"The prairie is on fire!" So cried a horseman, as he rode by the school.
It was a calm, glimmering September day. Prairie Island rose with red and yellow and crisping leaves, like a royal tent amid a dead sea of flowers. The prairie grass was dry, though still mingled with a green undergrowth. Prairie chickens were everywhere, quails, and plover.
At midday a billowy cloud of smoke began to wall the eastern horizon, and it slowly rolled forward, driven by the current of the air.
"O-o-oh!" said one of the scholars! "Look! look! What the man said is true—the prairie is on fire!"
Jasper went to the door. The blue sky had turned to an ashy hue, and the sun was a dull red. An unnatural wind had arisen like a draft of air.
"Teacher, can we go out and look?" asked several voices.
"Yes," said Jasper, "the school may take a recess."
The pupils went to the verge of the trees, and watched the billowy columns of smoke in the distance.
The world seemed to change. The air filled with flocks of frightened birds. The sky became veiled, and the sun was as red as blood.
Since the great snow of 1830 but few buffaloes had been seen on the prairie. But a dark cloud of flesh came bounding over the prairie grass, bellowing, with low heads and erect tails. The children thought that they were cattle at first, but they were buffaloes. They rushed toward the trees of Prairie Island, turned, and looked behind. Then the leader pawed the earth, and the herd rushed on toward the north.
The fire spread in a semicircle, and seemed to create a wind which impelled it on with resistless fury.
"O-o-oh, look! look!" exclaimed another scholar. "See the horses and the cattle—droves of them! Look at the sky—see the birds!"
There were droves of cattle hurrying in every direction. The men in the fields near Prairie Island came hurrying home.
"The prairie is on fire!" said each one, not knowing what else to say.
"Will it reach us?" asked Jasper of the harvesters.
"What is to hinder it? The wind is driving it this way. It has formed a wall of fire that almost surrounds us."
"What can we do?" asked Jasper. The harvesters considered.
"We are safer here than elsewhere, let what will come," said one. "If the fire sweeps the prairie, it would overtake us before we could get to any great river, and the small creeks are dry."
The afternoon grew darker and darker. The sun went out; under the black smoke rolled a red sea whose waves grew nearer and nearer. The children began to cry and the women to pray. An old man came hobbling out to the arch of the trees.
"I foretold it," said he. "The world is on fire. The Day of Judgment has come! A time and times time, and a half."
He had been a Millerite.
"It will be here in an hour," said a harvester.
But there arose a counter-wind. The wall of fire seemed to be stayed. The smoke columns rose to the heavens like Babel towers.
Afar, families were seen fleeing on horseback toward the bed of a creek which they hoped to find flowing, but which had run dry.
"This is awful!" said Jasper. "It looks as though the heavens were in flames."
He shaded his hands and looked into the open space.
"What is that?" he asked.
A black horse came running toward the island, bounding through the grass as though impelled by spurs. As he leered, Jasper saw the form of a human being stretched at his side. Was the form an Indian?
On came the horse. He leered again, exposing to view a yellow body and a plumed head.
"It's an Indian," said Jasper.
The fire flattened and darkened for a time, and then rolled on again. Animals were fleeing everywhere, plunging and bellowing, and the air was wild and tempestuous with the cries of birds. The little animals could be seen leaping out of the prairie grass. The earth, air, and sky seemed alive with terror.
The black horse came plunging toward the island.
"How can a horse run that way and live?" asked Jasper. "He is bearing a messenger. It is friendly or hostile Indian that is clinging to his side."
Jasper bent his eyes on the plunging animal to see him leer, for whenever the sidling motion was made it brought to view the tawny horizontal form that seemed to be clinging to the bridle, as if riding for life. Suddenly there arose a cry from the islanders:
"Look! look! Who has done it? There is a counter-fire ahead. They will all perish!"
A mile or more in front of the island, and in the opposite direction from the other fire, another great billow of smoke arose spirally into the air. The people and animals who had been fleeing toward the creek, which they thought contained water, but which was dry, all turned and came running toward the island grove. Even the birds came beating back.
"That fire was set by the Indians," said the harvesters. "It is started across the track of the other fire to destroy us all. An Indian set the fires."
"That is an Indian skirting around us on the back of a horse," said another. "He is holding on to the horse by the mane with his hands, and by the flanks with his feet. The Indians have done this!"
"The other fire will run back, though against the wind. The prairie is so dry that the fire will run everywhere. We must set a counter-fire."
"Set a counter-fire!" exclaimed many voices.
