DEDICATION.

My readers who are familiar with the traditions preserved in this history know one woman who is beloved by rich and poor, a comforter of the afflicted, a friend of the friendless, a mother of the motherless, in prosperity without arrogance, in sorrow without complaint. To Mrs. Fidelia Gibbins, whose character suggested the Mrs. Boyle of my story, this volume is respectfully dedicated.

CHAPTER I. A RURAL PHILOSOPHER.

For a territory containing no high mountain system, Michigan has a varied geography. In contrast to the sterile hills and grand, pictured rocks of the northern peninsula, the productive farms in the southern part of the state form an area of fertility unbroken save by a few patches of sand and some irregular strips of swamp. The largest and most remarkable of these swamps passes from north to south through Ingham and Jackson counties, extending beyond the borders of Shiawassee and Lenawee.

This marshy territory is covered by a motley growth of willows, huckleberries, spruce, tamaracks and a few pines, in places so thin as to afford no inconvenience to a footman, in other places so thick as to be almost inaccessible. Horse-thieves, escaped convicts, and deserters from the army, have successively sought its seclusion; and never has the asylum betrayed the confidence of one who trusted in its hospitality.

On the western side of the swampy belt lay a farm, which, according to the census of 1870, shared, with but four others in the State, the distinction of containing one thousand acres.

The owner of this piece of property for many years was Major Ratke, an officer of the Mexican war. He was ambitious of acquiring distinction as a philosopher, both in his neighborhood and throughout the world. He was especially desirous of becoming famous as a great inventor, and to this end he had constructed a large quantity of strange machinery. In his inventions he aimed at novelty, and so well did he succeed in this respect that even his bitterest enemies never accused him of a lack of originality.

One March morning in 187—, the major was in the sitting-room of his gothic house working at an abstruse problem in mathematical philosophy, of which he was excessively fond. It was hard, however, for him to give it his undivided attention. Troubles had been gathering about his domain. A mortgage on his estate had been foreclosed, and his hired help, never famed for efficient service, now shirked duty with even more than their usual faithlessness. His widowed sister, Mrs. Grippin, a more acute and vigilant overseer than he, had from the chamber window repeatedly viewed through a telescope the delinquency of two men who were cutting wood on a back lot. Her vehement arraignment did not induce the major to take action upon the matter, till an event occurred which he considered an insult to his dignity as a master. He had sent them to the woods with an ax and an invention of his own, which he termed a "one-man saw," but which his men called, from the labor of running it, the "six-man saw."

Next to the "one-man saw" the ax was the tool most shunned about the farm. Accordingly, as soon as they thought themselves out of sight, the indignant laborers took a half-day's vacation to get some tobacco at the village of Break o'Day, which circumstance procured their immediate discharge.

The major had thought it an easy thing to supply their places. His surmise, however, was incorrect. Of the first three visitors who called at his residence after he put up the sign, "Wanted, two hired men," one was a lightning-rod man, one was a book agent, and the other a tramp, who hired out before breakfast, and after the meal declared that it was cold weather to work and that he would come around to begin when it got warmer.

Notwithstanding the foreclosure of the mortgage the major was planning sundry improvements on his place. A hill and a quagmire opposite to the house were eyesores to his vanity, and he determined to transfer the superfluous gravel of the one to the boggy surface of the other. His first step was nicely to calculate the expense of the undertaking, the only prudence of which he was capable, for expense never stood in the way of his projects. When he had finished a survey of the hill, he applied his mathematics to ascertain its cubical contents, using a confusion of geometrical and surveying terms to which Mrs. Grippin, though protesting, was obliged to listen.

But, as he proceeded in his work, he determined to originate a new method for ascertaining the dimensions of solid bodies; and his inventive instinct prevailed to such an extent that it became greater than his desire to improve his farm.

He declared that he would invent a system of mathematics which should be the basis of calculation for succeeding ages. He formed a small earthen mound to represent as nearly as possible the shape of the hill. He determined to ascertain the weight of the hill by the rule, "Similar bodies are to each other as the cubes of their like dimensions."

