ok it off and put it on the
ground beside him, standing ready to command attention.

He was a small, dark, wiry man, barefooted and barelegged, whose black
eyes sparkled, and whose scanty hair and beard hung down over shoulders
and breast. Some pokes of leather, much scratched, hung bulging from the
rope which girded his coffee sack. From one of these he took a few
unbound leaves, the fragment of a book, spread them open, and began to
read in a chanting, prophetic key, something about the love of the Lord
and the mysteries of angels. His listeners kept their eyes on him,
giving an indulgent ear to spiritual messages that made less demand on
them than the violent earthly ones to which they were accustomed.

"It's Johnny Appleseed," a man at my side told me, as if the name
explained anything he might do.

[Illustration: "It's Johnny Appleseed," a man at my side told me]

When Johnny Appleseed finished reading the leaves he put them back in
his bag, and took his kettle to the well for water. He then brought some
meal from the cook-house and made mush in his hat.

The others, turning their minds from future mysteries, began to talk
about present danger, when he stood up from his labor to inquire:

"Is there plenty in the fort for the children to eat?"

"Plenty, Johnny, plenty," several voices assured him.

"I can go without supper if the children haven't enough."

"Eat your supper, Johnny. Major Croghan will give you more if you want
it," said a soldier.

"And we'll give you jerked Britisher, if you'll wait for it," said
another.

"Johnny never eats meat," one of the refugees put in. "He thinks it's
sinful to kill critters. All the things in the woods likes him. Once he
got into a holler log to sleep, and some squirrels warned him to move
out, they settled there first; and he done it. I don't allow he'd pick a
flea off his own hide for fear he'd break its legs so it couldn't hop
around and make a living."

The wilderness prophet sat down quietly to his meal without appearing to
notice what was said about him; and when he had eaten, carried his hat
into the cook-house, where dogs could not get at his remaining
porridge.

"Now he'll save that for his breakfast," remarked another refugee.
"There's nothing he hates like waste."

"Talking about squirrels," exclaimed the man at my side, "I believe he
has a pasture for old, broke-down horses somewhere east in the hills.
All the bates he can find he swaps young tre