the family in a semicircle around it, moving back slowly as the coals get hotter, a neighbor or two in to spend the evening, or a traveler stopped over night,—this was the time for many a marvelous recital. Tales, legends, Indian stories, pioneer struggles, hunter's exploits,-with these the moments flew till bedtime. These fireside talks frequently produced scenes of dramatic eloquence, great as was ever known in ancient academic shades. No greater power was ever given an orator than was seen in the portrayals of these early-time folks. They were nature's dramatists. So unaffected they were,

so unconsciously forceful, they were able to put a thing in its best form. They never thought of these fireside scenes as occasions of eloquent expressions; but such they were. Beside them, the modern looking-glass elocutionist would be laughed to scorn. I have seen and know much of the histrionic art, but I have never seen some of the recitals of the fireside of my cabin home excelled. The material dramatized was not art or science or history, but pioneer hardship, and adventure with wild animals, of fighting with Indians, of rude sports, of love, of jealousy, and domestic tragedy. Our fireside was a stage. Father and mother, with the neighbors and strangers, were the actors. I was the small

boy in the corner cracking hazel-nuts, and watching the tragedy of life, which was real fifty years before I was born, recited on that stage. A boy in the backwoods, with healthy, sensible people around him, has exceptional opportunities. A child reared in the hotbeds of aristocracy and wealth is to be pitied.

I will give you several of these stories in substance. As I heard them they can not be put into print. The types are dead things. The tales which I have to relate shall begin with the next chapter.

I lacked the poetry of orphanage. My life came under the matter-of-fact conditions. of having all the benefits of a good father and mother. My father, for his day, was a remarkable spirit. He would have been a significant force in any day. He would have been among the chief of citizens and financiers if his lot had been cast in a great city. He was Scotch through and through. He was a physical giant. These were the days when personal pride centered in muscular strength. It was pride of muscle instead of pride of brains. The best man physically in the neighborhood was always a leader and a ruler. Men in the early time were very much like the leaders of the wild herds. The leader was always a strong, courageous fellow,

who had fought his way to the front through a hundred battles without a single defeat.

In mental temperament my father was a man of action, and of few words. He was in no sense a theorist. His education was so limited that he could not cipher in long division, but he could make the most abstruse mathematical calculations without knowing how he did it-that is, without being able to tell how. All his plans resolved themselves into action. I never knew him to express a purpose that he was not in the act of executing. When once committed to an enterprise in business, he was never known to give it up till completed. Difficulties only nerved him. His business plans were to him. infallible. He believed in them so thoroughly that every one of them got a fair trial, and almost invariably led him to success.

"My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer."

When he once is firm on his horse's back,

-BURNS.

With his stirrups short, and his swaffle strong,
And the blast of the horn for his morning song?"

-CORNWALL.

N aged Indian sits around the camp-fire,

AN

and regales the tribe with the deeds of his own heroism. He exalts his own life. He tells the same tale over for the hundredth time, and it never loses in the recital. In this way many an ordinary incident in Indian life has grown into a heroic deed of daring.

White people of the early day were given to this sort of narrative, yet perhaps not so much to the Indian weakness of magnifying. But in mat

ters of personal adventure, I have heard the same thing over and over again. The first time you hear a story, it has the interest of novelty; and each time you hear it afterward, it lacks novelty, but it takes hold of you more and more. Its meaning grows into you. My child-mind was so filled with pioneer exploits, the experiences of people who lived near us, that I am sure I shall never be able to get away from them. The persons themselves, through my Jife, have been associated with the contributions they made to my stock of hunter's tales.

Reuben Blannerhassett, my father, first settled in Indiana, on the prairies south of Lafayette. There he kept two grey-hound dogs for the wolf hunt. He also kept, for the chase, a full-blood Bertran horse, famous for speed and endurance. The peculiar quality of this family of horses was what was known then as bottom. In his trials of speed with other horses, Bertran had become famous for his staying qualities. For these reasons he was king of the chase among horses in the locality. He was kept for that and nothing else. Having a rider with judgment, he could veritably run all day. This magnificent horse loved the chase, and always chased like a chained lion till he was set free on the

prairie after wolf or deer. He could overtake