The purpose of the counter-fire was to destroy the dry grass, so that when the other fires should reach the place it would find nothing to burn.
"But the people!" said Jasper. "See them! They are hurrying here; a counter-fire would drive them away!"
An awful scene followed. Horses, cattle, animals of many kinds came panting to the island. Many of them had been fleeing for miles, and sank down under the trees as if ready to perish. There was one enormous bison among them. The tops of the trees were filled with birds, cawing and uttering a chaos of cries. The air seemed to rain birds, and the earth to pour forth animals. The sky above turned to inky blackness. Men, women, and children came rushing into the trees from every direction, some crying on Heaven for mercy, some begging for water, all of them exhausted and seemingly ready to die. The island grove was like a great funeral pyre.
Jasper lifted his hands and called the school and the people around him, knelt down, and prayed for help amid the cries of distress that rose on every hand. He then looked for the black horse and the plumed rider again.
They were drawing near in the darkening air. The figure of the rider was more distinct. The people saw it, and cried, "An Indian!" Some said, "It is a scout!" and others, "It is he who set the fire!"
The wind rose and changed, caused by the heated air in the distance. The currents ran hither and thither like drafts in a room of open doors. One of these unnatural drafts caused a new terror to spread among the people and animals and birds. It drew up into the air a great column of sparks and, scattered them through the open space, and a rain of fire filled the sky and descended upon the grove.
It was a splendid but terrible sight.
"The end of all things is at hand," said the old Millerite. "The stars are beginning to fall."
But the rain of fire lost its force as it neared the earth, and it fell in cinders and ashes.
"An Indian! an Indian!" cried many voices.
The black horse came plunging into near view, and rushed for the trees and sank down with foaming sides and mouth. The people shouted. There rolled from his side the lithe and supple form of a young Indian, plumed, and dressed in yellow buckskin. What did it mean? The Indian lay on the ground like one dead. The people gathered around him, and Jasper came to him and bent over him, and parted the black hair from his face. Suddenly Jasper started back and uttered a cry.
"What is it?" asked the people.
"It is my old Indian guide—it is Waubeno. Bring him water, and we will revive him, and he will tell us what to do.—Waubeno! Waubeno!"
The Indian seemed to know that voice. He revived, and looked around him, and stared at the people.
"Give him water," said Jasper.
A boy brought a cup of water and offered it to the Indian. The latter started up, and cried:
"Away! I am here to die among you. My tongue burns, but I did not come here to drink. I came here to die. The white man killed my father, and I have come back with the avengers, and we have brought with us the Judgment Day." He stood and listened to the cries of distress.
"Hear the trees cry for help—all the birds of the prairie—but they cry for naught. My father hears them cry. The cry is sweet to his ears. He is waiting for me. We are all about to die. When the wheat-fields blaze and the stacks take fire, and the houses crackle, then we shall all die. So says Waubeno." He listened again.
"Hear the earth cry—all the animals. My father hears—his soul hears. This is the day that I have carried in my soul. My spirit is in the fire."
He listened again. The prairie roared with the hot air, the flames, and the clouds of smoke. There fell another rain of fire, and women shrieked for mercy, and children cried on their mothers' breasts.
"Hear the people cry! I have waited for that cry for a hundred moons. I have paid my vow. We have kindled the fire of the anger of the heavens—it is coming. I will die with you like the son of a warrior. The souls of the warriors are gathering to see me die. I am Waubeno."
The people pressed upon him, and glared at him.
"He set the fire!" they cried. "The Indian fiend!"
"I set the fire," he said; "I and Black Hawk's men. They have escaped. I have done my work, and I want to die."
Jasper lifted his hat, and with bared head stood forth in the view of the Indian.
"Waubeno, do you want to see me die?"
He started with a cry of pain. His eyes burned.
"My father—I did not know that you were here. Heaven pity Waubeno now!"
"Waubeno, this is cruel!"
"Cruel? This country was once called the Red Man's Paradise. Cruel? The white man made the red man drunk with fire-water, and made him sign a false treaty, and then drove him away. Cruel? Think of the women the whites shot in the river for coming back to their own corn-fields starving to gather their own corn. Cruel? Why is the Red Man's Paradise no longer ours? Cruel? The Rock River flows for us no more; the spring brings the flowers to these prairies for us no more; the bluff rises in the summer sky, but the red man may no longer sit upon it. Cruel? Think how your people murdered my father. Is it more cruel for the Indian to do these things than for the white man to do them? You have emptied the Red Man's Paradise, and Waubeno has fulfilled the vow that he made to his father. The clouds are on fire. I would have saved you had I known, but you must perish with your people. I shall die with you. I am Waubeno. I am proud to be Waubeno. I am the avenger of my race.
