we got out of axle grease and the wheels went along squealing like pigs!

The older boys found a great deal of fun in jumping from the high wagon while the oxen were leisurely moving along. At last, I mustered up courage enough to join them in this sport. I was sure they stepped on the wheel, so I cautiously placed my moccasined foot upon it. Alas! before I could realize what had happened, I was under the wheels; and had it not been for the neighbor immediately behind us I might have been run over by the next team. I cried out reproaches on the white man's team, and it did not occur to me that I alone was to blame. I could not be persuaded to ride in that wagon again and was glad when we finally left it beside the Missouri River.

It

The Missouri River is one of the most treacherous rivers in the world. Even a good modern boat is not safe upon its uncertain current. We were forced to cross in buffalo-skin boats-as round as tubs! Some of these boats were towed by two or three women or men, swimming in the water. was not an easy matter to keep these boats right side. up, with their helpless freight of little children. Once my grandmother swam across a swift stream carrying me on her back because she did not wish to expose me to accident in one of the clumsy boats.

In our flight, we little folks were strapped in the saddles or held in front of an older person, and in the long night marches we suffered from loss of sleep and from lack of food. Our meals were eaten hastily, and sometimes in the saddle. Water was not always to be found. Our people carried it with them on their journeys in bags formed of the skins of animals.

One of the most thrilling experiences of the following winter was with a blizzard which overtook us in our wanderings. Here and there a family lay down in the snow, selecting a place where it was not likely to drift much. For a day and a night we lay under the snow. We had plenty of buffalo robes and the snow kept us warm. The next day the storm ceased and we discovered a large herd of buffaloes almost upon us. We dug our way out of the snow, shot some of the buffaloes, made a fire, and enjoyed a good dinner.

Our wanderings from place to place afforded us many pleasant experiences and quite as many hardships and misfortunes. There were times of plenty and times of scarcity, and we had several narrow escapes from death.

Such was the wild life of the Indians! When game was to be had and the sun shone, they easily forgot the bitter trials of the winter before. Little

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preparation was made for the future. They are children of Nature, and occasionally she whips them with the lashes of experience. Yet they are careless and forgetful.

During the summer, when Nature is at her best, it seems to me that no life is happier than theirs! Food is free lodging free-everything free! All are alike rich in summer, and, again, all are alike poor in the winter and early spring.

From "Indian Boyhood.”

-CHARLES A. EASTMAN (OHIYESA).

HARVEST SONG

THE God of harvest praise;
In loud thanksgiving raise
Hand, heart, and voice.
The valleys laugh and sing.
Forests and mountains ring,
The plains their tribute bring,
The streams rejoice.

Yes, bless His holy name,
And joyous thanks proclaim

Through all the earth.

To glory in your lot
Is comely; but be not
God's benefits forgot

Amid your mirth.

The God of harvest praise,
Hands, hearts, and voices raise,
With sweet accord.

From field to garner throng,
Bearing your sheaves along,

And in your harvest song
Bless ye the Lord.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

A SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTION

I HAVE often visited an old stone house which stands on a grassy hill not far from the village of Millwood, beyond the Blue Ridge, in the valley of Virginia. At the foot of the hill there is a spring, which bubbles up beneath some weeping willows, and on all sides are green fields and woods and blue mountains. The house is old and large. To the right of the front door is a long apartment with tall windows and a fireplace so large that it holds an entire load of wood. In this room I have often mused about former days, and thought of the old soldiers gathered there once, talking about the days of the great Revolution.

This was the place of residence of Daniel Morgan, the brave soldier. He was a native of New Jersey, but he came to Virginia when he was young, and

worked as a farm laborer, for he was poor and of humble origin. But you will see that he was a braver and truer man than many who had greater advantages in beginning life.

Morgan's early manhood was not very quiet or respectable. He was a rough young fellow, and so much given to fighting that the village near which he then lived took the name of Battletown. His home was at a place called Soldier's Rest, near by, and this old house still stands. It is an interesting old house, for George Washington used to sleep in it when he was a surveyor here.

But Morgan was too brave a man to spend his time in idle brawls. He soon showed that he was fit for better things. No sooner did the Revolution begin than he raised a company of riflemen and set out to join Washington, who was then at Boston. They were all hardy young fellows, with "Liberty or Death" written on the breasts of their hunting shirts; they marched six hundred miles, and at last reached the end of their journey. It was in the evening, and Washington, who was riding out, saw them and stopped. Morgan stepped in front of his men, and, saluting, said:

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General, we come from the right bank of the Potomac!"

At this Washington displayed great emotion. He