ng his case up to the Supreme
Court, backed by the slush fund of the brewers' union. The Associated
Press would give the incident a two-inch heading and a one-inch story;
and the snail would stay on the thorn, and the lark keep on the wing.

Even in that time Springvale would not have tolerated the Indian among
us had it not been that the minds of the people were fermenting with
other things. We were on the notorious old border between free and slave
lands, whose tragedies rival the tales of the Scottish border. Kansas
had been a storm centre since the day it became a Territory, and the
overwhelming theme was negro slavery. Every man was marked as "pro" or
"anti." There was no neutral ground. Springvale was by majority a
Free-State town. A certain element with us, however, backed up by the
Fingal's Creek settlement, declared openly and vindictively for slavery.
It was from this class that we had most to fear. While the best of our
people were giving their life-blood to save a nation, these men connived
with border raiders who would not hesitate to take the life and property
of every Free-State citizen. When our soldiers marched away to fields of
battle, they knew they were leaving an enemy behind them, and no man's
home was safe. Small public heed was paid then to the outbreak of a
drunken Indian boy who had been overcome in a scrap out on the prairie
when the youngsters were hunting their cows.

Where the bushes grow over the edge of the bluff at the steep bend in
Cliff Street, a point of rock projects beyond the rough side. By a rude
sort of stone steps beside this point we could clamber down many feet to
the bush-grown ledge below. This point had been a meeting-place and
playground for Marjie and myself all those years. We named it
"Rockport" after the old Massachusetts town. Marjie could hear my call
from the bushes and come up to the half-way place between our two homes.
The stratum of rock below this point was full of cunning little crevices
and deep hiding-places. One of these, known only to Marjie and myself,
we called our post-office, and many a little note, scrawled in childish
hand, but always directed to "Rockport" like a real address on the
outside fold, we left for each other to find. Sometimes it was a
message, sometimes it was only a joke, and sometimes it was just a line
of childish love-making. We always put our valentines in this private
house of Uncle Sam's postal service. Maybe that was why the othe