n an easy
chair in the blaze of a fireplace which he loved and found a solace and
yet he was a lonely old man--that could not be denied. He made no
complaint in his short infrequent letters although as spring came on he
once or twice asked, "Why don't you come up? The best place for the
children is on the lawn under the maples."

In one note to me he said, "My old legs are giving out. I don't enjoy
walking any more. I don't stand the work of the garden as well as I did
last year. You'd better come up and help me put in the seed."

This confession produced in me a keen pang. He who had marched so
tirelessly under the lead of Grant and Thomas; he who had fearlessly
cruised the pine forests of Wisconsin, and joyously explored the
prairies of Iowa and Minnesota, was now uncertain of his footing.
Alarmed more than I cared to confess, I hurried up to help him, and to
tell him of the success of _The Middle Border_, which was in truth as
much his story as mine.

The air was thick with bird songs as I walked up the street, for it was
late April, and I came upon him at work in the garden, bareheaded as
usual, his white hair gleaming in the sunlight like a silver crown.

Outwardly serene, without a trace of bitterness in his voice, he spoke
of his growing weakness. "Oh, the old machine is wearing out, that's
all." Aware of his decline he accepted it as something in the natural
course of human life and was content.

Several of his comrades had dropped away during the winter and he was
aware that all of his generation were nearing their end. "There's only
one more migration left for us," he said composedly, yet with a note of
regret. Not on the strength of any particular religious creed but by
reason of a manly faith in the universe he faced death. He was a kind of
primitive warrior, who, having lived honorably, was prepared to meet
what was to come. "I've no complaint to make," he said, "I've had a long
life and on the whole a happy life. I'm ready for the bugle."

This was the faith of a pathfinder, a philosophy born of the open
spaces, courage generated by the sun and the wind. "I find it hard to
keep warm on dark days," he explained. "I guess my old heart is getting
tired," and as he spoke I thought of the strain which that brave heart
had undergone in its eighty years of action, on the battlefield, along
the river, in the logging camps, and throughout all the stern,
unceasing years of labor on the farm. His tireless energ