The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 7, 1903, Page 3

“Why, Monsieur L'as,” sald Du Mesne, “l am making bold to mention it, but in good truth there was some question in my mind as to what might be our plans. The spring, as you know, is now well ad- vanced. It was your first design to go far into the w and there to set up ¥e ion for the trading in furs. Now there have eome these little incidents which have occasioned us some delay. While 1 ve not doubted your enterprise, Moggleur, 1 bethought me perhaps it might be within your plans now to go but little farther on—perhaps, indeed to turn “To go‘back?” said Law. “Well, yes; that is to say, Monsieur L’as, back again down the Great Lakes.” *Have you then known me so i1l as this, Du Mesne?” sald Law. "It has not been custom to set backward foot on any sort of trail.” “Oh, well, to be know quite well” repried Du’ Mesne, apologetically. “I would only say that, if you do go forward, you will do more than most men accomplish on their first voyage au large in the wilderness. There comes to many a certain shrinking of the heart which leads them to find excuse for farther on. Yonder, as you deur, lie Quebec and Montreal, somewhat better fitted for the abode of monsfeur and madame than the tents of the wilderness. Back of that, too, as we both very well know, Monsieur, lie Lon don and England; and I had been dull of eye indeed did I not recognize o nities of a young gallant rself. now, while 1 know vourself ‘to be a man of spirit, Monsieur L’as, ar while I should welcome you glad a brother of the trafl, 1 had only ulht at perhaps you wo! pardon me if I did but ask your purpose at this time.” Law benf his head in silence for a mo- ment. *“What know you of this forward trafl, Du Mesne?” said he. “Have ever gone beyond this point in your own rneyings "\, ever beyond this,” replied Du Mesne, not so far by many hundred miles. For my own part I rely chiefly on the story of my brother, Greysolon du 1.’hut, the boldest 1 that ever put p: die In the St. Lawrence. My brot Greysolon by the fire one night told me that some years before he had bee o the Green Bay near this very spot—and that he: brothers found a deserted camp. Near it, lying balf in the fire, allen In exhs , was old Indian, who had been his tribe ure, Monsieur, that I old ndian ver: by st know sasant customs of th sreysolon and his savage in some fashion, and meantime him about this un- edge we have now had much known la i west of that called the of which ce. He knew th se Earth, “perhaps the her Hepnepin of Divine River, far below and tributary to the Messasebe his father was once of a war went far to the = r re Ojibways, and that g from the Ojibways prisoners, who said that he came ne strange country far to the ward, where there was a very wide Beyond that there any to ereabout. vond these mopntains the prisoner did know what there might be, but these untains his people took to be the edge the world, beyond which could live only wicked spirits. This was what the prisoner of the Ojibways said. He, too, was an old man “The captive of my brother Greysolon was an Qutagamie, and he gald that the itagamies burned this prisoner of the jibways, for they knew that he was surely lying to them. Without doubt they did quite right to burn him, for the no- tion of a great open country without trees or streams is, of course, absurd to any one who knows America. And as for mountains, all men know that the moun- tains lie to the east of us, not to the west- ward.” * "Twould seem much hearsay,” sald Law, “this information which comes at second, third and fourth hand.” “True,” sald Du Mesne, “but such is the source of the little we know of the of the Messasebe, and that which lies beyond it. None the less this idea of- nterest.” Yet you ask me 1f I would return.” “’Twas but for yourself monsieur. It is there, iIf T may humbly confess to you, that it is my own ambition some day to arrive. Myself—this West, as I said long 8g0 to the gentlemen in London—appeals to me, since it is indeed a land unoccu- pled, unowned, an empire which we may have all for ourselves. What say you, Monsieur L'as?” John Law straightened and stiffened as he stood. For an instant his eye flashed with the zeal of youth and of adventure. It wes but a transient cloud which cross- ed his face, yet there was sadness in his tone as he replied: “My friend,” said he, “you ask me for my answer. I have pondered and I now decide. We shall go on. We shall go forward. Let us have this West, my friend. Heaven helping us, Tet me find somewhere, In some land, a place where I may be utterly lost and where I may forget.” CHAPTER VI. THE PATHWAY OF THE WATERS. The news of the intended departure was received with joy by the crew of the voyageurs, who, on the warning of an instant fell forthwith to the simple tasks of breaking camp and storing the accus- tomed bales and bundles in their places in the great canot du Nord “La volla! sald Tete Gris. *“Here she sits, this canoe, eager to go on. ‘Tis forward again, mes amis! Forward once more, and glad enough am I for this day. We shall see new lands ere long.” “For my part,” said Jean Breboeuf, “I also am most anxious to be away, for I have eaten this whitefish until I crave no more. I had bethought me how ex- cellent are the pumpkins of the good fathers at the Straits, and indeed I would we hed with us more of that excellent fruit, the bean.” , “Bah! Jean Breboeuf,” retorted Plerre Nolr. 