The next day we came to a wide river which it was impossible to ford, but mercy, which sometimes “tempers the blast to the shorn lamb,” sent us relief in the shape of an antiquated gundalow floating on the tide.  Like Noah and family of old, we managed to embark on this ancient ark, and paddled to the further shore.

There we miraculously escaped the scalping knife and tomahawk.  While painfully making our way through the primeval forest, we were suddenly saluted by the ferocious war-whoop, and a dozen Indians barred our way, flourishing their primitive implements of warfare.  A shot from father’s double-barreled gun sent them flying to cover, our steeds rushed forward with a speed hitherto unknown, the prairie schooner rocked like a boat in a cyclone, the mother shrieked, the enfant terrible howled like a bull of Bashan, and just as the “Red devils” were closing in from the rear, the mouth of a cave loomed up in the hillside into which dashed “pegasus and mooly cow” pell-mell.

Our red admirers halted almost at the muzzle of the gun and the blades of my brothers’ axes.  Luckily the Indians had neither firearms nor bows and arrows.  They made rushes occasionally, but the shotgun wounded several, the axes intimidated, and they seemed about to settle down to a siege when, with a tremendous shouting and singing of “Tippecanoe and Tyler too,” a band of picturesquely arrayed white men came marching along the trail.  The enemy took to their heels, and we learned that our rescuers had been to a William Henry Harrison parade and barbecue, for this was the time of the famous “hard cider” campaign.

The Indians had been there too and, filling up with “fire water,” their former war-path proclivities had returned to their “empty, swept, and garnished” minds, to the extent that they yearned to decorate their belts with our scalps.

Our preservers scattered to their homes, and the would-be scalpers were seen no more, leaving the world to darkness and to us in the woods.  The woods, where Adam and Eve lived and loved, where Pan piped, and Satyrs danced, the opera house of birds; the woods, green, imparadisaical, mystic, tranquillizing—­to the poet perhaps when all is well—­but to us, they seemed haunted by spirits of evil, the yells of the demons seemed to echo and reecho; but an indefinable something seemed to sympathize with the infinite pathos of our lives, and at last sleep, “the brother of death,” folded us in his arms, and the curtain fell.

  “There is a place called Pillow-land,
    Where gales can never sweep
  Across the pebbles on the strand
    That girds the Sea of Sleep.

  ’Tis here where grief lets loose the rein,
    And age forgets to weep,
  For all are children once again,
    Who cross the Sea of Sleep.

  The gates are ope’d at daylight close,
    When weary ones may creep,
  Lulled in the arms of sweet repose,
    Across the Sea of Sleep.