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 CHAPTER XIV.
THE CAMP-MEETING.

The holy sounds float up the dell

To fill my ravish’d ear,
And now the glorious anthems swell
Of worshipers sincere;
Of hearts bow’d in the dust that shed
Faith’s penitential tear.

Motherwell.

The next day Norman was to go with his mother and aunt to a
camp-meeting. It had rained the night before, and the clouds were
gathering in rather a threatening manner, obscuring the heavens,
and forming in dark masses at several points on the horizon. It was
thought not very prudent to go, but the strong desire in Mrs. Lester’s
face overpowered the cooler judgment of the others.
“If it does not rain,” said Mrs. Lester, “those clouds will certainly be
better than the broad glare of sunshine we have had for some days
past.”
The carriage drove up to the door, and calling for some friends
who lived near, they were soon on their way. The drive was very
pleasant through the Fox valley, with frequent groves and pretty
views of the river. They drove into the pretty town of St. Charles,
across its fine bridge, with its noble piers, through the town on the
east of the river, and after a little while into the deep woods in which
the camp-meeting was held. The road through the woods was very
bad: deep mud, and several sloughs, called in the west slews. All
these critical spots were happily passed, and reaching the grove they
got out of the carriage and walked on the camp-ground.
The gentleman who accompanied them brought the carriage
cushions to put on the plank seats, which were rather damp with the
heavy rains of the night previous. There were ministers in the
elevated covered stand, appropriated to them, and a large
congregation gathered for a love-feast. It was pleasant to hear them
speak of the happiness of religion, to see the calm peace on their
countenances, and to listen to their expressions of love to their
Saviour, of faith in him, and fixed resolve to live to his service.
An intermission of a few minutes before the public service gave
Norman an opportunity of looking about him. About thirty tents were
pitched in a circle, and in the center of the amphitheater thus
formed, seats were arranged for the congregation beneath the
shade of fine noble trees that spread wide their branches. One,
beneath which the preachers’ stand was placed, threw itself toward
the other trees, that bent as if to meet it, making a most picturesque
group. At each corner of the area there was a structure formed of
four stout sticks, about five feet high, on which rested a platform
covered with turf. On these rude candelabras, at dark, they kindled
pine knots, to give light to the evening meetings and to the
encampment. How much Norman would like to have seen this wild
woodland thus illuminated, the broad glare flashing on the gathered
groups.
An excellent sermon was preached on “Bear ye one another’s
burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ;” and then a young minister,
with the sweet expression of whose face Norman had been struck,
got up and made an address full of beauty. It was enforcing the law
of kindness. He said that when they drove to the camp-ground the
day before they had got into a slough on the road, and there they
were fast, the horses remaining quiet after some ineffectual
attempts to move forward. The driver, he was glad to say, betrayed
no impatience, and did not swear at the delay. Soon another wagon
drove up, and the driver, seeing the difficulty they were in, at once
unhitched his own horses and drew them out. And that was what,
he said, we ought to do when we saw people in trouble, draw them
out if we had the power. He then spoke of the harsh judgment we
often form of others, because they are deficient in some point upon
which we lay stress. “Now,” he continued, “these trees that bend
over us are not rounded and full on every side; some have their
wealth of branches on one side, and some on another. And so
Christians seldom present full symmetry of growth. One brother has
a great deal of patience and very weak faith; and one sister has faith
almost strong enough to remove mountains and very little patience.
Now we should rather contemplate the excellences of our Christian
friends than their deficiencies.”
He exhorted the people not to be like those trees that are slow to
yield their fruit, whose fruit, hard and green, required a vigorous
shake to loosen its hold. “Rather,” said he, “be like those generous
trees, borne down with their golden fruit, blessing the eye, and the
touch, and the taste of all around—trees of blessing, making glad
the heritage of God.” He spoke of words of kindness and sympathy,
how often they cheered the heart of the desolate, and brightened
the path of the wayfarer. How often those who were collecting for
benevolent objects were more cheered with the kind words of one
who had no money to give, than with the large gifts of another,
grudgingly bestowed.
One word of counsel he gave, rather at variance with ordinary
exhortation. He charged his hearers to try not to be first, but to be
second. “In your plans and pleasures think of some one before
yourself; prefer the comfort of some friend to your own; sacrifice
your own ease to promote the well-being of another, and you will
tread in the footsteps of Him who pleased not himself.”
Norman saw the tears in his Aunt Lester’s eyes, as he turned to
look at her, and he thought that she had learned that lesson well,
that she was always thinking of other people, and preferring their
comfort to her own.
The hymn, swelled by the united voices of that large
congregation, filled the grove with its solemn harmony, and then the
words of the benediction fell like dew upon them.
Norman had never been to a camp-meeting before, and the scene
had all the charm of novelty to him. He saw the people preparing
their meals in the rear of their tents, the fire made of dry sticks on
the grounds, and the kettle hung on a cross stick, placed in the
notches of two upright ones. The tables were spread in the tents,
and soon surrounded by family groups. A lady, who knew Norman’s
aunt, invited them to dinner, after which they returned to their seats,
when the bell was rung for the afternoon service.
The sermon was a good one, on “Gather up the fragments that
remain, that nothing may be lost.”
Norman did not remember much of the sermon; but one fact,
given by the minister who rose to exhort, made a great impression
upon him.
“At a time of great religious interest,” said he, “when many
persons, awakened to a sense of their danger, were inquiring what
they should do to be saved, I spoke to three boys, and asked them if
they could not, by personal effort, lead some of their companions to
the Saviour. One of the boys, a tall and thoughtful lad, stood a little
apart from the rest, his eyes fixed on the ground, while I was talking
to them. He said nothing, but it was an hour of fixed resolve.
“Three days after one of the boys came to me, and said: ‘Sir, do
you remember the tall boy that stood near when you were talking to
us?’ ‘Yes, I do,’ I replied. ‘Well, sir, he has been trying ever since to
lead sinners to Christ; and he has persuaded three men, and two
women, and a little boy to give their hearts to the Saviour; and there
he is, sir, talking to that gray-haired man!’ I followed the direction of
the boy’s eye, and there stood the lad, his thoughtful face all aglow
with feeling, as he spoke earnestly to the old man, who shortly after
came forward, and knelt as a penitent at the altar of prayer. Who
can estimate the good thus accomplished by the earnest efforts of
this lad; and why may not every one follow his example, and make it
his business to lead souls to Christ?”
It was with reluctance they left this hallowed scene, where they
had been permitted to join the swell of holy song, and to hear so
much that was profitable; teachings that ought to make them better.
Norman would gladly have stayed for the evening services, to have
seen those trees gleaming out in the ruddy light, but they would not
venture to travel that road in the darkness. As it was they had a very
pleasant drive home, where they came just in time for tea.
 CHAPTER XV.
A SABBATH-DAY.

