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 S.S.LAPPIN. 
 
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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. 
 
AiV^here tne Long 
 Trail Begins 
 
 iA :'BY 
 
 J' 
 
 Sf^SfLAPPIN 
 
 Editor Christian Standard 
 
 CINCINNATI 
 
 The Standard Publishing Company 
 1913 
 
Copyright, 1913 
 The Standard Publishing Co. 
 
 DEC26J9I3 
 
 /^ 
 
 a:i.A361341 
 

 Dedication 
 
 Tkis little book is JeJicateJ to 
 the members of tkat great felloAvsbip, 
 tne Helpers of Otkers, ^vbo, by tbe 
 blessing of God on tbeir o^vn endeav- 
 ors, nave been able to come up tnrougn 
 great tribulations to places of useful- 
 ness m a needy ^vorld. 
 
 S. S. Lappin, 
 
WHERE THE LONG 
 TRAIL BEGINS 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 The Quest for a Homb. 
 
 It is a strange and interesting study, this 
 conglomerate population of ours. Men ot 
 every race, nation and faith have fled, wan- 
 dered and drifted to this great and inviting 
 land, till we may boast of an aggregation the 
 like of which can not be seen elsewhere on 
 earth. And the charm of the New World has 
 possessed them like a spell. Discontented, it 
 may be, in the first location, and the second, 
 and even the third, their faces are still toward 
 the setting sun ; they almost never turn back. 
 A generation may live and die in the Old Do- 
 minion; the second comes on to Ohio, the 
 third to Illinois, and so, with "Westward Ho!" 
 for watchword, the flood of folks moves on, 
 each wave reaching farther than the one 
 before. 
 
 Not less interesting is the rise and fall of 
 inherited tendency in successive individuals of 
 a given stock. The disease that preys on a 
 
2 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 generation or two will apparently disappear for 
 good, only to show up fifty years down the 
 line. Marked moral qualities found in a group 
 of related persons seem to be lost for a long 
 period, till some great giant springs up from 
 an unexpected quarter; then by diligent in- 
 quiry the strain may be traced back to its 
 former appearance. Intellectual traits have an 
 inning for some decades and then fade out 
 into mediocrity, only to flash up again from 
 some pioneer cabin or workman's cottage. 
 Families thrive but to die out; faculties dis- 
 tinguish but to desert; wealth comforts by its 
 presence but to cast down when it vanishes; 
 genius lingers here and there, as if to succor 
 hope till a better day shall dawn. Yet nothing 
 good is ever lost. In all this ferment of con- 
 scious spiritual life there is ever enough of 
 real value to justify the anticipation of the 
 coming better day. And so, 'mid flitting scenes 
 of shade and shine, our little lives move on. 
 And so, because we can see so little of the 
 plan above it all, we come to measure the 
 ways of a great world by the things that tran- 
 spire in the little valley where we live. But it 
 is sweet to know that those who have traveled 
 farthest and seen most clearly proclaim a 
 universal upward trend and a future full of 
 promise. 
 
The Quest for a Home 3 
 
 The little story I here begiu has ever been 
 a part of my dream life. I know the risk I 
 run in trying to call it up — that the delicate 
 mystery and charm of it all may vanish for- 
 ever — but the plain people who played the 
 heroic part in these little tragedies may die 
 unsung and unappreciated except I speak, and 
 a needy world thus miss something of its real 
 "wealth, so I yield to the pleadings of impulse 
 and take up my task. 
 
 When the Civil War closed, Missouri, torn 
 by the strifes of her own people and by con- 
 tentious of armies and predatory bands from 
 beyond her borders, lay broken and bleeding. 
 Many of her citizens had fled forever with 
 family and fortune, such as could readily be 
 taken, and were exiles in North or South. 
 Farms were tenantless, and land, the best of 
 it, cheap, while much could be had for the tak- 
 ing by whoever would occupy it for a period 
 of years. Attracted by reports of an open 
 and inviting country to be occupied, a great 
 tide of immigration moved westward from Ohio 
 and Illinois in the late sixties and early sev- 
 enties. It was the third and fourth genera- 
 tions of original first settlers, on whom the 
 restlessness of their fathers had been visited. 
 Many of them found good and permanent 
 homes in the territory immediately beyond the 
 
4 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 Mississippi, and there reared sons and daugh- 
 ters who are the pride of a great common- 
 wealth and who are proud to be called Mis- 
 sourians. Others stopped there but for a gen- 
 eration, to rear their children among green 
 hills and gushing springs, and then moved on 
 — the young folks at least — to the inviting 
 stretches of level land in Kansas and Nebraska. 
 
 But there was a reflex wave of which his- 
 tory can give no account, since it built nothing 
 and destroyed nothing. With sad and hopeless 
 deliberation it crept back, bearing on its bosom 
 the broken and unfortunate to the sources 
 from whence they came. Financial reverse, 
 drouth and death were fruitful causes of this 
 return. Perhaps a frail woman had succumbed 
 to the rigors of pioneer life, and a sad-hearted 
 husband, with his orphaned brood, came back 
 to blame himself for the venture he had made. 
 Or parents returned childless and heartbroken 
 to reflect that it might have been different had 
 they never gone West. Sadder still was it 
 when a widowed mother, with her defenceless 
 little ones, had to cast herself on this return- 
 ing tide and be thrown back helpless among 
 those in whose hearts time and distance had 
 chilled the attachments of other years. 
 
 It was early in the spring of '70 that a 
 young farmer schoolmaster of Illinois launched 
 
The Quest for a Home 5 
 
 his "prairie schooner" and turned resolutely 
 toward the much-lauded land of Missouri. 
 Besides himself and his companion, there were 
 three children. The eldest was a lad of six, 
 the second a bright-eyed girl of two and the 
 third a boy baby in arms. The canvas-covered 
 wagon plodded slowly over the hundred miles 
 to the great river, crossed at the Alton ferry 
 and began its tour of exploration. 
 
 The course chosen led up the Missouri 
 some hundreds of miles, across to Sedalia and 
 thence southward. There was time and to 
 spare before cropping should begin, and the 
 journey was made with such leisure as would 
 permit a sufficient investigation of each local- 
 ity. Just why the richer lands of the great 
 bottom were passed by, and the more broken 
 districts farther south given preference, it 
 would be hard to determine. Perhaps the 
 price per acre was a strong factor; or, it may 
 have been that timber for firewood and build- 
 ing purposes, or rolling lands and gushing 
 springs, appealed to the inherited Buckeye 
 sentiments of the settler. However that may 
 have been, a stop was made at Bolivar, in Polk 
 County. After a year here, spent in teaching 
 and small farming, a permanent location was 
 chosen in the " Gumbo Hills " farther south. 
 The cabin home was located two and a half 
 
6 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 miles from "Pin Hook," or, to give the more 
 refined Government designation precedence 
 over the neighborhood nickname, Pleasant 
 Hope. The nearest railroad was at Springfield, 
 twenty miles away. Even now the newer road 
 that has crept down through the hills from 
 Harrisonville, and to Bolivar, has brought the 
 outside world but six miles nearer that se- 
 cluded section. 
 
 There is something stern and forbidding in 
 the grim and unyielding aspect of mountain 
 foothills. Irrigation has conquered arid areas 
 farther west, and made them not only habitable, 
 but rich and productive. Underdrainage has 
 redeemed great sodden wastes in Illinois and 
 Iowa, but in Missouri, and elsewhere as well, 
 the challenge of the hills has prevailed. It 
 was my privilege recently to look once more 
 on the rocky steeps which are indelibly shad- 
 owed on the sensitive plates of my earliest 
 memory. I went with the apprehension that 
 all would be changed save the hills them- 
 selves; but, could I have been made a child 
 again, it would have been easy to imagine that 
 all the intervening years had been a dream. 
 I slept under a coverlet and dried my face on 
 a towel made by hand from cotton grown on 
 the place where they were in use. I sat beside 
 a wide fireplace, with its backlog and fore- 
 
The Quest for a Home 7 
 
 stickj and when I looked about me, but for the 
 presence of an iron bed of recent make, I 
 could have thought I had dropped back into 
 the homely but happy life of three decades 
 ago. But the experience was far from unpleas- 
 ant; on the contrary, I shall remember it 
 while I have a mind. Just to be among people 
 who are unacquainted with hurry and un wor- 
 ried by the nagging calls of a meddlesome 
 and discontented world is a relief, though it be 
 but for a day. 
 
 The quiet of days long gone may be in 
 part a pleasing illusion; perhaps it is only 
 that the din and discord of that which fret- 
 ted us then, being transient and incidental, 
 have vanished, leaving the real features of 
 that life in true perspective. Or, it may be 
 that the subconscious better self takes note 
 only of that which is worthy to be preserved, 
 storing it up for a rainy day, a treasure that 
 "neither moth nor rust can corrupt, nor 
 thieves break through and steal." 
 
 However the philosophy of it may run, the 
 good things we once had, can now be enjoyed 
 only in memory; we can not restore them, 
 or the sensations they produced, by going 
 back. God's way for mankind is forward, and 
 happy he who out of his past has been able 
 to retain and cultivate the art of separating 
 
8 AVhere the Long Trail Begins 
 
 gold from dross in the criss-cross experiences 
 of the days that come and go. 
 
 And it was here, in the country now made 
 famous by the books of popular writers, that 
 the home was found and the hard lot of an 
 ambitious man was cast. Here, too, was laid 
 the scene of battle with stump and stone, in 
 which many a stronger man might have gone 
 down in defeat or won only at great cost to 
 his physical frame. And it did end in defeat 
 and darkness and disaster, the like of which I 
 trust few families have ever had to know. But 
 it was the darkness of a lingering night which 
 the dawn of a bright day has at last dispelled. 
 It was the pall and gloom of a transient storm, 
 and the bow of promise reflected on retreating 
 clouds is shining in the east, and it is God's 
 world once more. 
 
