowd. His store did look nice and attractive. I went snooping past, and in that little time I could see a bunch of things I'd like to buy--but I'd have gone without them till a week from next year before I'd have bought from him. Our auction was set for ten o'clock. You see, Mark Tidd knew the Wicksville folks. Everybody had something to do early in the morning, and nobody would have time to go down-town before ten. But Jehoshaphat P. he didn't know. He started right off to boom things--hired a fiddle and a horn and an accordion to sit inside his place and play tunes. But there wasn't anybody to play to, and wouldn't be for a couple of hours. "Tallow and Binney'll stay inside," says Mark, "to l-look after folks that want to buy things--" "But," says Binney, "we want to be out at the auction." Mark he looked at them for half a minute without saying a word. "This here," says he, "hain't a movin'-p-p-picture show or a picnic. It's business." They didn't have another word to say, because they knew Mark would have discharged them in a second if he had thought it was necessary. "There'll be folks nosin' around," says Mark, "and they g-got to be looked after. Plunk'll help me." We had piled a lot of things up in front that we figured would tempt folks, and everything was ready for the auction. We didn't open the store door till it was time, but at half past nine Mark sent Binney and me out with big bells. "Walk up and d-down the street and ring 'em," says he, "and carry these signs." Each of the signs had printed on it: "All ready for the auction. She's going to start." Binney went one way and I went the other, which was right past Jehoshaphat P. Skip's new store. There were a couple of folks in there and the music was a-going it as tight as it could, but Mr. Skip didn't seem like he was happy. I stuck my head inside his door and hollered, "Auction's goin' to begin," and then ducked. He started after me, poking his long neck ahead of him like a giraffe, but I knew he wouldn't chase me, so I walked off--when I'd got outside--as calm as a parade of Odd Fellows. Just before ten o'clock I hustled back. Mark had put the phonograph outside and it was doing the best it knew how. Quite a crowd was beginning to gather around. I looked at Mark to see if he was scared. Scared! He looked tickled to death. "Come on," says he. We opened the front doors and out we went. The folks let out a laugh; a couple of fellows cheered. Some kids that were hanging around began to holler at us, and it made me mad, but Mark let on he didn't hear. He climbed up on his platform and looked at the folks without saying a word. A kid on the other side of the street yelled, "Look at what's tryin' to be a auctioneer," and folks laughed some more. I saw Mark sort of squint up his eyes and pinch his cheek. "Aw," yelled the same kid, "better git started 'fore the box busts in." If there's one thing Mark _hates_ it's having anybody joke him about being fat. He squinted his eyes so you could hardly see them and waddled up to the edge of his platform. "L-ladies and gentlemen," he stuttered, "the auction is about to commence, but before the first article can be sold I got to have a boy to help me." He looked all around, and then pretended he just saw the kid that had been yelling at him. "Sam Jenks," says he, "will you come here and help me just a m-minute?" Sam puffed up important-like and pushed his way across the road and scrambled up by Mark, and Mark took hold of his arm. When you look at Mark he don't seem to be anything but fat, but he's strong. He's got a grip in his fingers like you wouldn't believe. "L-ladies and gentlemen," says he, again, "I have the p-pleasure of presentin' to your notice a ree-markable spectacle. This is it," says he, pointing to Sam. "It l-looks like a boy. It's got arms and legs and a head. But it hain't really a boy, ladies and gentlemen. It's nothin' but a noise. In the mornin' this n-noise gits up and starts to goin'; it goes all day; and it don't stop at night, 'cause it snores." Everybody hollered and laughed fit to kill, and Sam tried to pull himself away, but Mark hung on to him. "It's a novelty, ladies and gentlemen. Nobody in Wicksville ever owned such a thing--so I'm a-goin' to auction it off." "Lemme go," says Sam, wiggling like a basketful of eels. "The defect in this article," says Mark, "is that it's jest noise. We can't guarantee that b-brains goes with it. If you buy, it's at your own risk." Well, sir, you should have heard those folks laugh, and you should have seen Sam's face. You could have auctioned him pretty cheap if you sold him for as much as he felt like. "What am I offered?" says Mark. Folks started to bid. One man offered a dead dog, and another bid a plugged cent, and another the squeak of a pig and another the hole in a fried cake. All the time Sam was straining and tugging, but Mark didn't let go. Then a man back in the crowd yelled, "I bet Sam Hoskins's yaller dawg." "Sold," says Mark, and he let loose of Sam. You never saw a kid disappear as quick as that kid did. He just _vanished_. You can bet no more kids interfered with Mark's auction _that_ day. As soon as folks had quit laughing Mark started in to sell things in earnest. First thing was a wash-bowl and pitcher, and to hear Mark talk about it you would have thought the King of England was all broken up because he was so far off he couldn't be there to bid on it. Mrs. Sanders bid a dime. Mark just looked at her and pretended he couldn't hear. He put his hand up to his ear and asked her to repeat it. She got sort of red in the face and bid a quarter. "A q-quarter--a quarter I'm bid for a bowl and pitcher the Queen of Sheeby'd be tickled to death to wash her f-face in." Mark was sort of excited and the way he stuttered was a caution. "What lady or gentleman desirin' an heirloom to hand down to their g-g-great-g-g-grandchildren raises that bid?" It was worth a dime to hear him splutter "great-grandchildren." "Thirty cents," says somebody. "Huh!" snorted Mark. "It cost more'n that to paint the pictures on it." He wiggled two thumbs at Uncle Ike Bond, who opened up his mouth and roared "Forty cents," and then looked as proud of himself as if he'd sung a solo in church. Mrs. Sanders shot a mad look at Uncle Ike and bid forty-five. Mark wiggled one thumb and Uncle Ike bid fifty. Mrs. Sanders turned around and scowled at him. I could hear her whisper to Mrs. Newman, "That ol' scalawag sha'n't have it." Mark heard her, too, and he gave me just the beginning of a wink. "Sixty cents," snapped Mrs. Sanders. Marked wiggled a thumb. "Sixty-five," says Uncle Ike. "Seventy-five," says Mrs. Sanders, setting her mouth in a straight line and shaking her head. "Eighty," yelled Uncle Ike. Mrs. Sanders straightened up and glared at him--glared! I wouldn't 'a' had her look at me like that for a quarter. Her eyes 'most bored holes in him, but Uncle Ike only grinned aggravating, like Mark told him to. "A dollar," says Mrs. Sanders, and then put her fists on her hips and tossed her head. "Dollar ten," says Uncle Ike. "Dollar 'n' a quatter," snaps Mrs. Sanders. "Dollar thutty." "Dollar fifty," says Mrs. Sanders, "and if you're fool enough to bid more you kin have it." Mark pretended to try to get more bids, but there weren't any, so he stuttered, "G-goin', goin', g-gone to Mis' Sanders for a dollar 'n' a half." I wrapped up the sale and handed it to her and she gave me the money. I was trying hard to keep my face straight--for that pitcher and wash-bowl had been standing in our window for two months with ninety-eight cents marked on it as plain as the nose on Jehoshaphat P. Skip's face. The next thing was a new-fangled carpet-sweeper that father had bought a year ago and never got anybody interested in. Mark he explained it careful, and threw a handful of papers and things on the floor and swept them up to show how well it worked. Then he looked the crowd over slow and calculating. Over at one side stood old man Meggs, who was an old batch and kept house by himself. "L-labor-savin'," says Mark. "Just the thing for a single man. No broom. Gits all the dirt. Almost works by itself. Make me an offer, Mr. Meggs." Mr. Meggs scratched his nose and hunched his shoulders and pulled down his hat and cleared his throat. "Calc'late she's wuth a quatter," says he. "It's worth more to Miss Mullins than that," says Mark, looking over at her where she stood. Miss Mullins wasn't married, either, and she wore clothes like a man and talked about running for town clerk. She and Meggs didn't like each other, for some reason, and wouldn't even speak on the street. "You ain't g-goin' to let him have this splendid carpet-sweeper for a quarter, are you?" She tossed her head. "Fifty cents," says she, just to show Meggs there was some real bidding going on. Meggs says something under his breath that wasn't what you could call a compliment, and boosted it to seventy-five. "No man that's too lazy to support a wife can outbid _me_," says Miss Mullins. "A dollar." "Dollar ten," says Meggs, scowling like everything. Miss Mullins edged over toward him where she could look right into his face, and says, "Dollar 'n' quatter." "I'm goin' to have that sweeper," says Meggs to Uncle Ike, "if I have to sell my hoss.... Dollar 'n' half." Well, sir, those two folks, just because they didn't like each other kept on a-bidding and a-bidding till they got up to five dollars, which was twice what the sweeper was worth. And then Meggs quit. He let on he didn't want it, anyhow, and said he never did have any use for them patent contraptions. "He never had no use for anythin' he had to spend money for," says Miss Mullins, passing up a five-dollar bill. The auction went along like that for an hour, everybody having the finest kind of a time. It was better than a circus. Mark knew just how to get them, too. He played folks against each other and used grudges he knew about until the prices he got were a caution. It looked like we were going to get rich right there. I looked down the street to the new Five-and-Ten-Cent Store--and it was as deserted as the Desert of Sahara. But coming up the street I saw Jehoshaphat P. Skip, waving his arms and twisting his nose and talking loud and fast to Town-Marshal Sprout. They came right up and pushed their way through the crowd. The marshal walked up to Mark's platform. "Mark," says he, "lemme see your permit to have this here auction in the street." Mark looked sort of funny. "P-permit?" says he. "Yes," says the marshal, "you have to have one when you use the public street." "Um," says Mark, "guess I sort of overlooked that." "Then," says the marshal, "you'll have to quit. Sorry. I wouldn't 'a' said a word if somebody hadn't complained, but this here feller complained, so I got to perform my duty." "Sure," says Mark. "D-don't blame you a mite." He turned to the crowd and says, "Owin' to the law bein' called down on me, this auction is called off. Folks that want to buy--and buy cheap--will step inside." It made everybody kind of mad, because Wicksville loves to be at an auction, and people scowled at Skip, but he didn't care. He just went hurrying back to his store and got his music to playing loud, and then stood in front with one of those megaphone things and yelled: "Grand openin' now in progress. Greatest bargains ever offered in Wicksville. Step right this way." Well, maybe folks were mad at Mr. Skip, but they were down-town to have some fun and see something and buy something, so they started stringing down his way, and pretty soon the whole crowd was jamming into his store. We were all alone. I looked at Mark and was feeling pretty glum. I expected he would look glum, too, but he didn't. His jaw was sticking out like I'd never seen it stick out before. "We're licked," says I. "I knew we couldn't go against a grown-up business man." "Licked?" says Mark. "Huh!" "We might as well close up," says I. "There's only one th-thing we might as well close," says he, "and that's croakin'. We thought we had Jehoshaphat P. Skip licked this m-mornin', but did he quit? Huh? He didn't quit, but he played low-down mean. We won't quit, and we won't play low-down mean--but Mr. Jehoshaphat P. Skip'll wish he had _two_ noses to wiggle 'fore this l-little fuss is over. Come on," says he, "and look a little happier. We hain't licked," he says, "till the sheriff takes the store away from us." "But what'll we do?" "How do I know?" says he. "We'll do somethin'. I'm goin' back to set d-down and think." CHAPTER V For the next three days things were pretty slack with us. What business there was seemed to be going to Jehoshaphat P. Skip, though of course there was just a little trickle of folks into our store. Mark Tidd didn't pay much attention--just sat around and squinted and pinched his fat cheeks and _thought_. We couldn't get anything out of him and there wasn't any use trying. When he had a scheme all cooked up he'd come and tell us--and we had to be satisfied with that. Once he looked up when I went past and says, half to me and half to himself, "What I want is somethin' that'll shoot two barrels at once. H-hit Jehoshaphat P. with one and fetch down the Wicksville f-f-folks with the other." "Sure," says I, "but any old kind of a scheme that will do any old thing to bring a little business is what we need. We haven't sold enough stuff in three days to pay wages to an invalid cat." "Huh!" says he; "I can bring business in. Anybody could. But so l-long as Skip stays here it'll mean one scheme after another--and that's hard work." "I'd rather go huntin'," says I, "and shoot the first rabbit I see--and _git_ it--than to sit around waiting for two to stand in a row so's I could shoot 'em both to once. 'Cause they might never git in a row." "All right," says Mark, with a sigh, "if you're so all-fired impatient. We'll s-start somethin' to-morrow." He stopped and wagged his head. "Nope, not to-morrow. 'S Friday. 'Tain't s-safe to start things Friday." "Saturday's a better day, anyhow. Farmers'll be comin' in." "Saturday it is," says Mark. "We'll b-begin gittin' ready." "For what?" says I. "For the votin' contest," says Mark. "Plunk, we're a-goin' to do a lot of good in Wicksville." His little eyes were twinkling and glowing, but his face was as solemn as a ball of putty. "We're a-goin'," says he, "to settle a question that's been b-b-botherin' some folks I could name for years." "Well," says I, "what is it?" "Who is the h-h-h-han'somest man in Wicksville?" says he. "What?" says I, and I could feel my nose wrinkle, I was that disgusted. "Votin' contest," says Mark. "But this one'll be different. Folks have voted for the most popular girl, and the m-most beautiful girl, and sich like. But nobody, so far's I ever heard, has t-t-tried to pick the han'somest man." "Why should they?" I wanted to know. "Besides," says I, "there wouldn't be no votes cast in a election to pick Wicksville's handsomest man. There hain't no sich thing." It made me mad to have Mark fooling with me like that when things was so serious. "Jest look at the men that live here," says I. "There hain't enough handsomeness in Wicksville to keep a self-respectin' scarecrow from dyin' of disgust." "It hain't the han'someness that _is_," says Mark, "it's the han'someness that homely folks thinks there is." "Huh!" says I. "Plunk," says Mark, patient-like, "have I got to draw a picture of this thing?" "I guess you have," says I. "Well," says he, "there's half a dozen old coots here that set consid'able store by their looks. There's Chet Weevil, eh? How about him?" "Runs to yaller neckties," says I. "Always s-s-stoppin' to look in the glass, hain't he?" I was beginning to get a glimmer of light, so I just nodded and didn't say anything. "And there's Chancy Miller--always w-w-wearin' a flower in his buttonhole, hain't he?" "Yes," says I. "And you was here yestiddy when Mis' Bloom was bragging to Mis' Peterson about what a upstandin', fine-lookin' feller her husband was. Eh?" "Yes," says I. "Well," says he, again, "wimmin kin s-s-see beauty in a feller that a hoss would shy at. There's this, too: even if a woman d-d-don't think her husband's han'some, she hain't g-goin' to let on, is she? Not much, she hain't. Thing to do, Plunk, is to git the wimmin mad about it. Git them wimmin mad and the m-m-men jealous of one another, and there'll be votin', Plunk." "There'll be fist-fights," says I. "Hope so," says Mark; "it'll advertise." "How we goin' to work it?" "One v-v-vote with every ten-cent purchase," says he. "Any voter can enter a candidate. We'll paste a l-list of candidates in the window and every afternoon at two o'clock we'll put up the vote.... The p-p-prize to the han'somest m-man," says he, with the first grin he'd let loose, "will be that mirror back there with an imitation silver Cupid on top of it." "Some folks'll make a joke of it." "Sure," says Mark. "Some smart Alecs 'll be votin' for ol' Stan Brazer, like's not. That'll only make them that takes it serious madder 'n git-out. Every v-v-vote's a dime sale, Plunk." "All right," says I, "go ahead. But this'll stand Wicksville on its head." Mark only grinned and wagged his head. Then he went back and printed a big sign: WATCH THIS WINDOW FOR OUR ANNOUNCEMENT SATURDAY Every Man, Woman, and Child in Wicksville Vitally Interested A Question That Has Been Argued For Years Will Be Settled When that was done Mark stood tugging at his cheek for a minute. "B-better send Tallow and Binney out with the wagon again," says he. So he went to work making more signs for the wagon. One of them says: WICKSVILLE'S BURNING QUESTION SMALLEY'S BAZAR WILL SETTLE IT Particulars Saturday The other says: MISTER, IS YOUR WIFE PROUD OF YOU? YOU WILL SOON BE ABLE TO TELL SMALLEY'S BAZAR--SATURDAY We called in Tallow and Binney and explained things to them. They were more tickled with the scheme than I was, though that last sign of Mark's did make it look more likely. By printing that thing and sending it around town he'd practically fixed it so every woman would _have_ to do some voting for her husband or let him think she didn't set much store by him. It beat all how Mark seemed to understand folks. He could sit and figure and come pretty close to guessing what anybody would do if this thing or that thing should happen. Sometimes it seemed almost like mind-reading. "Now," says he, "we'll get tickets printed for votin'." "How many?" I says. "A hundred?" "Hundred," he snorted; "we'll start with f-five thousand." He was a little mad I could see--he always stuttered worse when he was mad. I thought he was crazy, but there wasn't any use arguing. When once Mark Tidd gets his head set you can't move it with a crowbar. So I said all right, and he went over to the printing-office and gave his order. Just before noon who should we see coming into the store but Jehoshaphat P. Skip. It made me mad to see him and I'd have gone right up and told him to use the door for going out and never to use it for coming in again, but Mark saw what I was up to, I guess, and grabbed me by the arm. "B-better let me talk to Jehoshaphat," says he, and off he went before I could say a word. "G-good mornin', Mr. Skip," says he, as sweet as molasses. "How's business with you?" "Huh!" grunted Jehoshaphat P., and he set to twisting the little bulb on the side of his long nose. "Hope things are openin' up w-well for you," says Mark. "You do, eh? You do, do you?" snapped Mr. Skip, and you could see the red start 'way down by his Adam's apple and begin to crawl up his neck. It took quite a while to get to his face. Somehow he made you think of a giraffe that was provoked. "I hain't come here for no talk," says he. "I've come for business. Once and for all, will you stop sellin' five-and-ten-cent goods?" "Once and f-f-for all," says Mark, "we won't." Then Mr. Skip he grinned sort of mean. "Ever hear of a chattel mortgage?" he says. "Seems like I'd heard 'em mentioned," says Mark. "Know how they work?" "Can't say I d-do." "They're sim'lar to a mortgage on land," says Skip, "only they hain't on land, but on chattels--which is things sich as furniture and animals--and bazars." "Oh," says Mark, "bazars, eh?" "Yes," says Skip. "You give a chattel mortgage when you got to have money, and you put up your furniture or your animals--or your bazar--to secure the loan. That means if the loan hain't paid the man with the chattel mortgage can take your furniture or your animals or your--bazar--instead of his money." "Um," says Mark; "looks like a d-d-dangerous kind of a deal, don't it?" "I'm a-goin' to show you how dangerous it is," says Skip, squinting at Mark out of his mean, narrow little eyes. "I've got one of them on this Bazar." I almost flopped over on the floor, but Mark didn't turn a hair. He was as startled as I was, _I'll_ bet, but he didn't let on but what he was more pleased about it than anything else. "Oh," says he, "you got one of 'em, eh? How'd you come to git it?" "Bought it," says Skip. "Did you know this Bazar was pretty near busted?" "We calc'lated she'd hang together a s-s-spell longer," says Mark. "It's been runnin' down for years," says Skip. "It would of busted more'n four months ago if this here Mr. Smalley that owns it hadn't of borrowed money to pay his debts. He up and borrowed five hundred dollars and give his note and a chattel mortgage on this Bazar. That's what he done. And I was lookin' around yestiddy and found out about it. That's me, Jehoshaphat P. Skip. I look around--and I find out. Folks don't want to git me down on 'em or they're sorry for it." "To be sure," says Mark. "This here mortgage and note is due six weeks from to-day," says Skip. "Six weeks," says Mark, slow-like. "Guess there won't be any trouble about that, mister." Jehoshaphat P. choked and gurgled and blinked his eyes. "There won't, eh? Think you can pay off five hundred dollars in six weeks, do you?" He grinned again as mean as a cornered alley cat. "Don't matter what you _think_," says he, "it can't be done. Six weeks from to-day _I'm_ goin' to be the owner of this Bazar." "If I was you," says Mark, "I w-wouldn't go spendin' any m-m-money you're goin' to make runnin' this store--yet. Mister," says he, "there's fair business and there's rotten business. There's things it's right to do to a competitor, and things a skunk would b-be ashamed of. Mister, a skunk that was well brought up, and had a f-f-family to think about, wouldn't stay in the same town with _you_." He stopped for breath and to give his jaw a rest, for the way he'd been stuttering was enough to knock chips off his teeth. "That's what we th-th-think of _you_, mister. Now about that chattel mortgage--it'll be paid, on the m-m-minute. We've got six weeks. When the six weeks are up you've got something to say--but if you come into this place again before that note's due--if you even stick your long nose inside the door--we'll throw you out and r-r-roll you in the mud for the whole town to see.... Now, mister, git." I'd seen Mark pretty worked up before, but I don't recollect ever watching him when his lips got white the way they were then. His lips were white and his cheeks were gray, and his little eyes sort of glowed like there was a slow fire in them that was apt to break into a blaze. Jehoshaphat P. Skip looked at Mark and sort of caught his breath and began to look uneasy. "Git!" says Mark, again, before Skip could open his mouth. Jehoshaphat didn't offer to say another word--he just turned around quick and slunk out of the store. Mark stood right in his tracks for more than a minute, looking after Skip. Then he sighed 'way down deep and blinked and turned around to me. "Fellers like that," says he, "ought to be shut up in the pen with the p-p-pigs. They hain't got any right minglin' with human beings." I was about ready to cry. There was my father in the hospital, and my mother with him. Every single thing in the world they had to support them was this Bazar. If it went I couldn't see what would happen--and it looked to me like it was gone. Mark saw how I felt, I guess, for he came over and put his big hand on my shoulder, gentle-like. You wouldn't believe how gentle and sort of comforting it was! "Plunk," says he, "it's a hard b-b-bump, all right. But don't get downhearted. We'll pay that note, Plunk, and that hain't all. Before we're through with Jehoshaphat P. we'll tie him into a d-double bow-knot with a pin in the middle of it.... Keep your b-backbone stiff, Plunk. We'll pull her through." "Mark," says I, and I wasn't much used to saying things like that, "you're--you're all _right_." And deep down inside I felt he _was_ all right--and maybe he was a bigger sort of fellow than even we three boys had thought he was. My worry wasn't all gone, but I did feel better and a little hopeful. But five hundred dollars--and in six weeks! For the life of me I couldn't see where it was to come from--and father's expenses and mother's living, too! CHAPTER VI My father always went to Lawyer Sturgis when he needed any law, so we figured he'd be likely to know about that chattel mortgage. Mark went over to see him and found out that every word Jehoshaphat P. had said was true. Father had needed money and borrowed five hundred dollars from Hamilcar Wilkins, who didn't do anything but lend money. Somehow Skip had found out about it and had bought the note. So there we were. "Well," says Mark when he got back, "th-that's settled. Now all we got to do is dig up that five hundred." "Yes," says I, sarcastic-like, "that's all." "We'll do it," says he. "I've noticed," says he, "that if you've got to do a thing or b-b-bust you usually do it--or bust." He grinned all over his fat face. "Now let's forget about the mortgage and start to makin' money." "Suits me," says I. By this time we had our stock pretty well arranged. You wouldn't have known the old store. Everything was in order and arranged so it could be found. The most expensive things were at the front, the five-and-ten-cent things were at the back. That was Mark's idea. "Folks is after bargains," says he, "and they'll walk to get 'em. When they come in they'll be after somethin' cheap. But we'll m-make 'em walk past the other things. They can't h-help lookin' at 'em, and chances are they'll see somethin' they need." It was so, too. I can name three or four folks who came in to buy something for a dime, but did buy something for a half a dollar or a dollar just because they saw them on the way back. Things we calculated folks would want we had set up conspicuous, with the price marked on them plain--and it was generally a price that ended in odd cents. Mark says folks are used to paying even money, and if you make it ninety-eight cents or sixty-three cents, why, right off they think it's a bargain. But don't get to thinking business was good. It wasn't. It wasn't any better Friday, though quite a few folks came in to ask what we were up to next. This tickled Mark because he said it meant folks were watching us and thinking about us and wondering what sort of scheme we were going to work off on them. That, says he, is good advertising. Wicksville is full of folks with curiosity. I'll bet I was asked questions about our signs a dozen times, but wouldn't tell. Mark said to keep them guessing till we were ready, which was Saturday about ten o'clock. Then Mark put up in the window a big sign explaining about the beauty contest. Lots of folks stopped to look at it, and grinned and laughed, just like I thought they would. Once there was quite a little crowd looking in. Along came Chet Weevil. Uncle Ike Bond was there, and as soon as he saw Chet he commenced to yell at him. "Ho, Chet!" says he, "here's somethin' 'll int'rest you. Han'somest-man contest! You and them neckties of yourn 'll be enterin', eh? Got to settle whether you or Chancy Miller is the