As he was giving the miniature mountain a final pat to impart additional depth to a depression on its side, his sister interrupted his study.

"James, there's a man coming."

"Strong hand, is he?" asked the major, drawing his finger carefully down the mound.

"Go and look for yourself," retorted Mrs. Grippin tartly. "I ain't going to wait on you and let you fool with that pile of dirt."

"He is as faithful as the day is long," said the major, going to the window. "I can tell by his gait. See how steadily he walks. He would work at a good jog chopping and keep it up all day. He would cut, let me see, a quarter of a cord an hour. Eight hours a day. That would be two cords."

"I'll bet he's the biggest shirk in four counties," commented Mrs. Grippin sarcastically. "Anybody can tell all about a man by taking him for just the opposite of what you say he is."

Two nieces of Mrs. Grippin and the major now entered from the parlor. The one in advance, Nora Warfle, was fair and vivacious, with eyes over which solemnity rarely drew a curtain thick enough to hide the merriment slumbering within.

She was ever on the alert for the ridiculous and the mirthful, and in her efforts at diversion she was not always scrupulous about wounding the feelings of others.

Her companion, Marion Ratke, who resided permanently at the farm, was a true representative of her father's family. Her height was medium, her form symmetrical, and her hair dark brown. She was somewhat handsome, though she was too intelligent to be really a beauty.

"Here comes a peddler, Manie," whispered Miss Warfle excitedly. "Let's buy something of him and beat him down on everything he sells."

The man had drawn an attention altogether out of proportion to the impressiveness of his personal appearance. A common observer would at once have decided that he had long followed the occupation of peddling. He was of ordinary size and wore ordinary clothes. Strapped together and hanging, one before his breast and one over his back, were two large satchels. They seemed to have crowded down his neck and pushed out his chin until his shoulders were rounded almost to deformity.

The first characteristic act which he performed after passing through the door was to anticipate the offer of a chair by placing himself in one by the fire, as if he had done the same thing in the same place a thousand times before.

"I suppose you've heard the news?" he said, with the air of one who holds a secret and who feels his power.

"I have heard a great many items of news this winter," answered the major.

"Yes, but the news—the late news. You ain't heard about the horse-thieves?"

"Horse-thieves?" echoed Miss Warfle. "Are they around again? Uncle James, you want to lock your barn or they'll be stealing Taylor."

"Yes," continued the man, "they've been at it again. This time they called on, what's his name?—this man that raises horses over here. Queer I can't think."

"Sparks," suggested the major. "Lyman Sparks has the best horses of any man in Jefferson township."

"No, that ain't his name," answered the man, "it's Holmes. That's it, Holmes."

"Oh," said the major. "The best horse Holmes has will not bring more than $300. Sparks has one for which he has been offered $600—Madge T., a very good blooded animal. He thinks she can outstep my Taylor. He did pass me once, but he would not if Taylor had hung to the trot."

"No wonder he breaks up," put in his sister, "the way you train him. Do you know how he does, Nora? He trains his team to run. He'll make them stand stock still still he yells 'Charge,' and if they don't jump the first thing, he thrashes them. Then the next day he'll take Taylor out to trot."

"Mrs. Grippin!" said the major, his voice sounding an octave below his usual speaking key.

"Maybe you can get this gentleman to work, Uncle James," said Miss Ratke, wishing to put an end to the unpleasant controversy.

"Well now, like enough," answered the major. "Do you want a job?"

"I've got one now," said the man, drawing a bottle from one of his satchels.

"I'm going to do humanity all the good I can, sir, all the good I can. I am agent for the Great American Panacea. This medicine is compounded of pine, hemlock, tamarack, cedar and spruce, besides sovereign roots and herbs known to the medical fraternity. It cures cuts, bruises, sprains, wounds, incisions, hurts, proud flesh—"

"What did you say your panicky is made of?" interrupted the fair-haired Miss Warfle.

"Panacea, Miss, panacea," corrected the peddler. "It cures cuts, bruises, sprains, wounds, incisions and all injuries to the flesh. It is also a sovereign remedy for asthma, bronchitis, tonsilitis, laryngitis and all throat diseases, besides being an excellent tonic for consumption, dyspepsia—"

"What is your panicky worth a bottle?" innocently asked Miss Warfle.