 "Clouds ofttimes shut out the blue of heaven, 
 But 'neath God's hand we still securely dwell, 
 And, trusting him, wait patiently for even — 
 If it be clear at sunset, all is well." 
 
 It is this faith, and this alone, that makes 
 my story worth the telling, and the telling of 
 it worth while. 
 
M.S^. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 A Pile of Stones. 
 
 Little remains to mark the spot where 
 stood the rude house we called home during 
 our five years' residence in the Gumbo Hills of 
 Polk County. A pile of rough stones where 
 the chimney of the big fireplace used to be — 
 this, and nothing more. A pile of stoneSy 
 with a wild thorn spreading its unlovely arms 
 above and briars in profuse disorder all about. 
 A pile of stones! but of all the monuments 
 of masonry I know — and they are not a few — 
 there is no other so significant as this. "What 
 mean ye by these stones? " does one ask? 
 Much indeed ! They were first gathered and 
 placed by the hand of my father; and in all 
 this great world there is no other material 
 thing I can be sure his hands have handled. 
 And these are a ruin now 1 What a commen- 
 tary on the handiwork of man ! Yet I can be- 
 lieve that he laid other stones than these — 
 stones that earthquake, nor storm, nor time 
 can ever move. A pile of stones I The first 
 years of my memory were spent in the radiant 
 reach of the fires that blazed against these 
 stones. And the light of that fireside has shone 
 
10 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 far. Not one of those who shared its ruddy- 
 glow has lived long enough or traveled far 
 enough or fallen low enough to get beyond its 
 warmth or brightness. A pile of stones — as 
 I write these words a broken bit of one of them 
 lies before me in use as a paper-weight, and 
 when ray eyes fall upon the blackened surface, 
 purposely left on one side, visions of the pre- 
 cious past rise before me like a sweet dream. 
 There is little left in the memory of later 
 life that can dim the blue depths that bent 
 above our childhood days. Sunrise and sun- 
 set, as we recall them, grow brighter with the 
 passing years, and the mystic charm of twi- 
 light takes deeper hold, but the good artist we 
 call Time mercifully strikes his brush across 
 the clouds. That log house — its roof of riven 
 boards, its door secured with wooden latch and 
 hinges, its hospitable hearthstone — why, among 
 all the splendid homes to which I have since 
 been made welcome I have not discovered one 
 80 good to me. The simple life we lived, our 
 plain fare, the few books and papers that found 
 their way to us, the trip to Springfield twice a 
 year, and the little souvenirs of the great un- 
 known o'ltside world that were sometimes 
 brought home to the children — these are tame 
 enough to read about, I know, but to me their 
 brightness is that of childhood's radiant day. 
 
A Pile of Stones 11 
 
 My mental effort to recall the past has resulted 
 in a grouping of what remains into several 
 separate pictures. A glimpse at these and the 
 rude background on which they are cast is all 
 I can offer, for it is all that remains to me of 
 the home among the hills. 
 
 The "Pill Peddler," gaunt but great, stands 
 before me. A simple-hearted medicine-vender 
 was he, who came our way twice a year. 
 What with the malaria so common then, and 
 all the aches and shakes that company with 
 that kind, there was much demand for tonics 
 and cathartics. I remember little of the rem- 
 edies carried by our friend, the peddler, though 
 I dare say I had my share of those left to pay 
 for his keep ; but I remember the man. Ills 
 chief claims to distinction, as I recall him, 
 were an apparently endless stream of talk and 
 an unappeasable appetite for biscuits. Truly 
 he "sat by the fire and talked the night away." 
 And we, who heard so little of what transpired 
 in the far-away world outside our hill-bound 
 horizon, drank it all in with unflinching cre- 
 dulity, though I caught a hint of a smile on 
 my father's face sometimes, when the peddler 
 was not looking his way. And always on these 
 occasions my mother had biscuits for break- 
 fast. 
 
 Biscuits 1 The word thrills me yet, al- 
 
 (2) 
 
12 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 though biscuits have lost the power to do so. 
 The times when we had wheaten biscuits stand 
 out like little oases in great deserts of corn- 
 pone and dodgers. How this world has chang- 
 ed since then ! There are biscuits enough in 
 existence, such as they are, at this very instant 
 to paralyze every weakened stomach in all 
 Christendom, but what has gone with the dodg- 
 ers? How I would relish one right nowl Be- 
 ing the youngest, I had to wait at meals when 
 the Pill Peddler breakfasted at our humble 
 board, and I recall with what growing hope- 
 lessness I always counted the biscuits he ate. 
 On one occasion when he was our guest there 
 was, by some chance, a slight gap in the con- 
 versation at breakfast, and in the stillness that 
 made my words unintentionally distinct, I call- 
 ed out: "Ma, he's eat seven already, and he's 
 takin' another." And he did take it, even after 
 that, but it was his last. 
 
 There was a trip to town with my father. 
 We rode in on a load of cordwood. This we 
 left at the mill where the mischievous fireman 
 "touched the gauge" for my entertainment and 
 laughed when the loud hiss of steam brought 
 terror to my face. Again I stand by the coun- 
 ter at Spence's store. The mail is being 
 "cried" — a bi-weekly event at Pleasant Hope. 
 This over, and our little purchases made, my 
 
A Pile of Stones 13 
 
 father, through deference to the boyish dispo- 
 sition to linger, said: "Sam, do you see any- 
 thing here you'd like to have?" I thought he 
 meant to purchase what I might choose and 
 suggested a pocket-knife — a one-bladed barlow 
 I had been earnestly eyeing. At my words, a 
 queer and, to me, new look flitted over his 
 stalwart face and he led me away. I blamed 
 him in my boy's heart then, for I little knew 
 the constant struggle he had to provide his 
 family with the barest necessities of life. May 
 he forgive me for it, if he knows, for I have 
 boys of my own now and I know that to refuse 
 me cost him a pang far greater than that I 
 suffered. But ah! the memory of this has com- 
 forted me over many an unanswered prayer. 
 The bumpy ride home on the running-gear, the 
 eagle we saw flying with a squirrel in its talons 
 and the companionship of a father never 
 known to me before or since as on that rare 
 day are sweet odors from the flowery fields of 
 long ago. 
 
 Three times I was the youngest of our fam- 
 ily, for, though two baby brothers came to our 
 cabin home, they left us after a playfully prat- 
 tled welcome and farewell. One of them looks 
 at me out of the picture I recall now. I have 
 a clear remembrance of seeing him but twice, 
 once when I got down to give him my place in 
 
14 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 my mother's arms, and again when she bade 
 him good-by and took me to her again, and I 
 pitied him both times. At the first he seemed 
 so weak and helpless, and at the last so quiet 
 and so cold. But what I remember best is 
 that once, in the autumn — his first and last 
 autumn — when learning to walk, he pressed 
 a baby hand into the soft clay with which the 
 cracks of our house had been newly filled. 
 When spring came again he had gone from us, 
 but all through that summer and till autumn 
 came again, there was a little handprint in the 
 hardened clay. Ah ! little ones we have lost, 
 could you but know it where you are, your 
 marks remain for a long time on the hearts 
 that were softened by your presence. My 
 mother's vision was very defect! v^e, and some- 
 times that summer when we were alone at the 
 house I saw her go to that print in the clay 
 and run her sensitive finger tips along its out- 
 line. Remembering this to-day, I could be- 
 lieve, though I had no other evidence, that a 
 good God has made provision that the treas- 
 ures we have lost here, and for which our 
 lonely hearts so long, shall sometime be re- 
 stored. 
 
 There was a vigorous Cumberland Presby- 
 terian church at Pleasant Hope in those days. 
 We did not attend religious meetings often. 
 
A Pile of Stones 15 
 
 There were reasons why we did not go. Per- 
 haps they were not good ones, but they were 
 such as still keep many from the house of God 
 and such as might prevail with us again, were 
 we put to the same test. 1 remember seeing 
 the inside of the church but once. It was at 
 the burial of the baby brother. And I remem- 
 ber the sad journey homeward and the lone- 
 liness we all felt. It was after this loss that 
 our family altar came into being. The worn 
 old Bible was brought out, and each morning 
 there was reading and a simple prayer at our 
 fireside. We did not understand much tliat 
 was read, and the honest endeavor that was 
 sometimes made to throw light on difficult 
 passages did not help much. We did not un- 
 derstand how the God of a universe could be 
 influenced by the simple petition sent up from 
 our cabin home ; no more do we now, for that 
 matter, but we believed then that these pray- 
 ers were effective, and we believe it still. 
 
 It is evening in winter-time. Preparations 
 for the night are in progress. A great pile of 
 wood is being stacked inside the door. Back- 
 log and forestick, with plenty of smaller wood 
 for filling, are provided. The last armload, 
 consisting of sections from a chinquapin oak, 
 is piled high — the last, that is, but one stick, 
 now in the arms of a youngster, who comes 
 
16 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 along staggering under its weight. At the 
 doorstep he stumbles and goes rolling in the 
 snow. The tall man holding the door open 
 calls out jocosely, "Come on there, Chinqua- 
 pin, with that boy 1 " and the boy who came in 
 had a new name. "Chinquapin" stuck fast for 
 many a year. To this very day, after three 
 decades have passed, if I heard the call, 
 "Come on here, Chinquapin," though it were 
 on State Street in Chicago, there would be si- 
 lence in my soul till I discovered the owner of 
 that voice. And I shall hear it again some- 
 time. When I have borne my burden over a 
 long journey and into the chill snows of life's 
 evening, I shall come to an open door, with a 
 vacant place and a warm welcome waiting in- 
 side, and a Father's voice to call me by a new 
 name and bid me come in. If, indeed, this be 
 the end of it all, then nothing has been in 
 vain. 
 
