to his own harm, because it was right. Now, Lincoln,
you have done just the act that would change his heart. But he has gone
with the winds. How will he ever hear of it? How will he ever know it?

"When Main-Pogue meets him, if he ever does again, he may tell him all.
But does Main-Pogue understand the relations that exist between you and
me, and us and that boy? O Waubeno, Waubeno, I would that you might hear
of this!"

He thought, and added: "He _will_ hear of it, somehow, in some way.
Providence makes golden keys of deeds like yours. They unlock the doors
of mystery. Let me see, what was it Waubeno said--his exact words?
_'When I find a single white man who defends an Indian to his own hurt,
because it is right, I will promise.'_ Lincoln, he said that. You are
that man. Lincoln, may God bless you, and call you into his service when
he has need of a man!"

CHAPTER XX.

MAKING LINCOLN A "SON OF MALTA."

When Jasper, some years later, again met Aunt Eastman, she had a yet
more curious story to tell about Abraham.

It was spring, and the cherry-trees were in bloom and musical with bees.
In the yard a single apple-tree was red with blooms, which made fragrant
the air.

"And here comes Johnnie Apple-seed!" said Aunt Olive. "Heaven bless ye!
I call ye Johnnie Apple-seed because ye remind me so much of that good
man. He was a good man, if he had lost his wits; and ye mean well, just
as he did. Smell the apple-blossoms! I don't know but it was _him_ that
planted that there tree."

To explain Aunt Olive's remarks, we should say that there once wandered
along the banks of the Ohio, a poor wayfaring man who had a singular
impression of duty. He felt it to be his calling in life to plant
apple-seeds. He would go to a farmer's house, ask for work, and remain
at the place a few days or weeks. After he had gone, apple-seeds would
be found sprouting about the farm. His journeys were the beginnings of
many orchards in the Middle, West, and prairie States.

"I love to smell apple-blossoms," said Aunt Olive. "It reminds me of old
New England. I can almost hear the bells ring on the old New England
hills when I smell apple-blooms. They say that Johnnie Apple-seed is
dead, and that they filled his grave with apple-blooms. I don't know as
it is so, but it ought to be. I sometimes wish that I was a poet,
because a poet fixes things as they ought to be--makes the world all
over right. But, la! Abe Linken was a poet. _Have