poor sinner, but he done his best' Save for the fact
that I am an excellent sinner, in a literary sense, the words may stand
for all the apology I have to make.

The characters were mostly men and women I have known and who left
with me a love of my kind that even a wide experience with knavery and
misfortune has never dissipated. For my knowledge of Mr Greeley I
am chiefly indebted to David P. Rhoades, his publisher, to Philip
Fitzpatrick, his pressman, to the files of the Tribune and to many
books.

IRVING BACHELLER New York City, 7 April 1900

BOOK ONE

Chapter I

Of all the people that ever went west that expedition was the most
remarkable.

A small boy in a big basket on the back of a jolly old man, who carried
a cane in one hand, a rifle in the other; a black dog serving as scout,
skirmisher and rear guard--that was the size of it. They were the
survivors of a ruined home in the north of Vermont, and were travelling
far into the valley of the St Lawrence, but with no particular
destination.

Midsummer had passed them in their journey; their clothes were covered
with dust; their faces browning in the hot sun. It was a very small boy
that sat inside the basket and clung to the rim, his tow head shaking as
the old man walked. He saw wonderful things, day after day, looking down
at the green fields or peering into the gloomy reaches of the wood; and
he talked about them.

'Uncle Eb--is that where the swifts are?' he would ask often; and the
old man would answer, 'No; they ain't real sassy this time o' year. They
lay 'round in the deep dingles every day.'

Then the small voice would sing idly or prattle with an imaginary being
that had a habit of peeking over the edge of the basket or would shout a
greeting to some bird or butterfly and ask finally: 'Tired, Uncle Eb?'

Sometimes the old gentleman would say 'not very', and keep on, looking
thoughtfully at the ground. Then, again, he would stop and mop his bald
head with a big red handkerchief and say, a little tremor of irritation
in his voice: 'Tired! who wouldn't be tired with a big elephant like you
on his back all day? I'd be 'shamed o' myself t' set there an' let an
old man carry me from Dan to Beersheba. Git out now an' shake yer legs.'

I was the small boy and I remember it was always a great relief to get
out of the basket, and having run ahead, to lie in the grass among the
wild flowers, and jump up at him as he came along.

Uncle E