 Shadows begin to gather! First, as I re- 
 member it, there came from the county- seat a 
 rumor that a great tract of land, including our 
 claim, was in litigation. This meant little to 
 children, but it was the occasion of no small 
 anxiety for older heads. There were two dry 
 years about this time, and, as if to add to em- 
 barrassment already strenuous, there was bad 
 luck among the live stock. My father was a 
 
A Pile of Stones 17 
 
 mighty woodsman, and during these years he 
 had resort to his ax and wagon. The then 
 boundless forest paid tribute to his toil, and 
 many a huge sawlog did he haul to the mill at 
 Pleasant Hope. The meager price then paid 
 for timber would have served well enough to 
 supply our simplest needs had not other mis- 
 fortune befallen. The herculean task of mak- 
 ing a farm among the timbered hills, and sup- 
 porting a family at the same time, was too 
 much for him, and the foundations of our 
 bread-winner's health were disturbed. One 
 summer night as they lay talking — the coura- 
 geous frontiersman and his faithful wife — long 
 after the children were asleep, discussing plans 
 and prospects, the man raised himself on his 
 elbow to clear his throat, and his mouth filled 
 with a warm fluid. In suspicious alarm he 
 arose and went to the moonlit door to discover 
 what it might be. There was no mistaking, it 
 was a hemorrhage. 
 
 Days of anxiety followed. All remedies 
 and treatments were unvailing. Through the 
 winter his strength failed steadily, and tuber- 
 culosis appeared. Then came a court decision 
 that the farm title was defective. When at 
 last a return to Illinois was planned, there 
 were few who cared to risk purchase money 
 on the place, even at the lowest price. An 
 
18 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 overland journey was advised by physicians, 
 and the team of young mules got in exchange 
 for the scant claim on our home, with the old 
 wagon, newly ironed, was our outfit for travel. 
 
 It must have been in March that we start- 
 ed. Our route lay by the way of Springfield, 
 where we meant to stop some days. A phy- 
 sician lived there in whom my father had 
 great confidence, and we wanted to consult 
 this man as a last resort, but it proved to be 
 only a straw in reach of a sinking man. When 
 we stopped in front of his residence in Spring- 
 field on a Sunday afternoon, the doctor came 
 from the yard to see what was wanted. He 
 made a careful examination, but said little. 
 When it was over and pay was offered, he 
 said, "No, my good man; keep your money; 
 you need it worse than I do," and we drove 
 on, asking no word more than this, and his 
 grave look as he turned away, to tell us there 
 was no hope. 
 
 As for myself, I knew little of what it all 
 meant. When, on the next day, I found the 
 two older children standing by a window, cry- 
 ing softly, I wondered they could be so sad 
 with so much all about us to be seen. They 
 had begun to know what they were losing; it 
 would take years to teach me that lesson. We 
 were caught in the ebb-tide of immigration. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 Caught in the Ebb-tide. 
 
 Four hundred miles overland behind a 
 team of mustangs ! For a robust man full of 
 the spirit of adventure there might have been 
 something attractive in the prospect. But for 
 a woman with three children and an invalid 
 husband it was not an expeiience to anticipate 
 with any degree of comfort. But such was the 
 uninviting path of duty that stretched before 
 my mother as our brief stay in Springfield 
 came to a close in the early spring of ^7Q. 
 
 In those days, and still for all I know, 
 there was at Springfield a light-built wooden 
 structure known as the "Wagon House." It 
 had been erected at public expense, I think, 
 for the accommodation of such patrons of tha 
 town as lived at a distance and found it con- 
 venient to stop overnight when trading; it 
 was divided into compartments and, though 
 cheaply built, was comfortable enough in mild 
 weather. Here we spent the two or three days 
 of our final preparation for the journey to Illi- 
 nois. During the time, several men who had 
 been our neighbors at Pleasant Hope came to 
 town to market and do their spring trading. 
 
20 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 Learning of our presence, they sought us out 
 to say a kindly word of farewell. There were 
 seven of them, I think ; large, unshorn men of 
 the hills they were, for the most part, rough 
 and uncouth. They were all members of the 
 Cumberland Presbyterian Church at Pleasant 
 Hope. They knew my father as a "non-pro- 
 fessor," and my mother as a "Campbellite," 
 n^ ither of which was a title of special honor in 
 Presbyterian circles. But in the presence of 
 our affliction, be it said to their honor, they 
 lost sight of distinctions and spoke heart to 
 heart. They were glad to grant my father's 
 request and hold a short service of prayer 
 around his cot. This over, they lent them- 
 selves, each in his own blunt but kindly way, 
 to the encouragement of my mother with such 
 words as they could speak. When they with- 
 drew to another room a low-toned consultation 
 was held and one of their number returned 
 with a purse of seven dollars for my mother. 
 
 These men were from the only church or- 
 ganization in all the section where they lived. 
 When I think of some things that took place 
 in their revival meetings as it has been related 
 to me, some preaching that was done from 
 their pulpit, and recall the fact that recently 
 the congregation stood strongly against union 
 that was to blend their body with the parent 
 
Caught in the Ebb-tide 21 
 
 denomination, I could persuade myself that it 
 wasn't much of a church; but that would be 
 to judge of the wheat hy the chaff. When I 
 remember the meeting in the "Wagon House" 
 at Springfield — the material fruits of their pro- 
 fession — 1 can believe that men are often bet- 
 ter than their opinions would seem to indicate. 
 Baxter P. Fullerton was Moderator, recently, 
 of the General Assembly of the Presbyterian 
 Church. His father, I think, was at the meeting 
 in the "Wagon House." A. L. Barr, for years a 
 useful minister in the Cumberland Presbyterian 
 Church and later a pastor at large in Texas, is 
 a son of another of those men. Dr. Cowden, a 
 man of high repute and high honor in his body, 
 came out of another family represented in that 
 little meeting. These three men, whose fathers 
 said simple prayers at the bedside of a dying 
 man in Springfield thirty years ago, and whose 
 lives budded and bore fruit from an early en- 
 vironment purified by that kind of piety, are 
 to me a sufficient justification of the country 
 church and its rude Teachings after God. That 
 kind of religion pays ; indeed, it is about the 
 only thing in this disappointing world that 
 does pay in full. 
 
 To lighten the load for our mustangs, we 
 dispensed with all we would not actually need. 
 Our clothing, bed furnishings, cooking utensils 
 
22 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 and a few dishes, with a box or two of family- 
 possessions too precious to sacrifice, were all 
 we carried. A great black dog came to us one 
 day and attached himself to our expedition 
 before we set out. We thought he knew our 
 ponies and preferred to remain with them 
 rather than with the master who received our 
 mule team in exchange, and so we could not 
 drive him off. Perhaps, compelled to make 
 choice, he preferred the ponies to the man. 
 Being kindly in spirit, and loyal to the family, 
 the dog was soon regarded as a member of our 
 party with full privileges. We had little to 
 share with him, but "Old Rover," as we 
 named him, proved able to shuffle for him- 
 self and keep up with the wagon to boot. 
 
 Of necessity our movement was slow. Our 
 horses were new on the road, and my father's 
 condition so variable that we could not travel 
 much some days. To the younger children the 
 experience was so novel as to be most inter- 
 esting at first. During the day we lay on our 
 backs watching the leaf shadows chase each 
 other across the wagon- cover, or laughed to 
 hear the patter of sudden showers that seemed 
 to be angry at not being able to get at us. 
 Tiring of this, we would drop out behind and 
 follow the wagon barefoot till weary enough 
 to snooze away an hour or two as we rode. 
 
Caught in the Ebb-tide 23 
 
 At tlio head of the caravan was our brother of 
 thirteen. Sitting on a box at the front of the 
 wagon, his bare brown legs hung over outside, 
 he held the lines, not failing to touch up a 
 lagging pony now and then, his big blue eyes 
 misrsing meanwhile nothing of all the land- 
 scape panorama that floated slowly by. 
 
 When evening came we would select a 
 suitable spot and camp by the roadside. A fire 
 of sticks would be sufficient to prepare our 
 simple meals. At night the sick man slept on 
 an improvised bed under the wagon, and the 
 others occupied couches softened by drowsi- 
 ness under the canvas above. Often some 
 kind-hearted farmer would protest against our 
 staying outdoors at night, but the open air 
 was thought to be more desirable. 
 
 Thus the days wore on. The long road, 
 like a yellow ribbon fluttering in the breeze, 
 stretched out behind us farther and farther. 
 There were steep flint hills where both rear 
 wheels must be chained. There were turbu- 
 lent streams where some man on horseback 
 would ride ahead of us to guide our driver. 
 Once, I remember, w^a<-er rose to the wagon-bed, 
 striking terror to the hearts of all. We made 
 constant and careful inquiry as to the best 
 route and the smoothest roads. When cross- 
 ing one river, the Gasconade, I think, the 
 
24 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 ferryman, some "Preacbiug Bill" of the Ozarks, 
 told my mother that there was a long stretch 
 of pike ahead "for thirty mile or more;" then, 
 as we were starting, he shook his head, refus- 
 ing pay for carrying us, and remarked: 
 "You'll find them pikes is the kind God made, 
 an' the stone is not broke up very fine." 
 