beautifulest. Seems like I can't sleep till I git the judgment of folks on that." Chet was all primped up with a checked suit and yellow shoes and a necktie that looked like it would burn your finger if you touched it. He didn't grin--not Chet. He sort of drew himself up and looked at his reflection in the window and felt of his tie to see if it was on straight. "Hum!" says he. "I don't lay no claim to beauty." Then he sort of put his head on one side and looked at himself again. "Course not," says Uncle Ike. "You're one of the modestest fellers in town, but, Chet--it's a secret and don't whisper it to a soul--folks have said to me as how they ree-garded you as a feller of strikin' appearance. Honest, Chet." "Hum!" says Chet again. "I aim to keep myself lookin' as good as I kin. It's a feller's duty." "To be sure. That's the way Chancy looks at it. I heard him sayin' no later than yestiddy that he took consid'able pains with himself. He says you was perty good-lookin', too. Yes, sir. Says he, if it wasn't for him, you'd be about the best-lookin' feller in the county." "Did, eh?" says Chet, mad-like. "Did, eh? Mind, I hain't claimin' to be handsomer 'n anybody else, but this I do say, and this I'll stand by: if I wasn't better-lookin' than Chancy Miller I'd buy me a mask or raise whiskers, that's what I'd do. Why," says he, "Chancy's pants bags at the knee." "So they do," says Uncle Ike. "But Chancy alluded to your hair. Says your hair was all right as _hair_, but, says he, as a ornament it would be better if Chet was bald-headed." "Hair!" says Chet. "Does that there gangle-legged, pig-eyed, strawberry-topped imitation of a punkin' lantern go around makin' personal remarks about me? Maybe my hair hain't curly, but, b' jing, it looks like hair, and not like no throwed-away bed-springs." Well, just then who should come in sight but Chancy Miller, his hat on the back of his head so his frizzes would show, and a posy in his buttonhole. Uncle Ike spied him. "Just alludin' to you, Chancy," he says. "We was discussin' them ringlets of yourn. Chet here declares as how they favor worn-out bed-springs consid'able." Chancy scowled at Chet and took off his hat like he thought it was hot. That was a way of his. He was always looking for excuses to put his hair on exhibition. "Chet hadn't better do no talkin' about hair," says he. "If he was to get his shaved off and then tie a handkerchief over his head so what was left wouldn't show, he'd look a sight more like a human bein'." "Well," says Uncle Ike, "I see there's a sight of rivalry amongst you two on this here beauty question. But it's goin' to be decided, Chancy; it's goin' to be decided. Read this sign, Chancy, and be happy." Chancy he read the sign and then took off his hat again and smoothed back his hair. He looked at Chet sort of speculating and Chet looked at him. Then both of them stuck up their noses simultaneous. "Who's been spoke of so far?" Chancy asked. "Nobody but you and Chet," says Uncle Ike. "I thought," says Chancy, "it was goin' to be a _contest_. Not," says he, "that I got any idee I'm what you'd call handsome"--he stopped to take a squint at himself in the window--"but--but compared to Chet," says he, "I'm one of these here Greek statues alongside of a packin'-box." "You be, eh?" yelled Chet. "You think you be? Well, Chancy Miller, all I got to say is this: if my mother'd 'a' had any idee I was goin' to look like you she wouldn't of tried to raise me. She'd drownded me when I was a day old. Why," says Chet, getting madder and madder, "the only resemblance between you and a good-lookin' feller is that you got two arms and legs. It 'u'd take six college professors with microscopes a year to pick out a point to you that don't class as homely. Handsome! Oh, my!" At that Chancy started to move toward Chet and Chet started to move toward Chancy, but they didn't go far. They weren't the sort of fellows to get themselves mussed up in a fight. Nobody offered to stop them, so they stopped themselves, about six feet apart, and took it out in scowling. "We'll let the votes of the people decide," says Chet, as grand as an emperor. "Huh!" says Chancy. "You'll have to git a stiddy job now and spend your wages in the Bazar, or you won't git a vote." Just then along came Mrs. Bloom and Mrs. Peterson, and they stopped to see what was going on. First they read the sign and then they listened. Uncle Ike grinned to himself and says: "We men has figgered the contest is narrowed down to Chet and Chancy. 'Tain't likely anybody will enter agin 'em, is it, Mis' Bloom?" Mrs. Bloom sniffed. "I thought this was goin' to be a contest for the handsomest _man_," says she. "If 'tis, neither of them whipper-snappers is eligible. Let 'em wait till they git their growth. For a handsome man gimme somebody that's old enough to wash his own face without his mother's helpin' him. The best-lookin' time in a man's life is when he's about forty-three." "Forty-seven, to be exact," says Mrs. Peterson, her eyes snapping. "Forty-three," says Mrs. Bloom. "Forty-three is Peter Bloom's age, and I ought to know. When I was young I could 'a' had the pick of the young fellers in this town, but I took Peter, and hain't never regretted it. I guess you folks hain't seen Peter in his new Sunday suit, or you wouldn't be talkin' about these--these gangleshanks." Mrs. Peterson blinked and swallowed hard and opened her mouth a couple of times before she could speak. "If you was to stand Peter Bloom alongside of Jason Peterson," says she, in a voice that sounded like somebody tearing a piece of tin, "I guess you'd change your mind. Maybe Peter was fair-lookin' once," says she, "but Jason's been eatin' _good_ cookin' for twenty-two year--and that tells." Uncle Ike winked to himself and says, sober-like, "It looks, fellers, as if Chet and Chancy wasn't goin' to have the field to themselves." "No, they hain't," says Mrs. Bloom, "and I'm goin' right in now to spend a dollar--a dollar--and vote ten votes for Peter. There." She jerked her head and turned on her heel and marched into the store. "Gimme that pair of scissors I was lookin' at the other day," says she, "and a paper of pins, and six spools of forty white thread, and if that don't make up a dollar just say so." "It c-c-comes to a dollar and six cents," says Mark. "Then gimme somethin' for four cents to make up the other ten," says she. "And gimme them votes so's I can cast 'em for Peter Bloom." Mrs. Peterson came in right after, and _she_ spent a dollar and thirty cents, casting _her_ votes for Jason Peterson. Mark looked at me and his eyes twinkled. "What d'you think of the s-s-scheme now?" he asked in a whisper. "It begins to look," says I, "like there might be somethin' to it." It began to look like it still more as the day went on. Chet Weevil met me as I was coming back from dinner. "Plunk," says he, "kin you keep a secret?" "Like throwin' it down a well," says I. "What d'you think of Chancy's chances?" says he. "Well," says I, hardly able to keep my face straight, "I hain't much of a judge, but that curly hair of his--" "Huh!" he growled. "Hair hain't goin' to count. Got any bang-up neckties? The kind folks can't help seein'?" "We got some," says I, "that you could flag a train with on a dark night." "How much?" says he. "Forty-nine cents apiece." He reached down into his pocket and pulled out two dollar bills. "This here," says he, "is secret between you and me. I want four of them ties--and you needn't mind the change. Vote them twenty votes for me like somebody else did it--and if Chancy goes votin' for himself, just you lemme know, and I'll beat him or--or bust a gallus." From that on I was more cheerful. Things began getting exciting and, somehow, I almost forgot about Jehoshaphat P. Skip and his chattel mortgage. CHAPTER VII When I got back to the Bazar from dinner that Saturday noon Mark had a big sign in one window that said the list of candidates with their votes would be put up at two o'clock. In the other window was just a line across the top that said: CANDIDATES AND THEIR VOTES There wasn't anything under--it was just waiting there, staring folks in the face. Along about a quarter past one in came a delegation of ladies from the Methodist church, nominating their parson, Rev. Hamilton Hannis. They were buzzing away, and all excited as a meeting of crows in a maple-tree. Somehow the Congregationalists had got hold of the news and in came six of them before the Methodists had cleared out. They nominated Rev. Orson Whipit, _their_ minister. We got a matter of six dollars and seventy cents out of the two parties. "Binney," says Mark, "hain't your f-f-folks Baptists?" "Yes," says Binney. "Skin home, then," says Mark, "and tell your ma." Off went Binney with the news, and in twenty minutes in came seven Baptist ladies with their pocketbooks and determined expressions, ready to stand up for _their_ parson, Rev. Jenkins McCormick. They invested three dollars and forty cents. That made ten dollars and ten cents we got out of those three denominations. There were three others to hear from--the United Brethren, the Universalists, and the Catholics, but they didn't get wind of what was going on till later in the day. We got the whole six of them in the end, but the main contest turned out to be between the first three. Six other women came in to put up their husbands' names, and four school-teachers got there separately and privately to nominate Mr. Pilkins, the principal. "If they v-v-vote as hard as they nominate," stuttered Mark, "we'll have to order more goods." We put up the list at two o'clock. Just before it went up Chancy Miller came sneaking in the back door with two dollars and twenty cents, and nominated himself. He bought a pair of military brushes and a bottle of perfume. He let on he was going to buy some kid gloves as soon as he saved up another dollar. "I calc'late," says he, "that folks'll sort of flock in to vote for me as soon's they see my name." "Well," says Mark, "they'll f-f-flock in, all right, Chancy, but I calc'late you got to depend on the unmarried vote. It beats all what a p-p-pile of han'some husbands and ministers there is here." "Ministers!" Chancy was like to choke. "Is _ministers_ comin' in? Now I don't call that fair. Why," says he, "them Prince Albert coats of theirn give 'em a head start right off. Besides," says he, "ministers have more time to slick up." "Sure," says Mark, "but not a one of 'em has c-c-curly hair." "I'd buy me one of them coats," says Chancy, "but I hain't got the money. Besides," says he, "what money I git has got to go for votes." Mark was quick as a flash. "We can order a suit to your m-m-measure," says he, "from a Chicago catalogue. That'll give you a sight of votes and us a little profit." But Chancy didn't have the money and we didn't give any credit, so that deal was off. There was quite a few folks waiting in front to see the list go up, so we went and got it ready. There were a lot of names on it, but the three ministers were ahead, with Chancy and Chet next and the school principal next, and then Mr. Peterson and Mr. Bloom and the handsome husbands in a string, pretty much together. All told there were two hundred and twenty-six votes cast. That made our morning's business twenty-two dollars and sixty cents. That was pretty good for the first half-day. First off most of the men in town looked at it as a joke and put in considerable time laughing. That was mostly early in the day, though. By the middle of the afternoon their women folks had done more or less talking, and the men got around gradual to seeing it wasn't so awful funny, after all. The women never saw anything funny about it at all. It was pretty serious to them, I can tell you, especially to them that had husbands a person could look at without smoked glasses on. Probably not a woman in Wicksville ever thought whether her man was handsomer than somebody else until Mark schemed up this contest. But, as Mark says, as soon as somebody else lets on he's handsomer or bigger or smarter than you are, you get mad and say he isn't. It don't matter, says Mark, whether you ever thought you were handsome or big or smart before. You begin to think so then. Even if you don't really think so you let on you do and are willing to back it up. Everybody got it--even old Peasley Snell. His name wasn't on the list, and if you was to ask me, it wasn't likely to be, for old Peasley was about the weazenedest, orneriest, dried-up, scraggly-haired critter in Wicksville. But Peasley he stopped and read the list. His wife was with him. Peasley read from top to bottom. Then he began talking to his wife: "Pete Bloom!" says he, and sniffed. "Huh! Handsome! Huh!... Jason Peterson. Whee! And them others! Who d'you calc'late nominated 'em, Susie?" "I dun'no'," says Susie. "It was their wives," I says from the door. "Wives," grunted old Peasley. "Wives, is it? Huh! Why, young feller? Why?" "I guess they nominated 'em," says I, "because they wanted to let on they thought their husbands was as good as anybody else's husbands." Old Peasley stopped and thought and blinked and chewed on his tongue. Every once in a while he'd look at his wife and scowl. Pretty soon he raised his bony finger and tapped her on the shoulder: "Susie," says he, "my name hain't on that list." "No," says she. "Why?" says he. "I dun'no'," says she. "Peterson's there," says he, "and Bloom." "Yes," says she. "Their wives done it." Mrs. Snell nodded her head. "Mis' Snell," says old Peasley, "don't you calc'late I got any pride? Don't you calc'late I got any feelin's? Say! Do I want folks rushin' around sayin' Peasley Snell's wife says her husband is homely as a squashed tomato? Eh? Well? Maybe," says he, "I hain't what you'd call _handsome_, but b'jing! I don't have to wear no veil--not when Pete Bloom and Jase Peterson's around, anyhow. What'll folks think? Eh?" "I dun'no', Peasley," says his wife. "I know," says he. "They'll say Peasley Snell's wife don't love, honor, and obey him, that's what they'll say. They'll say Peasley Snell hain't of no account in his own family. They'll say his wife'd rather have any other man in town than him.... And, Mis' Snell, I hain't a-goin' to endure it. Mark me! Your duty is plain before your eyes. You git into that Bazar, Mis' Snell, and you git my name on that list. And you see to it that your husband has as many votes after his name as Bloom or Peterson. That's what. Now Mis' Snell, march." She marched, and old Peasley's name went on the list with one vote more than Bloom. That's the way it went. Fellers that were nominated started worrying about how many votes they were going to get, and fellers that weren't nominated got mad about it. Also there were others besides Chet and Chancy that nominated themselves. Till 'most midnight customers kept us so busy we couldn't hardly breathe. At last we shut the doors and counted up to see what we'd done. A hundred and thirty-two dollars and fifty-seven cents for one day! That wasn't the best of it, either, for we'd got rid of a lot of old stuff that had been cluttering up the store for years. In a little more we'd be down to real stock. "Calc'late," says Mark, "we better be castin' our eyes around for somethin' new and special to sell. We want our stock to be b-b-better than Jehoshaphat P. Skip's." "Sure," says I. "We got to stock up on first-class s-s-staples," says Mark, "and git, besides, some specialties that'll stir folks up a leetle." We were pretty tired and sleepy, so we didn't talk about it any more that night. Next morning all of us went to church, but after dinner we went to Mark's house, and his mother made molasses taffy--and kept scolding about it all the time and saying we'd ruin the furniture and mess up our clothes. That was the way with Mrs. Tidd. She was always stirring around, busy as could be, and mostly she was sort of scolding at Mark or Mr. Tidd--but she didn't mean a bit of it. I never knew anybody so free with pies and fried cakes and things as she was. Along about the middle of the afternoon we heard a jangling and rattling, and above it all somebody whistling like all-git-out. Well, sir, we jumped for the window, because we knew _that_ racket. There, just turning into the yard, was a red peddler's wagon. To-day, it being Sunday, the pots and pans and brooms and whips and things that usually were stuck all over it were out of sight inside, but they jangled just the same. On the seat was a man whistling "Marching Through Georgia" with runs and trills and funny quirks to it. His nose was pointed straight up and his eyes were shut. His horse was finding its way without any help from him. If you didn't look at anything but the man's face you'd have said he was about six feet and a half high, but when you looked at the rest of him you saw right off that things had got mixed--he had the wrong body. He was less than five feet tall, and he was more than three feet wide--or he looked so, anyhow. All of a sudden his horse stopped. The little man raised his big head with a snap and jerked it first in one direction and then in another. Then he took hold of the end of his nose and gave it a tweak as if it had managed to get out of shape. Then slow as molasses he began to get down. At that we boys rushed out of the house, and Mr. Tidd and his wife followed a little slower. The little man saw us, put his hand on his stomach and made a low bow; then he put a thumb in the armhole of his vest and straightened up as dignified as a senator. "You are not mistaken, my friends. Your eyes do not deceive you. It is Zadok Biggs. None other. I am entranced--delighted is the more ordinary expression--to see you. I am more than delighted to see that prodigious--remarkable is the commoner word--youth, Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd. There's a name! The parents who gave that name to their son are remarkable parents! Parents, I salute you.... And there, too, are my three young friends, Plunk and Binney and Tallow." He waved his hand at us as though we were a block away. He didn't give anybody a chance to say a word, but led us into the house and invited us to sit down. "Ah, this is magnificent, this is glorious. How Zadok Biggs has looked forward to it! Madam, aside from a seat on the Supreme Bench at Washington, I most aspire to this one. Tell me all about yourselves; you, Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd, tell me all about yourself. Have you been finding opportunities? Ah, there's a word! Opportunities are everywhere. There's Plunk, now, missing an opportunity. There's a chair, a comfortable chair, yet he remains erect--standing is the more usual expression. Seize your opportunity, Plunk, and be seated. Now Marcus, I listen. My ears yearn for the news you have to tell." Maybe you never met Zadok Biggs before, but we had, I can tell you. We got acquainted with him when Mr. Tidd come close to losing the turbine-engine he had invented and which made him rich, and Zadok did a lot to help us get it back. I really don't believe we ever would have got it back if it hadn't been for him. So we were pretty good friends, and every time he was near Wicksville with his tin-peddler's wagon he'd stop overnight with Mark, and we'd all spend the evening together. "Relate--tell is the less dignified term--the news, Marcus," he directed a second time. Mark started in and told him all about everything: how father was hurt and had to go to the hospital, and how we four boys were running the store, and about Jehoshaphat P. Skip, and about the chattel mortgage, and about the handsomest-man contest. When Mark was done Zadok got up and rushed over to me and patted me on the shoulder. There were tears in his eyes. "Plunk," says he, "my heart bleeds for your father and mother. I could weep for them in their trouble. I will visit your father in the hospital--be sure of that, Zadok Biggs will visit him and cheer him. Ha! That is something. Also I shall tell him about his son. A father loves to hear good of his son. It will help him on the road to recovery. I am proud of you, Plunk. I am proud of all of you. You are--indeed, I may say it with honest pride--you are a credit to me." Then he hurried back and sat down. "I'm afraid," I says, after a while, "that we've bit off more'n we can chew comfortable--countin' in that chattel mortgage." "It is an obstacle. Oh, there is no doubt of that! Alone you might fail, but is not Marcus Tidd with you? Ha! That counts for much. And Zadok Biggs! What of him? He is heart and soul with you. From this minute Jehoshaphat P. Skip is his enemy. Zadok will help you. Zadok will advise you. Best of all, Zadok will look about him for opportunities." Looking for opportunities was Zadok's specialty. "We will show this Jehoshaphat P. Skip--a detestable name; I abhor such a name--we will show him!" He turned to Mark. "You are in business," says he. "Business is the game that keeps the world going. Business is checkers; business is football; business is Brains. Would you hear my business rules? They will aid you--help is the more common word. I will write them in a row so you can see them and remember them." He pulled a piece of paper and a pencil out of his pocket and wrote: ZADOK BIGGS'S BUSINESS RULES First--Find out what people want. Second--Give it to 'em. Third--Buy it cheap. Fourth--Only a fair profit. Fifth--Never spend a cent that won't bring back a cent. Sixth--Every man is a customer--treat him so. Seventh and last--Never sell a thing you wouldn't be glad to buy yourself at the price. He stood up, bowed like he was going to speak a piece, and read it off to us. Folks may think Zadok is a little peculiar, but I want to tell you that every inch of room in his big head is stuffed full of brains. A half-witted cat could see the sense in those business rules of his. CHAPTER VIII It seems the ministers didn't hear how they were nominated in the beauty contest till Sunday afternoon--at any rate, none of them said anything about it. But Sunday afternoon they met and palavered and made up their minds it wasn't dignified and that sort of thing for preachers to get mixed up in such an affair. So that night they got up in their pulpits and said so. I was a Baptist and heard Rev. Jenkins McCormick state his views. I gathered he didn't withdraw because he thought ministers wasn't handsomer than other men, or because he didn't view himself as being as handsome as any other minister, but because, to his way of thinking, beauty and Baptists hadn't ought to run together. Rev. Whipit, of the Congregationalists, and Rev. Hannis, of the Methodists, got off their views on the subject. The result was that there were a few hundred votes that would have to be changed. And there was where the trouble started. The first thing Monday morning about a dozen women came down to the Bazar to ask what they should do about it. "Well," says Mark Tidd, "th-there's the votes. So long as the parsons won't have 'em, somebody else'll have to. You can vote 'em for anybody you w-w-want to." Then there was a _racket_. The Methodists got off in a group and the Congregationalists huddled together and the Baptists sheered off where they could talk it over. And they talked! My goodness! You could have heard the clatter on the other side of the river. Every married woman insisted on having the votes of her church cast for her husband, and the four old maids that were scattered through the three denominations were all for Mr. Pilkins, the school principal--him being an old bachelor. At last the noise got so bad and the women got so mad Mark made up his mind he'd have to do something about it--and he wanted to do something that would help out the Bazar while he was at it. He got up on the counter, and that was quite a job, considering how much of him there was to get up. "L-ladies," he yelled, "the m-meetin' is called to order." Well, sir, they stopped off short to see what was going on, just like hens in the yard will stop fussing if you step out with a pan of feed in your hand. "I got a p-plan to propose," says Mark. "Let's have it," says Mrs. Goodwillie. "D-draw lots for 'em," says Mark. "I'll fix three boxes, one for each denomination, and put into 'em a slip of p-paper for each lady. Then you draw. One slip will say 'Votes' on it--and that one wins in each box. The votes belong to the three ladies d-drawin' the winnin' slips, and they can do as they please with 'em." "Never," says Mrs. Goodwillie. "That's gamblin'!" "Beg pardon, ma'am," says Mark, "b-but 'tain't. Characters in the Bible drew lots. B-besides," says he, "there was Lot's wife. How came she by her n-name, d'you s'pose, if d-drawin' lots wasn't customary? Eh?" For a minute the ladies quarreled about it, but it _did_ look like the most sensible way to go at it, and they agreed. We fixed up the boxes, and the drawing started. Every woman grabbed her slip and ran off with it like a hen that finds a worm. Then Miss Snoover yelled, "I got it!" She was a Methodist. But right on top of her yell came another "I got it!" and this one belonged to Mrs. Peterkin--and she was a Methodist, too. Somehow two winning slips had got into the Methodist box! The Baptist box came out all right with Mrs. Jenks a winner; but there wasn't any winning slip at all in the Congregational box! It was a pretty situation, but Mark didn't appear flustered a bit--he just looked solemn and interested, and when nobody was looking he winked at me sly. For some reason or other he'd gone and fixed those boxes like that on purpose! Well, _mister_! Maybe there wasn't a squabble! Miss Snoover and Mrs. Peterkin gripped their slips and glared at each other and screeched that the votes were theirs and they'd drawn fair and square and nobody'd ever get them away. All the other Methodist ladies joined in because they saw a chance for another drawing, when maybe _they'd_ win. The women that won wouldn't consent to another drawing, and the ones that lost insisted there should be one--and there we were. In the mean time the Congregationalists had drawn all over and Mrs. Johnson won. That disposed of them. I just kept my mouth shut and waited to see what Mark would do. He didn't do anything but look sort of satisfied with the world--why, I couldn't see. I wished I was a mile away, because you couldn't tell how mad these women were going to get, nor what they'd do when they got there. "Why not d-divide 'em equal between the winners?" Mark says. "Never," yelled Mrs. Goodwillie. "We'll draw all over again!" "Them votes is mine," says Miss Snoover, "and I'm a-goin' to keep 'em." "What for?" asked Mrs. Peterkin, mean-like. "What you calc'latin' to do with 'em? Eh?" Miss Snoover sort of choked and spluttered and got red in the face, and says it wasn't anybody's business what she was goin' to do with 'em, even if it was to paper the inside of her hen-house--and maybe she was an old maid, but it wasn't anybody's business, and she didn't need to be if she didn't want to, and a lot better to be one than married like some she knew--and she'd carry the matter into court and hire a lawyer to defend her rights, and everybody was trying to rob a lone woman. That was all she mentioned before she drew a breath, but I thought that was pretty good. Most folks would have had to breathe a lot sooner. The minute she was through she turned and ran out of the store, still grabbing her slip of paper. The rest of them stayed awhile and argued, but pretty soon they went, too, because they couldn't do anything without Miss Snoover. "Well," says I when they were gone, "that's a pretty mess to clean up." "Um!" says Mark, and he smacked his lips like he'd had something good to eat. "What ever," says I, "did you put two slips in that Methodist box for?" "To start a s-s-squabble," says he. "Well," says I, "you done it, all