Types of eternal rest, fair buds of bliss,

In heavenly flowers unfolding week by week
The next world’s gladness imaged forth in this,
Days of whose worth the Christian’s heart can speak.

Vaughan.

The Sabbath dawned clear and beautiful, bringing refreshing

breezes after the intense heat of the past fortnight. After the
morning service in the Methodist church Mrs. Lester stayed to the
Bible class led by the minister. The lesson was the eighth chapter of
Romans, and it was interesting to see two old men, with spectacles,
bending earnestly over one book, and talking over the meaning of
the passage. The members of the class were all men and women,
and there was a very free interchange of thought, as they looked
into the Scriptures of truth. One face especially attracted Mrs.
Lester’s attention. It was a youthful face, rather large, very fair, with
light hair, blue eyes, and regular features, not beautiful, but with a
sweet, heavenly expression on the high brow, and in the untroubled
eye. In the class-meeting that followed the Bible class, she spoke
calmly, but with an unfaltering trust, of her love to the Saviour, as
being the master-passion of her soul; that she loved God supremely,
and found him to be a satisfying portion. Her father, who led the
class, spoke to her, with tears in his eyes, of the time when her
decrepit form would put on immortality, and would shine with
glorious beauty; when she would know no weary hours of pain, but
would dwell in the land where the inhabitants shall no more say, I
am sick, but where all tears shall be wiped away.
Yes, that sweet face was the face of a cripple. Her form was
shrunken and withered, and her limbs had never carried her
whithersoever she would. Her father took her into his arms at the
close of the service, her limbs hanging limp and as if without life,
and carried her to the little wagon in which he had drawn her to
church. Mrs. Lester asked her if she was not tired with the long
service.
“O no,” she said; she would like to stay there till the evening
prayer-meeting at five o’clock.
It was not very often she could go to the house of God. She felt
with David, “A day in thy courts is better than a thousand: I had
rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than to dwell in the
tents of wickedness.” O how she loved the house of God, the place
where his honor dwelleth.
This poor, crippled girl, who had known no happy childhood, who
had never been able to participate in its sports, who had always
been confined to the narrow precincts of a home destitute of all the
luxuries of life, who had been daily accustomed to pain and
privation, had yet found the true secret of happiness. It lay like
moonlight on her countenance. She had that within which many of
the rich and wise and great, who look at will on the glorious scenery
of earth, who command the treasures of literature and art, who
surround themselves with all the comforts and appliances of a home
of elegant sufficiency, fail to gain—calm peace in her heart, perfect
contentment with her lot, and a spring of never-failing happiness.
Nor is she useless in the world, though she has no worldly means to
give, nor hands or feet to do her bidding. The light of her holy
example, her patience, meekness, resignation, and faith, are
treasures to the Church. Every Wednesday there is a prayer-meeting
in her room, of which she takes the charge, as she can be always
present, and the beauty and propriety with which she speaks of
divine things make her words very profitable.
In the afternoon Mrs. Lester and Norman went to the prayer-
meeting. At the close of the service Mrs. Day, to whom Mrs. Clayton
had introduced her in the morning, came up and asked her to go
home by the way of her house, as she wished to gather some
flowers for her. The large garden, filled with flowers and shrubbery,
blooming most luxuriantly in that fertile soil, looked cool and inviting.
Mrs. Day handed Norman some flowers as the beginning of his
bouquet, and told him to go and pick what he liked. Pink and white
spireces, double China pinks, a few lingering June roses, the pretty
bee larkspur, the coreopsis, candytuft, and verbenas, were gathered
in profusion by Mrs. Day’s lavish hand, and arranged in two
bouquets for Mrs. Clayton and Mrs. Lester. “Four years ago,” said
she, “this garden was a bare field. I never was so discouraged in
coming to any new place.”
“You certainly have transformed it into a very pleasant home,”
replied Mrs. Lester. “Taste and cultivation, with such a soil as this,
can soon work wonders. You can truly sit under your own vine and
fig-tree,” continued she, pointing to a beautiful grape-vine that had
crept up a lattice, and inclosed with its graceful green curtain a
verandah in the rear of the house.
“Yes,” said she, “I planted that vine myself, and it is a daily
rejoicing to me, and a sermon too. It reminds me continually of that
true Vine from which we must draw all our life and sustenance.”
“It is well,” said Mrs. Lester, “to have divine truths thus brought to
our minds by the objects that surround us.”
“My prairie home,” said Mrs. Day, “was really beautiful; that was
quite to my mind; a nice house shaded with trees, adorned with
shrubbery and flowers, and looking upon broad fertile fields.”
“Why did you leave so pretty a home?” asked Mrs. Lester.
“We came here to be near a church, and to enjoy religious
privileges. For years after we went on the prairie our house was the
home of the preachers, and meetings were always held there. As the
country became more settled the services were transferred to a
church, four miles from us, and we at length concluded to give up
our home to our son, and come to spend the evening of our lives in
a place where we could constantly enjoy the services of God’s
house. We have tried to make religion the chief business of our life,
and God has prospered us.”
 “And you enjoy this new country?” inquired Mrs. Lester.

No. 666.

WESTERN SETTLER’S FIRST HOME.

“It seems to me,” she replied, “the oldest country God has made;
such riches as these are in the soil all ready and prepared for the
seed of the sower, only waiting for man’s coming to yield of its
abundance.”
The sun was tinging town and prairie with his parting beams, and
the garden was already in deep shadow when Norman and his
mother, loaded with bright and fragrant flowers, returned home.
 CHAPTER XVI.
ON THE RAIL.

“All the while the swaying cars

Kept rumbling o’er the rail,
And the frequent whistle sent
Shrieks of anguish to the gale;
And the cinders pattered down
On the grimy floor like hail.”

