seemed to be strangely familiar with English tones, sounds, and
words.

Jasper loved to look out from his cabin on the blue lake, and to dream
of the old scenes of the Prussian war, of Koerner, Von Weber, of
Pestalozzi, and his friend Froebel, and contrast them with the rude new
life around him. The past was there, but the future was here, and here
was his work for the future. It is not what a man has that makes him
happy, but what he is; not his present state, but the horizon of the
future around him that imparts glow to life, and Jasper was at peace
with himself in the sense of doing his duty. Heaven to him was bright
with the smile of God, and he longed no more for the rose-gardens of
Marienthal or the castles of the Rhine.

The appearance of the white Indian filled the mind of Waubeno with pride
and hope.

"We will be happy now," he said. "You will be happy now; nothing happens
to them who see the white Indian; all goes well. I know that you are
good within, else he would not come; only they whose beings within are
good see the white Indian, and he brings bright suns and moons and
calumets of peace, and so the days go on forever. I now know that you
speak true. And Waubeno has seen him; he will do well; he has seen the
white crow among the black crows, and he will do well. Happy moons await
Waubeno."

The lake was glorious in these midsummer days. The prairie roses hung
from the old trees in the groves, and the air rang with the joyful notes
of the lark and plover. Indians came to the fort and went away.
Pottawattomies encamped near the place and visited the agency, and white
traders occasionally appeared here from Malden and Fort Wayne.

But these were uneventful days of Fort Dearborn. The stories of Mrs.
John Kinzie are among the most interesting memories of these days of
general silence and monotony. The old Kinzie house was situated where is
now the junction of Pine and North Water Streets. The grounds sloped
toward the banks of the river. It had a broad piazza looking south, and
before it lay a green lawn shaded by Lombardy poplars and a cottonwood
tree. Across the river rose Fort Dearborn, amid groves of locust trees,
the national flag blooming, as it were, above it.

The cottonwood tree in the yard was planted by John Kinzie, and lived
until Chicago became a great city, in Long John Wentworth's day.

The old residents of Chicago will ever recall the beauty of the outlook
from the south piazza. At the