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The day was warm and sunny. A few industrious and enterprising pioneers were seated on a log near the Wallace Cross Roads, in what is now Garrard county, Ky. They were enjoying their noonday luncheon and discussing the object of their woodland caucus. Suddenly the sound of an advancing horse arrested their attention. Pausing and looking toward a primitive opening in the deep-tangled wildwood, they soon saw both horse and rider approaching, the latter looking about him as if a stranger to the country. He was among them in another moment, receiving their rough but hearty greetings, and manifesting genuine pleasure in his frank, youthful countenance. Though not yet attained to full manhood, the traveller’s figure was tall and graceful, and his face, by no means handsome, wore a genial glow that intensified the wonderful magnetism of his manner.

“You seem to be a stranger in these parts,” said one of the men, mopping his forehead with his red bandana.

“Yes,” answered the traveller. “I am a few days out from home across the mountains yonder. Can you direct me to Lexington?”

“Easy, easy, sir,” said the other, “It’s a good spell from this, but there’s a pretty fair road after you get out of these thickets. Sit down, sir; sit down and have a snack with us. You must be hungry, and you won’t find a tavern soon.”

Nothing loth, the young stranger addressed himself to the cold corn bread and bacon with a will, while the talk veered around to the business of the day.

“You, see, sir, we are about to build a courthouse hereabouts, and have our lawing to ourselves,” said the first speaker. “We’ve about decided to plant the corner stone at the Cross Roads a little way from this.”

“It’s a first rate location,” said another. “There’s good water all around and plenty of trees for lumber.”

“Nothing like making the right start,” added a third voice.

They continued to discuss plans for their future township, the stranger entering with courteous interest into all their projects.

“I have often tried,” said he, “to look into the future of this grand section of country. To the day when the spirit of internal improvement shall have levelled the roads and converted the hidden wealth of the soil into a glorious medium of happiness and prosperity. Then the mental stores of our hardy settlers will rapidly develop, and civilization will prune down the rugged points of character, as the implements of the husbandman break up the clods.”

Rapt visions illumined the young speaker’s features with a glow of national pride, and he saw not the looks of intelligent curiosity that passed among his companions.

Then starting up, he said, “I must really be going. I have a long ride, and the day is waning. I thank you heartily for your hospitality. I assure you it is as refreshing as it was unexpected.”

They shook hands, and the stranger mounted his horse which was quietly grazing near by. Catching up the bridle, he said: “One of these days I hope to visit your section again, and see the great results of which you are now making the small beginning. Farewell.”

“One moment,” said the man who had first greeted him; “might I ask your name, if it’s not going too far?”

“Not at all, sir, not at all. My name is Henry Clay.”

For a few minutes after the departure of the young stranger, the small knot of pioneers commented with admiring wonder upon his singularly fascinating address, and saying, “That man will make his mark in the world,” they proceeded to refresh themselves at a cool spring, and then prepared to finish the survey.

* * * * *

Years after, the little town of Lancaster, which had grown from the humble courthouse of the Cross Roads, was in a state of excitement such as only villages are liable to experience. It was the occasion of a school examination, and the citizens were all more or less interested. At the appointed hour the house was full, and the classes were marshalled in due order to the front. Four o’clock struck, and the programme was drawing to a close, when one of the dignitaries of the town entered the hall, accompanied by a tall, distinguished-looking stranger, whose presence inspired the children with a certain sense of awe. It was at once whispered about that the great statesman, Henry Clay, was among them. Upon presenting him to the teacher, the school rose, and chairs being provided, the exercises went on. When the time came for making recitations, the young people exhibited marked signs of embarrassment; but one by one they acquitted themselves creditably. At length a little blue-eyed, sunny-haired child ascended the platform and recited “The Old Oaken Bucket,” with wonderful pathos, so accurate was her enunciation, so impressive the varying cadences of her sweet voice.