nful to think of
those days," he began. "We came from Cornwall, in the `old country,'
where your Uncle Stephen, your mother, and I were born. She had married
your father, Michael Penrose, however, and had emigrated to America,
when we were mere boys; and we were just out of our apprenticeship
(Stephen as a blacksmith and I as a carpenter) when we received a letter
from your father and mother inviting us to join them in America, and
setting forth the advantages to be obtained in the new country. We were
not long in making up our minds to accept the invitation; and in the
spring of the next year we crossed the sea, with well nigh three hundred
other emigrants,--some going out to relatives and friends, others bent
on seeking their fortunes, trusting alone to their own strong arms and
determined will for success.

"We found, on landing, that we had a journey of some hundred miles
before us; part of which could be performed in boats up the rivers, but
the greater portion was along `corduroy' roads, through dark forests,
and over mountains and plains. Our brother-in-law, a bold, determined
person, had turned backwoodsman, and, uniting himself with a party of
hardy fellows of similar tastes, had pushed on in advance of the old
settlers, far to the westward, in spite of the difficulties of obtaining
stores and provisions, and the dangers they knew they must encounter
from hostile Indians whose territories they were invading. We did not,
however, think much of these things, and liked the idea of being ahead,
as it seemed to us, of others. The forest was before us. We were to
win our way through it, and establish a home for ourselves and our
families.

"We had been travelling on for a couple of weeks or so, following the
directions your father had given us in order to find his new location,
but greatly in doubt as to whether we were going right, when we were
fortunate enough to fall in with a settler who knew him, and who was
returning with a waggon and team. He readily undertook to be our guide,
glad to have our assistance in making way through the forest. We
provided ourselves with crowbars to lift the waggon out of the ruts and
holes and up the steep ascents; for we had left the `corduroy' roads--
or, indeed, any road at all--far behind. Our new acquaintance seemed to
be somewhat out of spirits about the prospects of the new settlement;
but, notwithstanding, he had determined to chance it with the rest. The
Indian