"But, white brother, listen. I tried to prevent it. I remembered your teaching, and I tried to prevent it by our council-fires over the Mississippi. Main-Pogue tried to prevent it. I thought of the man who saved him in the war, and I wondered who he was, and tried to prevent it for his sake.
"Then said they to me: 'We go to avenge the loss of our country, the Red Man's Paradise. The grass is feathers. We go to burn. Waubeno, remember your father's death. You are the son of Alknomook!'
"White brother, I have come. I tried to prevent it, but this hand has obeyed the voice of my people. I have kindled the fires of the woe. The world is on fire. I tried to prevent it, but it has come."
"Waubeno, do you remember Lincoln?"
"Lincoln? The Indians killed his father's father. I have often thought of that. He said that he would do right by an Indian. I have thought of that. I love that man. I would die for such a man."
"Waubeno, who saved the life of Main-Pogue?"
"I don't know, father. I would die for that man."
"Did Main-Pogue not tell you?"
"He told me 'twas a white captain saved him. Is the white captain here?"
"No. Waubeno, listen. That white captain was Lincoln."
"Lincoln? Whose father's father the red man killed? Was it he who saved Main-Pogue? Lincoln? He forced his men to do right. He did himself harm."
"Yes, he did himself harm to do right. Waubeno, do you remember your promise that you made to me? You said that you would never avenge the death of your father, if you could find one white man who would do himself harm for the sake of an Indian."
Waubeno leaped upon his feet, and his black eye swept the clouds, and the circle of fire, and the distressed people on every hand.
"Father, I can save you now. I know how. I will do it for Lincoln's sake.
"Ho! ho!" he cried. "Kill me an ox, and Waubeno will save you. Kill me six oxen, and Waubeno will save you. Give me raw hides, and do as I do, and Waubeno will save you. Ho! ho! The gods have spoken to Waubeno. A voice comes from the sky to Waubeno. It has spoken here. Ho! ho!"
He put his hand upon his heart, then rushed in among the oxen. A company of men followed him.
He slew an ox with his knife, and quickly removed the hide. The people looked upon him with horror; they thought him demented. What was he doing? What was he going to do?
He tied the great hide to his horse's neck, so that the raw side of it would drag flat upon the ground, and, turning to Jasper, he said:
"That will smother fire. Ho! ho! How?"
The fire was fast approaching some stacks of wheat on the edge of the settlement. Waubeno saw the peril, and leaped upon his horse.
"Kill more cattle. Get more hides for Waubeno," he said.
He rode away toward the stacks, guiding the horse in such a way that the raw hide swept the ground. The people watched him. He seemed to ride into the fire.
"He is riding to death!" said the people. "He is mad!"
But as he rode the fire was stayed, and a rim of black smoke rose in its stead. Near the stacks the fire stopped.
"He is the Evil One himself," said the old Millerite. "That Indian boy is no human form."
Out of the black came the horse plunging, bearing the boy, who waved his hands to the people. Then the horse plunged away, as though wild, toward the outer edge of the great sea of fire.
The horse and rider rushed into the flames, and the same strange effects followed. The running flame and white cloud changed into black smoke, and the destruction was arrested.
The people watched the boy as he rode half hidden in rolling smoke, his red plumes waving above the verge of the flaming sea. What a scene it was as he rode there, round and round, like the enchanted form of a more than human deliverer! But the effect of his movements at last ceased.
"He is coming back," said the people.
Out of the fire rushed the horse and rider toward the island grove again.
"Give me new hides!" he cried, as, singed and blackened, he swept into the trees. "The hide is dead and shriveled. Give me new hides. Ho! ho!"
New hides were provided by killing oxen. He tied two together like a carpet, with the raw side upon the earth. He attached them by a long rope to the horse's neck, and dashed forth again, crying:
"Do the same, and follow me."
The horse seemed maddened again. It flew toward the fire as if drawn by a spell, and plunged into it like a bather into the sea. Waubeno tried to deaden the fire in the whole circle. Round and round the island he rode, in the tide of the advancing flames. The people understood his method now, and the men secured new hides and attached them to horses, and followed him. He led them, crying and waving his hands. Round and round he led them, round and round, and where they rode the white smoke changed into black smoke and the fire died.