right." "Plunk," says he, "excitement is the makin' of a beauty contest. The more folks gets m-mad the more votes is cast. The more squabbles there is the more money we make--and the more advertisin' we get. Don't you calc'late this thing'll be talked of more'n a simple drawin' with no row at all would have b-been?" "I do," says I, and let it go at that. There didn't seem to be anything to say. Binney Jenks, who had been down to the express-office, came in just then. "Enemy's takin' flight," says he. "What enemy?" says I, "and where is he takin' flight to?" "Jehoshaphat P.," says Binney, "and he's goin' to Detroit. Took the ten-fifty train." "F-flight," says Mark, with a sort of grunt. "More likely some kind of attack. Um!... Wisht I knew what he was up to." "If it's anything to hurt us we'll find out quick enough," says I. "The way," says Mark, "to win b-battles is to find out the enemy's plan and beat him to it." "You might telegraph Jehoshaphat P.," says I, sarcastic-like, "and ask him what his idea is." "Who's in charge of his store?" Mark asked. "That clerk he brought with him. Don't know what his name is." "Does he know you?" Mark asked me. "Don't think I ever saw him but once," I says. "Well," says Mark, "it's about time you bought somethin' at the t-t-ten-cent store. Take a quarter, Plunk, and spend it judicious. Take consid'able time to it, Plunk, and get friendly with the clerk. If you get curious you might ask a question or so. Good way would be to make b'lieve you thought the clerk was the boss. See? Then you could ask about the boss. Maybe this clerk is one of these t-t-talkative, loose-jawed fellers. Worth tryin', anyhow. Might drag a crumb of information out of him." "And git hanged for a spy," says I; but for all that I was glad to go. To tell the truth I was sort of tickled that Mark wanted me to go instead of going himself. It showed he had some confidence in me and thought I was sharp enough to do what he wanted. I took a quarter and went across to the Five-and-Ten-Cent Store. The clerk was lazying around without much to do but look at himself in a little hand-glass. He had one of those little pocket-combs and he was busy with it, fixing his hair just _so_. It was kind of straw-colored hair with a wiggle to it. He had a kind of strawberry complexion and blue eyes and chubby cheeks. Sort of cunning, he was. I says to myself he ought to be entered in our beauty contest. I went along the counter, looking at things, but he didn't pay much attention. He got through with his hair and then began bringing up his mustache. It was a cute mustache. Yellow like his hair, it was, but you couldn't see it from some directions. When the light was right on it, though, you got a good view. I kept getting closer and closer. When I was almost in front of him I dropped my quarter and had to go chasing after it. That attracted his attention away from his mustache. "What'll you have?" says he, crosslike. "Oh," says I, "dun'no'. I got a quarter to spend and I'm lookin'." "All right," says he, "look." "You got a fine store, mister," says I. "Yes," says he. "Do you own all of it?" I says, "or have you got a partner?" He felt around till he got hold of his mustache and pulled at it careful so as not to pull any out. He couldn't have spared much. "Well," says he, "to tell the truth I hain't the proprietor. I'm just sort of manager. More money in _that_ than ownin' the store--and no risk." "Oh," says I. "Who does own it, then?" "Feller by the name of Skip." "Hain't he ever here?" "Sure. Just went to town, though. Important business." Hum! thought I, this is one of those talking jackasses. He's all excited about what a man he is and he'll just naturally lay himself out to make an impression. "It's a big responsibility to be left in charge, hain't it?" I says. "Oh, Skip gives me all sorts of responsibility," says he. "He knows _me_." "I'll bet he don't," says I to myself, "or he wouldn't have you around." But I only grinned at him admiringly. "Say," I told him, "them clothes of yourn wasn't just _bought_, was they? They look different. Bet a real tailor made 'em." "Course," says he. "_I_ couldn't wear store clothes. Man in my position has to look _swell_." "You do it, all right," says I. Then I got an idea. "Are you figgerin' on winnin' the contest?" "What contest?" "Handsomest man in Wicksville," says I. "Everybody's votin'." "Oh, that," says he. "No. I dassent be in that? Boss wouldn't like it." "Shucks!" says I. "You ought to enter. You'd win easy." He took another look at himself in the glass and didn't seem disappointed by what he saw. "Well," says he, "I might have a _chance_." "Chance!" I says. "Why, there wouldn't be anybody else in it!" "I don't know many folks here," he says. "Bet lots of folks wished they did know you. All you'd have to do would be enter the contest, and the way they'd vote for you would be a caution." "Boss wouldn't like it," says he. "If somebody put up your name without your knowin' it he couldn't object." I could see him sort of thinking that idea over. It was one that attracted him like a bald head attracts flies. "I sure would like to git my name in," says he, "but the boss hain't got any use for that Bazar. He's mad at the folks that run it and he says he's goin' to put it out of business. He's a bad one, Jehoshaphat P. Skip is, and when he gits after anybody they want to look out." "Pretty smart man, hain't he?" "You bet he is--smarter 'n a weasel." "Don't b'lieve he could put the Bazar out of business, though," I says, shaking my head. "You don't know Skip," says he. "Why, kid, what d'you s'pose he's up to now? Eh?" "Hain't the slightest idea," says I, as if I didn't care much. "He's got 'em pretty near busted now. Bought a chattel mortgage they'll never be able to pay off. He's goin' to see to it they _don't_ pay it off. That's one reason he's in Detroit. Yes, sir. Take the wind plumb out of their sails, I tell you." "Huh!" says I. "Easier said than done." "He's goin' to the wholesale houses," says the clerk in a whisper. "What of it?" "The Bazar owes money," says he. "He's goin' to tell the wholesale houses they better look out or the Bazar'll bust. See? Then the wholesale houses'll demand their money. Besides that, the Bazar won't be able to buy no more stock. Skip'll fix their credit, and no store can git along without credit. See?" Did I see? I should say I did see! This was almost worse than the chattel mortgage. "Another thing," says he, "the Bazar's got the local agency for Wainright's sheet music. Must be a pretty good thing. Skip's going to get that away from 'em. Hurt some, I calc'late. And he's goin' to take away their agency for phonographs and records. Bet that'll hit 'em a wallop. Eh? Skip says he'll take away every one of their agencies." "But," says I, "this is a five-and-ten-cent store. How can he sell things that come to more?" "Oh," says the clerk, "he's goin' to open a separate department and sell every single thing the Bazar does--and cut prices. Guess this beauty contest won't get much for the Bazar folks against lower prices." That was the way I looked at it, and my heart went 'way down into my boots, but I wouldn't let him see it. "About that contest," says he, "I'd like to get my name in. But I wouldn't like Skip to know I went in myself. He'd have to think somebody else did it without me knowing." "Sure," says I. He looked all around to make sure nobody was looking, and then handed me half a dollar. "Here," says he in a whisper. "Buy me a necktie with this, and have my name entered. Will you? Eh?" "Course," says I; "glad to do it for you." I hurried right out of the store and across the street, not waiting to spend my quarter at all. I had to see Mark Tidd, and see him _quick_. Something had to be done. Something had to be done in a minute. If we lost these agencies and had our credit cut off we might as well close our doors. Here was Mark's chance to show if he was as great a man as folks thought he was. CHAPTER IX "Mark!" I yelled as soon as I got to the front door. "Hey, Mark! Quick!" "T-take it easy," says he. "Where's the fire?" "Fire!" says I. "You'll wish it _was_ a fire." "Um!" says he. "Out with the sad news, Plunk. Let's weep t-t-together." I told him as fast as I could. His little eyes began to glow and you could see his chin setting under the fat. He was mad, mad clear through the whole of him. "That J-j-jehoshaphat P. Skip," says he, "is about as low down as they make 'em. He's a human skunk." Then he shut up like a steel trap. "Well?" says I. "Stay here," says he. "I'm goin' out--and I'll be b-b-back when I git here." My! how he stuttered! "Where you goin'?" says I. "Telegraph-office first," says he. "Don't know where then." At that he waddled out of the door as fast as he could go. He had some scheme, and he was after Jehoshaphat. Somehow I felt as if I'd rather be somebody else than Mr. Skip, too. When Mark has that look on his face you want to look out for him. He went to the telegraph-office and sent half a dozen telegrams to the folks we did business with in Detroit. They were all the same: Look out for a man named Skip. Make no deal till I come. MARK TIDD. After that he rented a horse and buggy and drove off somewhere into the country. I didn't know where, and nobody else did. He was gone till almost five o'clock. Then he came dashing in, looking pretty pleased about something, and says: "Got to g-go to Detroit on the five-thirty. Comin'?" "Yes," says I. "When'll we be back?" "T-to-morrow," says he. He left Tallow and Binney in charge of the Bazar, and we hurried off to get our nightgowns and tooth-brushes. The train was five minutes late as usual, or we never would have caught it. It was 'most midnight when we got into Detroit, so we went to a hotel right across the road from the depot and went to bed. Mark told the man at the desk to call us at six o'clock. I went to sleep right off because I was tired, and I guess Mark did, too. Sleeping was one of the things he was good at. He could sleep and eat more than any fellow I ever knew--and stay awake more when it was necessary. We were waked up by the telephone-bell and got dressed and went down to breakfast. "Now what?" says I. "Wholesale houses first," says he. Neither of us knew anything about the city, so we had to ask our way, but we didn't get lost. It was quite a walk to the first place we wanted--Spillane & Company--and when we got there it wasn't open yet. We sat down in the doorway to wait. After a while an old gentleman came along in an electric automobile and got out and came up to the door. We moved over to let him through. "Early birds, aren't you?" says he, sort of squinting at us under his gray eyebrows. "Yes," says Mark, "but the w-w-worm hasn't come yet." "Who's the worm?" says he. "Spillane & Company," says Mark. The old gentleman kept on squinting at us under those eyebrows without ever the sign of a smile. "What do you want of Spillane & Company?" says he. "Want to talk business to 'em," says Mark. "Haven't any jobs for boys," says he, and stuck the key in the lock. "I've got all the j-j-job right now I need," says Mark, with a twinkle in his eye. "What do you want, then?" "I want to talk to the man that runs this business," says Mark. "The boss of the whole th-thing." "What about?" "Are you him?" Mark asked. "What if I'm not?" says the man. "Then," says Mark, his mouth setting stubborn-like, "I'll wait till he comes." "Huh!" says the old gentleman, and it was hard to tell if it was a growl or a chuckle. "My name's Spillane, and I'm president of this concern. What is it, now? Don't keep me standing here all day." "I want to t-talk to you about Jehoshaphat P. Skip." "What's your name?" "Mark Tidd." The old gentleman grunted again and scowled--actually scowled. I edged off because it looked to me like he was going to do something unpleasant. "So you're Mark Tidd, are you? You're the one that sends mysterious telegrams? What do you mean by it? Eh? What do you mean by sending telegrams nobody can make head or tail to?" "I meant business when I sent it, and I m-mean business _now_," says Mark. "Come in," says Mr. Spillane. We followed him into the office and he jerked his head toward a couple of chairs. "Always get down first," says he. "Open the door myself. Get in half an hour's thinking before the help comes." Mark and I nodded polite. "Well," says Mr. Spillane, "what about Jehoshaphat P. Skip?" "Jehoshaphat P. Skip," says Mark, "was here to see you yesterday. I d-don't know what he told you--maybe it was true and maybe it was lies. We've come to tell our side of it." "And who are you?" "We're Smalley's Bazar," says Mark. "Where's Mr. Smalley?" "In the hospital. We're runnin' the business." "Four kids," says Mr. Spillane. "He told you, didn't he? Yes, sir, four kids--but we play fair. We don't go s-s-sneakin' off to spoil a competitor's credit, and we don't lie and we don't cheat." "Smalley's Bazar is on the verge of bankruptcy," says Mr. Spillane. "I am writing you a letter to-day refusing further credit and demanding a settlement of the account now standing." Mark thought a minute. "The more retail businesses there are," says he, "the more goods wholesale houses sell. Every t-time a little store is killed off it costs the wholesaler money, doesn't it?" "Yes." "Then it's to your advantage to keep the l-little stores going." "Yes." "It's to your advantage to keep Smalley's Bazar going." "That's another matter. You owe us money you can't pay. It would be poor business to let you owe us more." "It would be if we couldn't pay," says Mark, "but if we get a square deal we can p-pay--every cent. Yes, sir, and make money besides." "Smalley's Bazar never did amount to much." "It's going to.... Just lemme t-t-tell you about this Skip and what we're d-doin' and what we're goin' to do." "I don't think it will make any difference. Our credit man has looked you up and he advises against further dealings." Well, Mark set in and began to talk. He told about how we boys started into the Bazar and about how Skip came to town and about the auction Skip broke up and about the threats he made and the chattel mortgage and about his trip to town. He told about his plans and how they were going to work, and then he ended up: "Skip may have money now--but he ain't honest. Nobody's honest that'll do what he's d-done. We haven't his money--but--but you can ask anybody in Wicksville about us--anybody. If we're let alone we'll pull through. If creditors come down on us we'll b-bust--and there won't be much for the creditors. Here's your chance, Mr. Spillane, to give us a chance to make good or to play into the hands of a feller like Skip. The d-difference between us and Skip is, we'll pay if we can and he'll cheat you if he can. Now, sir, is it Skip or us?" "Who thought up that auction scheme?" "I did," says Mark. "Who thought up the beauty contest?" "I did," says Mark. "Who thought up these other things you've told me?" "I did," says Mark. "Young fellow," says Mr. Spillane, "how'd you like to work for me?" "F-f-fine," says Mark, "but I've got something else to do now." "I'll give you more than you can make out of the Bazar." "I'm making nothing out of it," says Mark. "I d-d-don't get paid." "What?" says Mr. Spillane. "None of us does," says Mark. "Ummmm!" says Mr. Spillane. We waited and didn't say a word. The old gentleman didn't say a word, either, for quite a while; then he grunted ferocious-like again, and says: "Where else are you going?" We told him the names of the other firms, and then he turned around to his desk and began working at some papers just as if we weren't there. I thought it was a funny sort of thing to do, and it made me mad. He had a right to refuse to do what we wanted, but he didn't have any right to treat us like that. I started to get up, but Mark looked at me and winked and shook his head. So I sat back. It was twenty minutes before Mr. Spillane paid any more attention to us. By that time other men had come in and there was a pile of mail on his desk. He looked that over and then turned around. "Come on," he said, reaching for his hat. We followed him without any idea where he was going. He made us get into his electric and drove us across town. There he stopped at a big building and we got out. It was The Wolverine Novelties Company, another of our wholesalers. He went right in and pushed past a clerk that wanted to know what he wanted, and into a private office where a fat man was sitting at a desk. "Hello, Jake!" says Mr. Spillane. "Hello, Pat!" says the other man. "Here's a couple of kids, Jake. From Wicksville. Fat one's the author of the telegram you got yesterday about Skip. Runs Smalley's Bazar." "Goin' to shut 'em up, Pat?" "I was--but I've arranged differently." Mr. Spillane turned and scowled at us. "This kid"--he stuck his thumb at Mark--"has argued me out of it. I'm going to give 'em a new line of credit." "Not feeling sick, are you? Better get more fresh air, Pat." "And," says Mr. Spillane, just as if he hadn't been interrupted, "you're going to extend their credit, too." He jerked his head at Mark. "Tell him about it, Tidd." Mark sailed in and told it all over again, while the fat man began to grin and grin. When Mark was done the fat man says: "Looking for a job, Tidd?" "N-no, sir," says Mark. "Not till I get this Bazar off my hands." "Well, when you _do_ want a job come around to see me." "He's mine," says Spillane. "Keep off." "Tell you what I'll do," says the fat man. "You write me a letter so I get it every Saturday, telling me everything that goes on and what schemes you work, and--you can have any reasonable credit you want. You won't be pushed, either." Marked thanked him and then Spillane hauled us off in a hurry. Mark tried to thank _him_ when we were outside, but he only growled at us, so it wasn't possible. From The Wolverine Novelties Company he took us to every other wholesaler we did business with, and to the sheet-music people, where he fixed it so Skip couldn't take away our agency. He fixed _everybody_. Then he went back to the office and dictated letters to the phonograph company and other folks whose goods we were handling--folks in New York and Chicago and Cincinnati, and they were real bang-up letters, too. When he got through there wasn't a thing for us to worry about on the score of credit. Then he took us to dinner at a big hotel and drove us to the train. We got back to Wicksville toward evening, tired, but pretty average well satisfied with things in general, I can tell you. The Bazar was closed, of course, so we went right home. "Wish I could see Jehoshaphat P. Skip's face when he hears about it," says I. "He's goin' to hear about somethin' he'll like worse," says Mark, in the way he talks when he's done something big but isn't ready to tell about it. "What's up?" says I. "You'll find out pretty soon," says he. "It'll m-make Mr. Skip swaller his false teeth." CHAPTER X Old Mose Miller came slouching into the Bazar just before noon next day. Old Mose lived up the river in a little shanty, but he had a big farm and fine barns and a herd of Holstein cattle that would make your eyes bung out. He lived all alone. Seemed like he didn't like folks. Mostly he wouldn't speak to anybody, and the man who went through his gate without good and sufficient business was taking a chance. I suppose every boy in Wicksville had been chased by Old Mose--and quite a lot of the men. Well, Old Mose came in and began snarling around and making faces like everything he saw hit him on the wrong side of his temper. He was the homeliest old coot you ever saw. Downright homely, he was! He didn't have a hair on his head, and his eyebrows and eyelashes were gone. If that was all he wouldn't have had much chance to be thought good-looking, but it wasn't all. His nose was broken and came zigzagging down the middle of his face like a rail fence, and he had only about every second tooth in front. That's all that ailed his head if you forgot about his ears--and they were so big they flapped when he walked. The rest of him was just as bad, but I expect his feet were his strongest point. They were flat--flat as pancakes. And big! Well, say, folks was used to saying that in winter he didn't need to use snow-shoes. If the rest of him had grown up to match his feet he'd have been eleven feet tall. Mark stepped up to wait on him. "W-what can I do for you, Mr. Miller?" he asked, as polite as could be. "You kin talk like a human bein'," says Old Mose, "and not like a buggy joltin' over a corduroy road." I ducked down back of the counter so Mark couldn't see me laugh, for he does hate to have anybody make fun of his stuttering. I listened sharp, expecting him to give Old Mose as good as he sent, but not a word did he say. In business hours he tended to business, and so long as a customer didn't go too far Mark would be patient as a lamb. So he just waited. "Folks," says Old Mose, "is a pesky nuisance." "Yes, sir," says Mark. "Shet up," says Mose. "What d'you know about it?" I could see Mark's eyes begin to twinkle and knew he was enjoying himself. Pretty soon Old Mose snapped at him again. "I won't have no folks in the house with me. Not me. Can't make 'em shet up when you want 'em to. Talk, talk, talk, that's the way with folks. Never run down." "Yes, sir," says Mark. "_Yes, sir! Yes, sir!_ Can't you say nothin' but 'Yes, sir'?" "Yes, sir," says Mark, as innocent to look at as a head of cabbage. Old Mose reached for his ears and took one in each hand. Then he stamped on the floor, and while he stamped he pulled. That's how his ears got so big, likely. Mad! My! he was mad. He jabbered and growled and called Mark an "idjit," and allowed that of all idjits he was the worst, and how came anybody to take the trouble to raise him? He went on quite a spell before he quieted down. Then he started off on folks in general again. "I don't like folks," he says in his cracked voice. "I don't like to have 'em around. But I git tired of the sound of my own voice. Mighty tired. Lots of times I don't talk to myself for a whole day, b'jing! There's times when I want somebody to talk to me. But you can't trust folks. They wouldn't shut up. Not them. Can't turn 'em off. That's why I come here." He glared at Mark as though he was to blame for the whole thing. "Heard one of them talkin'-machines, that's what! Human voice comin' out of it. Talk! Sing! Whistle! Likewise playin' of bands and sich-like. Better'n a human. Better comp'ny. Kin turn the screw and shut 'em off.... Got one of them talkin'-machines to sell?" "Yes, sir," says Mark, and Old Mose scowled at him like he was ready to take a chunk out of his leg. "We g-got three kinds. Forty dollars, seventy dollars, and hundred and ten dollars." "More'n they're wuth! More'n they're wuth. It's a cheat, I say. Forty dollars! Whoosh!" "Let me p-play them for you," says Mark. He started the seventy-dollar one off with a woman singing, and then played a band piece, and another with a fellow telling jokes, and some more and some more. Right in the middle of a piece Old Mose yelled: "Shut 'er off! Lemme see you shut 'er off." Mark snapped it off short, and Old Mose looked almost pleased--and I guess he came as close to it as he could. "Always shet up like that?" he asked. "Yes, sir," says Mark. "How much do them wax plates come at?" "Different p-prices," says Mark. "Here's the list." "Don't want to see it. Don't want to see it." He pulled a wallet out of his pocket and laid down a hundred-dollar bill. "Here," says he, "gimme that machine and enough of them wax things to make up a hundred dollars' worth. Hear me? Want to keep me waitin' all day?" "All ready for you in a s-second, sir," says Mark, and quicker than I can tell you about it he had picked out the records and was packing them careful so they wouldn't break. "This'll give you a th-thousand votes," he says to Old Mose. "Votes? What votes? What do I want of votes?" "Handsomest-man contest," says Mark. "Folks in Wicksville is votin' to see who he is." Old Mose glared. "Young feller," says he, "if you're a-makin' fun of me I'm a-goin' to lay you acrost my knee and give you what your pa's neglected to." "It's not a j-joke, sir. Everybody's votin'. 'Most every man in t-town's entered." Old Mose chuckled. "Kin I vote 'em for anybody I want to?" "Yes, sir." He chuckled again, sort of mean-like. "Gimme them votes. I calc'late I'll take 'em home and think it over. 