Early, very early the next morning, the fifth of July, Mrs. Lester
was aroused by the firing of cannon, to celebrate our national
independence. Norman and Willie had kept the third, by firing off
crackers all day, and winding up with wheels, Roman candles, and
blue lights, exhibited to an appreciating audience on the portico in
the evening. After breakfast Norman, his Aunt Clara, and his mother
bade good-by, and got in the carriage which was to convey them to
Batavia, the spires of which were visible from Mr. Clayton’s. It was a
pleasant drive of two miles in the Fox River valley. The man drove
very fast, and they were sorry to arrive so soon at the place of their
destination, especially when they were told that they were to wait
two hours for the arrival of the train. The hackman, who had come
for them before the time, had many demands for the carriage, for
which he charged an extra price in honor of the holiday. A number of
passengers were waiting for the train; many of them going to the
celebration at Aurora, a pretty town, all astir with gaily dressed
people, and a procession marching to the grove where already a
crowd was gathered. It was a most lovely country, soft rolling
prairie, with its wealth of golden wheat, of waving corn, of graceful
barley, bordered by rich groves of timber, and dotted here and there
with towns and villages.
At Mendota they left their cars, and entered those of the Illinois
Central Railroad. There were several trains there, and a great
number of passengers hurrying to and fro, and rushing in to dinner.
Norman ran first into one store, and then into another, to buy some
torpedoes, as he was very anxious to make some noise, to give vent
to his patriotic feeling. He came back with a large box full, just in
time, for the train was soon in motion. And the passengers too, for
the road was so rough that the people went dancing up and down in
the most violent manner. Mrs. Lester asked the conductor if the road
was so rough all the way? No, he said; they had passed over the
worst of it. And with that hope Mrs. Lester tried to enjoy the
beautiful prairies, and the noble view of the Illinois River as seen
from the high embankment over which the road passes.
Norman would like to have seen the “Starved Rock,” somewhere
on this river, whither some Indians, pursued by their enemies, fled
for refuge. They were surrounded, and all escape from the rock
prevented by their encircling foes, who, day after day, waited for
them to surrender. At length they scaled the rock, and found the
garrison all starved to death but one squaw, who calmly awaited the
entrance of her enemies.
The Starved Rock, however, was not in sight, nor was any rock
recalling thrilling legend and heroic story; but another prospect, not
so agreeable, from the rear of the car near which they were seated
—a long strait road, the rails of which were rather too much curved
to suggest ideas of safety. “Don’t you think this road very unsafe?”
inquired Mrs. Lester of a gentleman who was contemplating this
retrospective view of dangers passed.
“Not very, but it might be safer.”
Up and down jumped all that car-load of passengers, whose faces
wore not the calmest and brightest expression. Suddenly there was
an explosion that startled people rather ready to be startled, and
Mrs. Lester, remembering the torpedoes, turned to Norman, who
was looking out of the rear window, and said reproachfully,
“Norman, how can you do so?”
 Every eye was directed toward the blushing lad, as he earnestly
exclaimed, “Mother, it was not me.”
Returning to his seat he looked for the torpedoes, which he found
had been jolted off the seat on the floor under his mother’s feet, and
a sudden movement of her foot had caused the explosion of ten or
twelve of them. “There, mother, it was you after all,” said Norman,
as he gathered up his remaining torpedoes.
Again they were startled—a prolonged whistle, and a stoppage of
the cars on an embankment at a distance from any station. Every
head went out of the windows, and some enterprising passengers
went out on the platform to learn the cause of this ominous pause.
Again and again that warning whistle; what did it mean? At length
the matter was explained. About twenty horses were on the track,
galloping on in front of the locomotive, which was obliged to pause
till they separated to the right and the left.
Right glad were the party when they arrived at Bloomington. Mrs.
Lester wished to go to a very handsome hotel, the photograph of
which had been shown to her on the Grey Eagle by the proprietor
thereof. A large unfinished building seemed to her very like the
photograph she had seen; but that could not be, as the photograph
must have been taken from the hotel in its finished, occupied state,
with handsome stores beneath. On inquiry she found this was the
hotel in question, which stood there, an arrested monument of
western enterprise. They went to the hotel opposite, and after tea
some friends of Aunt Clara’s called to see them, and to ask them to
walk.
Bloomington is a large, finely situated town, on the rising prairie,
not far from the fine groves that mark the course of Sugar Creek.
The president of the Illinois University (situated in a grove near the
town) walked with them, and took them to the observatory on the
Female College, where they had a lovely sunset view of the town,
the prairie, and the distant woods. How cool and refreshing were
those prairie breezes after the intense heat of the day; but they
were warned by the fading light that it was time to return. No
mountains or hills to prolong the twilight in these regions. The sun
sinks, and speedily the darkness comes on. Miss Allen, Aunt Clara’s
friend, insisted upon their coming in to see her. With kindly
hospitality she had sent for several of Aunt Clara’s friends to meet
her; and while Norman was amused with some fireworks in the
court-yard, they were refreshed with cake and ice-cream. Miss Allen,
her brothers, and Mrs. Lester had very pleasant conversation about
some mutual friends, and thus passed the evening to an hour rather
late for travelers who were to rise at two o’clock in the morning.
At that early hour they were aroused, and the omnibus conveyed
them to the station at three o’clock, where they had the satisfaction
of being told that the cars had stopped above the junction, cause
unknown. Probably they had run off the track, and they might not
arrive before eight o’clock.
“There is the locomotive that is to take us,” said a gentleman,
pointing to the expectant iron horse, panting and snorting, and
rushing to and fro, as if impatient at the delay. “I saw him in the
bank on Saturday, just below here. But he has suffered no harm
from running off the track.”
“Near them stood an engineer with his arm in a sling. He had
been returning to his post, as he had been off duty, when he threw
himself forward to rescue a man who, having missed his footing on
the step, would have been under the wheel of the car. As it was, his
struggles loosened the footing of his deliverer, who succeeded in
dragging him on the truck, from which precarious position they were
rescued as soon as the train could be stopped. The engineer’s arm
was badly broken, but the man whose life he had saved never came
to thank him. “I have no money to give him, why should I go?” said
he to the conductor, who told him to thank the man who had periled
life and limb to save him.”
“Men do not risk their lives for money,” replied the conductor,
turning away from the ungrateful man.
“The prospect looks rather dim,” said Aunt Clara, the first
discouraging word she had spoken.
“How calm and quiet she was,” said Norman, “when we were so
frightened in the rail car.”
The waiting-room of the station-house was not very comfortable
for weary passengers; Norman established himself on three chairs,
and was soon fast asleep on his hard bed; nor was he wakened
when his mother slipped her carpet-bag under his head.
A group near the door was more picturesque. It was a German
family whom they had seen the day before at the cars, and who had
passed all night at the station. One little girl lay across a bag, her
head tending toward the floor. The younger brother was on his
knees, resting his head on a chair, fast asleep; while near them, her
head erect, as if watching over her goods and chattels, sat the elder
sister, a quaint, prim-looking girl of thirteen, with a short waist, and
a little shawl pinned round it, and a broad flat over her braids of
light hair; while round her were bags, and boxes, and bundles, an
incongruous heap, in which it was at first somewhat difficult to
distinguish the sleeping children. The little boy at length, weary of
his constrained position on his knees, had pillowed his head on his
sleeping sister’s foot, which, by sundry twitches, and a few energetic
kicks, freed itself from the encumbering weight. But still the children
slept on. The mother was sitting outside of the door, silent, because
none knew her language. At length a telegram announced that the
cars would be there at five. The locomotive had been stopped
because the rails were slippery.
The early twilight brightened into day, the train arrived, the
passengers stepped in, and a very short time brought Norman, his
mother and aunt to their point of destination; a few houses had
been dropped down on the prairie, as the nucleus of a town; not
very promising as a resting-place. Soon, however, a buggy and a
wagon drove up for the travelers, who, after a short drive, were
welcomed by their relatives.
 CHAPTER XVII.
THE PRAIRIES.