'Tis but a poor hearted voya- geur would hang about a mission garden with a hoe in his hand instead of a gun. Perhaps the good sisters at the mountain miss thy skill at pulling weeds.” “Nay, now, I can live as long on fish and flesh as any man,” replied Jean Bre- boeuf, stoutly, “nor do I hold myself, Monsfeur Tete Gris, one jot in courage back of any man upon the trafl.” “Of course not, save in time of storm,” grinned Tete Gris. “Then, it is ‘Holy Mary, witness my vow of & bale of bea- ver?’ “Well, sc be it.”” sald Jean Breboeuf, stoutly. *“’Tis sure a bale of beaver will come easily enough in these new lands; and—though I insist again that I have naught of superstition in my soul—when & raven sits on a tree near camp and croaks of a morning before breakfast— es upon my word of honor was the case this morning—there must be some {ll fate in store for us, as doth Yut stand to rea- “But say you so?” sald Tete Grls, paus- ing at his task, with his face assuming a certain serlousness. “Assuredly,” said Jean Breboeuf. *'Tis as I told you. Moreover, I insist to you, my brothers, that the signs have not been right for this trip at any time. For my- gelf, 1 look for nothing but disaster.” The humor of Jean Breboeuf's very vity appealed so strongly to his older comrades that they broke out into laugh- ter, and so all fell again to their tasks, sheer light-heartedness forgetting the Thu length the party took ship again and in time made the head of the great bay within whose arms they had been for some time encdmped. They won up over the sullen rapids of the river which came {to the bay, tolling sometimes walst deep at the cordelle, yet complain- ing not at all. So in time they came out on the wide expanse of the shallow lake of the Winnebagoes, which body of water they crossed directly, coming into the quiet channel of the stream which fell in upon its western shore. Up this stream in turn steadily they passed, amid a pan- orama filled with constant change. Some- times the gentle river bent away in long curves, with hardly a ripple upon its placid surface, save where now and again some startled fish sprang into the air in fright or sport, or in the rush upon prey. Then the stream would lead into st seas of marsh lands, wav- ing in illimitable reaches of rushes, or fringed with the unspeakably beautiful green of the graceful wild rice plant. se wide levels now and again the divided, or lost itself in little cul from which the paddlers were obliged to retrace their way. All about them rose myriads of birds and wild fowl, which made thelr nests among se marshes, and the babbling chatter of the rail, the high keyed calling of coot, or the clamoring of the home lding mallard assailed their ears hour ter hour as they passed on between the leafy shores. Then, again, the channel would sweep to one side of the marsh and give view to wide vistas of high and roll- ing lands, dotted with groves of hard- wood, with here and there a swamp of cedar or of tamarack. Little herds of elk i droves of deer fed on the grass cov- ered slopes, as fat, as sleek and fearless of mankind as though they dwelt domes- ticated in some noble park. It was a land obviously but little known, even to the most adventurous, and as chance would have it they met not even a wandering party of the native tribes. Clearly now the little boat was climbing, climbing slowly and gently, yet surely, upward from the level of the great Lake Michiganon. In time the little river broadened and flattened out into wide, low expanses, the waters known as Lakes of the Foxes; and beyond that it became yet more shallow and uncertain, winding among quaking bogs and un- known marshes; yet still, whether by pa- tience, or by cheerfulness, or by determin- ation, the craft stood on and on, and so reached that end of the waterway which, in the opinion of the more experienced Du Mesne, must surely be the place known among the Indian tribes as the “‘Place for the carrying of the boats.” Here they paused for a few days at that mild summit of land which marks the portage between the