"Panacea, Miss, panacea," again corrected the medicine man. "Panicky is in a battle where the men get in a tight place with the rebels coming right onto 'em so they have to run, you know. Then when they get whipped and can't fight any more, they have what they call a panic, you know, or, as you might say, they get panicky. But this is a different thing altogether. Better take a bottle. Mister. It is a sovereign remedy for asthma, bronchitis, tonsilitis, laryngitis—"

"I would like a good liniment for bruises," said the major, "but it is impossible for one remedy to cure so many diseases. If it is prepared for everything, it is pretty sure to cure nothing."

"I ain't so sure about the consumption and the throat diseases," said the agent reflectively. "I thought it would be good for them on account of its healing properties, but it's sure business for bruises."

"Have you a good salve?" asked the major.

"That's just what I've got," responded the man with alacrity, "Derrick's Dough of Life." "There's Bill Higgins had a colt that got his leg cut on a scythe. Laid it right open so the hide was left in flaps. Bill says to me, 'Say, Dabney, what'll cure that cut?' and says I, 'I've got the very thing for that.' Well, he put on the Dough of Life. In two weeks the colt was capering round to beat all. He got into the corn, knocked over a fence, chased the cattle and sheep, and killed two lambs and kicked the hired man on the leg. And I don't know what the hired man would have done if it hadn't been for the panacea."

When the agent had sold a box of the salve he moved toward the back-door and said, "I guess I'll go down and try your men. Maybe some of them'll want to buy."

"You better wait till noon," said Mrs. Grippin. "Then the men won't have to stop work."

"They never mind that," said the agent. "They was always real good about stopping whenever I come around."

"Of course they'd be willing to stop and gab with him," commented Mrs. Grippin, looking after the retreating agent. "James Ratke, if you had the gumption of a man, you'd kick such loafers off the farm when they come palavering round with an excuse for your lazy hired men to stop work."

"How did he know I had so many hired men?" asked the major.

"How did he know?" repeated his sister. "Ain't he been here half a dozen times before? He comes about every six months, and a nuisance he is, too. Ain't you heard them tell about old Panicky? You're the only man in the country that don't know him."

"Oh, yes," said the major, "I do have some recollection of him; but I was away from home when he made his last two or three visits."

"In the name of mercy," exclaimed Mrs. Grippin, "if there ain't another lightning-rod man."

The young man coming up the walk might have been twenty-eight. The preceding speculation concerning his profession seemed correct, for nothing about him indicated acquaintance with farm labor. His elegant form, his dark hair and eyes and a heavy brown mustache combined with an air of easy grace to make him one of those so rarely met with whom any apparel becomes. Yet, as is usually the case with such individuals, he bestowed more care on his personal appearance than he would have bestowed had nature made such attention more necessary.

The stranger with few preliminaries made an application for work. To this proposal Ratke did not immediately reply. He gave his own name and requested the young man to do likewise.

"My name is Montcalm," said the stranger, with a smile which at once won the major's heart.

"Montcalm," exclaimed the major; "that is the name of one of my comrades in the army."

"My father held the rank of captain in the Mexican war," said Montcalm. "I am the heir to his given name, which was Traceworth."

Instantly the major was shaking him by the hand. "Is he alive? Is he well? Where does he live?" were his ejaculations.

"He died fifteen years ago," answered Montcalm, "at his home in Cortland, New York."

"He was a noble fellow," said the major, "and his sword was one of the best in the brigade. General Taylor, in his official report, made special mention of him for bravery in the battle of Resaca de la Palma. I was by his side during the engagement, and I, like the rest of the men, noticed his impetuosity, though I had little time to watch my comrades. It always seemed as if he ought to have been promoted, but justice is not in every case meted out in this world. Did you ever hear him speak of me?"

"I have heard him mention his comrades in the army, but I have forgotten their names," answered Montcalm. "I was young when he died."