“The wondrous, beautiful prairies,

Billowy bays of grass, ever rolling in shadow and sunshine,
Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas;
And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven,
Like the protecting hands of God inverted above them.”

Evangeline.

It looked quite homelike; the house shaded by tall trees, the

garden, the hedge of Osage orange shutting out the wide expanse
of prairie. The house was in the corner of Tazewell county; the barn
in McLean, and the greater part of the farm in a third county.
Norman found two new aunts to know and love, and a tall cousin of
six feet three.
It was not long before he became acquainted with two little girls
of ten and twelve, cousins, who lived on a farm near, with whom he
had many pleasant hours of play. They had, too, a great deal to talk
over of their journings in the West, for these little girls had always
before lived in a New England home. They had seen a great many
Indians, painted in all their bravery, in Wisconsin. They had seen a
squaw, with her papoose strapped on her back, riding on a small
Indian pony, with a child before and a child behind.
“This, mother,” said Norman, “is pleasanter than all; one day on a
prairie is worth ten days in town.” He was up early in the morning to
see the horses watered before they were sent off to the field. There
were more then twenty of them, and Norman’s cousin, Justin,
selected the handsomest colt on the farm, and gave it to Norman for
his own. Norman was enchanted. He took an ear of corn, and Prince
followed him about, eating it from his hand. Even after Prince had
gone down into the field, he followed Norman and the ear of corn
home.
“Mother, look at my colt,” said Norman in triumph; “how am I to
get him home?” There were various plans discussed, as the one idea
took possession of his mind, but no satisfactory conclusions were
arrived at. The glow of delight somewhat faded away. “I really do
not know what good my colt is going to do me,” said Norman,
despondingly; “I cannot ride him here, and I cannot take him home.”
His face brightened, however, when David brought up a horse for
him to ride. He had never rode before but once, when the pony
threw him over his head; but he said this was the sort of riding he
would like, to charge over the prairies.
He did ride off several miles over the prairies by himself, and then
he rode four miles with his Aunt Clara.
It was the time of harvest, and Norman loved to watch the
mowing machine as it so rapidly cut down the tall grass, and the
hay-making, and the tossing it into the great hay-stack. But what
most interested him was to watch the progress of the great header,
with its three attendant wagons, as it loomed up so grandly in the
harvest field. Three horses urged onward the machine, which cut off
the heads of the wheat and threw it on a platform, whence it was
taken up in an elevator and received into a wagon, which
accompanied the gigantic machine till it was loaded, and then, giving
place to another, drove to the great stack with its burden. This
machine requires three attendant wagons and six men, who thus cut
down as much wheat as fifteen men can do in the ordinary way, and
stack it to boot. These mowing and reaping machines seem
especially intended for the extensive level grain fields of Illinois,
which would look in vain for reapers and mowers with the old sickle
and scythe. Something is lost however in picturesque effect, as was
most manifest in the field next to that which the great header was
so rapidly despoiling of its riches. This field was dotted over with the
graceful sheaves of wheat, while a number of men were engaged in
the work of binding and stacking them together.
Norman had watched too the ploughman, who, with a cultivator
passing between the shining corn, did the work more laboriously
done at the East by hoeing.
He liked to watch the herds of cattle and sheep feeding on the
prairies; great herds, for everything was on a great scale on these
western farms.
But better even than this were the stories his cousin Justin told
him about his boyish days. He was twenty-three years old, and he
had lived on the prairie sixteen years. It used to be the custom, he
said, to plant a flagstaff in some central position, and invite
horsemen to leave the groves all around and ride to this point at a
certain hour. As the hour approached horsemen would be seen
issuing from all the groves, riding rapidly onward, driving before
them wolves, and the timid deer, till a dense ring of three or four
hundred horsemen inclosing the frightened animals who were then
dispatched by the clubs with which the men were armed. Sometimes
the desperate wolves broke through the ring where it was weakest,
and then there was waving of hats, and cheering, and galloping
after the animals, and all was wild uproar. “I can remember” said he
“the charm these wolf-hunts had for me when I was a boy of twelve;
how I armed myself with my club, mounted my spirited horse, and
galloped off to the stirring scene.”
“My cousin Walter,” continued Justin, “liked to hunt the wolf alone.
One day he encountered a prairie wolf, whom he pursued till the
wolf plunged into the stream to escape him. Seizing him by the tail,
he cut the strings of his hind legs, during which operation the wolf
bit his foot, leaving the mark of his long teeth through his boot. The
disabled wolf, however, as it emerged from the water, made but slow
progress, and Walter, disengaging his stirrups, gave him a blow in
the forehead which killed him, and stripping off his skin, he returned
home with his trophy, afterward to do good service in the form of a
muff for his sister.”
Then he told of the prairie fires that came every year. To be
prepared for the approach of this fiery invader they ploughed several
furrows near the fence of their farm, and then several furrows at the
distance of about four rods, and to the grass on that interval they
set fire, that this bared strip might oppose a barrier to the flames.
Onward they would come when the wind was from the same
quarter, with the speed of a locomotive, crackling, flashing, leaping
high in the air, rolling great waves of lurid light onward with fierce
rapidity. They would watch the on-coming of this sheeted flame,
terrible in its fiery glare, crimsoning the heavens with its ruddy glow,
consuming everything in its path, sending up fiery messengers into
the sky, and wonder whether it would be possible for them to
escape. “It was a magnificent sight,” continued he; “never do I
expect to see anything so terrible in its sublimity and beauty. Now
that the prairies are covered over with the habitations of men, we
have no more prairie fires, and no more wolf hunts. No more fierce
pursuer did the prairie wolf find than this untiring adversary of
flame, driving before it the terrified wolves and the gentle deer,
flying for life till they reached some timber where the fire would be
arrested.”
Norman was very sorry when the day came for him to leave. He
was sorry to leave his aunts and cousins, to whom he had become
very much attached; he was sorry to leave his colt, and to give up
his pleasant rides on horseback. The day they were to leave they
were to dine with another aunt of Norman’s, and Norman,
accompanied by David, rode there on horseback, while his cousin
Justin was to drive his mother in his buggy. She had very much
enjoyed her daily drives over the prairies, enamelled with flowers, of
every new variety of which Justin stopped to gather for her, and
which she prized as memorials of those pleasant hours.
At his aunt’s Norman saw the picture of his Cousin Walter—the
hero of the wolf story—a face full of intelligence and sweetness, a
slender form. He was a brilliant youth, with high hopes and
aspirations, when, in the midst of his collegiate course, he was
stricken down by cholera, and in a few days was numbered with the
dead.
After dinner Norman mounted his horse, and, attended by David,
who rode beautifully, he took his way toward the station. His mother
and his cousin started about half an hour afterward, and pursued
their winding way. The road on the prairies is continually changing;
as the new farms are fenced, the owners divert the road from their
fields to the exterior of their farms. One memorable place Mrs.
Lester had passed on her drive to the village the evening before. It
was a slough where, in the spring, a pair of horses were so
completely buried that it was necessary to employ oxen to drag
them out by the head. One field, on their way to the station, looked
as if it were covered with pansies, the rather coarse flowers with
which it was filled being softened by distance into this likeness.
They drove across a grassy field that looked as if it must at some
time have been the bed of a great river, so strikingly did the
woodlands resemble the banks. Indeed, one is often struck, in
looking out upon the prairies, with the resemblance to a sea view. At
the margin there will frequently be a mist, such as bounds the view
on the water; the groves of timber jut out into the prairie like
headlands, and the eye often follows these indentations as if tracing
the shore of a vast lake. Proofs are not wanting to establish the fact
that Illinois was once the bed of a great lake, probably an expansion
of the Mississippi, till it broke though on its headlong course to the
Gulf of Mexico. The prairie breezes come every day to moderate the
intense heat of summer, and sweep over these vast plains as on the
bosom of a great inland sea. Those who build in the timber lose
these refreshing winds.
Mrs. Lester was somewhat troubled on arriving at the station to
find that Norman was not there, though he had left so long before
her, and she looked rather anxiously over the prairie for some signs
of his coming. The boys were not visible, and she was contemplating
the prospect of returning to the kind friends whom she had left
when they came in sight. She waved her handkerchief to them to
hasten, as the train was due in five minutes. Just in time; the train
was in sight as Norman stepped on the platform; and as Justin
accompanied them into the cars to find them seats, Mrs. Lester
hurried him off, lest he should be taken on, so short was the pause
at the station.
 CHAPTER XVIII.
CHICAGO, AND THE RIDE THITHER.