 One of our horses — the team my father 
 had traded for, thinking them better suited for 
 our purpose than the mules — was almost blue 
 in color and marked profusely with an assort- 
 ment of deep-scarred brands. He was full of 
 spirit till the flint hills took it out of him. It 
 was my mother's constant fear that our young 
 driver would come to grief in handling the 
 animal, though the boy himself was not in the 
 least afraid of him. Between this fear and the 
 fording of streams, dangers in the presence of 
 which she was helpless because of her dim 
 eyesight, her life was a constant misgiving. 
 
 I think our course must have followed the 
 line of the St. Louis and San Francisco Rail- 
 road, for the names of several towns on that 
 line have a familiar sound to me as I call 
 them over. We passed through Lebanon, I 
 know, for it was there I saw a burnished brass 
 door-knob — the very acme of attractiveness to 
 me, and one that started me to wondering 
 what other bright things there might be in the 
 
Caught in the Ebb-tide 25 
 
 world. In spite of all the history I have read, 
 I have never been able to get quite away from 
 the impression that the human race was just 
 beginning to get started a little when we 
 pulled out of the Gumbo Hills in '76. How 
 prone we are to judge the world by our 
 limited personal knowledge of a little part of 
 it ! I have seen many brass door-knobs since 
 then, and some of greater worth — have even 
 had my hands on a few of them — but I have 
 ceased to look for another like the one I saw 
 at Lebanon. 
 
 The first days of May found us plodding 
 along among the hills of Pulaski County. It 
 was beginning to be talked that we were "half- 
 way" now. Sure it was that our wagon tires 
 were beginning to show decided evidence of 
 wear, the ponies were noticeably quieter, and 
 the juvenile portion of our expedition had be- 
 gun to think they had moving enough for one 
 time. My father, though much too ill to travel, 
 would not consent to stop, and his counsels 
 prevailed over the entreaties of his companion, 
 and so we kept on. I know how his heart 
 must have rebelled against leaving us before 
 we reached our friends. How the years help 
 us to appreciate things like this ! I see now 
 that he was but fighting off death from day to 
 day till we could reach our destination. 
 
26 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 One pleasant evening we drove up on the 
 cnipyard by a vacant log house to strike camp 
 for the night. As we came to a standstill, the 
 wagon gave a lurch. Our driver looked down 
 in alarm to discover tlie cause and then an- 
 nounced that a wheel was crushed. Have you 
 ever seen the broken wheel among flower de- 
 signs at a funeral ? I have, and it never fails 
 to bring back the remembrance of that day. It 
 was settled for us now that we must stop, for 
 a time at least. 
 
 We took possession of the house, which 
 had been vacated but recently, and made the 
 invalid as comfortable as we could. A near-by 
 resident, seeing our wagon as he passed, stop- 
 ped to inquire where we were going. Finding 
 a sick man, he quickly spread the news and 
 watchers came to spend the night with us. A 
 physician was called ; the next day a preacher 
 came — a great, burly man, with long white 
 beard and a kindly voice. Up to that time I 
 had not seen a minister that I can remember, 
 and the memory of this big, plain, pleasant- 
 faced man as he sat among us and as he laid 
 his huge hands on the heads of us children is 
 sweet to recall. 
 
 In the middle of the next night death 
 came. With a long, weary sigh the exhausted 
 man looked up into the face of his faithful 
 
Caught in the Ebb-tide 27 
 
 companion, and said : "Oh, wife, I am afraid I 
 must die and leave you and the children here 
 among strangers after all !" There was no con- 
 solation to offer and he expected none. Every 
 last wii^h was denied him, and his life, like a 
 ship going down in mid-ocean, went silently 
 out. I do not know what his hopes of the fu- 
 ture may have been ; I am sure he was not 
 afraid to die I do know that his sad last 
 thought was not of himself, but of the defense- 
 less family he was leaving. May I say that I 
 have a faith that He whose mercy has tem- 
 pered the rude blast to the necessities of that 
 family has dealt rightly with its fallen head — 
 our broken wheel. 
 
 Nowhere is there a more sympathetic or a 
 more hospitable people than the residents of 
 the hill country of Missouri. They pressed in 
 upon us to provide every comfort and every 
 necessity their good hearts could suggest. No 
 pay would they have for any of it, and when 
 the yellow mound of earth in a hillside ceme- 
 tery was rounded and marked, and we return- 
 ed, it was to find that all our belongings had 
 bpen moved to a near-by farmhouse, and pro- 
 vision made for us to stop in the community 
 for a season. We would not feel like travel- 
 ing, they said, and then the horses needed 
 a rest, too. There were those among these 
 
 (3) 
 
*2S Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 good people who insisted that we should stay 
 in their midst. Just why we did not, I can 
 not say, for I know my mother shrank from 
 returning penniless to her people. Perhaps 
 it was an inner instinct that urged her on; 
 and again, perhaps it was a wisdom we little 
 recognized, providing an environment for the 
 future such as we could not have had there. 
 
 When two weeks had passed, our mus- 
 tangs, now fresh and full of spirit, were put 
 in harness again. Amid the protests of our 
 new-found friends, we prepared to go on. 
 The morning we started, that unbounded gen- 
 erosity of the Missouri people broke out 
 afresh. Not content with having buried our 
 dead for us and housed and fed us all, they 
 came to see us off, each bringing a final token 
 of good will — one a ham, another a bag of 
 cornmeal, another some fruit and another a 
 flitch of bacon — till we were well supplied 
 with such provisions as we would have need 
 of on the way. 
 
 One woman among them, a Mrs. Johnson, 
 was especially kind to my mother. Her fa- 
 ther owned the ground where my father was 
 buried, and of her own accord she gave my 
 mother the assurance that the place should 
 not be lost, so that in case we wanted to visit 
 the spot we could do so. We thought little 
 
Caught in the Ebb-tide 29 
 
 of this at the time; so dire was the condi- 
 tion in which we were placed, that we could 
 scarce imagine a time when we would want 
 to return to the place. But when, thirty years 
 later, two men hired a livery outfit and drove 
 to that neighborhood, there was but one per- 
 son living who could have located the grave. 
 Mrs. Johnson pointed it out, and, to our great 
 surprise, it was well rounded and in as good 
 condition as the other graves about. 
 
 We were one hundred miles from St. Louis 
 and St. Louis was one hundred miles from our 
 journey's end. With this prospect ahead we 
 began our final ride. When I think of it now, 
 I shudder and wonder. A woman, almost 
 penniless and practically blind, with a trio of 
 little ones, compelled to travel that distance 
 behind a pair of Indian ponies, with a thir- 
 teen-year-old driver, and at a time, too, in 
 her woman's life when very soon 
 
 "She Bhould stand anear to heaven's portal, 
 And there, while life and death stood by, 
 Should pluck witli trembling hands a flower immortal." 
 
 Fear and courage had daily battle in her 
 heart — fear of dangers she could not avert 
 and courage to meet them as a brave woman 
 should. Two months later, when we were set- 
 tied in Illinois, twin boys were born to our 
 home. A great fear of water, a shrinking 
 
30 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 from uncertain horses, and a timidity in the 
 presence of sickness and death, are marked 
 characteristics of one of them to this day, 
 while the other would leave a chicken-pie 
 dinner, preacher that he is, for a dive in deep 
 water or a spin behind a fractious colt. 
 
 But we were off over the yellow, rocky 
 road again, climbing, circling, ascending and 
 descending, ever leading us from the land of 
 our sorrow toward the great city and what 
 might be in store for us beyond. 
 

 =4,^^ 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^ 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Long Last Mile. 
 The last long half of that undulating 
 stretch of road lay before us. Southwestern 
 Missouri was a memory and Illinois a pros- 
 pect, but that yellow, stony road was a reality 
 present and tangible. Our team, fresh from 
 two weeks on pasture, was ready, even eager, 
 for the start. A little incident that might 
 have ended in something more serious than 
 the hearty laugh it gave us, served to impress 
 this on our minds. Our young driver one day 
 attempted to flick a fly from the rump of Old 
 Dick, the spirited "blue pony;" not under- 
 standing the benevolent motive of the boy, 
 that vindictive beast promptly planted three 
 vicious kicks on the front end-gate of the wag- 
 on, splitting it in as many pieces. It so hap- 
 pened that the hoofs landed each time safely 
 between the pair of brown legs dangling there, 
 but the full-moon eyes of the lad that scram- 
 bled back to safety were a sufficient guarantee 
 that the experiment would not be repeated. 
 Poor Old Dick, before we reached our jour- 
 ney's end he had not the spirit left to resent 
 even greater indignities than that. 
 
32 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 Under the influeuce of the bright sunshine 
 and the open air of our outdoor life, the buoy- 
 ant spirit of childhood soon began to assert 
 itself anew. Not even my mother, with all 
 her sorrow and anxiety, could wholly with- 
 stand the persistent call to brighter thoughts. 
 Our story thus far, when interested question- 
 ers drew it from us, failed not to rouse the 
 hearty and genuine sympathy of the simple 
 folk along the way. Often we were urged to 
 stop and make our home among the hospitable 
 people of some pleasant neighborhood. Va- 
 rious reasons were urged. One man whose wife 
 had died, leaving his family of small children 
 to be cared for, was especially insistent. An 
 inducement he offered gave rise to some levity 
 among us children behind the wagon cover. 
 His wife, before her demise, had made two 
 kegs of soft soap — "Fustrate soap," he said — 
 and one of these should be ours if we would 
 but occupy a vacant log house not far from 
 his own, and do baking and mending for his 
 family. But none of these things, not even 
 the bonanza above mentioned, could move my 
 mother from her determination to return to 
 Illinois. 
 
