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“Ah, yes, yes, young man; I should have long since up stakes and rolled before this sweeping tide of new settlers, only I can’t bar to leave this tract ‘yer; no, stranger, I can’t bar to do it.”

“Doubtless,” I replied; “one feels a strong love for old homes, a lingering desire to lay one’s bones to their final resting place, near a spot and objects that life and familiarity made dear.”

“Yes, yes, stranger, that’s it, that’s it. But look down thar–thar’s what makes this spot dear to me–thar, do you see yon little hillock–yon little mound? Thar’s what keeps old Tom Ward ‘yer for life.”

The old man seemed deeply affected, and sighed heavily, as he wiped the moisture from his eyes with the back of his hand. I gazed down towards the spot he had called my attention to, and there I beheld, indeed, something resembling a solitary and lonely grave; wild flowers bloomed around it, and a flat stone stood at the head, and a small stake at the foot.

“‘Tisn’t often one comes this way to ask the question, and the Lord knows, stranger, I’m always willing to tell the sad story of that lonely grave. Well, well, it’s no use to grieve always, the red whelps have paid well for thar doins, and now, but few of ’em are spared to repent–the Lord forgive ’em all,” to which I involuntarily echoed–“Amen!”

“Well, stranger, you see, about five-and-thirty years ago, I left Western Virginia to come down ‘yer in the Ohio valley. I well remember the first glimpse I got of this stream; it war a big stream to me, and I gloried in the sight of it. Thar war but few settlements then upon its banks, and thar war none of your roarin’, splashin’ steamboats about; but I like the steamboats–thar grand creatures, and go it like high-mettled horses. Well, I war a young man then; me and my brother and our old mother joined in with a neighbor, built a family boat, put in our goods, and started off down the stream, towards the lower part thar of Kentucky.

“Captain Paul, our neighbor, war an old woodsman, though he war a young man; he had a wife and several fine, growin’ children along with us, and our journey for many days war prosperous and pleasant. Capt. Paul’s wife’s sister war along with us, a fine young creature she war too. My brother and her I always carc’lated would make a match of it when we reached our journey’s end; but poor Ben, God bless the boy, he little dreampt he’d be cut off so soon in the prime of life, and leave his bones ‘yer to rot. I war young too, then, and little thought I should ever come to be this old, withered-up creature you see me now, stranger.”

“Why, you appear to be a hearty, hale man yet,” said I, encouraging the old man to proceed in his narrative, “and no doubt shoot as well and see as keenly and far as ever?”

“Ay, ay, I can drive a centre purty well yet; but my hand begins to tremble sometimes, and I’m failing–yes, yes, I know I’m failing. But, to go on with my story: I acted as sort of pilot. Then the country were yet pretty full of Ingins, and mighty few cabins war made along the river in them times. The whites and red-skins war eternally fighting. I won’t say which war to blame; the whites killed the creatures off fast enough, and the Ingins took plenty of scalps and war cruel to the white man whenever they fastened on him.

“Our old ark or boat war well loaded down; a few loose boards served as a shelter from the sun and rain, and a few planks spiked to the sides ‘bove water, kept the swells from rollin’ in on us. Two black boys helped the captain and I to manage the boat, and an old black woman waited on the wimin folks and did the cooking.