Chicago! thou shalt shine in verse,

As my adopted pet;
Thou newest slice of this New World,
Save what is newer yet.
Thy structures seem of yesterday,
And shine like scenery in the play
Just pushed upon the stage.—F. G. H.

The ride was very agreeable: boundless views of rolling prairie,

that looked like English park scenery; scattered groves, pretty farm
houses, thriving villages, afforded a constant succession of
agreeable objects. Far to the west was seen a threatening cloud, at
length descending in torrents of rain to the westward, while the
sudden, violent wind that swept across the track of the cars was
succeeded by dashes of rain. A curious optical illusion was produced
by the sun shining from behind a dark cloud, and throwing lines of
light across the prairie, producing the effect of a fort, and of long
rows of white buildings. The sun was setting behind clouds of
crimson and gold when the train arrived at Joliet, and stopped
twenty minutes for refreshments.
Joliet, named in honor of the citizen of Quebec who first trod the
soil of Iowa, is a handsome town, ornamented with numerous
spires. Here are fine quarries of the beautiful cream-colored stone
used so much in Chicago, and transported thither by a canal running
over the low wet prairies parallel with the railroad.
 While waiting till the train from Chicago should pass them,
Norman had a fine view of some splendid rockets in honor of the
arrival of a noted politician in the city.
At the station they found their kind friend, Mr. Percy, and he drove
them to his house very rapidly. Late as it was, Mrs. Percy and Miss
Ray were at the door to welcome them, and, after a few words of
greeting, to show them to their rooms.
The next morning Norman went fishing with Charley Percy, and
while he was gone his Uncle and Aunt Lester came in Mrs. Hunter’s
carriage to take them for a drive. Mrs. Hunter took them to her
house, where they had iced lemonade; and Mrs. Lester returned,
promising to take tea and stay all night with Mr. and Mrs. Lester at
her brother’s, where they were staying. This brother was a minister,
and his home had an atmosphere of taste and refinement and piety.
Choice books, in every room, invited perusal; illustrated works
attracted the eye; a canary warbled its sweet notes, especially when
the piano was touched; and the mistress of the house sang the
songs her husband had written. Most pleasantly did every object
harmonize with the repose of the Sabbath. The new Methodist
church edifice was in the next street, and the services were held for
the last time in the lecture-room, as on next Thursday the church
was to be dedicated to the worship of God. At the love-feast in the
afternoon there was an earnest expression of gratitude to God for
the abundant mercies he had showered upon them during the past
winter, and for the prosperity that had attended their efforts to erect
a house to his service.
Mrs. Percy sent the carriage for them in the afternoon, and they
found the family assembled in the parlor, singing sacred songs. Each
one had the music of the hymns, and the hour before tea thus
passed most pleasantly. In the evening Norman and his mother went
with Mr. and Mrs. Percy to church, and heard an excellent sermon
from Dr. Rice, on the breast-plate of faith and love, and the helmet,
the hope of salvation. “How much reason have we for thankfulness,”
said Mrs. Lester to Norman in the evening, “that everywhere we
have found Christian homes; everywhere family prayer, and a love
for God’s house and service. How many such privileges have we
enjoyed!”
The next morning Dr. Davis called to invite them to pay him a
visit; Norman went with Albert Davis, and a few hours afterward the
doctor called in his carriage for Mrs. Lester. Norman’s uncle and aunt
were in the carriage, and when they arrived at the doctor’s country
place, they found Norman lying on the grass, contemplating Albert’s
pony.
Norman found some very interesting books filled with large
colored plates of birds, and plants, and Indians. He looked at these
portraits of the red men, taken by Mr. Catlin, and read sketches of
their history with great interest
In the afternoon Dr. Davis drove them to see the pretty grounds of
a gentleman in the neighborhood, and to the Lake View House,
where they drank some iced lemonade, and wandered on the beach.
It seemed very much like the sea-shore, the great waves rolling in
and dashing against the sand, and, a little below, the hulk of a
vessel blown ashore and stranded in the recent storm. Such proofs
of the power of old Michigan, when its waves rise up in their might,
may be seen all along its shores, unprovided as they are with
harbors for vessels to take refuge in at the approach of the tempest.
 CHAPTER XIX.
ON THE LAKES.