east-bound and the west-bound waters; yet, impelled ever by the eager spirit of the adventurer, they made their pause but short. In time they Jaunched their craft on the bright smooth flood of the river of the Ouisconsins, stained coppery-red by its far-off, un- known course in the north, where it had bathed leagues of the roots of pine and tamarack and cedar. They passed on steadily westward, hour after hour, with the current of this great stream, ameng the little islands covered with timber; passed along bats of white sand and fluts of hardwood; beyond forest-covered knolls, in the openings of which one might now and again see great vistas of scenery now peaceful and now bold, with turreted knolls and sweeping swards of green, as though some noble house of old England were set back secluded within these wide and well-kept grounds. The country now rapidly lost its marshy character, and as they approached the mouth of the great stream, it being now well toward the mid- dle of the summer, they reached suddenly and without forewarning, that which they long sought. % The sturdy paddlers wers bending to thelr tasks, each broad back swinging in unison forward and back over the thwart, each brown throat bared to the air, each swart head uncovered to the glare of the midday sun, each narrow-bladed paddle keeping unison with those before and be- hind, the hand of the paddler never reach- ing higher than his chin, since each had learned the labor-saving fashion of the Indian canoe man. The day was bright and cheery, the air not too ardent, and across the coppery waters there stretched slants of shadow from the embowering forest trees. They were alone, these travelers; vet for the time at least part of them seemed care-free and quite aban- doned to the sheer zest of life. There arose again, after the fashion of the voy- ageurs, the measure of the paddling song, without which indeed the paddler had not been able to perform his labor at the thwart. Dang mon chemin §'al, rencontre— chanted the leader, and voices behind nim responded lustily with the next line. Trols cavallers blen montes— Trols cavaliers bien montes— chanted their leader again. L'un a cheval et I'autre a pled— came the response, and then the chorus: Lon, lon laridon daine— Lon, lon laridon dai! The great boat began to move ahead steadlly and more swiftly, and bend after bend of the river was rounded by the rushing prow. None knew this country, nor wist how far the journey might carry him. None knew as of certainty that he would ever in this way reach the great Messasebe; or even if he thought that such would be the case, did any one know how far that Messasebe still might be. Yet there came a time in the afternoon of that day, even as the chant of the voy- ageurs still echoed on the wooded bluffs, and even as the great birch bark ship stil responded swiftly to their gayety, when, on a sudden turn In the arm of the river, there appeared wide before them a scene for which they had not been pre- pared. There, rippling and rolling under the breeze, as though itself the arm of some great sea, they saw a majestic flood, whose real nature and whose name each man there knew on the instant and in- stinctively. “Messasebe! Messasebe!” broke out the voices of the paddlers. “Stop the paddles!” cried Du Mesne. “Volla!” Jshn Law rose in the bow of the boat and uncovered his head. It was a noble prospect ‘which; lay before him. His was the ' s6ul: of the adventurer, quick to re- spond to challenge. There was a flutter- ing in his throat as he stood and gazed out upon this solemn, mysterfous and tre- mendous flood, coming whence, going whither, none might say. He gazed and gazed, and it was long before the shad- ow crossed his face and before he drew a sigh. “Madam,” said he, at length, turning until he faced Mary Connynge, “this Is its awa sac THE SUNDAY CALL. the West. We have chosen, and we have arrived!” CHAPTER V. MESSASEBE. The boat, now lacking its propelling power, drifted on and out into the clear tide of the mighty stream. The paddlers were idle and silence had fallen upon all. The rush of this majestic flood, steady, mysterious, secret-keeping, created a feel- ing of awe and wonder. THey gazed and gazed again, up the great waterway, across to its farther shore, along its ro ing course below, and still each man for- got his paddle, and still the little ship of New France drifted on, just rocking gentt ly in the mimic waves which ruffled the face of the mighty Father of Waters. “By our lady!” cried Du Mesne, at length, and tears stood in his tan-framed eyes as he turned, ““’tis true, all that has been said! Here it Is, Messasebe, more mighty than any story could have told! Monsieur L’as, ‘tis big enough to them one John Law. roadway fit for a nation. Ah, Du Mesne! our St. Lawrence, our New France—they dwindle when com- pared to this new land.” “Aye! and 'tis all our own!” cried Du Mesne., “Look; for the last ten days we have scarce seen even the smoke of a wigwam, and, so far as I can tell, there fs not in all this valley now the home of a single white man. My friend Du L'hut —he may be far north of the Superior to-day for aught we know, or somewhere among the Sauteur people. 