The people secured raw hides by killing the poor cattle, and came out to the verge of the fiery sea and checked the progress of the flames in places. In the midst of the excitement a roll of thunder was heard in the sky.
"'Tis the trumpet of doom," said the old Millerite.
The people heard it with terror, and yet with hope. It might be an approaching shower. If it were, they were saved.
The fire in front of them was checked. Not the great sea, but the current that was rolling toward the island grove. The fire at the north was rushing forward, but it moved backward toward the place slowly. The women began to soak blankets and clothing in water, and so prepared to help the men fight the flames. An hour passed. In the midst of the crisis the riding men, the hurrying women, the encircling fire, the billows of smoke, a flame came zigzagging down from the sky. The people stood still. Had the last day indeed come?
Then followed a crash of thunder that shook the earth. The people fell upon their knees. The sky darkened, and great drops of rain began to fall.
Waubeno had checked the current of the flame that would have destroyed the settlement in an hour, and had taught the men how to arrest an advancing tide of flame. The people began to have hope. All was now activity on the part of the people. Smoke filled the sky.
"There is a cloud above the smoke," said many. "God will save us all."
Waubeno came flying back again to the grove.
"It thunders," he cried. "The Rain-god is coming. If I can keep back the fire an hour, the Rain-god will come. Hides! hides! Quick, more hides! Ho! ho!"
New hides were provided, and he swept forth again.
The island grove was now like a vast oven. The air was stifling. The animals laid down and rolled their tongues from their mouths. But the fire in front did not advance. It seemed deadened. The river of flame forked and ran in other directions, but it was stayed in front of the grove, houses, corn-fields, and stacks, and it was the hand that had set flames that had broken its force in the road to the settlements.
There were sudden dashes of rain, and the smoke turned into blackness everywhere. Another flash of lightning smote the gloom, followed by a rattling of thunder that seemed as if the spirit of the storm was driving his chariot through the air. Then it poured as though a lake was coming down. In an hour the fire was dead. The cloud parted, the slanting sun came out, revealing a prairie as black as ink.
The people fled to the shelter of the houses and sheds at the approach of the rain. The animals crowded under the trees, and the birds hid in the boughs. After the rain-burst the people gathered together again, and each one asked:
"Where is the Indian boy?"
He was not among them.
Had he perished?
A red sunset flamed over the prairies and the birds filled the tree-tops with the gladness of song. It seemed to all as if the earth and sky had come back again.
In the glare of the sunset-fire a horse and rider were seen slowly approaching the island grove.
"It is Waubeno," said one to the other. "The horse is disabled."
The people went out to meet the Indian boy. The horse was burned and blind, and staggered as he came on. And the rider! He had drawn the flames into his vitals; he had been internally burned, and was dying.
He reeled from his blind horse, and fell before the people. Jasper laid his hand upon him.
"Father, I have drunk the cup of fire. I have kept my promise. I am about to die. The birds are happy. They are singing the death-song of Waubeno."
His flesh quivered as he lay there, and Jasper bent over him in pity.
"Waubeno, do you suffer?"
"The stars do not complain, white brother. The clouded sun does not complain. The winds complain, and the waters, and women and children. Waubeno does not complain."
A spasm shook his frame. It passed.
"White brother, go beyond the Mississippi and teach my people. You do pity them. This was once their paradise. They loved it. They struggled. Go to them with the Book of God."
"Waubeno, I will go."
"The sun sets over the Mississippi. 'Tis sunset there. You will go to the land of the sunset?"
"Yes, Waubeno. I feel in my heart the call to go. I love and pity your people."
"Pour water upon me; I am burning. I shall go when the moon comes up, when the moon comes up into the shady sky. My father suffered, but he did not complain. Waubeno does not complain. Don't pity me. Pity my poor people. I love my people. Teach my people, and cover me forever with a blanket of the earth."
He lay on the cool grass under the trees for several hours in terrible agony, and the people watched by his side.
"When the moon rises," he said, "I shall go. I shall never see the Red Man's Paradise again. Tell me when the moon rises. I am going to sleep now."
The great moon rose at last, its disk hanging like a wheel of dead gold on the verge of the horizon in the smoky air.
"Waubeno," said Jasper, "the moon is rising."
He opened his eyes, and said:
"We kindled the fire for our fathers' sake, and I smote it for him who protected Main-Pogue. What was his name, father? Say it to me."
"Lincoln."
"Yes, Lincoln. He had come for revenge, but he did what was right. He forgave. I forgive everybody. I drank the fire for Lincoln's sake."