'Tain't no easy job to pick the handsomest man in this town. Wicksville's that full of handsome men they're stumblin' over each other in the street. Handsome! If there's a feller in this town that kin look at his own reflection without feelin' timid of it then _I_ hain't seen him. Gimme them votes, I say. What's ailin' you?" Mark counted out the votes and then we helped Old Mose load his phonograph into his wagon. He climbed on to the seat and went off without even looking at us again. Crusty old codger, _I_ say. "Plunk," says Mark, "d-don't hesitate about spreadin' the news." "What news?" "Why, that Old Mose has g-got a thousand votes--and that he hain't made up his mind who to cast 'em for." "What good 'll that do?" "Remember the time Old Mose sicked his d-dog on us?" "You bet I do." "Here's our chance to g-git even. Mose don't like folks. As soon as this news gits out he'll see plenty of 'em--mostly wimmin. Everybody that's g-got a man entered in this contest'll be after Old Mose. There'll be a procession out to his house. He'll have more folks campin' on his trail than he thought was in the county." It was plain enough. I could just see Mrs. Peterson and Mrs. Bloom and the Presbyterian ladies and the Baptist ladies trotting out to Old Mose's and honeying around him and making his life miserable. It would be as good as a show. They'd catch him in the morning and they'd catch him in the afternoon, and it would be as much as his life was worth to show his face in town. I just threw back my head and laughed like I haven't felt like laughing since father was hurt. Mark didn't laugh, but his eyes twinkled. When I sobered down he says: "We don't want to l-let this beauty contest take all our time. We got to think up other schemes." "Sure," says I. "I been th-thinkin'," says he, "that we ought to find out somethin' everybody'll be wantin' about now--and git some we can sell cheap." "Good idee," says I. "What'll it be?" "I dun'no'--yet," says he. We stood and thought and thought. Finally I remembered right off I knew something every woman in Wicksville would be buying about then. "Cannin' season," says I. "Course," says he. "Mason jars. Wonder what they cost?" "I'll run over to the grocery and see," I says, and off I went. The clerk said they were selling for fifty-five cents a dozen without the rubbers. "Hum," says Mark. "That's about a n-nickel apiece. If we could sell 'em three for a dime and make any profit at all we'd do consid'able b-business." "Where d'you buy 'em?" I wanted to know. "Spillane & Company handle 'em," says he. "I'll write 'em a letter.... No, I'll telegraph 'em. Save time." He went back to the desk to write a message, but he stopped and thought. "Price 'd d-depend on how many we was goin' to use," says he. "Wonder how many we'd sell?" "No way of tellin'," says I. "There m-must be," says he in that arguing way of his. "We got to find out.... Say, you fellers go home and ask your mothers and my mother how many they're goin' to buy this fall." We went off obedient as little sheep. Mark's mother was going to need two dozen new ones, Binney's mother figured on three dozen, and Tallow's mother allowed as how she needed about two dozen and a half. Mark blinked and pinched his cheek and whistled a little. "There's about two hundred h-houses in Wicksville. The population of the township's about four thousand, so that means about two hundred more farm-houses. That's figgerin' five folks to the house for town and country. Looks like the average number of cans was about two d-dozen and a half. But that's high. Lots of folks don't set as good a table as your f-folks. But 'most everybody in Wicksville cans some. Let's guess low. Say a dozen cans to every house. How about that?" "Too high," says I. "Maybe so," says he; "b-better be safe and figger 'way low. Say eight cans to a house. How many's that?" "Thirty-two hundred cans," says I. "Course we couldn't sell _all_ of 'em--even if the p-price was low. But we could sell most--if we let folks know about it. Ought to sell two thousand of those cans." "Ought to," says I, "but it'd be better to turn some f-folks away than to have a couple of hundred cans left on hand." "Um!... Well, say ten g-gross. That's fourteen hundred and forty. How about that?" "Sounds safe to me," I says, and Tallow and Binney agreed. "Then we'll wire for a price on that m-many," says Mark, and he turns and makes out the message. Wire best price ten gross quart Mason jars for sale. SMALLEY'S BAZAR. We sent off the message, but the answer didn't come till next morning. It said: Can quote special price three ninety-five per gross delivered. SPILLANE & COMPANY. We sat down to figure. That would make the cans cost two and three-quarter cents apiece. We could sell them three for ten cents and make a profit of a cent and three-quarters. That would give us a total profit of eight dollars and forty cents. That wasn't much, but it was a brand-new profit in addition to everything else. We thought it was worth trying, so we wired Spillane & Company to send on the goods. They wired back that the goods would be shipped immediately and would get to Wicksville the next afternoon. "Now for the advertising," says Mark. He brought the horse and wagon and Tallow and Binney into commission again. This time the signs were about the Mason jars and the great sale we were going to have on Friday--three cans for ten cents. They drove all over town and out through the country, banging on a drum. I guess folks were getting used to this way of telling them things, for when they heard the drum whanging women would come running to the door to see what new thing we were up to. Mark put a big sign up in the window, too, and as the paper came out Thursday he put an advertisement in that told all about it. That was about all we could do. Now the Wicksville folks would have to do the rest. I can tell you we were all anxious. That deal meant an investment of thirty-nine dollars and fifty cents. Not very much, maybe you will say. But it was a lot to us, fixed the way we were. If we should be stuck for nearly forty dollars just at that time we would be in a hard way, and don't ever forget it. We _had_ to sell those jars! Friday morning the jars were there and displayed in the window. Everything was ready for the sale, which was to start at ten o'clock. Mark had fixed up special tables and arranged things so that two of us would sell, one would handle the money, and the other would wrap up the jars folks bought. By nine o'clock we were ready--and there wasn't anything to do but wait. It was a long, anxious hour. Well, sir, about a quarter past nine we heard a bell ringing fit to bust itself out in the street. Then we heard another bell. All of us ran to the door. There, just starting out from the Five-and-Ten-Cent Store, were three boys with big signs on the ends of poles--and those signs said: GREAT SALE OF MASON JARS! FOUR FOR TEN CENTS AT THE FIVE-AND-TEN-CENT STORE SALE OPEN NOW! _Four for ten cents!_ That was a quarter of a cent less than we had to pay Spillane & Company for them! CHAPTER XI "There," says I, "goes thirty-nine dollars and a half." Tallow and Binney were pretty discouraged, too, and Mark looked more downhearted than I ever saw him. Mr. Jehoshaphat P. Skip had about knocked us all off our feet. "We'll have to go on with the sale," I says. "Maybe we can get rid of some--and that'll save us a dollar or so, anyhow." Mark didn't say a word. I saw him fumbling around in his pocket after his jackknife--and that meant business. He had done a lot of thinking since we started to run the Bazar, but this was the first time he had wanted to whittle. That was about the last help he depended on. When everything else failed Mark Tidd whittled. He went back behind the counter with a piece of box and started littering up the floor. We stayed away from him and waited. It was fifteen minutes, maybe, before we saw his head coming up into sight. He didn't look happy and his eyes didn't twinkle. But he _did_ look determined. We fellows have been in some tight places with Mark, and have met some pretty mean men, but Jehoshaphat P. Skip was the first one to get Mark mad clean through and through. "Well?" says I, as he came around the end of the counter. "This man Skip," says he, "hasn't had time to get in a fresh s-s-stock of Mason jars." "What of it?" "D-don't b'lieve he's got many. Just his regular stock." "But he's spoiled our sale, anyhow." Mark shook his head. "Maybe so--but we'll see. Got some friends we can depend on? Grown-up folks?" "There's Uncle Ike Bond--and I'll bet Chet Weevil and Chancy Miller 'd do 'most anything for us, with the beauty contest going on." "G-good," says Mark. "Who else?" "Dad," says Binney. "My dad, too," says Tallow. "F-fine. Need more, though." We thought up a dozen folks and Mark asked us to run to see them and find out if they would come to the Bazar just a minute. He said to tell them it was important. In another fifteen minutes they were there--a dozen of them. Mark stood up and says: "I want you f-f-folks to buy Mason jars--from Jehoshaphat P. Skip. He's sellin' 'em for less than we can buy them for. D-don't b'lieve he's got many dozen." "What's the idee?" says Uncle Ike. "We got a sale on," says Mark. "Th-three jars for a dime. This man Skip--just to bust up our sale--goes and advertises f-four jars for a dime. What we got to do is buy every last jar he's got--_quick_! We got to buy 'em before Wicksville folks start buyin'. When they come to buy from the Five-and-Ten-Cent Store there mustn't be any there to b-b-buy." Uncle Ike slapped his leg. "Smartest kid I ever see," says he to himself. "Greased lightenin's slow. Folks, I've been drivin' a 'bus a good many years, and you git to know a lot on a 'bus. Grand eddication. But never in all them years have I seen the beat of this here Mark Tidd. No, sir. He tops the pile." Everybody was willing to help us out, so Mark gave them money out of the till and they straggled off to the Five-and-Ten-Cent Store. Each one was to buy all he could. Uncle Ike came first with two dozen, and Binney's dad brought two dozen--seems that's all Skip would sell to one person. Then the rest straggled in with two dozen apiece till it came to Chet Weevil. "Only got half a dozen," says he, grinning all over. "The last half-dozen there was. We've cleaned him out. Every last can's bought." Then Mark grinned--and said thank you to everybody and told us to get to our places, for the sale was going to start. He went back to paint a new sign. It said: WHEN YOU COME BACK FROM THE FIVE-AND-TEN-CENT STORE WITHOUT ANY MASON JARS BUY THEM HERE THREE FOR A DIME WE HAVE PLENTY He put that up and then we waited. I stood in the door where I could watch the Five-and-Ten-Cent Store. Quite a lot of folks went in--and came out again looking sort of mad. Most of them came back up the street, and when they saw our new sign they turned in. Provoked! Say, they believed, I guess, that Skip had played a joke on them. "Have _you_ got any Mason jars?" old Mrs. Stovall says, sharp-like. "L-lots of 'em, ma'am," says Mark. "Three for a dime." "Gimme two dozen," says she. And then she shook her black bonnet till the jet beads rattled. "I went into that other place," says she, "and that smart Alec of a clerk says they was all sold out. Fine way to treat folks! Advertise a thing and then not have it to sell." "Yes, ma'am," says Mark. "You'll find this Bazar always has what it advertises, and as g-g-good as it advertises." "I hain't never been cheated here," she says, "and I won't never be cheated _there_. I'll never step a foot inside that store again if it was the last place on the footstool." Mark began to look cheerful, and as time went along he looked more cheerful. We had a steady stream of customers--and most of them had been to the other store first. And they were mad. Skip had done his business more harm that morning than as if he'd locked up his door to shut folks out. He'd made them mad--and he'd fixed it so they were suspicious of him. Mark says if you get folks to distrusting you you might just as well shut up shop, and I guess it's so. By noon eight gross of our cans were gone and we were beginning to worry for fear we would run out--and we would have run out, too, if it hadn't been for those we bought from Skip--almost a gross. They just saved our bacon. When we shut the store at six o'clock there were exactly six cans left in the house. We had made a profit of eight dollars and forty cents on our own cans, and on the one hundred and twenty-six jars we bought from Skip at two cents apiece we had cleared just one dollar--and lots of satisfaction. It was a total profit of nine dollars and forty cents instead of a loss of thirty-nine dollars and a half. And Mark Tidd had done it. With that _thinking_ brain of his he'd got us out of the worst kind of a hole--and put Jehoshaphat P. Skip into one. He's done a lot of things that got bigger results, but I don't believe he ever did anything that was any _smarter_. "Wish somebody'd tell Skip just what happened to him," I says. "Me, too," says Binney and Tallow, and Tallow said he guessed he'd go tell Skip himself. "No need," says Mark, "the story's all over town. Everybody knows by this t-time--and everybody 'll be laughin' at Jehoshaphat to-morrow. It hain't a good th-thing for a b-business man to have the town laughin' at him." "Humiliatin'," says I, "and especially when he got caught in his own trap by a kid he's 'most old enough to be granddad to." Mark chuckled. "We did pretty good," says he. "_We!_" says I. "We didn't have anything to do with it. It was you--and you get all the credit that's comin'." Mark shrugged his shoulders so the fat at the back of his neck tried to crowd his ears. He was willing enough to be praised and liked to have folks think he was a wonder--but he wasn't mean about it. He never tried to hog the glory and was willing the rest of us should get all we could. But it did tickle him to know we appreciated him--and he deserved to be tickled. We passed Jehoshaphat P. on our way home and grinned at him cheerful-like. I thought for a minute he was going to stop and say something, but he strangled it back and went on as fast as his thin legs would carry him. Tallow started to yell something after him, but Mark made him shut up. "That's all right for kids," says he, "but we're business men--for a while, anyhow. Let's act like b-b-business men." Wasn't that Mark all over! Whatever he did or whatever he pretended to do--he was that thing. If we played cowboy he was a cowboy, and acted and thought like a cowboy. I calculate if we were to make believe we were aeroplanes he'd spread his arms and fly. We passed my house and I turned in. "To-morrow's Saturday," says I, "and a long day. Get a good sleep to-night." "Yes," says Mark. "We g-got to stir things up t-to-morrow. Folks 'll be expectin' somethin' of us. Mustn't d-disappoint anybody. Good night." I said good night and went in the house. There was a letter there from mother. She said dad was getting along pretty well, but it would be a month before he could leave the hospital. She said she told him what we boys were doing and he was proud of us, and she was proud of us, too. "I don't know what we'd ever do without our boy and his friends," she said. "Especially Mark Tidd. You thank the boys for us, son, and tell Mark Tidd the thing he is doing and the way he has come to help us is something a very sick man and a troubled woman are grateful for to the bottoms of their hearts. His mother must be proud of him." I went over to Mark's house after supper and read him that. He was quiet for a long time--and I saw him blink and blink because something came into his eyes he didn't want me to see. Pretty soon he says: "Plunk, there's different ways of gettin' paid for things. There's money and fame and such-like, but, honest, seems to me, and you can t-tell your mother so for me, that what she says in her letter is the f-finest thing that ever happened." He blinked again a couple of times. "When you're th-through with it, Plunk, I wish you'd give me that letter. I'd--I'd like to keep it--always." That was a side of Mark Tidd I never saw before. It sort of gave me a look inside of him. Always before I'd thought about his being smart and scheming and sharper than most folks, but now I saw there was something more--maybe something better and worth more to have--a great big heart that was full of sympathy for folks and that could be sorry when other folks were sorry and glad when they were glad. I was pretty embarrassed and couldn't find a word to say, but I gave him the letter. He folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. "Plunk," says he, "I'd s-sort of like to read this to dad and m-mother.... I guess they'd like to hear it." "Sure," says I, sort of pinched in my throat. I know how _my_ folks would be glad to have somebody say such a thing about me. My mother 'd cry, I know, but it wouldn't be because she was sorry. Not much. So I says "Sure," and got out of there as fast as I could, because I didn't know how much longer I'd last without getting messy and acting like--like a fellow doesn't like to act. CHAPTER XII By Saturday our beauty contest was getting pretty warm. Folks had talked about it and argued about it till they really got to believe there was some importance to the thing. There were quarrels over husbands, and Chet Weevil and Chancy Miller had to be separated every time they met. Those two young men took it pretty serious. Chet said if Chancy was to win he'd pick up and leave Wicksville for ever, and Chancy said if Chet was to win he'd go off and live in a cabin in the woods where he never would see another human being, he'd be that ashamed. Mrs. Peterson and Mrs. Bloom didn't speak to each other any more, but put in all their spare time fussing around town trying to scrape up votes for their husbands. There were a lot of others just as bad. But when Wicksville heard how Old Mose Miller had a thousand votes and didn't know who he was going to cast them for, there was excitement. You can bet there was. Early Saturday morning Chancy came sneaking into the store to find out about it. "Mark," says he, "is it a fact that Old Mose has got a thousand votes?" "Yes," says Mark. "He's got 'em, all r-right." "Sort of an uncle of mine--Old Mose is," says Chancy, and he grinned satisfied-like. "Blood's thicker 'n water. Guess I'll go out to see him." "I would," says Mark. "If I was you I wouldn't l-lose any time." Chancy was no sooner gone than Chet came in with the same question. "Huh!" says he when Mark told him the rumor was so. "Thousand votes. That'll about win this contest, won't it?" "Come p-pretty close," says Mark. "Then," says Chet, "I got to have 'em. _Got_ to! I'm goin' out to see the old skeezicks. I'm goin' this minnit." "Good idee," says Mark. "But Old Mose is Chancy's uncle. Know th-that? Blood's thicker 'n water." "No sich thing," says Chet. "There hain't no sich hate as that between relatives. Chancy's father and Old Mose had a row over their father's will. Been hatin' each other twenty-odd years. Chancy 'll never count them votes, you listen to me." Well, sir, I looked toward the door, and who should be coming in but Old Mose himself. Right behind him was Chancy. Chet he took one look and made for the old fellow and grabbed him by the arm. "Why, Mr. Miller," says he, grabbing for the old man's hand to shake it, "I dun'no' when I've been so tickled to see anybody. How be you, anyhow? Hope you're feelin' spry as a two-year-old." Old Mose scowled at him. "Do, eh? Do you, now? Huh! Who be _you_, anyhow? What call you got to be mixin' up with my health? Glad to see me, be you? Well, young feller, 'tain't mutual. Not none. Leggo that hand. Leggo." "But, Mr. Miller, I am glad to see you. You and my father is old friends. He often speaks of you. Honest he does. You hain't forgot Henry Weevil, have you?" "No, nor I hain't likely to, the shiftless old coot! Henry Weevil's son, be you? Reckon you take after him, too. Necktie looks like it. Henry had about gumption enough to spend his last quarter for a red rag to tie around his neck." Just then Chancy came springing forward and made a grab at Chet. "You quit pesterin' and disturbin' this old gentleman," says he. "He's my uncle, he is, and I hain't goin' to stand by to see no town loafer molestin' him. You git." Old Mose took one look at Chancy--and it was considerable of a look, too. "Uncle!" he snorted. "Uncle, is it? Don't let it git out. I hain't proud of it. Don't go claimin' no relationship with me, you young flapdoodle. I'd rather be catched stealin' sheep than to have folks remember I was your uncle. Git out. Git away from me 'fore I up and bust the toe of my boot on you." Well, Chancy drew back a little, quite a little. He got clear out of range. Chet grinned at him provoking. But Chancy was a persistent sort of fellow; he tried Old Mose again. "I don't see what for you hold anythin' agin me, uncle, I never done a thing to you." "Don't you dast call me uncle," says Old Mose, and he takes a step forward, belligerent-like. Chet put in his oar. "That's right, Mr. Miller. I'd hate to own he was a relative of mine--him and his curly hair." Old Mose turned his head slow so he could look at Chet, and says: "One more peep out of you and I'll take you acrost my knee and fix you like your ma ought to fix you often. I calc'late you figger you're growed up past spankin's. Huh! You yaller-haired slinkum!" Things looked pretty discouraging for Chet and Chancy when in came Mrs. Bloom, all out of breath. Right at her heels was Mrs. Peterson, panting like all-git-out. Up they rushed to Old Mose. "Why, Mr. Miller," says Mrs. Bloom, almost putting her arm around him, "I just heard you was in town. My! I'm that glad to see you! You're a-goin' to come and take dinner with us, hain't you?" Old Mose blinked. He didn't know what to make of it, and before he decided what was going on Mrs. Peterson wedged herself in and got him by the other arm. "Mr. Miller's comin' to _our_ house to dinner," says she. "We're a-goin' to have chicken and biscuits in gravy and punkin-pie. You're a-comin' to our house, hain't you?" Old Mose waggled his head and scowled, and waggled his head some more, and opened his mouth to say something, and shut it again. He had to try three times before he could get out a word. "Hey!" he yelled, "you lemme be. You git away from me. What's the matter with these here wimmin? Say! Dinner! Naw, I hain't goin' to dinner with nobody. Me set and listen to female gabble! Whoo! You leggo my arms. Hear me? Has this whole consarned town up and went crazy? Eh? Or what?" Well, right on top of all that three young women came pushing in and rushing up to Old Mose. I knew what they were after--it was votes for School-Principal Pilkins. "Why, Mr. Miller," they says all at once, "as soon as we heard you was in town we come right down to see you. How be you? My! it seems nice to see you again!" "Come right down to see me, did you?" Old Mose was about as mad as he could get by this time. "Well, now you've saw me. Here I be from boots to bald spot. I'm well. But I'm gettin' worse. I'm gettin' worse quick. In a minnit I'm goin' to git vi'lent." He backed off and got around the end of the counter where nobody could reach him. "Keep off'n me, the whole dod-gasted passel of you. I hain't no idee of the cause of these goin's-on, and I hain't no hankerin' to find out. But I hereby issues a warnin' to all and sundry--keep off'n me! I'm a-goin' to git into my buggy and make for home. I'm a-goin' to git out of this townful of lunatics. When I come ag'in I'm a-goin' to fetch my dawg. He's the meanest dawg in the county. And I'm a-goin' to sic him on to the first man, woman, or child that comes gabblin' and flitterin' around me. Take warnin'. Now git out of my way, for I'm a-comin'." At that he began waving his arms and started pell-mell for the door. The folks opened up a way for him and he scooted through like the way was greased. Just a second he stopped in the door to shake his fist. Then he made a jump into his buggy, whipped up his horse, and went tearing for home. Mark Tidd had stood watching the whole thing as solemn as an undertaker's sign. Not even a little twinkle in his eye! When Mose was gone he says: "Don't seem like Old Mose was in g-good humor to-day." "He's a rip-roarin', cross-grained, pig-headed, rat-minded old coot," says Mrs. Peterson, "but I'm a-goin' to git them votes of his'n yet." "Think you be, do you?" snapped Mrs. Bloom. "Well, Mis' Peterson, you'll have to git up earlier in the mornin' than you do on wash-days if you beat _me_. So there." "P-prob'bly," says Mark, "it would be b-better to see Old Mose out at his house of an evenin'. Maybe he'd be more reasonable." "We'll see him of an evenin', all right, and we'll see him of a mornin'," says one of the young women that were after votes for Pilkins. "And we hain't after his votes for ourselves, neither," she says with a sarcastic look at Chet and Chancy. "Ladies," says Mark, breaking right in on them, "have you seen the new p-patent hooks and eyes we just got in from New York? Finest thing of the kind ever was in Wicksville. Lemme sh-show you how they work." He set in and described those hooks and eyes and told what they would do, and showed how they did it. "And," says he, "we give votes with th-these just like with anythin' else. How many cards, Mis' Peterson?" "Gimme a quarter's worth," says she. "Sich things always come in handy." Mrs. Bloom, she bought a quarter's worth, and each of those young women bought a card for a dime. That was eighty cents sold that wouldn't have been sold but for Mark taking advantage of things. But he was the sort that took advantage. Maybe there wouldn't be much in it every time, but add up a dozen or so times and it was quite a bit. He was business from front to back. "Mark," says I, when the folks were all gone, "I'm beginnin' to b'lieve maybe we'll pull through and pay off Skip's mortgage." "Hum!" says Mark. "You be, eh? Remember we got to raise five hundred d-dollars and pay expenses and keep sendin' money to your f-folks. 'Tain't so easy as it looks. Comes perty clost to bein' impossible, _I'd_ say." "Not gittin' discouraged?" I says, frightened-like. "No," says he, "but I h-hain't gittin' over-confident, neither. Maybe we'll pull through if somethin' don't hit us an extra wallop. But we'll keep a-tryin'." "You bet," says I. "How do we stand now?" "There's ninety-six d-dollars in the bank," says he, "that we can figger on for the mortgage." "Fine," says I; "'most a fifth of it." "But we've had l-luck. There was sellin' that phonograph. Twenty dollars clear. Don't happen every day." "But our daily sales are keeping up pretty well." "If we d-depend on our daily sales to pull us through," says he, "Jehoshaphat P. Skip 'll be foreclosin' his mortgage. We g-got to keep a-thinkin' up schemes. We got to crowd the business and keep crowdin' it. Then, if somethin' we d-don't foresee now don't happen, we got a chance. But if somethin' does happen--" He stopped and shrugged his fat shoulders as much as to say that would be the end of the Bazar. But I was feeling pretty good. Ninety-six dollars in the bank! That seemed like a lot; and we had put it there ourselves. It seemed to me we were coming along fine. That night I got a telegram from mother. It says: Father must have operation. Cost hundred dollars. Can you send money? I just sat down limp in a chair with all the stiffening gone out of my backbone. There was the extra wallop Mark Tidd was afraid of. I ran right over to his house and showed him the telegram. "Hum!" says he. "L-lucky we got that money in the bank. Send it to-morrow." "Course," says I. "But it licks us." He stuck out his jaw and his eyes got sort of hard and sparkly. "D-does, eh?" says he. "Well, Mr. Plunk, we hain't licked yet. I felt in my bones bad luck was comin'--and here it is. But we're a-goin' to stick to it, you can bet. Skip hasn't put us out of b-business yet." There you were. That very day he'd said something like this would dump our apple-cart for us--and now that it had happened he was as much for keeping on as ever. Looked like he didn't know when he was licked. But that was Mark Tidd all over. He wouldn't let on he had the worst of it till the sheriff had come and closed up the Bazar. And then, maybe, there'd be something else he'd think up to try as a last resort. Next morning we sent mother the ninety-six dollars in the bank with four dollars besides. It left us with only enough money in the till to make change with. Mark looked at it and scowled. "Got to m-make it grow," says he, "and grow quick." "All right," says I; "but how?" "I'm goin' b-back to whittle," says he. "In an hour we'll start somethin' goin'." CHAPTER XIII In half an hour Mark came up to the front of the store and we stopped talking to listen to him. "We n-never can raise five hundred dollars just by s-sellin' things over the counter--not in the time that's left to us before Jehoshaphat P. Skip's chattel mortgage is due. Even sales and schemes for makin' folks buy more won't be enough." "That's as good as sayin' we're busted," says I. "C-close to it," says Mark. "Be you givin' up?" I says. "No. And what's more I hain't goin' to give up till Jehoshaphat P. wishes he never heard of Wicksville. But just ordinary retailin' won't save our b-bacon. We've got to get in a lump of money somehow." "Let's be gettin' at it then," says I. "If this man Skip only had p-played fair," says Mark. "But he hasn't. Fellers, he's the right-down meanest man I ever heard of.... And that's the only excuse we g-got for makin' use of the scheme I've got ready. We got to use every way that's honest--even if it is sort of m-mean. Maybe it hain't right for me to feel that way, but the meaner the thing is the better I like to do it to him." "Same here," says I. "I was hopin' to save up this scheme," says he, "and maybe not use it at all. But we g-got to. So come on." "Where?" says I. "Lawyer Sturgis's," says he. Mark and I went across the street and climbed up to Mr. Sturgis's office. He was one of those dignified men that always wear silk hats and long coats that flop around their knees, and he talked like he'd been exposed to grammar and rhetoric and had caught them both so bad he couldn't be cured. He made speeches at election-times and at any other times when there was any excuse. For that matter, everything he said came close to being a speech. My, my, but he was a talker! He knew words that the man who made the dictionary hasn't heard of yet. But folks said he was a good lawyer and honest and dependable. They said other things about him, too--that he was _good_. In spite of the high-and-mighty way he carried himself, and the way he barked at folks, he was said to be the kind of man who goes out of his way to do folks a favor. Heaps of poor folks had got law from him without paying a cent. Everybody in Wicksville laughed at him a little--and liked him a heap. Wicksville folks could laugh at him if they wanted to, but you let a man from Sunfield come over and start to make fun of Lawyer Sturgis and there'd be a fight in a second. It makes a heap of difference who does the laughing. Well, we knocked at his door and he yelled to come in so loud people could have heard it across the street. We went right in. He was sitting in front of his desk, with one hand shoved through the front of his vest and the other on his hip--just like pictures of the signing of the Declaration of Independence; and he was frowning like pictures of Daniel Webster. "Ah-ha!" says he, "what have we here? To what, if I may be permitted to inquire, do I owe the honor of this call? Ha! Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd, is it not? Indeed! And young Smalley. Will you enter and be seated?" We entered and were seated. "Now," says Lawyer Sturgis, "let us to business, laying aside all our several and conflicting employments. You have, I judge, come to consult me professionally. Am I right?" "You are r-right," says Mark. "It's about Jehoshaphat P. Skip." "Ah, indeed! Jehoshaphat P. Skip! Extraordinary individual." "It's about that lease, Mr. Sturgis, the one you h-helped me get the other day." "To be sure. I recall the circumstance. And now, may I ask, what do you desire concerning this so-called lease?" "I want to shoot it off," says Mark. "What?" says Mr. Sturgis. "You want--what do you want to do to it? Shoot it off, did you say?" "Yes, sir. Don't you remember sayin' it was a regular gun pointed at Jehoshaphat P. Skip's head? Well, sir, I want to sh-shoot it off." "Hum! Figure of speech, eh? I did not follow you. I did not recall my own metaphor. Good. Your wit is nimble, my young friend." "We've g-got to have some money--a chunk of it," says Mark. "We had quite a bit in the bank, but we had to send it to Plunk's father for an operation. I th-thought maybe we could use that lease to raise quite a bit--maybe more'n a hundred dollars." "How? What method did you contemplate?" says Mr. Sturgis. At this I broke into the talk. "What's this all about?" I asked. "I'm hearin' about leases and sich-like, but I don't know what leases nor nothin'." "Remember the d-day I went into the country?" says Mark. "Yes." "I drove out to see Sheridan Mogford, who owns the store Skip is in. I f-found out Skip didn't have a lease. He just rents it by the month. If he had a lease we couldn't do anything. A lease is a kind of a written agreement that says how long a man can rent a p-piece of property at so much a month. If Skip had a lease for a year he could keep on s-stayin' in that store a year and we c-couldn't interfere with him. But he didn't have. He said he didn't want to get tied up to any lease till he found out how business was. So he just rents by the m-month." "All right," says I, "but what of it?" "Why, I w-went out to see Mr. Mogford and I talked to him and told him how Skip had acted to us--and I got him to make out a lease of Skip's store to Mr. Sturgis, here. Only, really, it was to us. Mr. Sturgis has his name there in our place like. He's our--what-d'you-call-it?" "Attorney-in-fact," says Mr. Sturgis. "In simpler language--your agent." "Hum!" says I. "Pretty mixed up for me." Mark grunted. "Why," says he, "when we got that lease we were entitled to move into the store. But we'd have to give Skip a m-month's notice. We could force him out--and there isn't another store in Wicksville f-for him to go to. See?" "Let's do it," says I. "That'll fix everything." Mark shook his head. "That wouldn't f-fix anythin'," says he. "What'd happen? We'd have Skip out of b-business, but we'd still owe him f-five hundred dollars on that chattel mortgage. And we'd be stuck for the rent of two stores, because we'd have to pay rent where the Bazar is now and for Skip's store, too. Be worse off'n ever." "Then what good is your old lease, anyhow?" "I g-got it in the beginning because I knew it would come in handy. I d-didn't know just how I'd use it. But I know now." "How?" "I'm g-goin' to make Mr. Skip pay himself part of that five hundred dollars. Wish I could make him pay himself all of it." "What method of procedure have you chosen?" asked Mr. Sturgis. "I f-figgered it out you could get Skip over here and tell him about the lease and make him pungle over. You can sell the lease, can't you? Can't you sell it to him like it was a horse or cow or a p-piece of property?" "A lease, my young friend, is a piece of property and is so recognized by law. We can follow your suggestion. How much do you consider your lease to be worth?" "H-haven't any idee, but we want to git all we can. Hundred dollars at least." "I am confident we can secure a greater sum than that. Possibly two hundred dollars." "F-fine," says Mark, and his eyes glistened. "We won't let him know we have anything to do with it--not now. But won't he be hoppin' mad when he finds out he's gone and bought that chattel mortgage and then has had to p-pay it himself? Won't he, though? Oh, my!" The scheme hadn't been very clear to me, but I saw it now. Mark could make Skip move out of his store, and Skip would lose a lot of money if he had to move, because there wasn't any place else for him to go in Wicksville. The only way he could stay and run his store was to buy that lease from Mark. Well, sir, I don't know how Mark thinks up schemes like that, but he does. This was such a bully scheme, because it couldn't help working. I made up my mind I'd ask him how he came to think of it, because a fellow his age hasn't business understanding about leases and law and such things. "I g-guess you'd better send for Mr. Skip and break the news to him," says Mark, "and," says he, "I wish Plunk and I could be in the next room where we c-could hear it." Mr. Sturgis almost smiled. I bet he would have smiled right out if he hadn't practised being dignified so many years his face wouldn't work the way it used to. But his eyes smiled and the corners of his mouth wiggled a little. "To be sure," said he; "right in there. Leave the door ajar and you can hear perfectly. I can--I can readily appreciate your desire to witness the demeanor of Mr. Skip in the circumstances you have arranged for him. I'll send my boy over for him at once." Mark and I went into the next room as soon as we saw Jehoshaphat P. Skip coming down the street, but we left the door open about an inch so we would be sure to hear. Mark got down on all-fours and put his ear to the crack. I stood over him. Mark was heaving and rolling all over him, he was so tickled. It was one of those laughs of his without any noise to it. I felt pretty tickled myself. In a minute Skip came into Mr. Sturgis's office and said good afternoon and wanted to know why he was sent for. "It is in reference to the store you occupy at present," said Mr. Sturgis. "You have no lease, as the facts come to me, but only rent from month to month." "Exactly," says Skip. "What of it?" "The store has been leased to another party," says Mr. Sturgis. "Leased? How can they lease it? Hain't I occupyin' it? Say, what you talkin' about, anyhow?" "Other parties approached Mr. Mogford, owner of the building; he has granted them a lease for a period of two years. The next proceeding on the part of my client will be to notify you to leave the premises in thirty days." Well, sir, you should have seen Skip! His long neck looked like it stretched six inches to get his head closer to Mr. Sturgis, and his pinkish hair bristled, and his little squinty eyes snapped and glittered. Then he caught hold of his nose like he always does when he is excited and began bending it back and forth till I thought likely he'd crack it off. "Who's gone and sneaked behind my back and got that lease? Hey? What slinkin', underhanded, sheep-stealin' pirate did me sich a mean trick? It's agin the law, I tell you. 'Tain't honest. I'll git me a lawyer and show you. That's what I'll do." "As far as that point is concerned," says Mr. Sturgis, "my client is amply protected by the laws of this state. As for any action you may take with reference to keeping possession of this property, my client will be perfectly able to meet you and, if I may say so, to cause you to regret such a waste of time and money. The lease belongs to my client. If he wishes to force you out in thirty days, he will be able to do so." "But where'll I go? What'll I do? I got money invested here. There hain't another store to move to." "That, Mr. Skip, does not, so to speak, worry my client. Indeed, if I be not wrongly informed, my client would not object to causing you a trifle of annoyance." "Who is your client? Who is he?" "I am not at liberty to state." "He's a skinflint, that's what he is. What kind of a way of doin' business is this, anyhow? 'Tain't fair. 'Tain't just. No business man would treat another like this." "H'm! I'm not so sure, Mr. Skip. While we're on that subject I might say I've heard of dealings of your own that might have been more upright. I have been informed, Mr. Skip, that you have resorted to means which are, to say the least, reprehensible. I, sir, have been practising law in Wicksville for thirty-five years. I can assure you, sir, that, had I not considered my client justified in the course he follows in this matter, I should have declined to act for him. I do believe him justified. I believe, sir, that it will do you no harm, sir, to have, so to speak, a dose of your own medicine." Skip got up out of his chair and paced up and down and waggled his nose and craned his neck. He just didn't know what to do. He was scared and excited and mad--my! my! but he was mad! He was caught, and he knew it. You could tell by his face he knew it, and you could see he was pretty wrought up with himself for not getting a lease in the beginning. The more he walked up and down and thought it over the more scared he got--scared of losing some money. Pretty soon he stopped before Mr. Sturgis and says: "I can't move, Mr. Sturgis. I've _got_ to stay in that store. Won't you see your client and find out if we can't make some sort of an arrangement? Say, won't you do that, Mr. Sturgis?" He was all worked up and his voice sounded like he was going to break down and cry. I looked down at Mark. His face had an expression I never saw on it before--sort of _grim_. He didn't look like he was enjoying the misery Skip was in. That wasn't his expression at all. But he did look like he was doing something he knew he ought to do, and was getting satisfaction out of it. I suppose maybe a general looks like that when he catches one of his officers being a traitor and orders him to be executed. Yes, that's the sort of look it was. "I have full authority to deal with you," says Mr. Sturgis. "Though my client may think you deserve to be ejected, he will not object if I take less severe measures. What, if anything, would you suggest?" "Can't--can't I buy the lease? Won't he sell it to me?" "Well, now, Mr. Skip, possibly something of that sort could be arranged. How much, for instance, would you be willing to pay for the lease?" "Fifty dollars." "A-hem! Fifty dollars. Ah, you consider the lease worth fifty dollars, do you? I, on my part, believe it is worth more than that to my client. I think I do not make a misstatement when I say my client would rather keep his lease than sell it for that amount." "Seventy-five." "Mr. Skip, if it is going to mean a severe money loss to you to move, if there is no other store building in Wicksville, it seems to me your offer, considering the circumstances, is low--too low." "What do you want, then? How much? If it's too high I may as well move. I'd rather lose my money moving than to give it to a man that rigged up a scheme to hold me up, anyhow." That sort of scared me and I nudged Mark, but he shook his head for me to be quiet. "Two hundred dollars is the price, Mr. Skip. That is final. You can take it or leave it. My time, I may say, is of value. You have used considerable of it. Two hundred dollars. Is it yes or no?" Skip thought a moment, and wriggled like there was a burr inside his shirt, and groaned, but he came around. "It's a skin game," says he, "and a hold-up, but I'll pay it." "All right," says Mr. Sturgis. "Pay it, then." That was the shortest and most businesslike speech I ever heard him make. He pulled the lease out of his pocket and waited. Skip, still muttering and mumbling and groaning, took out his check-book and wrote a check. Then Mr. Sturgis signed the lease over to him. "Good afternoon, Mr. Skip," says Mr. Sturgis. "I hope you will ponder over this transaction. You will find material for thought in it, I am certain. In Wicksville we believe in competition, in fair competition. We believe in doing by others as we would like to have others do by us. An old saying, Mr. Skip. In this instance you have had done to you what you have done to others.... It is not, I believe I am safe in saying, particularly pleasant. Good afternoon, Mr. Skip." Skip grabbed the lease and plunged out of the door and down the stairs. As soon as it was safe Mark and I came out. I was almost busted open with curiosity. "Say, Mark," says I, "how in tunket did you think up that scheme? How'd you ever hear about leases and sich? And law?" "I d-dun'no's I know much about 'em," says Mark. "When I went to see Mr. Mogford I wasn't more'n half sure what a lease was. It all come from readin' the papers. There was a big lawsuit in Detroit about leases, and I read accounts of it. It told consid'able. Then I asked around some. Perty soon I come to the conclusion there was somethin' to it.... And that's all." "Um!" says Mr. Sturgis. "Um!... Young man, have you chosen a profession? Have you, if I may put it so, chosen the walk of life you will follow?" "Why," says Mark, "don't b'lieve I have. I've got to g-go to college first." "I advise you, my young friend, to consider the law. I do. Should you decide to enter this most dignified and pleasant profession and return to Wicksville to practise, I shall be glad, exceedingly glad, to have you in my office--with a view to partnership at an early date. You are young, my friend, but years soon pass. How old might you be?" "Almost s-s-sixteen," says Mark. "In six or seven years you will be ready.... Think it over." "Thank you, sir," says Mark. "I'll think about it, but I guess, so far's I can see, I sort of l-like business. I calc'late to go into business, buyin' and sellin'. I hain't sure, yet, but that's how I've been figgerin'." We talked a minute more with Mr. Sturgis, and then went back to the store. It was time, for it was Saturday and things were beginning to liven up. CHAPTER XIV When I told Tallow and Binney how we'd harpooned Mr. Skip for two hundred dollars they were so tickled they almost jumped out of their shoes. Tallow wanted to go over and stand in front of the Five-and-Ten-Cent Store to gibe at Jehoshaphat, but Mark wouldn't have it. He said Skip didn't know who was at the bottom of the scheme, and wasn't going to find out yet. Mark had his reasons, and, because he owned the scheme, so to speak, we did as he said. Two hundred dollars! That made up for the hundred we had to send mother and gave us an extra hundred into the bargain--and about a million dollars' worth of satisfaction. It beats all how you can make money if you happen to know how. Mark Tidd didn't spend more than a couple of hours earning this--but I suppose he did two hundred dollars' worth of thinking, or he wouldn't have made a go of it. He says if you want to make money you've either got to do the money's worth of work or the money's worth of figuring. I expect he's right. Business was pretty fair the rest of the day. We didn't close until half past ten, and we were good and tired, I can tell you. Our beauty contest was getting along fine. Nobody forgot to ask for votes when they bought a dime's worth, and the big talk of the day was about Old Miller and his thousand votes. I don't suppose there was anybody in that contest who didn't hope to pry those votes away from Old Mose, and everybody was looking for a hint about how to go at it. Mark Tidd was the chief hinter. He told every one the same thing. "If I was you," says he to everybody that asked his advice, "I'd w-w-wait till sometime when Mose was likely to be alone. Sometime like Sunday afternoon. Then I'd go out to his place like I was j-just makin' him a call. 'Twouldn't do any harm to talk about cats. Just mention cats casual-like. It'll s'prise you how it'll strike him. Then you might edge along and m-mention that you got a kitten. Tell him you hate to spare that kitten, but, seein' who he is and what a high regard you got for him, you'll fetch it out for him. Don't mention votes yet. See if you can't git him to m-mention 'em himself. Yes, sir, if I was you I'd go out about half past two; he'll be through dinner then and feelin' perty good." That's the answer Mark had for everybody. Cats! We found out a couple of months ago how Old Mose hates cats--hates 'em and is afraid of 'em. He'd rather pet a rattlesnake than a cat. That night as we were walking home Mark says: "Guess we b-better meet about two o'clock and slide out to Old Mose's. Shouldn't be s'prised if there was somethin' there to see that 'u'd be worth watchin'." We wouldn't be surprised, either, and you can bet we agreed to meet him. Sunday morning everybody in Wicksville went to church and the young folks stayed to Sunday-school. I hurried through my dinner and was at Mark's house before he was through. _He_ didn't hurry his dinner. Not much! Anybody that finds Mark Tidd slighting a meal wants to report it, for it'll be one of the wonders of the world. No, he wasn't through yet and Mrs. Tidd made me come in and eat a piece of apple-pie. Mark was just finishing up his second piece and was looking covetous-like at the third, but his mother put her foot down and wouldn't let him have it. So he finished off with an apple and a banana and a bit of rice-pudding left from yesterday and then said he guessed he'd put half a dozen cookies in his pocket to eat on the way. By that time Tallow and Binney came along and we started out the river road to Old Mose's. We began going cautious before we got in sight of the farm, because we didn't want Mose to see us and we didn't want anybody from Wicksville to know we had put up a joke on them--that would be bad for business. So we turned off the road and dodged closer, all the time keeping out of sight behind shocks of corn in the field that was next to Old Mose's farm-yard. We crept up behind a clump of lilac-bushes and then craned our necks to see where we could find a good place to hide and watch what went on. Old Mose was out on his porch, playing his phonograph. He had one of those talking-records going--we could hear it plain as could be. All at once we heard him yell: "Shut up! Shut up! I tell you. Hain't you been jawin' enough? Say! Hain't you goin' to give a man no peace?" Then he jumped up and shut off the machine. Of course the talking stopped. Old Mose grinned proud-like, just as if he'd done something worth while. "Haw!" says he, "you will, eh? You will set there and jaw and jaw! I'll show you. Jest like all folks, hain't you? Want to keep wagglin' your tongue all the time. But I kin shut you up. Old Mose is the feller that kin turn you off." He sat down and chuckled and talked to himself and paid his respects to the way folks like to talk for quite a spell. Then he got up and started off another talking-record. He let it run about two minutes and then up and began yelling at _it_. "Whoa-up! You've talked enough, mister. Close your mouth and give a body a chance to think." And up he jumped to turn off the machine again. He acted just as tickled this time as he did before. I never saw anybody get so much pleasure out of anything. "He d-didn't buy that phonograph to run," says Mark. "He bought it to sh-sh-shut off." Yes, sir, that was it. The thing he wanted that machine for was to have something that talked that he could shut up whenever he wanted to. The satisfaction he got out of ordering wax records to keep quiet and then making them mind him was a caution. About a dozen feet to our right was a shed with a roof that sloped back toward the fence. The front of it wasn't over eight feet from the porch. A clump of sumach grew toward the road and would hide anybody who was of a mind to lie on top of it, and a maple-tree grew right up behind. It was the bulliest kind of a hiding-place. We made for it one at a time, and in three minutes and a half we were all up there, lying in a row, overlooking Old Mose and his porch and his phonograph. We could see and hear everything that went on without a bit of danger of anybody seeing us. "'Most t-time the folks were comin'," says Mark in a whisper. "Yes," says I. "Here comes a buggy up the road now." Sure enough, there was a buggy, only there were two of them, and they were coming pell-mell for election. It was a race. We could hear the drivers yelling at their horses and leaning over the dashboards to larrup them with their whips. Side by side they came, rolling and pitching and looking for all the world as if they were going to bang into each other or turn bottom side up any minute. At first we couldn't see who was in them for the dust they kicked up, but pretty soon they came near enough so we could tell it was Chet Weevil and Chancy Miller. They galloped their horses right up to Old Mose's front gate and then pulled them in so quick they almost busted the lines. Neither one waited to tie up, but just jumped over the wheel and made for the gate. It wasn't a very wide gate, and it opened outward. Chet got there just a tenth of a second ahead, but before he could get the gate open Chancy banged into him and began clawing at him and pushing to get past. Chet hung on to the gate and Chancy hung on to Chet. Old Mose got up and stood looking at them with his jaw dropped down and his eyes big as turnips. He was so surprised he couldn't even move. Chet kept on hanging to the gate and fumbling for the catch. Chancy tugged and jerked and braced his feet--and all at once the gate swung open and down they went, with Chancy on the bottom. Chet's elbow went kerplump into his stomach, and Chancy let loose a yell that was mournfuler than a cow mooing when she's lost track of her calf. Chet jumped up quick to make a dash into the yard, but Chancy reached out and grabbed his foot, and down he went on his nose. Then it seemed like both of them forgot just why they came. For a while votes and Old Mose left their minds entirely, and they set themselves to the job of pulling each other to pieces. By this time Old Mose was coming to a little, but hadn't got so he could talk much yet. But his mad was getting up. First he began to step up and down like the porch was too hot for his feet. Then he began waggling his head and working his jaw. Then he began sawing the air with his arms. All that exercise cleared out his throat so it could be used, and out came a yell. It wasn't a word and didn't mean anything; it was just a yell, but it was a mad yell. I've heard a lot of yells at one time and another, but I don't remember any one of them that beat this one of Mose's much. He went hobbling down the path to the gate and slammed it shut. Outside in the sand Chet and Chancy were wallowing and clawing around and pulling hair and kicking and trying to rub each other's faces in the dirt. Old Mose leaned over the gate and watched them. All of a sudden he chuckled. It wasn't a good-natured chuckle, by any means, but the sort of a chuckle a mean man gives when he sees something disagreeable happening to somebody he doesn't like. He leaned over farther and began yelling at Chet and Chancy. "Give it to him. That's the way. Come squabblin' around my gate, will you! Git a holt on to his nose, there. Whee!... Shove his face in the dirt. Who! Consarn ye--both of ye! Hope ye git them dude clothes fixed for once. Grab him by the collar. Ya-aah! Whoop!" He was going on at a great rate when another buggy stopped and out climbed Mrs. Bloom. She looked for a minute, and then swooped down on Chancy and Chet like a mad turkey hen and grabbed each of them by the handiest part she could get a hold of. "Git right up," says she. "Hain't you ashamed of yourselves, fightin' like two roosters--and on Sunday afternoon! Where's the town marshal? Git right up out of a body's way. I want to git through that gate. Git up, I say, and let a body by." "Want to git through this gate, do ye?" says Old Mose. "I got somethin' to say about that. What d'ye want to git through this gate for? I don't want ye. Hain't got no use for wimmin folks, anyhow, and special I hain't got no use for gabblin' wimmin folks. You jest git into that buggy of yourn and go away from here." "Why, Mr. Miller!" says she, sweet as honey all of a sudden. "I didn't see you standin' there. How be you this afternoon?" "Sick," says Old Mose, "and gittin' worse fast." Before Mrs. Bloom could say anything back two more buggies came to a stop and out got Mrs. Peterson and two young women that were after votes for Professor Pilkins. By this time Chet and Chancy got untangled, and two such looking critters you never saw. Dirty! And their clothes were torn, and their collars were half off, and they were daubed and scratched and red and panting and pretty clost to crying. All they could do was lean on the fence and glare at each other and try to get back their breath. The three last women started for the gate. Old Mose looked at them and began backing off. All of a sudden he started on a run for the house and slammed inside. In just a minute he came back with a pail of steaming water. He was getting ready to defend his fortification. He went down close to the gate and held the pail threatening-like, and says: "Don't ye open that gate, not any of ye. The fust one to set foot on my land gits this b'ilin' water. Git, now! Git right out of here 'fore I send for the sheriff of this here county. Git!" But nobody got. Instead of that more folks began arriving. As far as I could see down the road buggies were coming--more than a dozen of them. There were men and women and kids, and they all congregated in a knot outside of the gate. But nobody offered to go in--not with that pail of boiling water to face. Mrs. Peterson spoke up. "Why, Mr. Miller," says she, "what's the meanin' of this? Here I drive 'way out here of a Sunday afternoon just to fetch you this punkin-pie, and this is how I git treated." She glowered at the rest of the crowd. "What's these folks doin' here? They ought to be ashamed of themselves--pesterin' a poor old defenseless man." "Poor old defenseless man, eh? Jest you stick a foot this side of my gate and you'll see how defenseless I be. Jest stick a _toe_ inside!" Everybody began to talk at once. They crowded up to the gate and sassed each other and tried to be polite to Old Mose at the same time. 