1f there be any man below us let some one else tell who that may be. Sir, T promise you, when I see this big water going on so fast and heading so far away from home ell, T admit it causes me to shiver.” 'Tis much the same,” said Law, ‘where home may be for me.” “Ah, but 'tis different on the lakes,” said Du Mesne, “for there we always knew the way back, and knew that 'twas down stream. “He says well,” broke in Mary Con- nynge. “There is something in this big river that chills me. I am afraid.” “And what say you, Tete Gris, and you, Pierre Noir?” asked Law. “Why_ myself,” replied the former, “I am gwith the captain. It matters not. There must always be one -trail from which one does not return.” “Oui,” said Pierre Noir. “To be sure, we have passed as good beaver country as heart of man could ask; but never was land so good but there was better just beyond.” . “They say well, Du Mesne,” spoke John Law presently; *’tis better on beyond. Suppose we never do return? Did I not say to you that I would leave this other world as far behind me as might be?” “Eh bien, Monsfeur L’as, you reply with spirit, as ever,” replied Du Mesne, “and it is not for me to stand in the way. My own fortune and family are also with me and home is where my fire is lit.” “Very well,” replied Law. *Let us run the river to its mouth, if need be. 'Tis all one to me. And whether we get back or not, 'tis another tale.” “Oh, T make no doubt we shall win back it need be,” replied Du Mesne. *'Tis sald the savages know the ways by the Divine River of the Illini to the foot of Michiganon; and that, perhaps, might be our best way back to the lakes and to the mountain with our beaver. We shall, provided we reach the Divine River, as 1 should guess by the stories I have heard, be then below the Illini, the Ottawas and the Miamis, with I know not what tribes from west of the Messasebe. 'Tis for you to say, Monsieur L'as, but for my own part—and ‘tis but a hazard atsbest—I would still remain here, or press on'ty the river of the Illini.” “'Tis easy of decision, thenf replied Law, after a moment of reflection. “We take that course which leads us farther on at least. Again the paddles, my friends! To-night we sup in our ewn kingdom. Strike up the song, Du Mesne!” A shout of approval broke from the hardy men along the boat side, and even fleets of replied carry Mesne,” Jean Breboeuf tosed up his cap upon his, paddie shaft. “Forward, then, mes ami: cried Du Mesne, setting his own paddle blade deep ing the flood. “En roulant ma boule roul- ant—" Again the chorus rose, and agaln the hardy craft leaped onward into the unex- plored. Day after day following this the jour- ney was resumed, and day after day the travelers with eager eves witnessed a prospect of continual change. The bluffs, bolder and more gigantic, towered more precipitous than the banks of the gentler streams which they had left behind. For- ests ranged down to the shores, and wide, green-decked islands crept into view, and little timbered valleys of lesser streams came marching down to the imposing flood of Messasebe. Again the serrated bluffs broke back and showed vast vistas of green savannas, covered with tall, waving grasses, broken by little rolling over which.crossed herds of elk, and ilence into which the party had fallen. Tis a great land, and a mighty. And now, monsieur, T know why the Indians say "tis guarded by spirits. Sure, I can my- self feel something in the air which makes my shoulder blades to creep.”” “'Tis a mighty land, and full of won- ders,” assented Law, who, in different fashion, had felt the same mysterious spell of this great stream. For himself, he was nearer to reverence than ever yet he had been in all his wild young life. Now it so happened that at length, after a long though rapid journey down the great river, they came to that stream which they took to be the river of the Illinl. This they ascend, and so finally, early In one evening, at the bank of a wide and placid bayou, shaded by willows and birch trees, and by great elms that bore aloft a canopy of clinging vines, they made a landing for the bivouac whicn was to prove their final tarrying place. The great canot du Nord came to rest at the foot of a timbered hill, back of which stretched high, rolling prairies. dotted with little groves and broken with swales and winding sloughs. The leaders of the party, with Tete Gris and Plerre Noir, ascended the bluffs and made brief ex- ploration; not more, ‘was tacitly un- dersteod, with view to choosing the spot for the evening encampment than with the purpose of selecting a permanent stop- ping place. Du Mesne at length turned to Law with questioning gaze. John Law struck the earth with his heel. “Here!” sald he. “Here let us stop. 