 We had not traveled far when we began 
 to hear of another family in like state, travel- 
 ing but a few days ahead of us. They, too, 
 
The Long Last Mile 33 
 
 were bound for Illinois, and, as in our own 
 case, the father was under the pall of the then 
 incurable white plague. Our grave was be- 
 hind and theirs ahead, that was all the diflfer- 
 ence ; we hoped for their sakes that theirs 
 might be so far ahead as not to be among 
 strangers. 
 
 There was but one main road leading 
 from the southwest into St. Louis, and as 
 we were both following that, we heard of them 
 almost every day. The condition of the man 
 grew more and more serious. All who had 
 seen him said that he was very, very ill, 
 and could not live many days. 
 
 And so the end came at last. Though we 
 were expecting it, we were shocked and de- 
 pressed above measure, when we found the 
 grave one day. It was on a green bank in the 
 woods near where the road crossed a small 
 stream. We came upon it unexpectedly — a 
 little ridge of clay — and our own wound was 
 opened anew by the sight. We wondered if 
 the family had prepared their dead for burial 
 and filled the grave with their own hands. 
 If so, then in this, at least, their lot was 
 harder than ours. When we lost the trail of 
 their wagon soon afterward, it seemed we had 
 parted company with kinfolks, though doubt- 
 less they never heard of us. 
 
34 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 It is a long and uneven road the heart- 
 broken travel! They are so far apart and 
 so burdened that, at times, each one thinks 
 himself journeying alone. But other wayfarers 
 are always ahead and others eA^er follow. 
 Could they but "speak each other in passing" 
 it might be a brighter world than it is. There 
 is but the wordless sympathy of unseeing suf- 
 ferers; it is only through fellowship with 
 Him who suffered alone for us all and whose 
 ministry has made of one blood all nations 
 that the bruised heart of humanity can ever 
 come to throb as for one body. 
 
 Somewhere, in Illinois perhaps, that fa- 
 therless family ended their journey and a lone 
 woman took up the task of caring for her 
 orphaned brood. I should like to know how 
 fared the folks we trailed so long on the 
 return from our pilgrimage to the Ozarks and 
 who, so soon after we had tasted the gall of 
 bitterness, took up the cup in their turn and 
 drank deeply from its unwelcome draught. 
 
 We lived almost wholly in the wagon, day 
 and night, taking care to stop not far from 
 some village or farmhouse each evening. We 
 could have been comfortably housed each 
 night, no doubt, for often did the good people 
 where we went for water to prepare our 
 meals, chide us that we had not asked lodging 
 
The Long Last Mile 35 
 
 with them. But this queer quality we call 
 independence is a thing to be reckoned with, 
 and my mother had her share of it. Six years 
 later, when the "bad year" came in southern 
 Illinois, able-bodied men — men who owned 
 their homes — asked aid from the county, but 
 no crumb of assistance from that source was 
 permitted to enter our house, though we 
 tasted no wheat bread in the six months of 
 distress. 
 
 Somewhere southwest of St. Louis we 
 passed through a settlement of foreign people 
 — Germans, I think. They were new in 
 America, and clannish. During the three or 
 four days we spent on their roads, we had 
 to drink creek water chiefly, for they asked 
 no favors and granted none. Whether from 
 pure selfishness or native suspicion, they 
 would not let us have water from their wells, 
 either for the team or to drink. One even- 
 ing when we had had no water since noon 
 and had camped for the night with no pros- 
 pect of drink for man or beast, two men trav- 
 eling together stopped -near us. They, too, 
 had had trouble getting water, and were in 
 no mood to be trifled with. Learning that we 
 had been denied at the house near by, one of 
 them called to my brother to bring the horses 
 and a bucket. He led the way and asked 
 
 (4) 
 
36 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 courteously to be allowed to water his team. 
 This being curtly refused, he produced a large 
 and dangerous-looking pistol and coolly re- 
 peated his request. A key to the padlocked 
 well was forthcoming, and there was water 
 a-plenty for that night. A few steps backward 
 would bring me to German ancestors, and I 
 have wondered if they had this trait of ex- 
 clusiveness so well developed. Perhaps so, 
 and therefore I will be charitable with our 
 Missouri friends and cherish a hope that a 
 younger generation has smashed the padlocks 
 ere this. 
 
 " Old Rover," the dog, was our faithful 
 guard and vigilant scout for the entire expe- 
 dition, but he, too, fared sadly among the for- 
 eigners. They had big dogs and bad ones, so 
 that visits to back doors, where a morsel of 
 food might sometimes be found, had to be 
 made with caution. "Rover" was not afraid; 
 indeed, he vanquished several ferocious fel- 
 lows who disputed his rights, but to tackle a 
 fresh specimen at every house proved too 
 much for our leg- weary canine ; he learned to 
 follow the wagon more closely, turning aside 
 only when some venturesome rabbit seemed 
 to promise a repast. 
 
 This great, shaggy friend, who had volun- 
 tarily espoused our cause, and who deserted 
 
The Long Last Mile 37 
 
 us within two weeks after we were settled, 
 proved a friend indeed. We had little to give 
 him for his faithfulness, but that seemed to 
 make no difference with him. I smile now as 
 I think of an incident in which he had a 
 prominent part one evening. We were pre- 
 paring to eat a lunch in the wagon, and my 
 mother placed her hand, in which she held 
 a long loaf of bread, on the edge of the wag- 
 on-bed. "Rover," lying on the ground be- 
 low, caught sight of the protruding loaf and 
 laid hold with all earnestness. Of course we 
 scolded and threatened, but a taste of the 
 bread seemed to deepen his vletermination to 
 dine with us, and he held on. Right dog- 
 gedly did he pull and tug in spite of harsh 
 protest from the wagon, and members of the 
 juvenile trio looked on with anxiety and 
 amusement till the loaf was torn asunder, 
 leaving us a scant supply for our meal. But 
 the look of satisfaction that lit up the dog's 
 countenance as he licked his chops, and the 
 hearty laugh we had, was splendid sauce for 
 what vv^as left. 
 
 Among the dreads and dangers of the 
 trip, our passage through St. Louis was the 
 direst of them all. For many days we made 
 careful inquiry as to every detail. As we 
 came closer, evidences of the nearness of a 
 
'38 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 great center of population began to be seen, 
 like bits of drift cast out into still water by 
 the force of a whirlpool. The rigs we met 
 were of a different type, and the loads of 
 teamsters were not such as farmers usually 
 haul, while the people themselves were more 
 of a ring-streaked and striped appearance. 
 We had been told by many that it was "ten 
 miles through St. Louis," and this appalling 
 intelligence staggered minds to which Spring- 
 field was the climax of bigness. 
 
 Not many miles from the city we camped 
 by the turnpike one evening. We wanted 
 to be fresh for the trying trip of the follow- 
 ing day, but we dreaded to come nearer the, 
 to us, fearful maelstrom of dangers, and so 
 we went into camp early. Lulled by the 
 sense of security so easy to children, we were 
 soon sleeping dreamlessly, except my mother. 
 Her sensitive ears missed no sound, and 
 when, in the middle of the night, a horseman 
 rode up, she had been listening to his hoof- 
 beats on the stony road for miles. He drew 
 rein by our wagon and began to hello at us. 
 Though terrified and trembling, my mother 
 managed to ask him what was wanted, shak- 
 ing her eldest son into consciousness mean- 
 while. A scattered conversation of questions 
 and answers ensued while the boy was being 
 
The Long Last Mile 39 
 
 roused, and our visitor showed a disposition 
 to loiter and give trouble. Presently my 
 mother hit upon a happy stratagem. She let 
 down the flap of the wagon-cover she had 
 raised, and called out : "George ! George ! 
 wake up here, and answer this fellow's ques- 
 tions for him." The name would fit for a man 
 as well as a boy, and the broomstick that 
 was thrust out about this time was a good 
 enough substitute for a rifle barrel when seen 
 in the dim moonlight. At this psychological 
 moment, "Old Rover," on guard under the 
 wagon as usual, let of^ a growl that would have 
 done credit to a grizzly, and our friend of 
 the horse lost no time in moving on. 
 
 Of all this I knew nothing, else I, too, 
 might have distinguished myself When they 
 pulled me out of the wagon over the double- 
 trees, I dimly felt that something unusual was 
 on; the impression deepened as we went 
 straggling up the few rods of road to a farm- 
 house, and when I awoke next morning in 
 a feather-bed and within four walls, I was sure 
 something extraordinary had happened. The 
 good woman who received our midnight call 
 with astonishment, wept over my mother when 
 she heard the story of her fright, and petted 
 us children as only a good woman will do 
 when her emotions are enlisted. 
 
40 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 We were off early the day we were to 
 move on the great city. How far it seemed 
 to the real town after we got to where the 
 houses were close together! How our eyes 
 opened wider and wider as each new won- 
 der appeared! How our mother trembled at 
 the prospect of things that might happen 
 to us ! How our driver watched his mustang 
 team as he guided them among street 
 cars and vehicles and along the crowded 
 thoroughfares ! But straight through the 
 great city and across the long bridge into 
 Illinois we went without a single mishap, go- 
 ing from our course but once and then by but 
 a single block, so well had the way been 
 learned beforehand. 
 