'Most everybody had brought him a pie or a cake or something. The old man was so mad he just hopped up and down and raved at them. Right there Mark Tidd made a noise like a cat. He could imitate a kitten so it sounded more natural than the kitten doing it himself. Old Mose straightened up and cocked his ear. Mark let him have it again. "Scat!" he yelled, looking around scared-like. "Scat!" Well, that reminded folks of the cat. Mrs. Bloom spoke up and says: "Mr. Miller, I got the cunnin'est kitten to home. I set a heap of store by it, but knowin' how fond you be of cats I dun'no' but I'd be willin' to give it to you--" She never got any farther because everybody in the crowd--and there were twenty if there was one--set up a yell about _their_ kittens. A couple of folks actually had brought cats along and held them up in the air for Old Mose to see. The old man just took one look and let his pail of water go swoosh right into the crowd. Pretty lucky it had time to cool, but it was just as wet as ever. You never saw such a mess! Chet and Chancy got first choice of it, but everybody got all he had any use for. Those two young fellows, though, looked like they had taken their Sunday baths with their clothes on. Nobody waited. Everybody decided he wanted to be somewhere else, and they scattered like a bunch of quail when you walk into the middle of them. Old Mose began yelling after them. Then he charged through the gate in pursuit, and first off he grabbed Chancy. "Hey, you," says he, giving him a shake that must have loosened his curly hair, "what's this about, anyhow? What's the reason everybody in Wicksville's pesterin' around my front door? Eh? What's the reason?" He gave Chancy another shake. "Out with it. What's fetched this gang of lunatics here? Tell me 'fore I shake the ears off'n you." Chancy choked and coughed and got his voice. "Votes," says he in a sort of husky whisper. "Votes?" says Old Mose. "What votes?" "Beauty contest," says everybody, crowding around. "You got them thousand votes and nobody to vote 'em for.... Handsomest man in Wicksville--" "Huh!" says Old Mose. "And you lunatics come out here hopin' to pry them votes out of me, eh? Thought you'd fool Old Mose Miller with pies and cakes, eh? Votes.... I'll vote ye. If this here was the homeliest-man contest, nobody'd git them votes, I can tell ye. Vote 'em myself, then. Take study, though. Homeliest man in Wicksville. There'd be a contest! Everybody could git into it. Hain't much to choose. Votes.... Jest stand there a minute, and don't a one of you dast step on to my premises." He turned and went into the house. In a couple of jiffies he was back with his hands full of votes. The folks drew a long breath and crowded closer. "Ye want votes, eh?" says he as he got to the fence. "Well, then, help yourselves." At that he began chucking handfuls of them into the faces of the crowd, and chuckling. Handful after handful he threw--and everybody began a scramble. It was the worst mix-up that ever happened within a hundred miles of Wicksville. Everybody was in it--and in it to get votes. I never saw such a tangle of human beings. I bet there wasn't one of them could have sorted himself out and got his own arms and legs to save his life. And noise! It's lucky it was so far out in the country. Squealing and gouging and kicking and scratching. My! my! And all the time Old Mose leaned over the fence to sic them on and chuckle. The air was full of votes and arms and legs and noises! That sort of thing can't keep up long, but it's fine to watch while it keeps on. In two or three minutes folks began to feel around to find if they were all there and to scramble out of the mess. It didn't take them long to get separated--and there they stood, everybody clutching a few votes in his hand and glaring at everybody else. Then all of a sudden it seemed like everybody got ashamed. A scurry for the buggies set in, and the whole crowd, still as anything and, I expect, wishing they hadn't come, started off for town. The only folks who were pleased all the way through were Old Mose Miller and us fellows on top of the shed. Mark Tidd was laughing that still laugh of his till I was afraid he'd roll off the roof. "B-b-beauty contest!" says he. "Don't seem like folks would make such idiots of themselves over a contest that don't make any difference to anybody!" I says. Mark chuckled again. "'Tain't the reason for the c-c-contest that counts," he says, "it's that it _is_ a contest. The whole idee of the thing is that nobody likes to have anybody else b-b-beat them at anything." "That's so," says I. "Seems like I'd be sorrier to have Jehoshaphat P. Skip beat us than I would be to lose the Bazar." "Um!" says Mark. "Neither of these things is l-l-likely to happen." And then we sneaked back home. CHAPTER XV In spite of all we could do, business fell off. It was just as I had argued from the very beginning--there wasn't enough trade in Wicksville for two stores like ours and Jehoshaphat P. Skip's. Even if we got half or more than half, it wouldn't keep us running. Of course I know as well as anybody else that Mark Tidd's schemes had made folks buy more than they usually did, and for a couple of weeks we sold more than my father generally sold in that much time, but pretty soon everybody was stocked up with the sort of stuff we had and things were about as bad as ever. The week after the rumpus at Old Mose Miller's things started out pretty fair, but along about Wednesday it got dull, and from then on there weren't enough customers to pay to keep the doors open. It seemed like we just couldn't draw them in, and I expect it was as bad at Skip's. In fact, I _know_ it was, for we kept watch on him pretty close. If things kept on like they were going, neither one of the stores could last. Skip would put us out of business, but he would put himself out of business doing it. I said so to Mark and he told me to keep thinking about it if I got any particular satisfaction out of it, which I didn't. Saturday came along, and though we advertised and trimmed our windows and fixed up special-bargain-tables, it didn't do a bit of good. And right there, that very morning, along comes Jehoshaphat P. with an announcement that with every dollar's purchase he would give a ticket to the moving-picture show that had started up in the opera-house. Mark Tidd was so mad at himself he could have taken a bite out of his own ear if he could have got hold of it. "Sh-should have thought of that myself," he says, and went sulking to the back of the store and wouldn't have anything to do with anybody for a couple of hours. There he sat, scowling and whittling--and we kept away from him as far as we could. I know just how bad he felt. For once he didn't have a scheme. Yes, sir. Right there he seemed to go dry. We expected him to come up with a new idea that would stand Skip and his moving-picture show on their heads, but he didn't. He never said a word. I guess he'd been thinking up so many plans that he was about run dry. And I don't blame him. I'd have run dry long before. But just the same it was the most discouraging thing that had happened to us yet. So long as Mark Tidd kept going there was hope, but if he began to slip we might just as well close the doors and give the Bazar to Jehoshaphat. That day we did a little business, and for the next week we sold enough so there was something to send mother at the end of the week, but we didn't lay a cent aside. We paid expenses and a little over. If there had been clerks to pay we would have come out behind. Most of the time Mark sat back on a packing-box and whittled. We left him alone. He was as worried as we were, and we knew he was trying, trying every minute. I guess the only thing that kept our heads above water was that beauty contest. Folks kept right on being interested in that and watched for results every time we put up names. Principal Pilkins, with a lot of young ladies working for him, was climbing up pretty fast. Mr. Peterson was coming strong, too. His wife stirred up a lot of votes for him, and so did Mrs. Bloom for her husband. One week one of them would be ahead, and the next week the other would shoot into the lead. Then there were Chet and Chancy! I guess those two gave up everything else to run down votes. They begged them and borrowed them and worked for them and traded for them. Yes, that is a fact. Votes got to be a sort of money among the boys. You were always sure you could swap them for something. Most of the time there was a boy or so hanging around the front of the Bazar to ask everybody that came out for the votes they'd got. Some people weren't interested a bit, and would toss them over. So the boys managed to get a stock. Those five were in the lead a little. You never could tell which one would come out ahead until there was a count. But at least a dozen more men were up where they had a chance. So everybody was interested, and almost everybody was mad at somebody else. That's all that kept us going. The next week Mark managed to think up a couple of things to interest folks. One was a guessing-contest. He filled a big bottle with beans and put it in the window. Everybody who bought a nickel's worth could have a guess at how many beans there were, and the one who came nearest was to get a prize. If it was a lady she got a pair of gloves, and if it was a man he got a patent safety razor that looked like a cross between the cow-catcher on an engine and a hoe. Wicksville was quite a place to guess, so we got in a little trade with that. That week we did better than the week before. But after we had sent mother what she needed we only put by five dollars in the bank. We were still nearly three hundred dollars away from having enough to pay Jehoshaphat P. Skip his five hundred dollars and get free from the chattel mortgage. "Mark," says I, that Saturday night as we were closing up, "how about it? Of course we've got to hang on as long as we can for the folks' sake, but we're beat, hain't we? Jehoshaphat has sunk our ship." Mark was mad in a minute. "S-sunk nothin'!" says he. "We got a couple of weeks more, and who knows what'll turn up? I'm a-goin' to think of somethin'. I know I am. It'll come. So don't you go gittin' any more downhearted than you can help. Jehoshaphat P. Skip isn't goin' to b-b-bust this business while I got a leg to stand on." "All right," says I, "but your leg's gettin' sawed off fast." He didn't say anything to that. I guess there wasn't anything to say. After a while he says: "There's ways of makin' m-m-money--of makin' a lot of it at once. That's what I've been figgerin' on. If we could just pay off Skip I believe this business will go along. I don't b-believe two businesses like his and ours can make a living in Wicksville. But I do b-believe we'll be the one that's left. He can't afford to keep on, and we can't afford to quit. And there you are." "Then," I says, sarcastic-like, "all we got to do is raise three hundred dollars in six or eight days." He squinted at me, but didn't say anything. "We've been tryin' to raise that money for five weeks," I says. "Five weeks! And what have we got to show for it? Two hundred dollars! That's how much. Just git out your pencil and figger it up: if it takes four boys five weeks to raise two hundred dollars, what chance have they got to raise three hundred in one week?" Then we went home. Sunday, just before dinner--I was invited over to Mark's for dinner that day--Zadok Biggs came driving his peddler's wagon into the yard. We could hear him coming for a block, his tin dishes rattling and his whistle going. "Marching Through Georgia" was what he whistled, and you should hear the way he can rip it out. There are trills and runs and wiggles and bird-calls and all sorts of things. I expect he's the best whistler in Michigan. He sat on the seat looking down as important as a brand-new poll-parrot and didn't say a word for a minute. Then he put his hand on his hip and stuck out his chest and says: "Opportunity. Have you heard Zadok Biggs mention that word before? Eh? I believe I have mentioned it. I am sure I have pronounced it in your hearing. Have I not?" "You have," says I. "Zadok Biggs has been thinking of you--of all four of you boys engaged in the mercantile enterprise--business is the more usual expression--of running Smalley's Bazar. I have thought of you often. I have asked myself if I could be of assistance to you. I have looked about me to discover an opportunity to offer you." He drew himself up again and cocked his head as if he'd done something to be mighty proud of. "It was not in vain, says I. I looked--and I saw. I come to-day bringing you an opportunity. What have you to say to that? An opportunity. I bring it to-day." "I say," says Mark Tidd, "that it comes at a l-l-lucky time." "Get down and come in," says Mrs. Tidd. "Dinner's all ready and there's chicken and biscuits in gravy and pumpkin-pie and--" Zadok didn't let her finish. "Don't repeat the bill of fare, ma'am. It is not necessary. What there will be I do not care. That I am to dine with the parents of Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd is enough. Any food prepared by the hand of Mrs. Tidd is better than a banquet. I will come down. I am coming down. See--I am down." It was a fact. He was down, and went trotting ahead of us into the house. "The opportunity--" he started in; but Mrs. Tidd cut him off. "You can fuss around with your opportunity after dinner," she says. "I don't want these vittles to get cold. Set right down and 'tend to eatin'." So we sat down, and you can bet we did 'tend to eating. I expect Mrs. Tidd is one of the reasons why Mark is so fat. Anybody would be that ate the kind of things she cooks every day. Why, Mrs. Tidd can take a cold potato and the hoop off a barrel and a handful of marbles and make a meal out of them that beats anything you can get even at a city hotel! After dinner we went into the parlor and Mr. Tidd got down his _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ and started to read to us, but Mrs. Tidd stopped _him_. Mrs. Tidd was boss around there. "Now, pa," says she, "you put that book right up. Mr. Biggs has something he wants to tell the boys." "Um!" says Mr. Tidd, "that's so. I was clean forgetting all about it. I guess the _Decline and Fall_ will wait a spell. But I would like to read 'em jest this leetle piece here--" He started to open up the book again, but Mrs. Tidd took it right out of his hand and put it on the table. "Go on, Mr. Biggs," says she. "I'll see you don't get interrupted." "Thank you, ma'am. Thank you a thousand times. A wonderful woman, boys. A remarkable woman. Also a remarkable man. Did he not invent a turbine that has made him rich? Eh? He did. Zadok Biggs knows well that he did. Did he not name his son Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus? Eh? He did. That was an achievement, boys. Where is another name like that? Where--" "You're interruptin' yourself," says Mrs. Tidd. "Um," says Zadok, making a little face. "Well, ma'am, I'm on the right track now.... I have an opportunity--an opportunity for anybody in the bazar business. Especially anybody who has to compete with a five-and-ten-cent store. The opportunity is in Sunfield. Where, you may ask, is Sunfield? It is a village not thirty miles from here." We knew that as well as he did. "It is a little village, a pretty village. It is a village you will always think of kindly when I tell you of the opportunity that is to be found there." "Well, then," says Mrs. Tidd, "why don't you tell about it?" Zadok swallowed hard, but he grinned and went on. "There's a man in Sunfield who started up a five-and-ten-cent store. Pretty store. Good stock. Nice man. Then what did he do? Why, friends, he got sick. His doctor says he must go West. He is going West. What, then, becomes of the store? It is to be sold. The owner is even now looking for a purchaser--for somebody to buy it is the more common phrase." He stopped and beamed around at us. "There," says he, "is the opportunity." Right along I'd been hoping. I thought maybe Zadok had hit on something that would help us out, but when I heard what it was my heart plopped right down into my boots. What good was the stock of a five-and-ten-cent store to us? We couldn't buy a postage-stamp to send a letter to Sunfield, let alone a stock of goods. I looked at Mark. He didn't look like he was disappointed. He didn't look happy, either, but he did look thoughtful. Right off I saw he thought he could see something in it. "How m-much does he want for it?" Mark says. "It can be purchased cheaply. The owner must have cash. He will sacrifice. That stock must be worth close to a couple of thousand dollars. I believe, and my belief is not without foundation, that you can buy it for half of that." "Hum!" says Mark. "Hum!... Complete stock?" "As fine a stock as you'd wish to see." "We'll go over to s-see it to-morrow, Plunk," says Mark. I shrugged my shoulders. "What's the use?" says I. "We can't buy it, and if we could, what would we do with it?" "I dun'no'," says he. "Maybe we could figger on s-some way of buyin' it. I've seen sicker horses 'n that g-git well." "But not on the kind of medicine we got to give 'em," says I. "Anyhow," says Mark, "we'll go over t-to-morrow. You don't need to, though, Plunk, if you don't think it's worth while. But I'm goin'. I'm goin' to see that stock. I'm goin' to have a look at Zadok Biggs's opportunity." "I knew it," said Zadok. "I knew Marcus Aurelius would not disappoint me. I knew he would see the possibilities of this opportunity. I do not blame you, Plunk Smalley, for failing to see them. It was not to be expected. There is only one Marcus Tidd. Only one." "Yes," says I, "and that one has bit off a leetle more'n he can chaw comfortable this time." Mark didn't even look at me. He was pinching his cheek and squinting up his eyes like he does when his mind is about as busy as it can be. Pretty soon he looked up at Zadok. "Say," says he, "can you tell me, Zadok, what an option is, and how it works?" Well, sir, Zadok jumped right up and danced. "I knew it," says he. "I knew Marcus Tidd would see the opportunity. I knew he would never miss it. What is an option? That's what he asks. You heard him. Now listen and Zadok Biggs will explain. He will make an option so clear to you that--that even Plunk Smalley will be able to make one with his eyes shut." "Well," says Mrs. Tidd, "what _is_ an option?" "The man who wrote the dictionary," Zadok explained, "says an option is a right to make a deal or not to make it before a certain time. Not very clear, is it? I will enlighten you--make it plain to you is the customary way of saying it. Suppose I want to buy a cow from Mr. Tidd. I want that cow, and I don't want anybody else to get it before I do. But, alas! I haven't enough money to pay what Mr. Tidd asks. What do I do? I take an option. I go to Mr. Tidd and say, 'Mr. Tidd, I will give you a dollar if you will agree not to sell that cow to anybody else before next Tuesday, and if you will agree to sell it to me any time before Tuesday for forty-one dollars.'" "That's too much for a cow," says Mrs. Tidd. "This is an imaginary cow," says Zadok. Then he grinned all over. "That kind is more expensive, ma'am, because they don't eat up any fodder.... Well, that's an option. It's where somebody else agrees to sell you something on or before a certain day, and not to sell it to anybody else in the mean time. Understand?" He said that to me, because, _I_ expect, he thought if I understood it it must be clear to everybody else. "But," says I, "suppose you pay a dollar for the right to buy Mr. Tidd's cow on Tuesday, and then when Tuesday comes you haven't any money?" "Why, then, Plunk, Mr. Tidd can sell his cow to anybody else he wants to." "But don't it cost me anything?" "Nothing but the dollar you paid him to wait till Tuesday for you." "Huh," says I, "I understand options, all right, but for the life of me I can't see what good they're going to do us." I looked over at Mark Tidd, expecting him to explain, but I guess he was a little provoked at me because I didn't think much of the whole scheme, whatever it was, and so he shut his mouth tight like the lid of a trunk and wouldn't say a word. "We'd better get an early start," says he, "and t-take no chances." "Yes, indeed," says Zadok. "Are you going to c-come, Plunk?" Mark asked. "Sure," says I, "if I can be of any help." "Well," says he, grinning a more cheerful grin than I'd seen on his face for weeks, "you can't do any harm, anyhow." CHAPTER XVI On my way home from Mark Tidd's house--where I left Mark and Zadok Biggs eating away at a big dishpanful of popcorn and about a peck of apples--I walked down-town and past the store just to see that everything was all right. It was, so I passed on by and crossed over to take a look at the Five-and-Ten-Cent Store. Just as I got to the door out came that clerk of Jehoshaphat P. Skip's. You should have seen him! Dressed up? Well, I should say he was! And there was _perfumery_ on him. Now, honest, what do you think of a full-grown man that'll douse himself with smelly stuff? He looked like he'd just stepped out of a picture in a magazine advertising some sort of a collar or patent necktie or something. "How'dy do?" says he. "How's the contest comin' along?" "Good," says I. "It's anybody's race yet." "D'you figger I got any chance?" "Well," says I, looking him over careful, "if everybody in Wicksville was to get a look at you now I don't see how anybody else would have a chance." "'Most everybody's seen me," says he, smirking like a sick puppy. "I went to the Methodist church this mornin', and to the young folks' meetin' at the Congregational church this afternoon, and I'm goin' to the Baptis' church right now. I calc'lated I'd stir around consid'able so folks'd have a chance to judge me, so to speak." "They'll see you, all right," says I, "unless they've all got cataracts in their eyes. The way you look right now, mister, it 'u'd be pretty hard to miss you." "Think so?" says he, grinning again as pleased as could be. "How's Jehoshaphat?" says I. "Kind of crusty," says he. "He's always a-pickin' at me. I'm always glad when he goes off somewheres for a day. Then I git a minnit or so to myself. He's a-goin' off to-morrow," says he. "Where?" says I, not out of curiosity, but just to say something. "Sunfield," says he. "It's a leetle town nigh to twenty-five miles over." "What ever's he goin' to Sunfield for?" says I, beginning to get interested. "I don't really know exact, but from things he's said I guess he's calc'latin' on startin' up another five-and-ten-cent store there. There's a feller that wants to sell out, as near as I kin git the facts, and Mr. Skip is hankerin' to buy." Well, sir, what do you think of that? It looked like we were bound to run up against this Skip man wherever we went and whatever we did. Now he was trying to buy the same stock of goods Mark Tidd had his heart set on buying. I couldn't see what Mark wanted of that stock, for we had all we could look after, and, anyhow, we didn't have any thousand dollars to spend for it. It looked like a crazy notion to me, but just the minute I heard Skip was after it I felt different about it. I wanted to get there first. I was going to help Mark Tidd all I could. It didn't matter what we did with that store when we got it, I was for getting it so Skip couldn't. Maybe that was a mean way to feel--but Skip was the kind of man that makes you feel mean. I got rid of Mr. Perfume-smelling Clerk as soon as I could and hurried up to Mark Tidd's. He and Zadok were still at the popcorn. I calculate that between them they'd eaten more of it than any two folks ever ate before in one afternoon. I didn't wait to knock, but went busting right in. "Skip's after it," says I. "After what?" says Mark. "The Sunfield five-and-ten-cent store," says I. "Oh!" says Mark, and he grinned at Zadok. "D-don't get excited, Plunk." "Excited," says I. "We got to beat him, hain't we?" "Yes," says Zadok, "you must beat him. You must arrive first on the scene." "You act like you knew Skip was goin'," says I. I felt a little sore because they didn't seem to think my news was important. "We didn't know," says Mark, "b-but we hoped." "Hoped?" says I. "Yes," says Mark. "We was hankerin' to have J-jehoshaphat start for Sunfield." "But how come he to hear of it?" Zadok stuck out his chest and looked important. "Zadok Biggs," says he. "It was Zadok Biggs that did it. Zadok Biggs told the man Skip about it." You could have knocked me over with a feather. What in the world had Zadok told Skip for? I could see it was some sort of scheme Mark Tidd and he had cooked up, but it looked funny to me. They didn't offer to explain, though, so I says: "Do we git an early start?" "Yes," says Mark. "Five o'clock." "But we weren't going to start till six." "Didn't know for sure Jehoshaphat was goin' then," says he. "Then my finding it out did amount to somethin'?" says I. "You bet it did, Plunk," says he, and he got up and banged me on the back. "You can just b-b-bet it did." Well, I felt some better after that, and went off, leaving Mark and Zadok to talk about their old plan that they were so close-mouthed about. I shouldn't have been put out, though, for I found out afterward that Mark hadn't told me because it would be such a big disappointment to me if it didn't come out right. I might have known there was a good reason. Mark Tidd was the sort of fellow who always thinks about other folks' feelings. There wasn't any train that would take us from Wicksville to Sunfield, so there was nothing to do but drive. Mark brought along his father's horse and buggy. Since Mr. Tidd got rich he kept a horse. He could have afforded half a dozen automobiles if he'd wanted to, but he didn't have them. It wasn't because he was stingy, for he didn't care anything in particular about money. It was just because he was such a simple-minded, dreamy sort of man. And Mrs. Tidd was that sensible there wasn't anybody like her. They lived in the same house and lived in the same way they had lived when they were poor. It seemed like all their money hadn't made a cent's worth of difference in them. Well, Mark drove up to my house just before five o'clock, and we started out. Binney and Tallow were around to see us off, and Mark told them to keep watch and telephone to the hotel in Wilkinstown as soon as Skip started and leave a message for us. Wilkinstown was nine miles over toward Sunfield. Then we started off. You'd never believe it, but just as we were getting into Wilkinstown the horse went lame. We got out and looked him over, but we didn't know enough about horses to tell what the matter was, so we drove on slow and cautious to the livery barn. The man there took a look at the horse and mentioned some kind of a thing that gets the matter with a horse's foot and said the horse mustn't be driven again for at least a week. Not for a week! That was a pretty kettle of fish. "H'm!" says I to Mark. "Looks like we walk back." "Back!" says Mark. "If we do any walkin' it'll be ahead." "Sixteen miles to Sunfield," says I. Mark turned around to the liveryman. "Got a good horse to rent us?" "Nary horse," says the man. "Every rig I got's engaged. Travelin' men rented 'em last night." "Anybody else r-rent horses here?" "Nobody," says the man. "We g-got to git to Sunfield," says Mark. "How'll we manage it?" "Walk," says the man. "Hain't there an automobile?" says I. "Nary a soul in this burg owns one of them things," says he. "Nine miles to Wicksville--sixteen miles to Sunfield," says I to myself. "Come on up to the hotel," says Mark. "Let's see if the f-fellers have telephoned." They had telephoned. The hotel man gave us the message. "Skip left at seven-thirty in an auto," it says. There you are! Skip had left in a machine--that could get to Sunfield three times as fast as a horse. We were in Wilkinstown without even a horse. "I calc'late," says I, "that here's where Jehoshaphat gits to buy a five-and-ten-cent store." Mark's little eyes were sparkling and his lips were pressed tight and his jaw was set. "We're a-goin' to git to Sunfield," says he, "and we're a-goin' to git there f-f-first." My, how he stuttered it! "Sure," says I. "I forgot all about my new airoplane. You kin just as well use it as not." He didn't say anything back, but in a minute he asked me, "Know anything about automobiles, Plunk?" "They're contraptions," says I, "with four wheels--one at each corner--and they've got an engine in 'em, and a thing to steer 'em by. Sure I know about 'em." He started talkin' to himself. "It's fair," says he. "It's fair to d-do it. He's done things to us--and we _got_ to win out. It won't do any d-damage. It won't h-hurt anybody.... It's f-fair, and