The moon burned along the sky; the stars came out; and at midnight all was still. Waubeno lay dead under the trees, and the people with timid steps vanished hither and thither into the cabins and sheds.
They killed the poor blind horse in the morning, and laid Waubeno to rest in a blanket, in a grave under the trees.
Fifteen years have passed since the events described in the last chapter. It is the year 1860. A great political crisis is upon the country, and Abraham Lincoln has been selected to lead one great party of the people, because he had faith in the principle that right is might. The time came, as the Tunker had prophesied, when the people wanted a man of integrity for their leader—a man who had a heart that could be trusted. They elected him to the Legislature when he was almost a boy and had not decent clothes to wear. The young legislator walked over the prairies of Illinois to the Capitol to save the traveling fare. As a legislator he had faith that right is might, and was true to his convictions.
"He has a heart that we can trust," said the people, and they sent him to Congress. He was true in Washington, as in Illinois.
"He has a heart we can trust," said the people; "let us send him to the Senate."
He failed of an election, but it was because his convictions of right were in advance of the public mind at the time; but he who is defeated for a principle, triumphs. The greatest victors are those who are vanquished in the cause of truth, justice, and right; for the cause lives, and they live in the cause that must prevail.
Again the people wanted a leader—all the people who represented a great cause—and Illinois said to the people:
"Make our Lincoln your leader; he has a heart that we can trust," and Lincoln was made the heart of the people in the great cause of human rights. Lincoln, who had defended the little animals of the woods. Lincoln, who had been true to his pioneer father, when the experience had cost him years of toilsome life. Lincoln, who had pitied the slave in the New Orleans market, and whose soul had cried to Heaven for the scales of Justice. Lincoln, who had protected the old Indian amid the gibes of his comrades. Lincoln, who had studied by pine-knots, made poetry on old shovels, and read law on lonely roads. Lincoln, who had had a kindly word and pleasant story for everybody, pitied everybody, loved everybody, and forgave everybody, and yet carried a sad heart. Lincoln, who had resolved that in law and politics he would do just right.
John Hanks had brought some of the rails that the candidate for the presidency had split into the Convention of Illinois, and the rails that represented the hardships of pioneer life became the oriflamme of the leader from the prairies. He who is true to a nation is first true to his parents and home.
That was an ever-to-be-remembered day when, in August, 1860, the people of the great West with one accord arranged to visit Abraham Lincoln, the candidate for the presidency, at Springfield, Illinois. Seventy thousand strangers poured into the prairie city. They came from Indiana, Iowa, and the lakes. Thousands came from Chicago. Men came in wagons, bringing their wives and children. They brought tents, camp-kettles, and coffee-pots. Says a graphic writer who saw the scene:
"Every road leading to the city is crowded for twenty miles with vehicles. The weather is fine, and a little overwarm. Girls can dress in white, and bare their arms and necks without danger; the women can bring their children. Everything that was ever done at any other mass-meeting is done here. Locomotive-builders are making a boiler; blacksmiths are heating and hammering their irons; the iron-founders are molding their patterns; the rail-splitters are showing the people how Uncle Abe used to split rails; every other town has its wagon-load of thirty-one girls in white to represent the States; bands of music, numerous almost as those of McClellan on Arlington Heights in 1862, are playing; old men of the War of 1812, with their old wives, their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, are here: making a procession of human beings, horses, and carriages not less than ten miles in length. And yet the procession might have left the town and the people would scarcely be missed.
"There is an immense wigwam, with galleries like a theatre; but there are people enough not in the procession to fill a dozen like it. Half an hour is long enough to witness the moving panorama of men and women, horses, carriages, representatives of trades, mottoes, and burlesques, and listen to the bands."
And among those who came to see the great procession, the rail-splitters, and the sights, were the Tunker from the Indian schools over the Mississippi, and Aunt Indiana from Indiana.
There was a visitor from the East who became the hero of the great day. He is living now (1891) in Chelsea, Mass., near the Soldiers' Home, to which he often goes to sing, and is known there as "Father Locke." He was a natural minstrel, and songs of his, like "Down by the Sea," have been sung all over the world. One of his songs has moved thousands of hearts in sorrow, and pictures his own truly loving and beautiful soul:
This man, with the approval of President Lincoln, went as a minstrel to the Army of the Potomac. We think that he was the only minstrel who followed our army, like the war-singers of old. In a book published for private use, entitled Three Years in Camp and Hospital, "Father Locke" thus tells the story of his interview with President Lincoln at the White House:
"Giving his hand, and saying he recollected me, he asked what he could do for me.
