route
that were to be occupied by them before too many free-State men should
come in. An election of some sort, the newcomers could not exactly
make out what, was to take place in a day or two, and the Missourians
whom they had seen flocking into Parkville were ready to vote as soon
as they got into the Territory.

Breakfast over, the boys sauntered around through the camps, viewing
the novel sights with vast amusement. It was like a militia muster at
home, except that the only soldier element they saw was the band of
rough-looking and rough-talking men who were bound to vote and fight
for slavery. They swaggered about with big pistols girt at their hips
and rifles over their shoulders, full-bearded and swarthy, each one a
captain apparently, all without much organization, but very serious in
their intention to vote and to fight. It really seemed as if they had
reached the fighting-ground at last.

"See here, daddy," said Oscar, as he came in from the camps when the
Dixon caravan was ready to move; "see what I found in this newspaper.
It is a piece of poetry, and a mighty fine piece, too"; and the boy
began to read some lines beginning thus,--

"We cross the prairie as of old
The pilgrims crossed the sea,
To make the West, as they the East,
The homestead of the free!"

"Oh, well; I can't bother about poetry, now," said the father,
hastily. "I have some prose work on hand, just about this time. I'm
trying to drive these pesky cattle, and I don't make a very good fist
at it. Your Uncle Aleck has gone on ahead, and left me to manage the
team; but it's new business to me."

"John G. Whittier is the name at the top of these verses. I've heard
of him. He's a regular-built poet,--lives somewhere down East."

"I can't help that, sonny; get on the other side of those steers, and
see if you can't gee them around. Dear, dear, they're dreadful
obstinate creatures!"

That night, however, when they were comfortably and safely camped in
Quindaro, amid the live-oaks and the tall sycamores that embowered the
pretty little town, Oscar again brought the newspaper to his father,
and, with kindling eyes, said,--

"Read it out, daddy; read the piece. Why, it was written just for us,
I do declare. It is called 'The Kansas Emigrants.' We are Kansas
Emigrants, aren't we?"

The father smiled kindly as he looked at the flushed face and bright
eyes of his boy, an