'Tis as well as any place. There are flowers and trees, and meadows and hedges, like to those of England. Here let us stay!” “Ah, you say well indeed!” cried Du Mesne, “and may fortune send-us happy enterprises.” “But then, for the houses,” continued Law. “I presume we must keep close to this little stream which flows from the bluff. And yet we must have a place whence we can obtain good view. Then, with stout walls to protect us, we might ~—but see! What is that beyond? Look! There {s, i I mistake not, a house already buflded!” “'Tis true, as I live!” cried Du Mesne, lowering his voice instinctively, as his quick eye caught the spot where Law was pointing. “But, good God! what can it mean?” They advanced cautiously into the lit- tle open space beyond them, a glade but a few hundred yards across and lined by encirciing trees. They saw indeed a habitation erected by human hands, ap- parently not altogether without skill. There were rude walls of logs, reinforced by stakes planted in the ground. ~From the four corners of the inclosure pro- Jjected overhanging beams. There was an opening in the inclésure, as they 'dis- covered upon closer approach, and enter- ing at this® rude door the party looked about them curiously. Du /Mesne shut his lips tight together. This was no #ouse built by the hands of white men. There were hers no quarters, no shops, no chapel with {its little bell. Instead there stood a few drled and twisted poles, and all around lay the lit- ter of an abandoned camp. £ “‘Iroquots, by the living mother of God!” cried Plerre Nofr. “Look!” cried Tete Gris, calling them nnlf\ outside the inclosure. He stood kicking in the ashes of wnat had been a fireplace. He disclosed, half buried in the charred embers, an iron kettle, into which he gazed curiously. He turned away as John Law stepped up beside him. ‘‘There must have been game here in plenty,” sald Law. “Tnere are bones scattered all about.” Du Mesne and Tete Gris looked at each other In silence and the former at length replied: “This is an Iroquois war house, Mon- sieur 1/as,” sald he. “They lived hf¥e for mors than a month, and, as you say, they fed well. But these bones you see are not the bones of elk or deer. They are the bones of men and women and children."” Law stood taking in each detall of the scene about him. “Now you have seen what is before us,” resumed Du Mesne. *The Iroquois have gone, 'tls true. They have wiped out the villages which were here. There are the little cornfields, but I warrant you they have not seen a tomahawk hoe for a month or more. The Iroquois have gone, yet the fact that they have been here proves they may come again. What say you, Tete Gris; and what is your be- lief, Pierre?"’ Tete Gris remained silent for some mo- ments. “’Tis as Monsleur says,” replied he at length, *“'Tis all one to me. I'go or stay, as it shall please the others. There is always the one trail over which one does not return.’” “And you, Plerre?” “I stay by my frlends,” replled Plerre Noir, briefly. “And you, Monsieur L'as?"” Mesne. Law raised his head with the old-time determination. “My friends,”. sald he, “we have elected to come into this coun- try and take Its conditions as we find them. If we falter, we lose; of that we may rest assured. Let us not turn back because a few savages have been here and have slaughtered a few other savages. For me, there seems but one opinion pos- sible. The lightning has struck, yet it may not strike again at the same tree. The Iroquols have been here, but they have departed and they have nothing left to invite their return. Now, it is neces- sary that we make use and bulld some place for our abode. Here is a post already bullded to our hands.” “But if- the savages return?” sald Du Mesne. “Then we will fight,” sald John Law. “And right you are,” replied Du Mesne. “Your reasoming is correct. I vote that we bufld here our station.” “Mpeelf also,” sald Tete Gris. And tr nodded his assent in silence. CHAPTER VL asked Du MAIZE. “Ola! Jean Breboeuf,” called out Du Mesne to that worthy, who presently ap- peared, breathing hard from his climb up the river bluff. “Know you what has ‘been concluded?” “No; how should I guess?” replied Jean Breboeuf.. “Or, at ledst, if I- should guess, what else should 1 guess save that we are to take boat at once and set back to Montreal as fast as we may? But that—what