TALES AND SKETCHES.

THE SQUATTER.

CHAPTER I.

A goodly fellow by his looks, though worn,
As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure,
Which tear life out of us before our time-
I scarce know which most quickly; but he seems
To have seen better days, as who has not
That has seen yesterday?-

WERNER.

THERE is nothing more true than the saying of Horace, that it is sweet to remember those things which it was hard to suffer. In youth we listen to the promises of hope, and look forward to the future with confidence for their fulfilment. But as years roll by, the sanguineness of our character becomes diminished; disappointment after disappointment occurs to cloud the prospect; and we turn more frequently, and with more fondness, to the contemplation of the past, in proportion as the field is lessened whereon fancy was wont to build her delusive fabrics. For my own part, in my early years I possessed a wild and wayward spirit, that thirsted for adventure and renown; and by some path or other I was determined to ascend the

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height of fame. It would be vain to recount the va rious exploits by which I successively sought to accomplish my object: suffice it to say, that in all I was disappointed; and that now, at the age of nearly sixty years, occupied as the teacher of some eighteen or twenty boys, in an obscure village, beyond which I am scarcely known, I can look back over the toils and perils of an active life, with a degree of tranquil pleasure that the anticipation of my proudest scheme never afforded. Indeed, oftentimes of an afternoon, lulled by the drowsy murmurs of my little school, I become entirely unconscious of the realities around me, and live over some long passed period, amidst scenes and companions that the talismanic power of memory can alone restore. Among the associates of former days, thus brought before me, I often think of one with whom I was acquainted in some trying scenes, both of adversity and prosperity; and several curious incidents in the life of whom, if the reader can spare time to peruse the garrulous effusions of an old man, he will find related in the following story.

On the edge of one of the finest and most fertile prairies in Illinois, and in the midst of a grove of stately locust trees, the foliage of which, in the summer season, almost hid it from the sight, there stood a few years ago, (and it stands there still, no doubt, unless the prairie-fires have reached it, and consumed its perishable walls) a little log-cabin, so humble and lowly in its outward appearance, that it scarcely won a momentary glance from the travellers who chanced to pass that way. It was situated on a gentle acclivity, just under the brow of the forest, the lofty and leafy branches of which, as soon as the sun attained the meridian, cast over it a deep and agreeable shade. Behind the cottage, at the distance of about a hundred yards, a rivulet meandered in many curious windings through the level bottom-land of the woods, deno

minated not unaptly, from the glittering translucence of its current, Silver Stream. Unlike most of the brooks and rivers of that savanna country, which are usually stagnant during the warmest months of the year, the limpid tide of this one continued to gurgle on its course through every season alike, thus giving to the prospect in the sultry afternoons of summer a delightful richness, and gratifying the ear with its melodious flow.

In front of the cottage, an immense prairie extended itself as far as the eye could reach, its surface smooth and unbroken as the bosom of some inland sea. Not a tree or shrub was seen to break the green monotony of its appearance; but as the seasons varied, an innumerable succession of flowers, of every hue and every combination of hues, sprang up, and bloomed, and withered, amid that vast and beautiful solitude, as if nature had scattered them there in wanton prodigality,

"To waste their sweetness on the desert air,"

without there being any salutary object in their creation. Philosophy, however, has, with tardy step, at last discovered the correctness of the humble Christian's belief, that nothing is made in vain; and that these very flowers, which smile away their brief existence in unconscious loveliness, unseen by the eye of man, are wisely intended to counteract or diminish, by their odorous breath, the latent causes of the dreadful epidemics, which sometimes spread disease and death through that luxuriant region.

The cabin itself was rudely constructed of unhewn logs, the interstices between which were filled with small blocks of wood and mortar. The roof was of rough oaken shingles, and instead of being secured with nails, long logs placed upon it, at regular intervals, and lengthwise of the building, served to keep them in

their places. The house had but one door and window, the latter furnished (an uncommon thing in that wilderness country) with panes of glass. A small enclosure in front of the humble edifice was cultivated as a flower-garden; and the neatness with which it was kept, and the taste displayed in the arrangement of the beds, and in disposing to the best advantage the few varieties of flowers and shrubs it contained, evinced that it was the work of woman's delicate hand. There were no out-houses, nor was there need for any; for the dweller in that secluded and lowly abode had neither horses, nor oxen, nor lands, nor earthly riches of any kind-unless indeed we may class under that head a wife and two fine and promising boys. If these be treasures, he was indeed rich; for never was husband blessed with a more lovely, or more loving wife; and never did the midnight prayer of a father ascend to heaven in behalf of more filial offspring. But besides these he had nothing-absolutely nothing. He was what is denominated in the language of the territory in which he resided, a Squatter; or, in other words, one who, without permission, resided on and cultivated lands belonging to the United States.

The Squatter was a tall, well formed man, apparently about thirty-two or three years of age. His countenance indicated manliness and intelligence; and though a shade of sadness and care dwelt almost always upon it, there were times when his dark blue eyes became lighted up with uncommon vivacity. His conversation and manners were said by those who had had an opportunity of observing them, to belong to a rank in society much superior to that which he now occupied; but the number of such as were qualified to come to this conclusion was but small, as he studiously shunned society, and was seldom to be met with beyond the limits of the retired plantation which he cultivated.