 I have seen St. Louis a good many times 
 since then and on some gala occasions. I rev- 
 eled in the marvels and beheld the crowds at 
 the World's Fair. But one never sees the 
 miracle of a great city through the untaught 
 eyes of childhood a second time. The bewil- 
 derment of attractions on every side, in the 
 windows above and on the pavement below, 
 the multiplicity of sights and sounds and 
 smells, fairly foundered our senses and fur- 
 nished food for fervid remembrance during 
 many a day that followed. I have seen many 
 wonderful feats performed and been glad at 
 
The Long Last Mile 41 
 
 times to add my note of applause to the huzzas 
 of the crowd at exceptional displays of skill, 
 but, all things considered, I do not know of a 
 performance more wonderful than that of my 
 elder brother, who at the age of thirteen, when 
 fresh from the Gumbo Hills, brought that team 
 of mustangs and our ramshackle wagon 
 through those miles of crowded streets, picked 
 his way across the great bridge and landed his 
 cargo safe on the Illinois side. And this, too, 
 is as it seems to me after thirty years. 
 
 Roads were better on the Illinois side and 
 we made better time. A few days' travel 
 brought us to that section of the country from 
 which, one day six long years ago, we had 
 gone forth in quest of a home. Just now, as I 
 write, there come to me the words of a woman 
 of old, returning to her kindred from a sad so- 
 journ in the land of Moab. As never before, I 
 can feel the force of her lament, " Call me not 
 Naomi" (that is, pleasant), "but call me Mara" 
 (that is, bitter), "for the Almighty hath dealt 
 bitterly with me." Human life is the best in- 
 terpreter of the Sacred Scriptures. 
 
 One evening our tired horses were turned 
 into a little lane with persimmon-trees on 
 either side. At the end there was a homelike 
 farmhouse with a honey-locust in front. It 
 was Uncle David's, and when we drew up on 
 
42 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 the chipyard by the gate, our journey was 
 ended. A great, fat, good-natured woman, 
 who scolded incessantly, but kindly and coax- 
 ingly, came out to greet us, and a serious- 
 looking man came in from the fields for a 
 glimpse at this batch of battered flotsam cast 
 up at his door by the ebb-tide of immigration. 
 Uncle David! I speak the title with def- 
 erence now. He was a poor man, though he 
 seemed rich to us, for he owned a farm. But it 
 was a rather poor farm, in a rather poor town- 
 ship of a rather poor county of a rather poor 
 part of Illinois. But, though he was a poor 
 man measured by his possessions, he was a 
 man, and such a man as we find but two or 
 three times in our threescore years and ten. 
 Politically he was a Democrat, fraternally a 
 Freemason, religiously a Universalist, and 
 socially the last court of appeal for the whole 
 community. Uncle David! Gone from the 
 earth these years, may the good Father of us 
 all be kind to him where he is, for we were 
 homeless and helpless in a world that knew 
 not nor cared, and he took us in. 
 
Wt 
 
 -'■# 
 
 ^^^ 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 On the Long Trail. 
 
 Uncle David lived on Wash Branch, which 
 flows into Dry Fork, which flows into Skillet 
 Fork, which flows into Little Wabash, which 
 flows into Big Wabash, celebrated in story 
 and song. It was a shock to me when I 
 learned in school how many miles the waters 
 of our little branch must flow to reach the 
 smallest streams named on the maps. I know 
 now, and smile as I think of it, that, in condi- 
 tion and prospect, we were fully as far from 
 the real world we were one day to join as 
 were the headwaters ofWash Branch from the 
 "Banks of the Wabash far away." Farther, in 
 fact, for in addition to the handicap common 
 to our neighbors of living next to no place, we 
 had the further disadvantage, and, to us, un- 
 pleasant distinction, of having next to noth- 
 ing to live with. 
 
 The two ponies, one of which could never 
 be harnessed until he had been worked a day 
 or two, a worn-out wagon, with what few 
 household goods we had been able to bring 
 from Missouri, constituted our entire posses- 
 sions when we began to live anew. We did 
 
44 "Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 manage to get a cow some way; 1 think Uncle 
 David must have been back of that; maybe 
 we made part payment in cash, for I have 
 heard my mother say, that out of the seven 
 dollars given her by the kindly group of men 
 at Springfield, she had five dollars when she 
 drew up at Uncle David's gate. Now think of 
 that, will you 1 Talk about making money go 
 a long way! Here is the record so far as I 
 have heard: Four hundred miles for the four 
 of us, with an invalid half the way, a death in 
 the family with funeral and incidental ex- 
 penses, and all on seven dollars capital, leav- 
 ing a surplus on hand of five dollars. This is 
 the bare fact, and while it may give evidence 
 of a woman's ability to manage, it certainly 
 is also a most eloquent testimonial to the 
 benevolence and hospitality of the Missouri 
 people among whom our lot was cast. 
 
 Some few rude farming implements — an 
 "A" harrow, a double-shovel plow and an old 
 "nigger" hoe, with a handle that wouldn't stay 
 in — were given us by neighbors who had bet- 
 ter ones. Garden vegetables and a patch of 
 corn were put in, and, almost before we knew 
 it, we were started on the long trail. The long 
 trail — who, of all those who travel its length, 
 can tell how long it is? Its windings were so 
 devious we could not guess its length, or if it 
 
On the Long Trail 45 
 
 had another end, or where it led. Its slopes 
 were so frequent and so varied, we could not 
 know whether the general course was up or 
 down. But traveling this route is a strenuous 
 job, and we spent no time in speculation, but 
 went on up the road. Looked at from this 
 end, or from where we turned off into more 
 inviting paths, it seems long enough and to 
 spare, but its incline is upward by a gradual 
 slant. Hear this, ye tired travelers who fol- 
 low, and be of good cheer. 
 
 About this time I enjoyed a long and un- 
 expected visit at Uncle David's. They called 
 for me early one morning and bundled me off 
 breakfastless and befuddled, to spend the en- 
 tire day clambering about the haymows and 
 hunting birds' nests in the orchard. Such un- 
 ceremonious hospitality struck me as rather 
 unusual ; but, since it seemed to be meant 
 kindly, I submitted in silence. Late that 
 evening the elder brother came for me, and 
 we rode home together on the back of old 
 "Charley." As we jogged along, he told me, 
 in curious, hesitating words, that two aunts we 
 had never seen, had come that day to make us 
 a visit. When I had time to reflect on this, 
 he added that each of them had brought a boy 
 baby with her. I was a full week pondering 
 the situation, and it was only when the aunts 
 
46 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 were preparing to take leave, that I learned 
 the babies had come to stay, and swallowed 
 the lump that had been rising in my throat. 
 And so the babies were soon toddling with us 
 on the long trail. If their short legs retarded 
 our progress somewhat, their blithe presence 
 brought brightness to us all, and in due time 
 they were able to have their part in the heat 
 and burden of the dragging day?. 
 
 Through the misty film that time has 
 stretched on this side of the retreating past, 
 forms and faces come to view and the trag- 
 edies and farces of that simple life are re- 
 enacted before me by individuals, whose looks 
 and acts so stir me at times that I want to 
 rise and call their names, and ask to be given 
 my part and place with them. And then it 
 comes to me, as when reality displaces a 
 fading dream, that neither they nor I are back 
 there, or ever can be again. We are out on 
 the stern marches of life, each following his 
 own course, and that, too, on routes separated 
 by ever widening angles. When the stretches 
 of earthly pathways have been traversed, per- 
 haps we shall become as children again, and 
 go back to romp over the grassy slopes of 
 youth ; and then, as shadows softly fall on the 
 bosom of the old earth, we shall gather, all of 
 us, I trust, and be at home once more. 
 
On the Long Trail 47 
 
 Who can work out the puzzle of lives that 
 have been broken and embittered by circum- 
 stances not of their own making ? Not I, cer- 
 tainly, and why should I try? It is the old 
 problem of the purpose of trouble, over which 
 the wisest and most patient of every genera- 
 tion have vexed themselves in vain. The 
 world, as it presents itself to each generation, 
 is like a tangle of wild woodland. Tree, shrub, 
 plant, flower, animal and insect sii)g their 
 little songs in harmony or discord; they cling 
 to each other to help or hurt; they woo and 
 wed and fight out their little battles ; they en- 
 wrap themselves together in death grapple 
 and embrace of love ; there is no minute but 
 celebrates the birth of new life, the struggle 
 for existence and the beating out of some 
 spent heart. Yet each one fills his place and 
 lives out the law of his little life as though 
 by the fixedness of fate. To our poor vision 
 much of it seems amiss; but what do we know 
 of the past investments or the future plans of 
 the Silent One, who is over all ? Down among 
 the chaos and clashings we become critical 
 and discontented, when, if we could see the 
 whole process as it has gone on for ages, and 
 must, perhaps, for ages yet to come, we would 
 be compelled to say of all creation, that it is 
 very good. The pain and loss we suffer in 
 
48 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 our little world is great enough for us, but 
 how small indeed when compared with the 
 plans of the infinite One, who out of it all is 
 bringing salvation to our kind and glory to 
 himself. 
 
 Is it a problem that in a world, where God 
 is supreme, a woman, practically blind, should 
 be left penniless and defenseless with her 
 group of dependent children? Well, yes, a 
 problem, and a hard one, no doubt, as meas- 
 ured by human rules for calculating such 
 things. Add to this that, in the after strug- 
 gles, she should often go miles on foot to do 
 rigorous service in a farmhouse, returning at 
 night with a pillow-slip full of meal, or a piece 
 of bacon, scant reward of her toil and scant 
 food for her household; that her children, the 
 equals of any other, should be frowned upon 
 by those, poor enough themselves, because 
 they were poorer still and their clothes un- 
 comely; that hungry young minds should be 
 denied books and papers and such advantages 
 for improvement as are now granted freely to 
 the criminal and degraded ; and that, worst of 
 all, their lot should be laid in country slums 
 where no church influence was, and where 
 schools were poor; that all this and more 
 should have to be endured for years with no 
 hint or hope that a better day would ever 
 
On the Long Trail 49 
 
 dawn — 1 say, put this together and you have 
 a problem indeed. 
 