“On the shores of Gitche Gumee,

Westward by the Big-Sea Water.

* * * * *

Can it be the sun descending,

Sinking down into the water?
All the sky is stain’d with purple,
All the water flush’d with crimson!”

Lake Superior, the mighty lake, fed by two hundred rivers and
streams, plunging down falls and rapids to mingle their waters with
those of this inland ocean; with its stern rocky walls, and
overhanging crags; with its rich mines of copper, silver, and iron;
with its abundant fisheries of trout, pickerel, pike, carp, black fish,
and white fish; and with its grand pictured rocks, presenting
columns, towers, arches, and ruins, and hollowed out into vast
caverns, echoing with tremendous roar to the dash of the waves. An
excursion proposed to this lake offered great attractions, and Mrs.
Lester was tempted to go on the fine steamer that was to take a
party thither.
Norman supplied himself with trolling-hook and fishing tackle, as
the steamer was to stop frequently to allow the passengers to fish in
those cold, clear, transparent waters. Charley Percy and his friend,
Alfred Scarborough, somewhat older than himself, were going in the
steamer to Collingwood, on their way to Niagara; so in the evening
they went to the boat, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Percy, and
Alfred’s father and mother. The saloon was gayly lighted up, the
band playing; the state-rooms were very comfortable, and the
beginning of the voyage at least was very promising.
Good-by was said to their kind friends, and the steamer moved
slowly down the river, past the warehouses, and through the
bridges, in the darkness, amid the gleaming lights here and there,
and to the sound of music, and it all seemed very dream-like. At
length they reached the lake, and the regular lines of light on
Michigan Avenue sparkled as they sailed away. It was very late, near
eleven o’clock, and the travelers soon sought the repose of their
berths. Mrs. Lester only wakened in the morning in time to see the
graceful spires of Racine, sleeping in the early morning light.
About ten o’clock they sailed into the harbor of Milwaukee, built
on both sides of the Milwaukee River, on a high bluff overlooking the
lake. Most of the town is built of the Milwaukee brick, which is of a
light straw-color; and though this brick is a very fine building
material, yet it harmonizes too much with the color of the sandy
streets and sandy bluff to give a fine effect to the town. A stronger
contrast would be better. There are some very fine buildings; a hotel
of beautiful and elaborate design, and a custom-house of fine
architecture, built of white stone.
Until one o’clock “The Planet” remained at Milwaukee, awaiting
the arrival of a party who wished to go on the excursion, and who
had telegraphed them from Chicago, and this delay enabled the
passengers to ride and walk about the town.
A sad sight met the eyes of those who remained on the boat. The
steamboat Traveler was just passing them, on its way out of the
harbor, when the mate, who had given some orders not followed to
his satisfaction, let himself down from the upper deck, by catching
hold of the middle rail of the balustrade. The rail broke, and the man
was thrown into the water, probably receiving some mortal blow on
the way, as he never rose. Truly there is but a step between us and
death. In that calm water, on that still, sunny day, the hardy seaman
who had braved death in the darkness and tempest, found a grave.
It was very warm, and all were glad when the steamer was once
more in motion, and the fresh breezes of the lake came with their
cooling for heated brows. It was rather too fresh after a while, and
there was more motion than was consistent with the enjoyment of
some of the passengers. There was a shower, too, dimpling the lake,
and driving most of the people into the saloon.
Norman had his first experience of seasickness, and retiring to his
berth at five o’clock, he slept there till the morning. His mother was
very sorry to have him miss that magnificent sunset on Lake
Michigan. The rain had passed away, and a light breeze crisped the
waters. The boat had made its last landing, and the little town they
were leaving was glorified by its back ground of amber, deepening
into a brilliant orange. Every house and tree came out with
marvelous distinctness, as the sun dipped behind the western
horizon, and painted, after he had passed from view, a gorgeous
picture as his parting gift—a gift not to be lost with the fleeting hour,
or to be confounded with other gifts from the same source. It was
marvelous in its beauty. Clouds of rich crimson, fading into brown,
were festooned on the serene radiance of the clear sky. A wealth of
celestial drapery seemed drawn aside to reveal the far-off glory. As
these kindling hues faded away, a cloud nearer the horizon assumed
the aspect of a woodland scene receding from the shore of the lake.
There were the headlands jutting into the water, the nodding groves,
the bays running into the land. It was difficult to make all this
extensive country only cloud-land, and the little company at the
stern of the boat gazed upon it till the gathering darkness hid it from
view.
It was a night of glorious shows; about ten o’clock the northern
lights threw up their quivering brilliant scintillations far up into the
heavens, glorifying the north with a bow of flickering beauty, even as
the west had been glorified with masses of magnificent clouds. The
lake, however, was almost too rough to allow many spectators to
enjoy this glimpse of northern splendors, and most of the
passengers sought the safe security of their berths.
Early in the morning Norman was called by his mother to come
out on deck and see the Manitou Islands, with their sandy bluffs and
crown of green trees. Norman looked at them a long time in silence
by himself. When he came to his mother he said: “I feel almost as if
I had been looking at the Holy Land; those islands were the holy
land to the Indians, the dwelling-place of the Great Spirit, not to be
approached by mortals.”
“It made me very fanciful to look at them,” continued Norman.
“The great cloud of smoke that our steamer is sending toward the
island, and that now hovers over it, seemed to me an oblation to the
great Manitou of the Indians.”
There was a visitor from those islands; a pretty little bird that
lighted on the ropes, and jumped about the deck till frightened
away.
They passed Beaver Island, once inhabited by the Mormons, who,
the captain said, seemed a very quiet, inoffensive people when they
lived there. He said they had been very kind in assisting him once
when he ran ashore near their island.
After breakfast Norman, his mother, and Alfred Scarborough went
to the hurricane deck. Soon a gentleman came up, and walked
vigorously up and down, giving at each turn some good advice to
Norman. He was an English clergyman, hale and fresh
complexioned, with a bright eye, and firm, quick step, though he
was seventy years of age. “I have come out,” he said, “to get some
fresh air before breakfast. There are not many young men that can
run up a mountain like me. Many young men only smoke, and sleep,
and eat; they never think of taking vigorous exercise. They will
never be able to walk as I do at my age.
“Walk, my boy,” said he, putting his hand on Norman’s shoulder
“run, leap, and you will grow strong. Those are the Fox Islands, are
they? Well, I must go down to my breakfast, they will not make
much on me; I can eat a pound more than I could have when I
came up.” And thus ending his walk and sentences together, he went
down stairs.
It was a lovely morning; the cool breeze was exhilarating, and the
morning passed quickly away as they glided through the straits that
connect Lake Michigan and Lake Huron; the straits so long known
under the formidable name of the Straits of Michilimackinac, now
abridged to Mackinaw.
 CHAPTER XX.
MACKINAW AND LAKE HURON.