"We first got acquainted in the Black-Hawk war," said the old man. "He was generally good-natured, but he had a terrible temper and was very set in his way. I have suspected that that was one thing which kept him from rising in the service. One night on Wisconsin River, after we had been chasing Black-Hawk all day, the mosquitos were very thick. Some of the boys rolled and tumbled and some swore. As I was exposing first one part of my face and then another, to see if there was not some place the pests had less relish for, I heard a threshing so regular that I knew whoever was making it meant to push hostilities to the last, and when I looked, I saw Trace sitting up and striking as deliberately as he would plan a compaign. But it was a wicked vindictiveness, and when the lieutenant laughed at him, he wanted to fight.

"His set ways came near getting him into trouble once. It was at the last battle in the Wisconsin territory. The Indians had been beaten and were swimming across a slough, bucks, pappooses and squaws all splashing around together. We had orders to fire on them from the bank.

"Trace told me he thought it was a hard sight, and he would fire, but he would take care the bullets did not hit anybody. Most of the Indians were shot down before they got across. One old buck turned back to help a squaw, probably his own, to get her pappoose to shore. Trace and I wanted to have that old fellow get clear; but I while we were congratulating ourselves that he stood a little chance, Ben Rogers, right close by, drew a careful bead on him. Now, Ben was the best shot in the regiment, and my heart went down in my boot-heels, but Trace jostled him just as he fired. Well, Ben was mad. He threatened to report, and if he had. Trace might have got court-martialed, but he never did. Trace's jostling did no good, however. The old buck fell, going over the bluff on the other side. How long before dinner, Maria?"

"About three-quarters of an hour," answered Mrs. Grippin with unaccustomed good-nature. "I'll ring the bell when it's time, and I ought to have a load of wood, James."

"All right," responded the major. "Show Trace his room. I must call you Trace on your father's account, for it is a luxury to address his son as I did him. We will make no bargain till after dinner."

After bringing in the wood, Ratke waited a few minutes for Montcalm's appearance. At the end of that period Montcalm came from the bedroom, wearing a suit of plain clothes and a pair of stoga boots. Even this dress did not give him the air of a farmer, which he had evidently sought to assume. His hands, soft and white, indicated that he was unacquainted with muscular toil; and his whole aspect and demeanor, in ways not easily described, pointed to the same conclusion. There was in his address something which was peculiarly winning, and which would have fascinated Ratke without the assistance of the veteran's friendship for his old comrade.

"Why, you have made a farmer of yourself," said the major. "No, you have only tried to. Well, suppose we look around a little before dinner. Go to work now? No, sir, not a stroke do you do till one o'clock;" and, leading the way, the master of the domain passed out to a survey of the farm; but Mrs. Grippin called him back to take from her table the pile of dirt intended as the basis of his mathematical calculations.

CHAPTER II. THE NEW JERUSALEM.

Montcalm observed that part of the estate which was open to his view. The white wrap of winter was nearly worn out, but here and there islands and peninsulas of snow glimmered in isolated stations from the somberer areas of lately uncovered earth, or stretched away in varying and grotesquely formed curves to join the more protected strips along the fences. The cultivated land on that side of the road was enclosed in semicircular shape, and a strip of timber extended from the swamp to a point northwest of the house, as if starting out to cut the improvements in twain, and afterward repenting of its design. At the western end it terminated in a patch of shrubs over which could be seen the tops of the statelier trees beyond. To the east the hardwood timber, mostly of oak, skirted, till it nearly reached the road, along the marsh which bordered the great swamp. The only signs of vegetable life which were visible to Montcalm were in the spruce and pine, which could be distinguished from the tamaracks by their evergreen branches.

With the major discoursing volubly as they went along, the two men passed to the barns. These were three in number. The largest, ornamented on the top with three cupolas and a prancing horse, was the center from the extremities of which branched the others, nearly forming a yard, which was completed by a connecting fence.

A discourse, which his biographer has not taken the trouble to find, was given by the major on the character and phrenology of each beast: on the horse which would threaten but never kick, on the one which would kick but never threaten, on the cow which would jump from good to poor pasture for the mere satisfaction of being unruly, and on several others which would jump from poor to good pasture for obvious reasons.