I'm goin' to do it." I could see he was arguing out something or other. Some scheme he had was a little doubtful to him. Now there's one thing about Mark Tidd, no matter how much he wants to win, or what it would mean for him to lose, he plays fair. He wouldn't use a scheme that wasn't honest and aboveboard, no matter how certain it was to win. That's the kind of a fellow he was. "Plunk," says he, "we've got to stop that auto." "All right," says I, "let's tie a rope across the road." He knew I was joking and grinned a little. "No," says he, "we got to stop it so Jehoshaphat won't know he's been stopped on purpose." But before we had a chance to do anything we heard an auto coming up the road. I got up and looked. It was Skip and a fellow I didn't know in a little runabout. "It's him," says I to Mark. Mark didn't say anything, but his little eyes were sending off sparks and his face looked sort of set. It looked as though we'd never get a chance at the Sunfield store. In another minute she went whizzing by. I looked at Mark and he looked at me. Somehow it didn't seem possible he'd gone right by and left us there. But then came a surprise. The car went right along to the hotel, and then it stopped. Skip went inside for something, and Mark and I sneaked down and hid behind a shed. We heard Skip telephoning inside. He came out in about five minutes. Just as he was getting into the car he looked down and scowled and said something under his breath. "You've got a flat tire, Clancy," says he, and then he up and expressed his opinion of flat tires in words and syllables and sentences. I gathered he didn't think much of them. Clancy got out and looked. "Flat tire," says he. "Three flat tires, mister. It's a regular epidemic," says he. "Well," says Skip, "you might as well git at fixin' 'em. We can't spend all day on the road." At that he turned around and went into the hotel again, and didn't come out till Clancy had the tires all fixed up and ready to go. But Clancy didn't hurry any. First he took off his coat and then he wiped his face, for the dust had been flying, and then he lifted the hood of the car and peeked inside. There wasn't any reason for it in particular, I guess, but automobile men seem to like to look at their engines whenever they get a chance. "I wonder," says he to himself, "if I can git some oil in this metropolis." He started out to find if he could, and left the car standing. "There's your chance," stuttered Mark. "Good-by," says I, waving my hand. "Tell the folks I went agin the enemy as brave as a lion." Then I went for the car. It was no trick at all to reach inside for a wire that would put the ignition out of business. I unscrewed it at both ends. Unscrewing one end would have stopped the machine, but there would have been a wire dangling, and any idiot would know that was what the matter was. But I took the wire clean out. It would take a pretty good repair-man to trace the trouble, especially when there wasn't any way for a wire to get out of the car, and when the car had been running along as nicely as possible. I stuck the wire in my pocket and slid back where Mark was. "I guess," says I, "that Mr. Skip'll stay put for a while, anyhow." "C-come on, then," says he. "We'll light out for Sunfield." "Sixteen miles," says I. "We'll git to ride part of it, anyhow," says he. "But," says I, "I want to stay and watch Jehoshaphat when that car won't start. I want to see that man Clancy crank. It'll be a reg'lar three-ring circus with a menagerie tent and a side-show." He sort of hesitated a minute, for Mark enjoyed a joke as well as anybody else, but he shook his head and says: "Nope, Plunk, we got to hoof it for Sunfield. We've g-got to git there first. We've _got_ to, Plunk." "All right," says I. "I don't see any sense in it, but here we go." We started off through the fields, keeping out of the road so nobody would see us. There wasn't much to the village but the general store and the hotel and a couple of houses, so we were in the country again in a couple of minutes. We crossed a stubbled field and then started to cut through an orchard to the road. My! but that was a fine orchard! The trees were trimmed and the ground was not all grown up to grass the way most orchards are, but it was plowed and cultivated the way the government expert who lectured in Wicksville said it ought to be. And apples! You never saw such Spies as loaded half of the trees! "Um-m-m!" says I. "Leave 'em be," says Mark. "Most farmers d-don't mind if you take an apple to eat, but a lot of 'em are crusty as anything." So I took it out in looking, and looking at a big red apple doesn't help the appetite much. We were about half-way across the orchard when I felt as if a house had fallen on my shoulder. Something dropped and jerked me back off my feet. I just caught a glimpse of Mark out of the corner of my eye--and he was getting considerable of a jerk, too. Then a great big booming voice says: "I got ye, consarn ye! Come a-sneakin' through a man's orchard, will ye? I'll show ye. Stealin' a man's apples, eh? Oh, he! Maybe yes and maybe no. Didn't calc'late Hamilcar Janes was a-layin' for you behind a tree, eh? Oh, he!" He didn't sound mad exactly, just sort of tickled with himself for being smart enough to catch us. "Boys have been a-stealin' and a-stealin' my apples. Thought I wasn't goin' to do nothin', too. Didn't think Hamilcar Janes had git-up-and-git enough to catch 'em. Hasn't, eh? Oh, he! Just look at what Hamilcar Janes has up and done. He's catched two--a fat one and a lean one--and into the smoke-house they go. Oh, he!" He might have made a song of it if he'd been of a mind to. We tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't listen to a word. He just grinned and bragged about how he'd caught us, and marched us along by the collars. I tried to squirm loose, but I might as well have tried to jump over the moon like the old cow in the poem. That Hamilcar Janes came close to being the biggest man I ever saw. And his hands! Those hands of his were as big as blankets. "Into the smoke-house you go," says he. "I'll show ye. Won't I show ye? Well, I should guess!" And he did that very thing. He dragged us along and kicked open the door to his smoke-house and pushed us in. Then he shut the door and we could hear him barring it. "There," says he. "Try that a spell. Apples, eh? Oh, he!" Then we heard him walking off. I didn't feel much like talking, and neither did Mark, but I couldn't help saying: "Jehoshaphat'll have to be delayed consid'able if he don't git to Sunfield ahead of us." Mark nodded doleful-like. "Seems like luck was d-dead against us," says he. "But," he says, "Skip hain't got there yet--and it's early in the mornin'." CHAPTER XVII We started right in to nose around, but that smoke-house was pretty nearly air-tight. Dark! Mister, but it was dark! And it was full of cobwebs and smell and dirt. There was just as much chance of getting out of there till Mr. Hamilcar Janes let us out as there would be of sawing a bar of steel with a chunk of cheese. There wasn't a thing to do but sit down and be as patient as we could--which wasn't very patient, when you come to consider all the circumstances. One thing that made me mad was that I hadn't eaten some of Hamilcar's apples. We couldn't have been shut up a bit more if we'd eaten a bushel. Time passes pretty slow when you're sitting in the dark. I don't know how long it was before we heard a sound outside, but it seemed like it must be the next week Tuesday. Then we heard somebody holler from the road: "Hey, there, are you Mr. Janes?" "That's me," roared back the man who had captured us. "Hamilcar Janes." "Down to the hotel," says the voice, "they told me you had a horse you might rent for the day." I nudged Mark and he nudged me all at once. "Skip!" we both said. That's who it was--Jehoshaphat P. Had got tired of trying to start up that automobile, and here he was trying to hire a horse. Luck was against us hard. In a minute Hamilcar Janes spoke up and says: "I've got a hoss, mister, and I calc'late I've rented her some. But that there hoss, mister, is a sort of friend of mine. Pertty good friend, too. I hain't rentin' her to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that comes along with feet that's too lazy to carry 'em. Kin you drive a hoss, mister, like a hoss ought to be drove?" "I'll treat your animal all right," says Skip. "Where'd you want to drive her?" "Sunfield," says Skip. "Sixteen mile, nearly," says Hamilcar. "Um! Ho, hum! Give her a good rest there, mister? See she gits water and feed? Eh?" "Of course," says Skip. "Come over here closer," says Hamilcar. "I want to git a better look at you. Hain't goin' to trust that hoss to nobody I don't like the looks of." There was a little while when nobody said anything and I judged Skip was coming closer. Then Hamilcar says: "You hain't much for looks, mister, and that's a fact. I dun'no's I'd care to send my hoss off under your care." "How does that ten-dollar bill look?" says Skip. "Good-lookin' bill," says Hamilcar. "Dun'no's I ever seen a nicer-lookin' bill--but that hain't got nothin' to do with it. If I didn't calc'late my hoss'd git used well you couldn't hire her, mister, not if you was a-goin' to paper my house with ten-dollar bills. No, sir. It's like I said. That hoss and me is friends." "Plunk," says Mark to me, "I hain't very scared of Mr. Janes." "No?" says I. "Why?" "Hear what he s-says about his horse?" "Yes," says I. "Well," says he, "that kind of a man hain't very dangerous to boys.... He's all right, Mr. Janes is, whether he's l-locked us up or not." "I hope so," says I, "but if he keeps us here and then rents his horse to Skip he might as well be the meanest slinkin' scalawag in the state. It'll do us as much harm." "I dun'no'," says Mark, and then shut up tight to listen. Hamilcar was talking again. "Come to look you over, mister, I dun'no's you look _bad_. 'Tain't that, I calc'late. But, mister, you're so mortal homely it raises doubts in a feller's mind. Maybe, mister, you're as good as George Washington, but you don't look it." "I can't help what I look like," says Skip, as mad as a weasel. "What's that got to do with it? "Easy, mister, easy," says Hamilcar. "You're wantin' to rent a hoss--not me urgin' you to take her. You won't git no place by r'ilin' yourself all up. Calm down, mister, calm down." Skip said something I couldn't hear. "Well, mister," says Hamilcar, "I'll take you back and show you to the hoss. If she don't make no objection, I guess maybe you can take her. But if she don't like you, mister, you couldn't have her if you was to offer me seven dollars a mile and a new buggy throwed in. Come on." They started to come back our way. I could hear them coming closer and closer. Right in front of our door they stopped, and Hamilcar says: "What d'you calc'late I got in here, mister?" "Hams," says Jehoshaphat, sharp-like. "No," says Hamilcar. "Boys." "Boys!" "Two of 'em. Fat one and thin one. Caught 'em stealin' apples. Grabbed 'em by the collars. Shoved 'em in the smoke-house. Good idee. Teach 'em a lesson. Scare 'em some. Bet they'll keep out of my orchard after this." "Should have given 'em a lickin'," says Skip. "Uh-uh, mister. Never licked a hoss nor a boy. 'Tain't good trainin'. Mister, I calc'late you hain't got no boy." "No," says Skip, "and I hain't hankerin' after one." "There, you see! Well, mister, I hain't got no boy, either, nor no wife, nor no folks of any kind. But I'd like a boy. Yes, sir, I'd like _two_ of 'em. But I wouldn't lick 'em, mister. There's other ways and better ways.... Want to take a look at these fellers?" Well, you can believe Mark and I pretty near jumped out of our skins. What if Hamilcar showed us to Skip and Skip knew us, which he would, and put two and two together? He'd smell a rat right off--and then the fat would splash over into the fire. We held our breath and waited. "No," says Skip, "I hain't any desire to see 'em." "They're bad ones," says Hamilcar, but his voice didn't sound like he thought we were so very bad. "You never see a pair of worse ones." "Haven't time," says Skip. "Let's fix up about the horse, because I'm in a hurry to get to Sunfield. I've got a big business deal on there." Then they passed on by and we couldn't hear them any more, but in about ten minutes we heard carriage-wheels, and so we judged the horse hadn't shown any signs of disliking Skip. He'd got his carriage and was off for Sunfield while we were here, shut up in a smoke-house, with nothing but our legs even if we could get out. But right away Hamilcar Janes came to the door and says, ferocious-like: "Hello in there!" "Mr. Janes," says Mark, "we want to t-talk to you." "I'll bet you do," says he, and I could hear him chuckle. He came closer and unbarred the door and opened it. "Come out," says he, in a voice that would have frightened the stripes off a tiger. We came out as quick as we could, and it was fine to have decent air to breathe again. "There you be," says Hamilcar. "A perty pair, eh? Hain't you, now? Apple-stealers!" "We're not apple-stealers," says Mark. "We didn't go into your orchard to steal a-a-apples. We were just walking through." "To be sure," says Hamilcar. "Just strollin' among the trees. Of course you were." "We were tryin' to keep out of sight of that f-feller you just rented your horse to." Hamilcar wrinkled up his forehead and frowned. "Chasin' you, was he?" "No. He didn't know we were here, and we d-didn't want him to." Hamilcar scratched his head. "I dun'no's I ever had any boy tell me just that story. Them I've caught before has told me lots of things. Some walked in their sleep, and some didn't know they were in an orchard at all, and others was stealin' for a sick grandmother, but I don't call to mind any story just like yours." "If you'll l-listen, Mr. Janes, I'll tell you about it," says Mark. "Go ahead, young feller. I hain't got much to do just now. I calc'late it'll be int'restin'." "It will," says Mark, and he started in from the beginning and told Mr. Janes all about the Bazar, and about father being hurt, and about Skip and the things he'd done to us, and how we'd fought back. He told him we were going to Sunfield now to get the best of Skip. There wasn't anything he left out. When he was through Hamilcar hit his big hands together and says: "So you're Mark Tidd, eh? Ho, hum! Know Ike Bond?" "Uncle Ike Bond?" says I. "Well, I should say we do know him." "Him and my father was in the war together," says Hamilcar. "Comes to see me. Told me about you. Mark Tidd, eh? Ho, hum! And that scalawag has been tryin' to bust you up in business, eh? I sort of suspected him, he was so blamed homely. But the hoss she never let on, so I harnessed her and let him drive off.... Wish I'd 'a' knowed about this before." "So do I," says Mark. "Now it's too late. Skip'll b-b-beat us to Sunfield and make the deal and--But what's the use? We're beat." "Beat!" says Hamilcar. "You bet you hain't beat. Not by a long shot. One hoss hain't all Hamilcar Janes owns. He owns a faster hoss than that one, too. Just you wait a jiffy, Mark Tidd, and we'll be after this Skip. We'll make him skip, that's what we'll do. I'll hitch up and we'll take after him, and if he gits to Sunfield first you can take a bite out of my leg. There!" We hurried back to the barn with him, and he hitched up a team--as fine-looking a team it was--to a two-seated rig. Then he got in the front seat and motioned us up behind. "I'm a-goin' to drive myself. We'll pass that Skip in fifteen minutes." "We mustn't pass him," says Mark. "He m-m-mustn't see us. We've got to get there first without his knowing we're anywhere around." "All right," says Hamilcar; "we'll take the woods road. We can go right around him, and him never be the wiser. Giddap, there! Giddap! Earn your feed now, hosses. Dig in, for there's a man tryin' to git the best of two boys. We can't have that. No, siree, Bob. Not any." "We won't get there much ahead of him," says I. "Maybe ten minutes," says Hamilcar. "Maybe fifteen." "Do you know Mr. Hoffer--the m-man that wants to sell his store?" Mark asked. "Know him? To be sure. It's Sunfield we're a-goin' to, Mark Tidd, and if there's a man, woman, child, or critter in that town that don't know Hamilcar Janes, then I hope apples sells for fifty cents a barrel." "We've got to get him away from his store," says Mark. "There ain't time to d-dicker with him there. Skip'd come bangin' right into the middle of it. And if he was to see Plunk and me the whole plate of soup 'u'd be spilled." "Um!" says Hamilcar. "Calc'late we kin manage it. Leave it to Hamilcar Janes. He's your man." Then he started talking to himself. "Try to bust up a couple of boys, would he? Skip! I'll make him skip. If he's mistreated that hoss of mine he'll skip and he'll jump--and, b'jing! he'll holler, too." It was a fine drive to Sunfield. The air was just a bit chilly, but it was a bright day and the woods were getting all colored up. It made me want to go nutting. I said so to Mark. "If th-this deal goes through," says he, "you and I will go n-nutting Wednesday. We'll deserve a day off." We drove along at a good clip and got to Sunfield before noon. Hamilcar Janes drove us right to Mr. Hoffer's five-and-ten-cent store and drew up his horses. I looked around where he said the other road came into town, and there, a quarter of a mile off, was a buggy coming along. There was one man in it, but it was too far off for me to see if it was Skip. Hamilcar took a look and banged his knee with his big fist. "It's him," says he. "At any rate, it's my hoss. We'd better git a hustle on." We jumped out of the carriage and went pell-mell into the store. There was a young woman and a middle-aged man there. He was Mr. Hoffer, and he was German, and he looked pretty tired and sick. "Hoffer," says Hamilcar, "you're a-goin' for a drive." "_Nein_," says Hoffer. "Here must I stop. Business is business." "You need a rest, Hoffer. You're a-lookin' peeked. And you're a-goin' for a drive. Hamilcar Janes says you're a-goin', and he can't afford to tell a lie. Git your hat, Hoffer." Mr. Hoffer smiled, feeble-like, but shook his head. "Where's his hat?" says Hamilcar to the young woman. She pointed to it, and Hamilcar took it and tossed it to Mark. Then he walked right over to Hoffer and picked him up in his arms and carried him out of the store and set him in the back seat of the carriage. "There," says he. "Now set there and enjoy yourself." For a minute Mr. Hoffer looked a little upset and flustered and didn't appear to know what to make of it. But then he smiled, and it was a gentle, grateful kind of a smile that made me feel choky in the throat. "Hamilcar," says he, "you are one goot friend to me. How I haff longed for to ride by the woods! _Ach_, but it wass impossible. Always must I sit in mein store and hope somebody comes to buy.... But you steal me, Hamilcar, und it iss that I cannot help myself, so I am glad. We will drive, Hamilcar, und for the day I will be happy." Hamilcar didn't lose a minute. He started us up the street at a gallop. We went around the next corner on three wheels--just as Skip and his horse slackened up at the store. Then for a couple of minutes I saw some driving. Whee! but that was a team, and Mr. Janes was a driver! We went, and the cool air slashed past our cheeks and made water come into our eyes. I looked back at Mr. Hoffer--and choked again. He was so happy about it all that--well, that a fellow couldn't look at him without wanting to sort of pat him on the back and tell him it was all right and that kind of thing. Pretty soon Hamilcar slowed down. "I calc'late we've give him the slip," says he. "Now, Mark Tidd, you can git to business. Hoffer, this here is Mark Tidd, and this other kid is Plunk Smalley. You kin depend on 'em. I know 'em. What they say you kin put your faith in." Now that was a pretty fine thing for him to say, and it made me feel considerable proud. It made Mark feel so, too. You could see him sort of stiffen up and his eyes gleam. "Mr. Hoffer," says Mark, "we want to buy your stock." "Veil, she iss for sale. Cheap, also. It is that I must go away for mein health." "We have got to hurry. There isn't t-time to take an inventory, but we have an idea what you have on hand. A friend looked into it for us." He reached into his pocket. "Here's twenty-five dollars, Mr. Hoffer, to p-pay for an option on your stock till Thursday. We'll offer you eight hundred dollars." "Option, eh? _Ja_, I understand option. Till Thursday. Twenty-fife dollar. _Ja._ But eight hundred dollar! _Nein._ It iss too little." "How much d-do you ask?" "T'irteen hundred," says Mr. Hoffer. Mark shook his head, but didn't say a word. Neither did Mr. Hoffer, and we drove a mile without anybody's speaking. Then Mr. Hoffer said: "Twelluf hundred." Mark shook his head, and we all kept still for another mile. Then Mark says: "Eight h-hundred and fifty." Mr. Hoffer shook his head. We were almost through the big woods when Mr. Hoffer spoke up and says: "Eleven hundred and fifty." "Eight hundred and s-s-seventy-five," says Mark. After that nobody said a word for twenty minutes; then Mr. Hoffer says: "Eleven hundred, efen money." Mark shook his head. "Mr. Hoffer," says he, "I'll make one more offer and that's my last. You'll have to t-t-take it or leave it. Nine hundred d-d-dollars. Not a cent more. N-not a cent." Mr. Hoffer blinked and peered at Mark with a sort of twinkle in his blue eyes. "Young man," says he, "you haff a head for business. If it iss that you can sell as well as you can buy, den you are one business man. For surely.... Vell, den, I take your offer. Nine hundred it iss, und a option till Thursday. Ve go py the lawyer for that option, eh?" Mark shook his head. "No," says he, "I have it ready." And would you believe me, but he pulled out of his pocket a paper all drawn up by our own lawyer in typewriting. It had even the right amount set down--nine hundred dollars! Mr. Hoffer read it and chuckled. "Hamilcar," says he, "did you seen this? Ho! For nine hundred dollars! So sure wass he that he has the paper drawn. Ho! Nefer in mein life haff I such a boy seen. For nine hundred dollars. Ho! ... Veil, Mark Tidd, I sign this. _Ja_, I sign him for you." Hamilcar stopped the horses so the buggy wouldn't jar, and Mark pulled out a fountain pen. He was ready for everything. Mr. Hoffer grinned some more and signed his name on a line at the bottom of the option, and Hamilcar signed as a witness. Then Mark sighed like he had something pretty heavy lifted off his mind. "Plunk," says he, "chances are good. We're not out of the woods yet, b-but we can almost see the other side.... Mr. Skip, you should 'a' played fair.... Now drive us to the edge of town, Mr. Janes, and let us out where Skip can't see us. He'll be waiting at the store for Mr. Hoffer." CHAPTER XVIII Hamilcar drew up just at the outskirts of Sunfield and we got out. "Mr. Hoffer," says Mark Tidd, "when you g-get back to your store there'll be a m-man there by the name of Jehoshaphat P. Skip, who'll want to buy your stock." "So?" says Mr. Hoffer. "Yes," says Mark. "We've bought it ourselves just to b-beat him, and I'll tell you why." Then he set to and told Mr. Hoffer all about it just like he had told Hamilcar Janes. When he was through Mr. Hoffer shook his head in that mild way of his and says: "That wass not goot. He iss not a fair man. Me, I will haff no dealing with him whatever. So." "M-maybe you'll help us a little?" says Mark. "I vill help. _Ja_, I will do what I can." "Well, then, just tell him nothing about this option. Tell him you have nothing to d-do with the sale, though, and he'll have to see-- Who's your best lawyer here?" "A young man, also a goot man, I think. He iss from college only a leetle while. His name it is Hamilton." "Well, you tell Skip Hamilton is handling the deal and to go to him. D-don't tell him another word." "_Ja_, so I will do. _Ja_.... Goot-by, mein young friend. To see you again I shall hope. Goot-by." "Good-by, Mr. Hoffer, and we h-hope you get well and everything comes out fine." "I will do mein best. But, Mark Tidd, if t'ings go not as I like to haff them, I shall not cry. No, I shall be patient, and not such a coward as I like not to be." We shook hands all around and Hamilcar and Mr. Hoffer drove off. As soon as they were away Mark and I lit out for Mr. Hamilton's law-office. We hadn't had any dinner, but Mark didn't seem to mind, and I wasn't going to be the first to speak about it, you can bet. If he could stand it to starve to death, I guess I could, too. We found Mr. Hamilton's office in a little one-story wooden building on Main Street. He was there, but he seemed a little surprised to see us. "How d'you do?" says he. "Were you looking for a doctor or a lawyer." "L-l-lawyer," says Mark. Mr. Hamilton sighed with relief. "I was sure you'd made a mistake. Didn't think you could possibly be looking for me. But come right in. Shall I bring out my trained law-book for you? Or would you rather watch a baseball game between the Compiled Statutes and the Court Rules?" He laughed, pleasant-like. I took to him right away and so did Mark. He was middling big, and he looked like he was a lot of fun. "We want a l-l-lawyer," says Mark. "Um!... Criminal case, I expect. You're the miscreants that threw a bomb at the Czar of Russia?" "No," says Mark. "But we want to th-th-throw a bomb at Jehoshaphat P. Skip." "Say that again," says Mr. Hamilton. "Is it a name or something to eat from Sweden?" "Name," says Mark; "and let's get down to b-business. I'll tell you what we want and you can say whether you want to d-do it or not." "Let her go," says Hamilton, and we all sat down. Mark went over all the things that had happened to us, and then for the first time I got an idea what the scheme was that brought us to Sunfield. "Now," says Mark, when he'd brought things up to date, "we've got this option on Mr. Hoffer's stock. Skip wants to b-buy the stock. That stock's worth twice what we paid for it, and Skip knows what it's worth. What we want you to do is this: you dicker with him. The price we want is twelve hundred dollars, not a cent more, and not a cent less.... That is--maybe we'd b-better make him pay your fee. You charge him, however, much more than the three hundred dollars' profit you ought to be paid. Don't let on you're our _lawyer_. You don't need to mention any names. Just talk about clients, eh? How'll that do? He'll buy. No d-d-danger he won't, that I can see. Make him pay cash down for the option, and g-git the cash before you turn it over. He'll have it with him." "H'm!" says Mr. Hamilton. "Who thought up this scheme?" "I did," says Mark. "Well," says Mr. Hamilton, "I hope you and I stay friends, that's all _I've_ got to say about it. Do you have ideas like this often?" "He has 'em in his sleep," says I. "How about it?" says Mark. "Will you do what we want you to?" "You bet," says Mr. Hamilton. "We want to be around s-s-somewheres," says Mark, "where we can hear it. Where can we hide?" "Smalley here might get in the closet," says Hamilton, with a grin, "but you weren't made to fit closets, Tidd. You'll have to have a room. Suppose we try the woodshed there--and leave the door open. I guess you'll be able to hear, all right." "We'll go back there n-now," says Mark. "It wouldn't do for Jehoshaphat P. to catch a glimpse of us." So back we went. We didn't have to sit around long, either, for along came Mr. Skip, looking as cross as all-git-out. He came stamping in and scowled at Mr. Hamilton. "Are you the feller that's lookin' after this sale for Hoffer?" says he. "Yes," says Mr. Hamilton. "He hain't got much of a stock," says Skip, "and what he's got don't amount to much." "Well," says