is this? Whose house is that yonder? *'Tis our own, mon enfant,” replied Du Mesne dryly. ‘'Twas perhaps the prop- erty of the Iroquois a moon ago. A moon before that time the soil it stands on be- longed to the INlini. To-day both house and soil belong to us. See; here stood the village. There are the cornfields, cut and trampled by the Iroquois. Here are the kettles of the natives—"" “But, but—why—what Is all this? Why do we not hasten away?”’ broke in Jean Breboeuf. “Pish! We'do not go away,/ We remaln where we are.” “Remain? Stay here and be ealen by the ITroquois? Nay! not Jean Breboeuf!” Du Mesne smiled broadly at his terrors, and a dry grin even broke over the fea- tures of the impassive old trapper, Tete Gris. “Not so fast with your going away, Jean, my brother,” sald Du Mesne. ““Thou'art ever hinting of corn and beans; now see what can be done in this garden place of the Iroquois wnd the Illini. You are appointed head gardener for the post!” “Messieurs, me voila,” said Jean Bre- boeuf, ~dropping his hands In despair. “Were 1 not the bravest man in all New France I should leave \you at this mo- ment. It is mad, quite mad you are, every one of you! I, Jean Breboeuf, will remain, and, if necessary, will protect. Corn, and perhaps the bean, ye shall have; perhaps even some of those little roots that the savages dig and’eat; but, look you, this {s but because you are with one who is brave. Eunfin, 1 go. I bend me to the hoe, here in this place, ke a peasant.” 'An excellent hoe can be made from the blade bone of an elk, as the woman Wa- bana will perhaps show you if you like,” said Plerre Noir derisively to his com- rade of the paddle. “Even so,” sald Jean Breboeuf. “I make me the hoe. Could I have but thee, old Pierre, to sit on a stump and fright the crows away I make no doubt that all would go well with our husbandry. I had as lief go. censitaire for Monsieur L'as as for any seignieur on the Riche- of that be sure, old Plerre.” “Faith,” replled the latter, “when It comes to frightening crows I' even agree to sit on a stump with my musket across my knees and watch you work. 'Tis a good place for a sentinel-to keep the crowds from picking yet more bones than these which will embarrass you in your hoeing, Jean Breboeut.” “He says the Richelleu, Du Mesn broke in John Law, musingly. *“Very far away it sounds. I wonder if we shall ever see it again, with its little narrow farms. But here we have our own trails and our own lands, and let us hope that Mongieur Jean shall prosper in his be- lated farming.. And now, for the rest of us, we must look presently to the building of our houses.” L Thus began, slowly and in primitive fashion, the building of one of the first cities of the valley of the Messasebe; the seeds of civilization taking hold upon the ground. of barbarism, the one supplanting the other, yet availing itself of that oth- er. As 'the white men took over the crude flelds of the departed savages, so also they appropriated the imperfect edi- fice which the conquerors of those sav- ages had left for them. It was in little the story of old England herself, builded upon the races and the ruins of Briton, and Roman, and Saxon, of Dane and Nor- man. Under the direction of Law, the walls of the old war house were strengthened with an inner row of palisades, support- ing an embankment of earth and stone. The” overlap of the gate was extended into a re-entrant angle and rude battle- ments were erected at the four corners of the inclosure. The little stream of unfailing water was led through a corner of the fortress. In the center of the in- closure they built the houses; a cabin for Law, one for the men and a larger one to serve as storeroom and as trading place, should there be opportunity for trade. It was in these rude quarters that Law and his companion established that which was the nearest approach to a home that either for the time might claim; and it was thus that both mndertook once more that old and bootless human experiment of seeking to escape from one's own self. Stlent now and dutifully obedient enough was this erstwhile English beauty, Mary Connynge; yet often and often Law caught the question of her gaze. And often enough, too, he found his own ques- tioning running back up the water tralis and down the lakes and across the wide ocean in'a demand which, flercer and fiercer as it grew, he yet remained too bitter and too proud to put to the proof by any means now within his power. Strange enough, savage enough, hopeless enough was this wild home of his in the wilderness of the Messasebe. The smoke of the new settlement rose steadily day by day, but it.gave signal for no watching enemy. All about stretched the pale green ocean of the grasses, dot- ted by many wildflowers, nodding and