In our wake there follow’d, white as flakes of snow,

Seven adventurous sea-gulls, floating to and fro;
Diving for the bounty of the bread we threw,
Dipping, curving, swerving—fishing as they flew.

Mackay.

Just after dinner they reached Mackinaw, where a number of the

excursionists were to remain until the boat returned from
Collingwood. The captain said they would remain at Mackinaw time
enough to visit the fort.
Ready at the gangway as the boat touched the shore, Mrs. Lester,
Norman, with a number of others, rushed on shore, scarcely pausing
to look through the clear, transparent water at the white pebbles of
the beach. Up the hill to the fort, the sun shining down on them with
fervent heat, while his rays were reflected from the white walls. It
was, however, a short, direct road, and the lovely view fully repaid
them for the momentary heat. A peaceful scene lay beneath them;
the quiet little village of Mackinaw, with its humble dwellings; the
beach, sweeping round in the form of a crescent, and the placid
waters of Lake Huron beyond, made a pretty picture; the sentinel
walking to and fro on his post; the heavy pieces of artillery, and piles
of shot and shell. Soldiers, grouped here and there, greatly
interested Norman. The descent was very steep, and Norman in one
minute found himself at the foot of the walled-in road which they
had ascended. On arriving at the boat they found the men engaged
in putting on shore sheep and cattle for the support of the soldiers,
whose provision is thus brought to them. Taking advantage of the
delay, Norman rushed on shore to buy some birch bark boxes, filled
with maple sugar, and embroidered in porcupine quills. As he
showed them to his mother on his return, she ventured up the street
to buy some Indian work, emboldened by the sight of the captain
walking before her.
A group of Indian women, in their own dress, with blue cloth
blankets and leggings, attracted their attention as they entered the
shop. They were Ottawas, and one of them had a face of great
beauty. It was oval: her features were fine, and there was a pensive
expression, a look of sadness on her face, that made her very
interesting. Mrs. Lester wanted to look at that face of sorrowful
meaning, and learn something of her history; but the sight of the
captain, on his return to the boat, hastened her movements, and
hastily selecting some fans and boxes of maple sugar, with an
embroidered canoe of birch bark, she hurried away.
Nine more sheep to land; there would have been a few moments
to spare for a longer perusal of the face of that Ottawa maiden, but
it was safe to come when they did, and not run the risk of being left.
And so they were once more in motion, with hastily gathered
memories of Mackinaw, its town and fort.
“Norman,” said Mrs. Lester, “did you ever hear of a famous game
of ball at Mackinaw?”
“No, mother; please tell me about it.”
“It was in June. A number of Indians had arrived near the fort,
apparently to trade, and a day was appointed for a game of ball, of
which they are very fond. Stakes were planted, and the game, in
playing which the great object is to keep the ball beyond the
adversary’s goal, began. The Indians uttered loud cries in the wild
excitement of the game, and the commandant of the fort and his
lieutenant stood outside of the gate to watch them. The ball was
tossed nearer and nearer the fort, and the excited crowd of Indians
ran and leaped after it, when suddenly they rushed upon the two
officers at the gate, and imprisoned them. At once they joined some
Indians who had come into the fort under pretense of trading, and
imprisoned the whole garrison, seventeen of whom they put to
death.
“This was the beginning of Pontiac’s war.”
“I never heard of this game of ball,” said Norman; “but I can tell
as good a story of a pair of moccasins. May I?”
“Certainly,” said his mother. “I would like to hear it.”
“Well, mother, I believe this was at the beginning of Pontiac’s war
too. An Indian woman had made some moccasins for Major
Gladstone, who commanded the fort at Detroit. They were made of
a curious elk-skin that he valued very much. He paid her for them,
and gave her the rest of the skin, asking her to make another pair
for a friend of his. The squaw seemed unwilling to go home, and the
major sent for her, and asked her what she was waiting for. She said
she did not like to take the elk-skin that he thought so much of, as
she could not make another pair of moccasins. He asked her why
she could not make them. At first she would not tell; but then she
said he had been very good to her, and she would tell him the
secret, that she might save his life.
“The Indians, who had asked permission to visit the fort the next
day, that they might present the calumet to Major Gladstone, were
coming with their guns cut off, that they might hide them under
their blankets; then, when Pontiac presented the calumet in some
peculiar way, they were to fire upon the officers.
“The soldiers were stationed outside of the room where the
council was to be held; the officers were armed, and when Pontiac
was about to present the calumet, the officers partially drew their
swords from their scabbards, and the clank of the soldiers’ arms was
heard outside. Pontiac turned pale, and presented the calumet
without the preconcerted signal.
“Major Gladstone then stepped up to one of the Indians, pulled
aside his blanket, and revealed the gun cut short, just as the squaw
had said. He accused Pontiac of treachery, but said that as he had
promised them a safe audience, they might go out of the town
unharmed.”
“Perhaps if he had kept them prisoners,” said Mrs. Lester, “he
might have prevented the war that ensued.”
 How beautiful the island looked in its commanding position! The
high land in the center, with its lofty forests rising like a curve. How
much they would have enjoyed the day that had been promised
them at Mackinaw to visit the old fort on its central heights, the
arched rock, and the wild solitudes of this picturesque region. The
bold rock known as the Lover’s Leap stood out finely from the
greenwood behind, and Norman listened to its story told him by Mr.
Bard. An Indian maiden, who had refused to marry a brave who
loved her very much, was one day seated on this lofty rock, looking
out on the grand view beneath her, when she heard a stealthy step,
and her rejected lover stood by her side. The hour, the scene were
propitious to his suit, and again it was urged with all the warmth of
earnest affection. The maiden listened, hesitated, and at length told
him that if he would leap off that cliff she would marry him. The
Indian raised his tall form to its utmost height, looked at the sea, the
sky, and then at the beautiful face for which he periled the sight of
both, and leaped from the giddy verge. Strange to say, without loss
of life or limb, with the agility and skill of a well-trained Indian, he
took the fearful leap, which was broken by the branches of trees and
shrubbery beneath. And thus he won his Indian bride.
Mr. Bard, who had come to the country when there were but two
houses in Chicago out of the fort, had been familiar with it when the