Mr. Hamilton, "in that case I wouldn't bother about it if I were you." "Oh," says Skip, "I figgered if I could pick it up at a bargain--junk prices--I could git some profit out of it. Use it for special sales and sich in my store over to Wicksville." "You know pretty well what's in the stock, don't you?" "Trust Jehoshaphat P. Skip for that. He hain't buyin' no pig in a bag. I hain't been hangin' around there three hours for nothin'." "Do you want to make me an offer? Is that why you are here?" "I calc'late I wanted to talk price some. Hoffer's got to sell. He ought to be willin' to let it go cheap for ready cash." "He is willing to sell cheap. What'll you offer?" "Five hundred dollars," says Skip, and clamped his thin lips together like he was afraid a breath would git out for nothing. "Good afternoon," says Mr. Hamilton, getting on to his feet. "I'm pretty busy. When you get ready to talk business, come around again." Skip looked sort of startled, but he didn't get up. "I might raise that offer a mite," says he. "Yes," says Mr. Hamilton, "you'll raise it a whole swarm of mites. There's one price on that stock and one price only. Twelve hundred and twenty-five dollars is the price, and you can take it or leave it. I haven't any time to dicker. Just think that over. It's so cheap I'm ashamed to handle the deal. Now think it over. It's yes or no to that price. No use talking anything else." "Twelve hundred and twenty-five dollars!" says Skip. He sat there and twiddled his fingers and waggled his nose and worked his Adam's apple up and down so I nearly busted right out laughing. He didn't say a word for a quarter of an hour, and Mr. Hamilton pretended he wasn't there at all. Hamilton worked away at his desk and didn't so much as look at Skip once. It was nearly four o'clock when Skip caved in. "Sure that's the best price?" says he. "Certain." "Then," says Skip, hesitating a bit like it hurt him to say the words--"then I'll--I'll take it. What terms?" "Three hundred and twenty-five dollars _now_, and the balance Thursday," says Hamilton. "I'll deliver a legal option to you now and a bill of sale when you pay down the balance." Skip pulled a wallet out of his pocket and counted out the money--three hundred and twenty-five dollars. My! but it looked like a lot. He put it on the desk. Then Mr. Hamilton pushed over our option. The option was in my name, James Smalley, because we knew Skip never would recognize it. Father's name is Mortimer Smalley, so Skip wouldn't think of any connection. He didn't suspect a thing. That was Mark Tidd's idea, too. Mr. Hamilton had made me sign the option over, so it was all ready to deliver to Skip. He took it and Mr. Hamilton took the money. "You've got a good deal," says Mr. Hamilton. "Not so good as I calc'lated on gittin'," says Skip, sour as vinegar. "But I guess I won't lose no money on it." He got up to go out. "Good afternoon," says Mr. Hamilton as pleasant as pie. "Huh!" grunts Skip. "G-by, mister." And out he went. I almost jumped out of my skin. Three hundred dollars! It was ours, and we'd made it as honest as could be. We had to have three hundred dollars, and there was old Mark Tidd with a way to do it. I just looked at him and couldn't say a word. He was looking at me out of the corner of his eye to see how I took it, and he was looking pretty well satisfied with himself, too. I guess it was plain for him to see what a great man I thought he was, for he grinned as pleased as could be. "Guess that fixes Skip and his chattel m-m-mortgage," says he. "Yes," says I, "and it fixes other things. It fixes it so the Smalley family has something to live on when my dad comes out of the hospital, and it fixes it so my mother will think you're the greatest man that ever lived. I hain't goin' to say thank you, Mark, not me. I couldn't do it right; but you wait till I tell mother. She'll know what to say. Don't forget that a minute. She'll know...." I quit talking right there because I was afraid I'd choke up and have to quit and act foolish. We went into the office and Mr. Hamilton handed us the money. He kept shaking his head all the time and looking at Mark. "Tidd," says he, "if I ever get a big case, one that takes more brains than most men have got to win it, I'm going to send over to Wicksville for you, I am. Will you come and help me out?" Mark knew he was fooling, but all the same it was pretty complimentary fooling. "Glad to come," says he, "any time." "What are you going to do now?" asked Mr. Hamilton. "Find Hamilcar Janes," says Mark, "and thank him, and then see how we can get back home." "Any hurry?" "L-l-like to get there to-night if we can." "Tell you what I'll do," says Mr. Hamilton. "You take supper with me, and I'll drive you over in father's automobile to-night. How about that?" "Fine," says I. I began to chuckle. It was the first good, satisfying laugh I had laughed in weeks. "I wonder," says I, "if Skip's man Clancy has found out why his car wouldn't run." "I hope not," says Mark, and his face set with that sort of a stern look he got every time he thought about Skip. "I hope Skip has to walk from Janes's farm every inch of the w-w-way home." That's just what I hoped myself. CHAPTER XIX I don't know how Jehoshaphat P. got back to Wicksville, but he did get back, because I saw him next noon--passed him so our elbows touched. I couldn't help looking right in his eye and grinning. I expect it was pretty impudent, but--well, it was a special case. If he'd known what I was grinning about he'd probably have taken me apart and put me together wrong--but he didn't know. All he knew was that he had a chattel mortgage on the Bazar that was due Friday, and that there wasn't any chance for us to pay it. One of the worst things a man can do is to know facts that aren't so. Skip scowled at me and says, "You won't have much grinnin' to do after Friday, young feller." "Um!" says I. "You can't tell about grins. They grow promiscuous like Canada thistles. Never can tell where one'll spring up." "What you goin' to do about that chattel mortgage? Goin' to turn over the stock without a fuss, or have I got to fetch in the constables and dep'ty-sheriffs and court officers? Eh?" "Well," says I, "if we're goin' to git busted up we might as well have all the trimmin's. Can't you call out the militia, too?" "Who's boss of your store, anyhow? You or that fat boy?" "I calc'late," says I, "that Mark Tidd's in command." "Guess I'll see him, then. Maybe I can git him to let go peaceable." "He'll be glad to see you," says I, with another grin. Jehoshaphat turned around and made for the Bazar. Mark was waiting on a couple of customers and there were three other folks in the store. That was unusual, but I says to Skip: "Things is perty dull with us. Only five customers in the store." He grunted, but didn't say a word. Mark looked up and saw him, but his expression never changed. "Mr. Skip wants to see you when you get time," says I. He nodded, and in a minute he came over. The woman he'd been waiting on didn't go out, but hung around to listen, I guess. Folks in Wicksville was right on hand when curiosity was being handed out. "What can I d-do for you?" says Mark to Jehoshaphat. "Chattel mortgage 's due Friday. What you goin' to do about it?" Mark got on the dolefulest, mournfulest look I ever saw. "Mr. Skip," says he, good and loud, so everybody could hear him, "can't you give us a l-little time?" "Not a day," says Skip, snapping his jaws shut. "I know we owe the money," says Mark, "but we didn't git it of you. You went out of your way to buy up that chattel mortgage. You did it just so as to bust up this b-b-business." He didn't say it mean, but just like he was almost ready to cry. Skip's eyes was blinking with satisfaction. "We can p-pay you part of it," says Mark. "Won't you give us time on the rest?" "Not a minute," says Skip. "But, Mr. Skip, think about Mr. Smalley. He's hurt and in the hospital. Think about Mrs. Smalley. This store is all they've got. Nobody knows what'll h-happen to 'em if you don't give us time." He was saying this loud so everybody in the store could hear. Skip looked around uneasy and says: "There hain't no use hollerin'. This is private talk." "Maybe it is," says Mark, but he didn't lower his voice. "But what're you g-goin' to do? Like as not the Smalleys would have to go to the p-poor-farm or somethin'. You'll git your money, Mr. Skip, if you'll let us have a little time." "Not a minute," says Skip, beginning to get mad. "Then," says Mark, "you want to hurt Mr. Smalley in the hospital, and fix it so his wife hasn't got a cent to buy a meal? Do you want to do that, Mr. Skip?" "I hain't got nothin' to do with that. The money's due me and I need it. If you hain't got it to pay I'm goin' to take the stock." "You won't take part and wait f-for the rest?" "No," says Skip. "All right, then," says Mark. "Friday's the day, I expect. It's perty hard on the Smalleys, though." Well, sir, you should have seen the customers that were hanging around with their mouths open. They were eying Skip like they thought he was the meanest man alive, and I could hear them saying things to each other under their breath. Skip was getting some fine advertising. "What I want to know," says Skip, "is, will you turn over the stock without a lot of officers and papers?" "I don't b-believe we can," says Mark. "If you take this stock you got to take it the way the law says.... Now good-by, Mr. Skip. This store is ours till Friday, and if you so much as step a foot in it again till you c-come with the sheriff somethin' will happen to you that'll make you wish you'd fallen down a well." At that he turned his back and went behind the counter. Skip sneaked a look at the women and slunk out as fast as he could go. When he was gone you should have heard those five women sail into him. My! the things they said about him! In another hour Wicksville would know just what had been said and just what those five women thought about it. Mark winked at me solemn. When the folks were gone he says: "P-public opinion, Plunk. Ever hear of it?" "Yes," says I. "I'm s-sickin' it on Jehoshaphat. He'll be a popular feller in Wicksville. Won't he be popular, though!" "What's the idea?" says I. "Why didn't you pay him his money and kick him out?" "Because," says he, "I want to make folks love him. I want to fix it so f-f-folks will go out of their way to buy from him. Do you think this fight's over when the mortgage is paid? No, siree. We have got to get the business of this town and keep it away from Skip. When I'm through with Jehoshaphat Wicksville's goin' to think he's about the meanest man that ever pinched a p-penny." "What next?" says I. "A l-little advertisin'," says he. That afternoon he painted a lot of signs, big and little. Some were for the wagon, and Binney and Tallow were to drive it around town, banging on the drum. Others were for our windows and others were to tack up on fences. The one in our window says: Jehoshaphat P. Skip holds a chattel mortgage on this stock. He bought it just to bust this business. He won't give us time. Friday he's going to seize the Bazar. Everybody come. At two o'clock. Come to see Jehoshaphat P. Skip foreclose his mortgage. That was one sign, others were like it, but every one said something different and something that wasn't calculated to make folks fond of Skip. All day Wednesday and all day Thursday we kept them going, inviting folks to be on hand to see the end of the Bazar. "How do you know it'll be at two o'clock?" says I. Mark grinned. "I saw the sheriff," says he, "and f-fixed it up." Wouldn't that beat you? He'd thought of everything. Friday came along just as the calendar said it would, but it seemed to us it took quite a while to do it. When you've got a surprise in your pocket all ready to spring, it always takes the right minute a long time to get there. In the mean time we went along just as if nothing was going to happen, and we didn't let on to a soul what we had in pickle for Jehoshaphat. We just kept advertising the foreclosure at two o'clock Friday afternoon like it was some sort of bargain sale. It was a novelty, all right. Folks don't usually brag about being busted, so folks took quite an interest, and we were certain to have a good crowd on hand. I guess they figured something out of the ordinary would happen. That was on account of Mark Tidd and his reputation. Lots of folks stopped in to tell us how sorry they were and to tell us their opinion of Jehoshaphat P. Sympathy doesn't cost a cent, so you can always get more of it than you need. But it did show that Mark had fixed things so Skip wouldn't be the best-loved man in our county, which was something, anyhow. Friday morning seemed like it could have held all the seven days of the week. We took lunch in the Bazar. At a quarter to two Mark had us put a big sign in each window that said: ALL READY FOR THE FORECLOSURE EVERYBODY WELCOME There was a good crowd there--probably fifty or sixty people--when Skip and the officer came in. The officer went over to Mark and says: "I've come to take charge of this stock, young feller." "But," says Mark, "d-don't you have to give folks a chance to pay up before you seize the store?" "Yes," says the officer, "but I understood there wasn't any chance of that." "Um!" says Mark, and he scrambled up on top of the counter. "Folks," says he, as calm and cool as a chunk of ice, "here's Jehoshaphat P. Skip and the officer to put us out of business. They've got a chattel mortgage for f-five hundred dollars, and if we can't pay it the Bazar is b-busted. You know about Mr. Smalley. You've all been friends of his for years. What d'you think of a man who'll take away everything Mr. Smalley's got, just out of m-meanness?" "Here," says the officer, "none of that, now. Git off'n that counter and keep quiet." Mark looked down at him and says: "I've talked this thing over with my lawyer, and I know what I can do and what I c-can't. I can keep possession of this store till twelve o'clock to-night if I want to. So, if you want to have your f-foreclosure to-day just hold your horses till I get through talkin'." The officer scowled a bit and then grinned and said to go ahead with the celebration. "Mr. Smalley didn't borrow this f-five hundred dollars from Mr. Skip. But what does Mr. Skip do? He sneaks around and finds out about it, and b-buys up the mortgage so he can use it to put the Bazar out of business. He knew there wasn't room for his store and this one in Wicksville, so he started in to git rid of us. He's been m-mean and underhanded from the start. He tried to get our credit cut off with the wholesale houses, and whatever he could d-do to hurt us he's gone ahead and done it." Skip stood and scowled and wabbled his nose back and forth, but he didn't say a word. Mark went on: "We had to m-make money for Mr. Smalley in the hospital, and we had to keep the business running. That took all we could make. So if we paid this chattel mortgage up we'd have to get the money some other way. "Well, folks, it happened that Mr. Skip didn't know how long he'd last here, so he didn't t-take a lease of the store he's in. We found that out. Then, folks, we went and got a lease of it ourselves. We could 'a' kicked Skip out of it, but we didn't want to do that. We wanted to p-pay off the mortgage." He stopped and looked down at Skip and grinned. Folks all looked at Skip, too. He was white, he was so mad, and if all the folks hadn't been there I don't know what he'd have done, but he didn't dare wiggle. Mark started in again. "We wanted Skip to pay himself the f-five hundred dollars. That's what we wanted. Right there, folks, he paid part of it. We made him p-pay two hundred dollars to stay in his store. He didn't know he was payin' it to us, but he was." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a bundle of bills. "There's the very identical money he paid us. Two hundred d-dollars of it.... There, Mr. Skip, is t-two hundred dollars on account. It's from you to yourself." And Mark tossed the money down to the officer. I thought Skip would choke. "But that wasn't enough," says Mark. "There was three hundred dollars more. It seemed like we couldn't raise that much, but this week we arranged to have Mr. Skip p-pay that to himself, too. We did it this way: over in Sunfield was a man named Hoffer who had a f-f-five-and-ten-cent store. He wanted to sell cheap. We knew about it and we fixed it so Skip heard about it, too. He started over to buy. We started the same day--and we beat him there. But we didn't have any m-m-money to buy with. That's where Skip came in handy again. We went to Mr. Hoffer and got him to give us an option on his stock at nine hundred d-dollars. Then we went to a lawyer to handle it for us. Skip came to see the lawyer, not knowin' we had anything to do with it, and the lawyer sold him the stock we had bought at nine hundred dollars for twelve hundred and twenty-five dollars--givin' us a p-p-profit of three hundred d-dollars and payin' our lawyer for his services. Perty kind of Skip, wasn't it? Eh, Mr. Skip? And, Mr. Skip, there's the three hundred dollars. The same b-bills you gave us. That squares us, Mr. Skip. You've p-paid yourself what we owed you and we're much obliged. 'Tain't every man would be so kind." Here he tossed over the three hundred. You should have seen Skip. He couldn't say a word. I don't believe he could think. He just stood and trembled, he was so furious, and waggled his nose, and his Adam's apple went up and down like an elevator in a busy building. And the folks yelled. It wasn't a cheer; it was a laugh. They hollered. Men and women threw back their heads and laughed like I've never seen folks laugh before. And the things they said to Skip! I wouldn't have had folks poke fun at me like that for seven times five hundred dollars. Mark held up his hand. "I advertised this f-foreclosure," he said, with a grin, "so all Wicksville would know what kind of a man Skip is. I wanted Wicksville to appreciate how generous he is. I hope after this f-folks won't bother to trade here at the Bazar. We don't deserve it, for all we do is give an honest bargain for every cent you spend here. Go to Skip.... And now, Mr. Skip, you've got your money. I calc'late you and the officer hain't got anythin' more to d-do here, and I'll bet you've got business somewheres else. So good afternoon, Mr. Skip; and, Mr. Skip, you might carry off the thought that competition in business is all right, but that folks that tries to squeeze and won't play f-fair is apt to git into a pinch themselves.... Good afternoon, Mr. Skip." Skip and the officer started for the door, with folks jostling them and making funny remarks and laughing at them fit to bust. I'll bet he was glad to get to the door, and the way he shot out into the street and dodged toward his own place was enough to make you laugh if you had a sore tooth. Then folks crowded around Mark, and he stood and let them admire him, and enjoyed it to beat everything. Mr. Bloom got up on a chair and says: "Fellow-townsmen, that there man Skip hain't the sort of citizen we want here. There's some way to git rid of him. You know what that is." "You bet," says Chet Weevil, "just keep away from his store." "That's the ticket," says Mr. Bloom. "Now, folks, see what you can do. It won't take long." "Jest you watch us," says Mr. Hoover. "We'll 'tend to Skip." Mark stood up again. "Now, folks," he says, "the place is ready for business again. You'll find us behind the counters, and we'll be there six days a week, ready to g-g-give you your money's worth and a little more every time." The crowd hung around a spell, gabbling and talking and buying a few things, but they finally left and we four were alone. "Mark," says I, "I'm goin' to write mother now. Whatever else there is to do can wait. And when her letter comes back I'm goin' to give it to you. She'll say in it the things that I hain't got any idea of how to say right." "There don't need to anybody say anything," says he, but all the same I knew he'd be pretty disappointed if nobody did, and I knew he'd want mother's letter to keep always. There was Mark's little weakness. He could do big things and fine things and he was honest and the sort of fellow you could downright admire--but he did like to be admired. I don't know as I blame him. I'd like to be admired myself if I could find some way of making folks do it. CONCLUSION That's about all there is to it. Skip stuck it out two weeks, then he moved over to Sunfield into Mr. Hoffer's store where he couldn't bother us any more. And that was the last of him. The business was a little slack at first, but it began to pick up in a day or two, and just before the Saturday when the announcement of the result of the beauty contest was to be made there was quite a rush. Mark Tidd had stirred it up with advertising. The last time we put up the names before the final count the contestants stood: Mr. Pilkins, 967 votes. Mr. Bloom, 958 votes. Chet Weevil, 947 votes. Chancy Miller, 941 votes. Of course there were others, but these men were at the top and nobody was near them. Well, sir, on Saturday morning in came young Mr. Hopkins, whose father owns the bank, and bought a phonograph just like Old Mose Miller's, and a lot of records. It gave him eleven hundred votes. "You can v-vote 'em for yourself," says Mark, with a grin, "and elect yourself the handsomest m-man in town." Mr. Hopkins, who was a bully fellow, grinned back. "What'll I do with 'em?" says he. Mark's eyes twinkled. "It wouldn't be f-f-fair for me to suggest anything," says he, "but if those votes were mine I'll bet I'd have some f-f-fun with 'em." Mr. Hopkins thought a few minutes and then began writing a name on every ballot. It took him quite a while. I couldn't see who it was, but all of a sudden Mark started to grin and I knew there was a joke on somebody. "Who is it?" says I. "Peabody," says Mark. "Jupiter Peabody." "Don't know him," says I. I didn't, either. I'd never heard of such a man. "Who is he?" "Oh, he's been living here a long time," says Mr. Hopkins. "Maybe you never happened to meet him, though." I racked my brains, but for the life of me I couldn't catch on to who he was. At half past two the list was to go up, and there was a crowd on hand. Everybody was anxious, especially Chet and Chancy and some of the women. The men mostly pretended it was a joke, anyhow, and they didn't care how it came out--but they did care, all the same. Prompt on the minute Mark stepped into the window and pasted up the list. For a minute the folks were quiet; then there was a hubbub. Everybody was astonished. Here, at the last minute, somebody had come in and beaten everybody. "Peabody," says a man, "who's Jupiter Peabody? I know Sam Peabody, but he hain't got no relatives named Jupiter that I know of." "Me, neither," says Mr. Bloom. "Anyhow he's handsomer'n I be. I'd like to git a look at him." Chet and Chancy both looked like they wanted to cry. "Who is it?" says Chet. "Never heard of him," says Chancy, "but I'll bet he's homelier'n you be." "Anyhow," says Chet, "he probably hain't got curly hair." It looked for a minute like there might be a scrimmage, but just then an old man came along, driving a dump-cart filled with pumpkins. "There," says Mr. Bloom, "is Sam Peabody. Let's ask him if he knows this Jupiter." So they stopped the old fellow, and Mr. Bloom says: "Got any relatives livin' here?" "No," says Mr. Peabody, "nary relative." "Any other Peabodys hereabouts that you know of?" The old man shook his head slow and allowed he didn't know of any. "Well," says Mr. Bloom, "this here is a mystery, all right. Here's a Jupiter Peabody that's won the handsomest-man contest, and nobody knows him." "What?" says the old fellow. "What's that? Won the handsomest-man contest? Got most votes for bein' the handsomest man in Wicksville? Ho!" He threw back his head and roared. "Handsomest man! Whee! Think of that, now." He sat a minute laughing like all-git-out; then he reached out with his whip and touched his mule. "Giddap, Jupiter!" says he. "Giddap!" It was a minute before folks caught on--and then you should have heard the laugh. Jupiter, Jupiter Peabody--a mule. And he'd been elected the handsomest man in Wicksville. Everybody, including even Chet and Chancy, roared so hard they almost choked, and they pounded each other on the back and danced up and down and shrieked. It was the funniest joke that ever happened in Wicksville. Maybe if a real man had won the losers would have been mad, but nobody won but a mule! And everybody saw the joke. I guess it was about the best way the thing could have come out. So that was the end of the beauty contest. In another two weeks father came home, a little lame, but so he would be all right in no time, and mother came with him. I'll never forget the way she took Mark Tidd by the hand, nor what she said to him. It made him blink his eyes, I can tell you. "Mark," she says, "it's a fine thing to have brains that you can scheme with, and it's fine to be brave, and it's fine to be able to stick to things to the very end, but when you add to that a heart that's willing to do things for other folks, and that is happiest when it's helping somebody that needs help, you've got about the finest kind of a man there is. And that's the kind of man you're going to be, Mark. I'm glad my son is your friend." I felt the same way about it myself. THE END ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Books for Boys by a Master of Fiction The Mark Tidd Stories By CLARENCE BUDINGTON KELLAND MARK TIDD An ingenious fat boy and his three friends meet danger and excitement in solving the mystery of the strange footprint in their secret cave. MARK TIDD IN BUSINESS Mark and his three friends take Smalley's Bazaar and make a success of it, in spite of unfair competition from the villain of the story. MARK TIDD, EDITOR The resourceful fat boy runs a country newspaper. As editor, foreman of the press room, circulation manager and business manager, he makes the Wicksville Trumpet a paying proposition. MARK TIDD, MANUFACTURER The boys take over an old mill fallen into disrepair and soon have it showing a profit. How Mark outwits the unscrupulous representative of a big power company makes an irresistibly funny book. MARK TIDD IN THE BACKWOODS Mark turns detective and foils a scheme to defraud his pal's uncle--an exciting story of mystery and fun. MARK TIDD'S CITADEL The boys run into mystery in a closed-up summer hotel where they rescue a kidnapped Samurai boy from his pursuers. MARK TIDD IN ITALY Here is fun and action aplenty and a story that will hold Mark's old friends and make many new ones. GROSSET & DUNLAP : Publishers : NEW YORK ------------------------------------------------------------------------ BOOKS FOR BOYS Thrilling best-seller tales of mystery and adventure THE SPOTLIGHT BOOKS STOCKY OF LONE TREE RANCH Chas. H. Snow CRIMSON ICE C. Fitzsimmons 70,000 WITNESSES C. Fitzsimmons DEATH ON THE DIAMOND C. Fitzsimmons FLASH GORDON Alex Raymond TAILSPIN TOMMY Mark Stevens SMILEY ADAMS R.J. Burrough HAWK OF THE WILDERNESS W. L. Chester THE PONY EXPRESS Henry James Forman THE IRON HORSE Edwin C. Hill THE MYSTERY OF THE YELLOW TIE Laurence Dwight Smith THE LONE RANGER BOOKS by Fran Striker THE LONE RANGER THE LONE RANGER AND THE MYSTERY RANCH THE LONE RANGER AND THE GOLD ROBBERY THE LONE RANGER AND THE OUTLAW STRONGHOLD THE LONE RANGER AND TONTO THE G-MEN BOOKS THE G-MEN SMASH THE "PROFESSOR'S" GANG William Engle THE G-MEN IN JEOPARDY Laurence D. Smith THE G-MEN TRAP THE SPY RING Laurence D. Smith THE JIMMIE DRURY BOOKS by David O'Hara JIMMIE DRURY: CANDID CAMERA DETECTIVE JIMMIE DRURY: WHAT THE DARK ROOM REVEALED JIMMIE DRURY: CAUGHT BY THE CAMERA GROSSET & DUNLAP Publishers NEW YORK