together of an evening, and also those adventures of her own
knight, my good father, in the war with the British. My love of
arms and of a just quarrel began then.

After the war came hard times. My father had not prospered
handsomely, when, near the end of the summer of 1803, he sold his
farm, and we all started West, over rough trails and roadways.
There were seven of us, bound for the valley of the St.
Lawrence--my father and mother, my two sisters, my grandmother,
D'ri, the hired man, and myself, then a sturdy boy of ten. We had
an ox-team and -cart that carried our provision, the sacred feather
beds of my mother, and some few other things.

[Illustration: D'Ri and I.]

We drove with us the first flock of sheep that ever went West.
There were forty of them, and they filled our days with trouble.
But for our faithful dog Rover, I fear we should have lost heart
and left them to the wild wolves. The cart had a low cover of
canvas, and my mother and grandmother sat on the feather beds, and
rode with small comfort even where the roads were level. My father
let me carry my little pet rooster in a basket that hung from the
cart-axle when not in my keeping. The rooster had a harder time
than any of us, I fancy, for the days were hot and the roads rough.
He was always panting, with open mouth and thoughtful eye, when I
lifted the cover. But every day he gave us an example of
cheerfulness not wholly without effect. He crowed triumphantly,
betimes, in the hot basket, even when he was being tumbled about on
the swamp ways. Nights I always found a perch for him on the limb
of a near tree, above the reach of predatory creatures. Every