emains unchanged. What were Indians and pioneers, forts and cities
to it? Eons of time before human beings lived it flowed slowly
toward the sea, and ages after men and their works are dust, it will
roll on placidly with its eternal scheme of nature.

Upon the island still stand noble beeches, oaks, and
chestnuts--trees that long ago have covered up their bullet-scars,
but they could tell, had they the power to speak, many a wild
thrilling tale. Beautiful parks and stately mansions grace the
island; and polished equipages roll over the ground that once knew
naught save the soft tread of the deer and the moccasin.

McColloch's Rock still juts boldly out over the river as deep and
rugged as when the brave Major leaped to everlasting fame. Wetzel's
Cave, so named to this day, remains on the side of the bluff
overlooking the creek. The grapevines and wild rose-bushes still
cluster round the cavern-entrance, where, long ago, the wily savage
was wont to lie in wait for the settler, lured there by the false
turkey-call. The boys visit the cave on Saturday afternoons and play
"Injuns."

Not long since the writer spent a quiet afternoon there, listening
to the musical flow of the brook, and dreaming of those who had
lived and loved, fought and died by that stream one hundred and
twenty years ago. The city with its long blocks of buildings, its
spires and bridges, faded away, leaving the scene as it was in the
days of Fort Henry--unobscured by smoke, the river undotted by
pulling boats, and everywhere the green and verdant forest.

Nothing was wanting in that dream picture: Betty tearing along on
her pony; the pioneer plowing in the field; the stealthy approach of
the savage; Wetzel and Jonathan watching the river; the deer
browsing with the cows in the pasture, and the old fort, grim and
menacing on the bluff--all were there as natural as in those times
which tried men's souls.

And as the writer awoke to the realities of life, that his dreams
were of long ago, he was saddened by the thought that the labor of
the pioneer is ended; his faithful, heroic wife's work is done. That
beautiful country, which their sacrifices made ours, will ever be a
monument to them.

Sad, too, is the thought that the poor Indian is unmourned. He is
almost forgotten; he is in the shadow; his songs are sung; no more
will he sing to his dusky bride: his deeds are done; no more will he
boast of his all-conquering arm or of his speed like the Nort