 Yet, if the product is good, who shall say 
 of the process that it is bad? There are six 
 years I would often have torn out of the book 
 of memory if I could — the six years on Wash 
 Branch. Were I to be guided by my own in- 
 clinations, I would tear these leaves to frag- 
 ments, trample them under my feet, and curse 
 them with bitter vindictiveness. But I would 
 be wrong in this, for there sits youder a 
 woman, who has exercised a ftiith and accom- 
 plished a work little short of wonderful to me, 
 and who, after the tempests of a long day are 
 spent, smiles and waits through the twilight of 
 life's evening till it shall be time to rest. I do 
 not know how else her life could have counted 
 for a tithe as much as it has, nor by what 
 other process the richness of her later years 
 could have been attained. Hard as the way 
 has been, I would rather our feet should press 
 again into every separate footprint of the long 
 trail, than that we should have walked in 
 some more favored ways I know and taken 
 the risk of uselessness and oblivion that are 
 always incurred by lives of ease. 
 
 I can think, too, of a man I know — the 
 blue-eyed boy who drove us over the Ozark 
 hill-j. Then, and on the longer trail, he played 
 
50 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 the part of an elder brother with faithfulness 
 and devotion. Y^'^hoever has gone from Kansas 
 City to Denver over one of the great railroads 
 that cross the State of Kansas, has owed some- 
 thing of the safety and comfort of travel to 
 him. He is held in honor by those who know 
 him well, and no trust committed to him has 
 ever suffered at his hands. When I think how 
 this can not be said of a hundred others, who 
 had every opportunity denied him, I wonder 
 if he would not be worth less to the world had 
 he borne less responsibility when a boy. 
 
 And when another woman, after ten bliss- 
 ful years of wedded life, was left a widow with 
 the tangled threads of an estate in disorder 
 about her, could she have taken up the double 
 task that fell to her and brought her own 
 little ones, well equipped, to the activities of 
 a needy world, had she not seen her mother 
 succeed with a similar burden a hundred-fold 
 heavier ? 
 
 These and other queries have beset me till 
 1 have had to conclude that God gives us 
 what is best, or else helps us to make the best 
 of what he gives us, if we will. 
 
 Ah, well, we have reached the end of the 
 long trail now. It led us to the land of 
 Maturity. The gates of that new country 
 swung back with surprising readiness when 
 
On the Long Trail 51 
 
 we knocked. We have been inside these years 
 — long enough to make some acquaintances 
 among the inhabitants and form a few friend- 
 ships. I know not how it may be with others, 
 and there are a host of them, who came up 
 the same way, but, for myself, I have not for- 
 gotten the long trail. Sometimes, in an hour 
 of leisure, I gather about me a little group I 
 know, and tell them of the fun and frolic we 
 used to have, and of certain boyish triumphs 
 and successes I like to recall, telling them as 
 much for my own amusement as for the profit 
 of my listeners; occasionally I have mentioned 
 a thorn or a stone I happened to discover with 
 my bare foot, but when young brows begin to 
 cloud, I draw a curtain on the scene, for I 
 know they could not understand. 
 
 No part of the steep route over which an 
 orphaned boy has to climb from a bitter and 
 barren past to a place of humble usefulness in 
 the world is unfamiliar to me. I can shut my 
 eyes and conjure up the scene at each turn of 
 the road. I know the location of every snag 
 that can stub a toe, and every rock that can 
 start a stone-bruise. I know" every deep hole 
 in the creek where crawdads and mussels can 
 be dug out of the mud at the bottom on Sun- 
 day, when a boy's clothes are not fit to wear 
 to Sunday-school. When I see a lad crying 
 
 (5) 
 
52 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 at the curbstone in a city street, or hear 
 the sob of a child at night-time, I could stop 
 short and mingle my tears with theirs, for the 
 fountain of childish grief is opened up anew. 
 For this I am devoutly thankful ; if the 
 bleak blasts that beat upon us serve no other 
 purpose than to drive us within sympathetic 
 reach of others in like state, they have made 
 us rich indeed. 
 
 Nevertheless, I have some regrets. Early 
 experience has disappointments, which no 
 philosophy of later life can quite console. 
 There are two men I solemnly decided to 
 whip when I should be grown up. One of 
 them was a farmer who beat me out of a dol- 
 lar, twice earned, cutting two acres of sprouts 
 with the old "nigger" hoe, and the other was 
 an older and better-clothed boy, who used to 
 sneer at me in the district school. They 
 needed it badly, both of them. I knew it 
 then, and I know it now ; nothing else would 
 meet the necessities of the case ; a thorough 
 drubbing would have made them useful mem- 
 bers of society, but the treatment had to be 
 postponed too long. The man was killed by 
 accident some years ago, and the boy, son of 
 a rich man that he was, is a drunkard now 
 and poorer than I — may he be pitied — while 
 I am a preacher and would not dare square 
 
On the Long Trail 53 
 
 accounts with them that way, were all things 
 favorable. Thus, with merciless irony, has 
 the ruthless hand of time dealt with the 
 treasured ambitions of my far-away youth. 
 
 The Long Trail — where is it, do you ask ? 
 Why, it runs close to where I live, and maybe 
 you might discover it near you too, if you 
 cared to cast about a little. And it is always 
 thronged with travelers. The story I have 
 told is one of many, and, for aught I know, 
 tame and tedious compared with others that 
 might be related. Many a flower-strewn 
 path, along which the eager feet of pleasure- 
 seekers ruQ, winds round a bit and falls sud- 
 denly into the Long Trail ; many a highway 
 with finger-boards that point to riches and 
 honor intersects the Long Trail at last, leav- 
 ing its ambitious wayfarers no choice but 
 to go that way; many a first trail across 
 the trackless plain or woodman's tree-blazed 
 pathway through the forest finds no issue of 
 its own and turns, from sheer helplessness, 
 as did ours, into the Long Trail. 
 
 I go out this way sometimes and scan 
 the faces of those who pass. When I can, I 
 like to have a word with the weary ones, 
 for, though it may be conceit of mine, I think 
 the wise take it well from one who bears 
 in his body the marks of a similar strife. 
 
54 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 What a privilege to look into the eyes of a 
 wan-faced woman, as she leans over the tub 
 of steaming suds, and give the grasp and 
 look of one who understands ; of all the grips 
 and passes I know, there is none I like so 
 well to use. What a stimulating service to 
 drop a word of cheer to struggling lads 
 and lasses who battle with adverse environ- 
 ment, and bid them fight on, with the as- 
 surance of victory at last; better than find- 
 ing; a home or giving a home to the earth's 
 orphans is it to help them make homes of 
 their own. 
 
 Occasionally as I wait by the trail I get 
 sight of a trudging youngster different from 
 the rest. Often I stop such a one for a good 
 look into his eyes. I have a feeling that 
 long ago I lost one like him, and I can't get 
 rid of the thought that he may happen along 
 some day, and, if he does, I must speak him 
 a word of cheer. But he does not come, 
 though I keep watching for him. I have 
 met many lads who looked like him, and 
 some who had his ways, but he someway 
 never comes; perhaps I should not know 
 him if he did now, and perhaps he has come 
 this way once and will come no more. I do 
 not mind the nickels I have spent in the 
 well-meant quest for him — I am well con- 
 
On the Long Trail 55 
 
 tent they should go for what good they can 
 accomplish, just in memory of him, you 
 know — perhaps, after all, that is as much as 
 I shall ever be able to do for him. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Retrospection and Reflection. 
 
 Strangely fascinating is the pictured can- 
 vas with which the long hall of memory is 
 hung. Its unnumbered scenes stretch away 
 to the shadow-land, where once we began 
 to know and think and feel. A silvery veil 
 of glowing mist seems ever to hang before it- 
 Almost imperceptible near at hand, this sheen 
 grows denser in the distance, so that pic- 
 tures farthest off have an added glory, while 
 the one retouched but yesterday and the one 
 unfinished as yet, to-day shows bare, blunt 
 outlines, angular and uncouth. It is not 
 easy to believe that this treasured past is 
 but a composite of the uninteresting presents 
 that have been. Ah ! it is the work of time. 
 "Time the enchanter" one would say, but 
 not so. Time is no enchanter to delude us 
 and make things seem more lovely than 
 they are. 
 
 Time but disillusions us that we may 
 truly see and know for once the value of 
 what he has brought us. We are robbed of 
 the present, and ever-possible joy of living, 
 by fear — needless, foolish fear. We let antic- 
 
Rctrospcctic 
 
Retrospection and Reflection 57 
 
 ipated trials detract from real and rational 
 pleasures. Our forebodings bear no fruit; 
 or, if trials do come, they are but transient, 
 and helpful in the end. When we paint the 
 future we put in these dark outlines ; but 
 time, with better taste, strikes them out for 
 us, and when we look back, the canvas is 
 bright. This talk of the good old days is a 
 delusion, and not a harmless one by any 
 means. Those days are of a kind with those 
 now passing, except that they grow richer all 
 the time as they pass. The faith that trusts 
 God and goes ahead is what we of this age 
 most need to add zest and relish to our lives. 
 But Time is a transformer, working ever 
 with steady, justice-guided hand, by laws un- 
 erring and benevolent. When royal families 
 retrograde and degenerate, the ferment of 
 unrest sets silently to work. Presently there 
 is an eruption. Revolution clears the atmos- 
 phere, reversing the order, and Time turns 
 his glass the other end up and sets things 
 going anew. When the rich grow arrogant in 
 their independence, forgetting that they, too, 
 had humble beginnings, and dare to despise 
 the plodding poor, lo, already the anointing 
 oil of untoward circumstance has fallen on 
 the locks of some lad from a sun-kissed hill- 
 side in whose veins kingly currents run. 
 
