d become pot-bound. Fear and inertia had him by the foot. He was
too old to try to do anything but care for sheep, he pleaded.

And persistently, as she knitted furiously, the mother would repeat, "We
are all going to America!"

Little Jamie was eleven years old. He was a swart and sandy little Scot,
with freckles, a full-moon face and a head of tousled hair that defied
the comb.

"We are all going to America," echoed Jamie--"we are going to America to
make our fortunes."

John, Andrew and Jane had sent back real money--they must have earned
it. All the debts were cleaned up, and the things they had borrowed were
returned. The mother took charge and sold all the little surplus
belongings, and the day came when they locked the door of the old stone
cottage and took the key to the landlord in his big house and left it.

They rode away in a kind neighbor's cart, bound for the sea-coast.
Everybody cried but Jamie. It was glorious to go away--such wonderful
things could be seen all along the route.

They took passage in a sailing-ship crowded with emigrants. It was a
stormy trip. Everybody was sick. Several died, and there were burials at
sea, when the plank was tilted and the body slid into the yeasty deep.

Jamie got into trouble once by asking how the dead man could ever be
found when it came Judgment-Day. And also the captain got after him with
a rope's end because he scrambled upon the quarter-deck when the mate
went aft. The disposition to take charge was even then germinating; and
he asked more questions than ten men could answer.

Once when the hatches were battened down, and the angry waves washed
the deck, and the elder Oliver prophesied that all were soon going to
Davy Jones' locker, Jamie reported that the sailors on deck were
swearing, and all took courage.

The storm blew over, as storms usually do, and the friendly shores of
America came in sight.

There were prayer-meetings on deck, and songs of thanksgiving were sung
as the ship tacked slowly up the Narrows.

Some of our ancestors landed at Jamestown, some at Plymouth Rock, and
some at Castle Garden. If the last named had less to boast of in way of
ancestry, they had fewer follies to explain away than either of the
others. They may have fallen on their knees, but they did not fall on
the aborigines. They were for the most part friendly, kind and full of
the right spirit--the spirit of helpfulness.

At Castle Garden, one man gave Jamie an orange