ed he made his way along the forest
trails, where wild animals and probably wild Indians were lurking. The
next morning he had returned and with him was the needed help.

He loved everything that lived. He harmed no animal, and if he found
any that were wounded or mis-treated, he would care for them as best he
could. Once when a snake had bitten him, he instinctively killed it. He
never quite forgave himself for this "ungodly passion."

He, as has already been stated, was deeply religious. He was a disciple
of Emanuel Swedenborg, and he always carried some religious books about
with him, in the bosom of his shirt. These books he would give away.
Often he would divide a book into several pieces, so it would go
farther. When he visited the pioneers, he would always hold worship and
discuss religious subjects with them.

But Johnny was getting old. The first trees he planted had for years
been bearing fruit. Still he kept planting and caring for new
nurseries. Once in Ft. Wayne he heard that some cattle had broken into
one of them and were destroying his trees. The distance was twenty
miles. He started at once to protect his property. It was in the early
spring of 1845. The weather was raw and the trip was too much for him.
He sought shelter at a pioneer home, partook of a bowl of bread and
milk for his supper, and before retiring for the night as usual held
worship.

The family never forgot that evening. How the simple-minded old man
read from the Book, "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see
God." Then he prayed and as he spoke with God, he grew eloquent. His
words made a deep impression on all who heard him.

In the morning he was found to have a high fever. Pneumonia had
developed during the night. A physician was called, but the age of the
man and the exposure to which he had subjected himself for so many
years were against him. With the sunshine of joy and satisfaction upon
his countenance as though his dying eyes were already looking into the
new Jerusalem, "God's finger touched him and he slept."

* * * * * *

So he kept traveling, far and wide,
'Till his old limbs failed him and he died.
He said, at last: "'Tis a comfort to feel
I've done some good in the world, though not a great deal."

Weary travelers journeying West,
In the shade of his trees find pleasant rest,
And often they start with glad surprise
At