58 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 When scholars, rich in the lore of books 
 and puflfed up with vanity, sneer at or ig- 
 nore the eager askings of the lowly and un- 
 schooled, a great class is in training, out 
 where birds flit to and fro, and soft-eyed 
 sheep nibble the sward; and at the bidding 
 of Providence some uncouth Spurgeon, some 
 Lincoln with forest fragrance in his garments, 
 some Edison with his hindering deafness, some 
 Clemens from his river raft, climbs up an- 
 other way and stands glory-crowned on the 
 crest above them all. 
 
 In all this there is, of course, an occa- 
 sional accident, as we see even in the realm 
 of nature — the tempest-wrecked leaf-tower of 
 the woodland, the starved nestling of the slain 
 bird-mother, the maimed member of the herd 
 limping behind its nimble-footed companions 
 — but the general rise and fall of things, 
 the great ocean swells, the light and shade 
 of life, all come and go by laws unvarying 
 and divine. 
 
 Values fluctuate in our appreciation, as 
 markets vary from time to time. The pos- 
 sessions of mankind, that once seemed to 
 me of vital importance, appear to have a quite 
 difierent worth now. So many persons I once 
 envied, I have come at last to pity, that I 
 found soon enough that, to be a man, I must 
 
Retrospection and Reflection 59 
 
 pluck up the weeds of envy from my heart 
 that tender plants of pity might run rife and 
 bear their seeds. Among all our sinning, 
 suffering fellows, the one most to be pitied, 
 is he who feels no pang of pity for the ills 
 of others, and he only who may be envied 
 is that rare rich man who has no taint of envy 
 in his heart. Blessed are they whose lives 
 begin with humblest scenes, and whose bodies 
 feel the pinch of sheer poverty, if thereby 
 the later years are enriched with the enduring 
 wealth of that peace which cometh to the 
 upright in heart and the power to love even 
 the unlovely. Poor indeed is he to whom 
 these things never come, whatever else he 
 may gain of the world's plunder. 
 
 We constantly undervalue the worth of a 
 good word. Nothing else pays so well as in- 
 vestment in courageous speech to the world's 
 disheartened ones. The ninety and nine may 
 be heedless of our well-meant proffer of en- 
 couragement, or may forget it and us forth- 
 with, but the hundredth one will be heartened 
 by it, and will praise the Giver of all good 
 for it, remembering us when we are gone. 
 In an old album of mine are inscribed these 
 words: "Dear Sam: — Every young man who 
 dares to do right will succeed in life. The 
 world may seem cold and hard, but the faith- 
 
60 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 ful will be rewarded. — W. C. B." I could not 
 tell how often I have read these words pen- 
 ned by a schoolteacher who understood, nor 
 how they have helped me when no other help 
 was in sight. "W. C. B." — perhaps not one of 
 all who read this can guess what name these 
 letters indicate. It does not detract from the 
 worth of his words to remember that he did 
 not always "dare to do right" and was not 
 always "faithful" as he should have been. The 
 thought of his later delinquencies but awakens 
 pity in me, for I doubt not the world dealt 
 bitterly euough with him, if, as I have heard, 
 he walked the hard way of the transgressor, 
 and I would gladly cross a State to grasp his 
 hand and thank him for the good word he 
 gave. 
 
 There is a great lot of unofficial and un- 
 labeled goodness in this world. With no place 
 for it in our classification we will go sadly 
 amiss in our appreciation of what is worthy. 
 When we discover one doing good, in the name 
 of Him who noted the Samaritan's deed and 
 made it deathless, we ought to give the grip 
 of recognition and go gladly on. So long 
 as the deeds our Lord began to do are left 
 untouched by those who own his creed, those 
 of other name and nation must befriend him 
 and do his bidding. When close contact with 
 
Retrospection and Reflection 61 
 
 the unfeeling and cynical begins to make 
 me callous, I go back in memory to that four- 
 hundred- mile wagon-ride out of the Ozarks; 
 I recall the plain people who greeted us all 
 along the way as though expecting us; the 
 meeting of men in the wagon-house at Spring- 
 field; the good doctor who would have no 
 fee, but who gave compassion when hope could 
 not be offered; the ferryman and tollgate- 
 keepers who refused our money, except in a 
 single case; the strangers who took charge 
 and assumed all responsibility when death 
 came ; the weak-eyed Hard-shell Baptist 
 woman who quickly marked me as a Camp- 
 bellite when we met for an hour in the country 
 graveyard where my father lies buried, but 
 who, God reward her, kept my father's grave 
 for thirty years with no single word of tidings 
 from any one of us. These people were of 
 every religious denomination — and none; of 
 every degree of culture — and the lack of it — 
 common in that day and place, and of every 
 conceivable station in life; yet the doctrine 
 of Jesus beginning with, "Inasmuch as ye 
 have done it unto one of the least of these," 
 was a controlling force in their lives. 
 
 It was not so in this old world once. It 
 is not so to-day in lands where He is not 
 knowm. This much is clear to me : not all 
 
62 Where the Long Trail Begins 
 
 who serve him are clothed in the customary 
 garments of the sanctuary. The eyes of those 
 who know Ilim and have learned His way, 
 look out sometimes from the grizzled visages 
 of those accustomed to the hard ways of a 
 hard world. The feet that go for Him are not 
 always neatly shod. The hands that do His 
 tasks are often brown and bony. But He 
 knows His OAvn and has them where they are 
 needed most at times when they can serve 
 Him best. This faith is enough for me if I 
 can but know Him and serve Him when He 
 wants me. 
 
 It is faith that moves the world. Faith^ 
 the much-talked-of and little-understood 
 force. My observation of faith -full men and 
 women when under sore trial has been my 
 best commentary on the eleventh chapter of 
 Hebrews. The writer of that passage names 
 but a few of the heroes of faith — enough 
 merely for his purpose, to show that faith 
 moves the world. Were some gifted one to 
 write again, he could add much to the 
 catalogue of wonders wrought by faith. Nor 
 have they all been wrought; all about us are 
 those whose silent and unseen part in the 
 tragedies and temptations of life, though un- 
 appreciated by those nearest them, gives 
 testimony to the overcoming power of faith. 
 
Retrospection and Reflection 63 
 
 Occasionally! meet a man — seldom, though, 
 a v/oinan — and one usually it is who has felt 
 no frown of disfavor cast upon him in all 
 the way, who sneers at faith in God and 
 Christ. Then I think of a defenseless woman I 
 once knew, taking her uncertain way from 
 the grave of her dead and, without money or 
 influential friends, bringing her five orphans 
 through hardships and discouragements to 
 honored maturity and lives of usefulness at 
 last; aud all the way groping, groping, grop- 
 ing in the ashy shadows of her darkened life, 
 with no hand to hold but that of an unseen 
 God, and no name to call before his throne but 
 the name of One by whose stripes we are 
 healed. I say, I think of all this when I meet 
 one who scoffs at God and religion, and, may 
 I be pardoned if it is wrong in me, I would 
 like to strike him in the ftice and shame the 
 mouth that dishonors God and disowns his 
 care for the defenseless. 
 
 This world looks to me like a harmonious 
 whole. Even its discords and sorrows are part 
 of a plan. I can not but believe that there is 
 a wise One over it all. If this be not true — 
 if there is not somewhere a place and some- 
 how a plan that eyes that see not here shall 
 be opened, ears that bear not here shall be 
 healed, and lives here cast down shall stand 
 
64 Where the Long Trail BEorNS 
 
 erect — it will be the only disappointment in 
 the whole scheme of things. 
 
 I could not tell all the windings of the 
 covered way in which we walked, if I would, 
 and Heaven knows I would not if I could. 
 The mere hints I have given are all I could 
 tell of the struggles upward, and they are 
 enough, I trust, for the purpose I have held in 
 view. The little triumphs for which we bat- 
 tled together in glorious fellowship and which 
 stand out brightly along the way — the first 
 lamp-flue we had in the house, for instance ; 
 the first timepiece ; the first carpet on our 
 floor — a partnership investment from the earn- 
 ings of us children, my mother stitching the 
 "rags" that formed the w^oof ; the first ready- 
 made clothes ; the first teacher's certificates ; 
 the first college diplomas ; the first sermons 
 — all these are so like the first things in other 
 lives that they may hardly be mentioned. 
 
 What a help it ever is to meet one in like 
 state with us. When confronted by some grave 
 trouble, a financial reverse, a serious illness, 
 a domestic tragedy — just to know that another 
 has met like obstacles and has surmounted 
 them nerves us for the test. It is with a hope 
 that I might encourage another, or inspire 
 some one else to do so, that I have written. 
 To know that I have done my part as best I 
 
Retrospection and Reflection 65 
 
 could, is a sufficient reward for the effort it 
 has cost me. To be a humble member of that 
 greatest and best of brotherhoods — the suc- 
 cessful unhelped, who have become helpers of 
 others — is honor enough for me. They are 
 a numerous company of princely men whom 
 to know aright is an honor indeed. I recog- 
 nize them wherever I happen to meet them, 
 and they are a splendid lot; toilers all of them, 
 in workshop, factory and office; statehouse, 
 college and court; farm, pulpit and platform; 
 and the pride it gives me to be one of them is 
 a vanity I trust may be pardoned. To have 
 met them thus, and to have told my little 
 story to an audience able to understand, has 
 been a pleasure to make the heart glad. But 
 the work of busy lives is waiting, so — 
 farewell.