Indian tribes roved at will over the vast prairies of Illinois. He spoke
four of their languages, and could sing their songs. He had been
twice cast away on the shores of Lake Michigan, and he could tell
many a tale of wild adventure. More wonderful than any fairy tale
was the aspect of the cultivated farms, the neat farm-houses, the
numerous villages and towns, with their spires pointing skyward, the
great city that had all grown up in a few years beneath his eye. And
those red men, with whom he had been so familiarly associated,
where had they gone? How rapidly those western regions are losing
the element of the picturesque that the Indian with his bark canoe
and his wigwam give to their lakes and rivers, with their wooded
shores.
He told Norman of a most curious scene he had once witnessed.
An Indian had a very handsome pony, which another Indian was
anxious to purchase, but which he resolutely refused to sell. They
were both drinking, when the owner of the pony, finding his stock of
whisky exhausted, asked the other to give or sell him a mouthful
from his remaining bottle. He at first declined, but, on being
entreated, said that he would give him a mouthful of whisky for the
pony. The Indian at once consented to give up his favorite horse for
the momentary gratification, and putting his lips to those which had
recently imbibed the whisky, he received the stipulated mouthful.
It was a repetition, in these western wilds, of the old Hebrew
story, the sacrifice of a birthright by the hungry hunter for the mess
of pottage given him by the plain man dwelling in tents. Well, were
this the solitary repetition! but, alas! Esaus are found in all our
borders, giving up, for the indulgence of present clamorous desires,
an inheritance more glorious than any to which the first-born of
earth could ever lay claim.
The captain asked Norman if he had seen the northern lights the
evening before. Norman said that he was asleep, and asked the
captain if he frequently saw them.
“O yes,” he replied, “they are very brilliant in these high latitudes.
The Indians think they are the dance of the dead. One evening I
came on deck, and looking up at that pole I saw a bird just resting
on the gilt ball that surmounts it. I seemed to hear the soft flutter of
her wings. I watched it for some time, and then went in and called
the engineer to look at it. He too saw it, and when I turned to look
at the boat every line and point seemed luminous. He was showing
it to some ladies, and pointing toward it a light blue flame streamed
from his finger. Everything was highly charged with electricity, which
produced the semblance of the bird on the flagstaff on the bow. I
never saw anything like it.”
“How long did it last?” asked Norman.
“About two hours.”
Norman then asked him about Lake Superior, and he told him of
the wonderful beauty of the pictured rocks, of the castles and
temples jutting out of their bold front, of their arched caverns; that
those majestic rocks, three hundred feet high, extend ten miles, and
the Indians passed them with awful reverence, thinking that they
were the dwelling-place of the great Manitou.
The captain spoke of the sudden storms so violent in this “Big Sea
Water” in the autumn, and showed Norman a very beautiful gold
watch that had been presented to him by the citizens of Superior
City, in honor of his courage, skill, and fidelity when his vessel was
exposed to a severe storm, and he brought her safely through the
snow, and ice, and tempest. On the case was engraved a picture of
the “Lady Elgin,” and on the heavy gold chain, secured by an anchor
to his buttonhole, were his initials, in massive gold letters.
The captain showed Norman the straits that led up into Lake
Superior, and he regretted his mother had given up the excursion
around the lake. She concluded that as they had been gone two
months from home, it would not be well to set out on an excursion
that would detain them ten or twelve days longer, and expose them,
moreover, to traveling on the Sabbath. The home prospect looked so
bright, however, that they did not regret very much the loss of the
sight of the prairies and rocks, and all the desolate glories of this
great lake.
“Norman,” said his mother, “just think of the courage it must have
required when, more than two hundred years ago, two French
missionaries sailed over these lonely lakes. They were seventeen
days in a light bark canoe. They sailed past the pretty islands we
shall soon see in Georgian Bay, and over the clear waters upon
which we are now sailing, up the river St. Mary, which the captain
showed you, which leads to Lake Superior, and there, at the Sault St.
Marie, they told the Indians about Jesus:
“‘A birch canoe with, paddles,
Rising, sinking on the water,
Dripping, flashing in the sunshine,
And within it came a people
From the distant land of Wabrun,
From the farthest realms of morning
Came the black-robe chief, the prophet,
He the priest of prayer; the pale-face
With his guides and his companions.’”
 A lady showed Norman a picture of the rapids at the Sault St.
Marie, with a number of Indians in their canoes; and the captain
said they would paddle their canoes up the rapids, and then
throwing their nets in the water as they came down, would catch the
fish going up the stream.
After tea they seated themselves in the stern of the vessel, and
looked at her track far over the lake. The air was cool and
exhilarating, and it was with devout gratitude to God for the
wonderful display of his mighty works, and for his abundant
blessings, that some of the company gazed upon the serene glory of
the sunsetting. It was not gorgeous, as was the sunset on Lake
Michigan, with clouds of purple and crimson, but slowly, slowly the
shining orb dipped behind the waters. The evening star hung
trembling in the sky, faintly shining out from that region of pale gold;
while the moon, high in the western heavens, promised for many
hours her silvery light.
Norman brought out his trolling-hook, that he might have the
pleasure of throwing it into Lake Huron, as he was denied that of
fishing in Lake Superior. He let it out at the end of a long and strong
fishing line, and amused himself watching it bounce out of the water,
and feeling the twitches it gave his hand as the boat moved rapidly
onward. A lady, who sat near, was very much amused at the stout
resistance of the waves. At length Norman drew in his line, and lo!
and behold the hook was gone. The action of the waves had worn
away the stout cord, made still stronger by being wound around with
thread.
“There,” said Norman, “I have lost the hook which cost me
twenty-five cents.”
“I think it has given us twenty-five cents’ worth of pleasure,” said
the lady, who had been watching the dancing line.
“And you have the honor of having lost your hook in the clear
waters of Lake Huron,” added his mother. Norman was meanwhile
tying to the end of his line the little board on which the line had
been wound, and he threw that in the water in place of the hook.
This was a more stirring pastime. The board offered so much
stronger resistance to the waves, that Norman had to wind the line
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