bowing like bits of fraglle flotsam on the surface of a continually rolling sea. The little groves of timber scattered here and there sheltered from the summer sun the wild cattle’ of the plains. The shorter grasses hid the coveys of the prairie hens, and on the marsh-grown bayou banks the wild duck led her brood. A great land, a rich, a fruitful one, was this that lay about these adventurers. A soberness had come over the habit of the master mind of this little colony. His hand took up the ax and forgot the sword and gun. Day after day he stood looking about him, examining and studying in Tit- tle all the strange things which he saw, seeking to learn as much as might be of the timorous savages, ‘who In’ time be- gan to straggle back to their ruined vil- lages; talking as best he might, through such interpreting -as was possible, with savages who came from the west of the Messasebe and from the south and from the far southwest; hearing and leacning and wondering of a land which seemed as large as all the earth, and various as all the lands that lay beneath the sun—that West, so glorious, so new, so ‘boundless, which. was yet to-be the home of count- less hearthfires’ and the sites of myriad fields of corn..- Lét others hunt and fish and rob the Indians of their furs, after the accepted fashion of the time; as for John Law, he must look about him and think and watch this growing of the corn. He saw ft fajrly from its beginning, this growth of the maize, this plant which never vet had grown on Scotch or Eng- lish sofl; this tall, beautiful, broad-bladed, ténder tree, the very emblem of all fruit- fulness. He saw here and there, dropped by the (careless hand of some departed Indian-‘woman, the little germinating seeds, ~just thrusting ' their pale-green heads up through the soll, half-broken by the -tomahawk. He saw the clustering green shoots—numerous, in the sign of plenty—all crowding together and clamoring for light and life and air and room. He saw the prevalling of the tall and strong upthrusting stalks, after the way of life; saw the others dwarf and whiten, and yet cling on" at the base of the bolder stem, parasites, worthless, yet existing, after the way of life. ¥He saw the great central stalks spring boldly up, so swiftly that it almost seemed possible to count the successive leaps of progress. He saw the strong- ribbed leaves thrown out, waving a thou- sand hands of cheerful welcome and as- surance—these blades of the corn, so much mightier than any blades of steel. He =aw the broad beckoning banners of the pale tassels bursting out atop of the stalk, token of fecupdity and of the fu- ture. He caught tHe wide-driven pollen as' it whitened ‘upon the carth, borne by the parent West Wind, mother of in- crease. He saw the thickening of the gréen leaf at the base, its swelling, fits growth and expansion, tiil the indefinite enlargément showed at length the !ncip- fent ear. He noted the faint brown of the ends of the sweetly enveloping silk of the ear, pale-green and soft underneath the shel- tering and protecting husk. - He found the sweet and milk-white tender kernels, row upon row, forming rapidly beneath the husk, .and saw at length the hardening and darkening of the husk at its free end, whieh told that man might pluck and eat. And. then.he saw.the fading of the tas- sels, the darkening of the silk and the crinkling of the blades; end there, borne on the strong parent stem, he noted now the many full-rowed ears, protected by their husks and heralded by the tassels and the blades. ‘“‘Come, come ye, all y people! Enter in, for I will feed ye all! This was the song of the malize, its invi- tation, its counsel, its promise. Under the warped lodge frames which the fires of the Iroquois had spared there were yet visible-clusters of the ears of last year's corn. Here, under his own eye, were growing yet other ears, ripe for the harvesting and ripe for the coming growth. A strange spell fell upon the soul of Law. Visions crossed his nd, born in the soft warm air of these fecun- dating_winds, of this strange yet peaceful scene. At times he stood and looked out from the door of the palisade, when the prai- rie_mists were rising in the. morning at the miandate of the sun, and to his eyes these waving seas of grasses all seemed beckoning flelds of corn. These smokes, coming from the broken tepees of the timid tribesmen, surely they arose from the roofs of happy and contented homes. These: wreaths and wraiths of the twist- ing and wide-stalking mists, surely these were the captains of a general husbandry! Ah, John Law, John Law! Had God given thee the right feeling and contented heart, happy in- deed had been these days in this new land of thine own, far from ignoble strivings and from fevered