"'I want no office, Mr. President. I came to ask for one, but have changed my mind since coming into this house. When it comes to turning beggar, I shall shun the places where all the other beggars go. I am going to the army to sing for the soldiers, as the poets and balladists of old sang in war. Our soldiers must take as much interest in songs and singing as did those of ancient times. I only wished to shake hands with you, and obtain a letter of recommendation to the commanding officers, that they may receive and treat me kindly.'
"'I will give you a letter with pleasure, but you do not need one; your singing will make you all right.'
"On my rising to leave, he gave his hand, saying: 'God bless you; I am glad you do not want an office. Go to the army, and cheer the men around their camp-fires with your songs, remembering that a great man said, "Let me but make the songs of a nation, and I care not who makes its laws."'"
The President then told him how to secure a pass into the lines of the army, and the man went forth to write and to sing his inspirations, like a balladist of old.
His songs were the delight of many camps of the Army of the Potomac in the first dark year of the war. They were sung in the camp, and they belonged to the inside army life, but were little known outside of the army. They are still fondly remembered by the veterans, and are sung at reunions and camp-fires.
We give one of these songs and its original music here. It has the spirit of the time and the events, and every note is a pulse-beat:
This song-writer had brought a song to the great Springfield assembly. He sang it when the people were in a receptive mood. It voiced their hearts, and its influence was electric. As he rose before the assembly on that August day under the prairie sun, and sang: "Hark! hark! a signal-gun is heard," a stillness came over the great sea of the people. The figures of the first verse filled the imagination, but the chorus was like a bugle-call:
These words seem commonplace to-day, but they were trumpet-notes then. "Our Lincoln is the man!" trembled on every tongue, and a tumultuous applause arose that shook the air. The enthusiasm grew; the minstrel had voiced the people, and they would not let him stop singing. They finally mounted him on their shoulders and carried him about in triumph, like a victor bard of old. Ever rang the chorus from the lips of the people, "Our Lincoln is the man!" "Old Abram is the man!"
Lincoln heard the song. He loved songs. One of his favorite songs was "Twenty Years ago." But this was the first time, probably, that he had heard himself sung. He was living at that time in the plain house in Springfield that has been made familiar by pictures. The song delighted him, but he, of all the thousands, was forbidden by his position to express his pleasure in the song. He would have liked to join with the multitudes in singing "Our Lincoln is the man!" had not the situation sealed his lips. But after the scene was over, and the great mass of people began to melt away, he sought the minstrel, and said:
"Come to my room, and sing to me the song privately. I want to hear you sing it."
So he listened to it in private, while it was being borne over the prairies on tens of thousands of lips. Did he then dream that the nations would one day sing the song of his achievements, that his death would be tolled by the bells of all lands, and his dirge fill the churches of Christendom with tears? It may have been that his destiny in dim outline rose before him, for the events of his life were hurrying.
Aunt Indiana was there, and she found the Tunker.
"The land o' sakes and daisies!" she said. "That we should both be here! Well, elder, I give it up! I was agin Lincoln until I heard all the people a-singin' that song; then it came over me that I was doin' just what I hadn't ought to, and I began to sing 'Old Lincoln is the man!' just as though it had been a Methody hymn written by Wesley himself."
"I am glad that you have changed your mind, and that I have lived to see my prophecy, that Lincoln would become the heart of the people, fulfilled."
"Elder, I tell you what let's we do."
"What, my good woman?"
"Let's we each get a rail, and go down before Abe's winder, and I'll sing as loud as anybody:
I'll do it, if you will. I've been all wrong from the first. Why, even the Grigsbys are goin' to vote for him, and I'm goin' to do the right thing myself. Abe always had a human heart, and it is that which is the most human that leads off in this world."
Aunt Indiana found a rail. The streets of Springfield were full of rails that the people had brought in honor of Lincoln's hard work on his father's barn in early Illinois. She also found a flag. Flags were as many as rails on this remarkable occasion. She set the flag into the top of the rail, and started for the street that led past Lincoln's door.
"Come on, elder; we'll be a procession all by ourselves."
The two arrived at the house where Lincoln lived, the Tunker in his buttonless gown, and Aunt Indiana with her corn-bonnet, printed shawl, rail, and flag. The procession of two came to a halt before the open window, and presently, framed in the open window, like a picture, the face of Abraham Lincoln appeared. That face lighted up as it fell upon Aunt Indiana.
She made a low courtesy, and lifted the rail and the flag, and broke forth in a tone that would have led a camp-meeting: