These things seemed more engrossing to us than all the wonders of the New West to them. When, in a few weeks, they returned to the old home near Rochester, N. Y., where nearly all our relatives of the last and present generations have remained, they insisted on taking mother with them, for they said, "Mary has had a hard time of it here on the farm, a steady pull of ten years, and she ought to have rest and a change."

After this lovely visit with our dear relatives it was very hard, not only to have them all go at once, but, most of all, to have them take our mother with them, who had never, that we could remember, spent a night away from us. A big carriage was hired to carry them to Belvidere, where they would take the cars; good-bys were said, with many falling tears, and away they went, leaving little Mary with her face all swollen from crying and her elder sister biting her lips very hard for fear she would follow suit, and so make a bad matter worse.

"You asked dear, beautiful mamma to bring you a box," sobbed Mary. "You thought about a box when she was going away off," and she cried aloud.

"Well, I was sorry enough to have her go," was my philosophic answer, "but since she had to leave us I thought I might as well have a little something when she came back." All the same, Oliver and Mary never ceased poking fun at me about that box, which after all I did not get !

And now it was my father's turn to play consoler to his bereft "young hopefuls," as he often called us. Well did he fulfill his new task. Instead of going to town almost every day he stayed at home most of the time, for he and mother never believed in putting their children in care of what he called "outside parties." He made each of us girls a tall, cone-shaped, paper cap, which Mary trimmed with peacock feathers and symbols of hunting, according to father's directions. He fitted us out with fresh arrows, taught us how to "fly a dart," made a wonderful kite and sent it up over the fields, imitated perpetual motion by the "saw-boy" that he carved with his "drawing knife," balanced with a stone, and set at work with a wooden saw. He went with us to watch the sheep, and to carry lunch to the men at work in the fields, took us out to ride when he had to go on "school business," went with us to visit the Whit

Sutherland's Book Store.

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mans and our dear teacher, Miss Burdick,-now "married and settled" in Janesville as Mrs. Gabriel L. Knox-and good Mrs. Hannah Hunter, one of mother's best friends in town. He left us at Sutherland's book store while he did his errands, and that was our delight, for the very presence of books was a heart's ease, so that always, next to our own home, we felt at home where books were kept, for we knew the wisest and kindest men and women who had lived were there in thought. Mr. Sutherland was a dear friend of father's. My big "History of All Nations" had been bought from him in monthly parts, mother paying for it out of her "butter and egg money," that I might have it on my birthday. Mr. Sutherland would let us go about at pleasure among his handsome shelves and counters, in that cool and quiet place "more like the woods than any other that we know," and "so different from those horrid stores where you buy dresses and gloves," I used to say.

That summer we had a new girl, Margaret Ryan, by name, for Bridget wanted rest. She was but eighteen years old, and great company for Mary and me. She was true and kind, very intelligent, and we became much attached to her and gave her piano lessons, read aloud to her while she was at her work, and never learned anything from her that was not good. So our memories of "Margie" were always pleasant. Mother was so considerate of her helpers that she seldom changed, but in our twelve years on the farm we had perhaps thirty or more men and women with us, at different times, some from Ireland, others from England, and a few from America, while of Germans and Norwegians there was a large representation. But Catholic or Protestant, Lutheran or Methodist, we found good hearts in all, and made common cause with every one, teaching them English, giving them writing lessons, and never receiving anything but loyalty and kindness in return. If the foreign population of this country was fairly represented at Forest Home, it is neither drunken, immoral nor irreligious, but warmly responds to every helpful word and deed, and can be Americanized if Americans will but be true to themselves and these new friends.

In the loneliness of mother's absence, I began to write more than ever, though I had kept a journal since I was twelve years old. Climbing to my high perch in the old oak tree, I would

50

"Rupert Melville and His Comrades."

write down the day's proceedings, scribble sketches and verses, and I even began a novel entitled, "Rupert Melville and his Comrades: A Story of Adventure." Mary, too, kept a journal and competed for a prize in the "Children's Column" of The Prairie Farmer. I tried for the premium offered for the best poem at the County Fair, but it was won by Mrs. E. S. Kellogg, the Janesville poet. This did not, however, discourage me at all; I wrote the harder, took my essays to Mrs. Hodge, who had fine taste and was an uncommonly good writer herself, and made up my mind that "write I could and should and would."

My novel was a standing joke in the family. I worked at it "off and on," but chiefly the former. I had so many characters that Oliver said "for the life of him he didn't see how I expected to get them all decently killed off inside of a thousand pages. " Every day when my regular chores about the house were done, which took only an hour or two, I got at work and insisted on doing at least one page, from which it is plain that I had no great inspiration in my undertaking. Perhaps nobody appreciated it more than Lizzie Hawley, a bright young dressmaker from Janesville, to whom I was wont to read each chapter aloud, as fast as it was written. Sometimes, since, I have wondered if the main reason why Lizzie listened so dutifully was not that she had no choice in the matter; there was the reader, and there was the story, and the busy needlewoman could not get away.

Perhaps father's fitting us out with hunting implements during mother's absence had something to do with the writing of this story. It is more likely, however, that the irrepressible spirit of his two daughters, drove him to allowing them to hunt, for we seemed to have developed a passion in that direction stronger than ever, about those days. Especially was this true of me. I had got hold of a story book, "The Prairie Bird, " another called "Wild Western Scenes, and a third, "The Green-Mountain Boys," and secretly devoured all three without leave or license. They had produced on my imagination the same effect that they would upon a boy's. Above all things in earth or sky I wanted to be, and meant to be, a mighty hunter. The country I loved, the town I hated and would none of it. "Fort City" and all its belongings were no longer to be thought of as an adequate "sphere."