dreams, far from aimless struggles and unregulated avarice, far from oppression and from misery, far from bickerings, heart- burnings and envyings! Ah, John Law! Had God given thee the pure and well- contented heart! For here in the Messa- sebe that Mind which e the universe and set man to be one bf its little in- habitants—surely that Mind had plan- ned that man should come and grow in this place, tall and strong, and fruitful, useful to all the world, even as this swift, strong growing of the maize. CHAPTER VIL THE BRINK OF CHANGE. The breath of autumn came Into the air. The- little flowers which had dot- ted the grassy robe of the ro..ng hiils had long since faded away under the ar- dent sun, and now there appeared only the denuded stalks of the mulleins and the flaunting banners of the goldenrod. The wild grouse shrank from the edges of the little field and joined their num- ber into general bands, which night and morn crossed the country on sustained and strbng-winged flight. The plumage of the young wild turkeys, stalking in droves among the open groves, began to emulate the iridescent splendors of their elders. The marshes above the village became the home of yet more numerous thousands of clamering wildfow], and high up agalnst the blue there passed, on the south-bound journey, the harrow of the wild geese, wending their way from north to south across an unknown em- pire. A chill came into the waters of the river, so that the bass and pike solight out .the deeper = pools.. The squirrels busily hoarded up supplies = of the nuts now ripening. The antlers of the deer and the elk which emerged from the concealing thickets now showed no longer ragged strips of velvet, and their tips were polished in the preliminary fitting for the fall seasor of love and combat. There came nights when the white frost hung heavy upon all the bending grasses and the broad-leafed plants, a frost which seared the maize leaves and set aflame the foliage of the maples all along the streams and decked in a hundred flam- boyant tones the leaves of the sumach and all ‘the climbing vines. As all things now presaged the coming winter, so there approached also the time when the little party, so long companions upon the Western tralls, must for the first time know division. Du Mesne, making ready for the return trip over the un- known witerways back to the Lakes, as had been determined to be necessary, spoke of it as though the journey were but an affair of every day. “Make no doubt, Monsleur L’'as,” sald he, “that I shall ascend: this river of the 1llinl and reach Michiganon well befors the snows. Once at the mission of the Miamis, or the village at the river Chi- caqua, I shall be quite safe for the win- ter, if T decide not to go farther on. Then, in the spring, I make no doubt, I shall be able to trade our furs at the Straits, if I like not the long run down to the moun- tain. Thus, you see. I may be with you again some. time within the following spring."” “I hope it may be so, my. friend,” re- plied Law, “for I shall miss you sadly enough. *“'Tis nothing, monsieur; you shall be well occupied. Suppose I take with me Katailkinl and Kabayan, perhaps also Tete Gris. That will give us four pad- dlers for the big canoe, and you will still have left Plerre Noir and Jean, to say nothing of our friends the Illini hereabout, who will be glad enough to make cauee with you In case of need. I will leave Wabana for madame, and trust she may prove of service. See to it, pray you, that she observes the offices of the church: for methinks, unless watched, Wabana is disposed to become careless and unchris- tianized.” ““This I will look to,” sald Law, smiling. “Then all is well,” resumed Du Mesne, ‘‘and my absence will be but a little thing, as we measure it on the tralls. You may find a winter alone in the wilderness a bit dull for you, mayhap duller than were it in London, or even in Quebec. Yet ° ‘twill pass, and In time .we shall mieet again. Perhaps some good father will be wishing to come back with me to set up a mission among the Illinl. These good fathers, they so delight in losing fin- gers, the ears and noses for the good of the church—though where the churck s to be glorified thereln I sometimes can- not say. Perhaps some leech—mayhap sbme qartisan—" “‘Nay, "tis too far a spot, Du Mesne, to tempt others than ourselves.” Upon the contrary, rather Monsieur L’as. It is matter for laughter to see the efforts of Louls and his Ministers to keep New France chained to the St. Lawrence! Yet my good Lord Gov- ernor might, as well puff out his cheeks against the north wind as to try to keep New France from pouring west into the Messasebe: and as much might Of Infants’ Knitted Underwear. 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