hing as that?"

"I do," he returned lightly, "since it is a museum and memorial of Daniel
Boone and Davy Crockett,--two historical characters who were very
interesting to me in my youth,--and also gives one a very good idea of the
manner of life of our Western pioneers forty or more years ago."

He led the way as he spoke, the others following. They found that the
building consisted of one large room divided by a rope into two
apartments, a public and a private one. There was a broad fireplace such
as belonged to the dwellings of the pioneers of fifty or more years ago;
there were beds and settees made of stretched skins, and skins of wild
animals covered the floor; there were also tin dishes, candles, a stool
made of a section of a log, and such cooking apparatus as was used in the
kind of dwelling represented.

The cabin was occupied by a hunter who wore long hair and a wide-brimmed
felt hat.

He was ready to answer questions, many of which were asked by the younger
members of our party, who, as well as their elders, seemed much interested
in this representation of pioneer life in the olden times.

"Where now?" asked Mr. Dinsmore as they left the Hunter's Cabin.

"I think Master Neddie here would enjoy a look at the ostriches," remarked
Herbert, with a smiling glance at the rosy, happy face of his little
nephew, who was trudging along with his hand in that of his father.

"Oh, yes!" cried the child in a tone of eager delight. "I should like to
see them ever so much!"

"Then if no one objects, that is where we will go," said Harold, and as
the only rejoinders from the other members of the party were those of
assent, he led the way.

"Is it a very expensive entertainment?" asked Walter soberly.

"Costs all of ten cents apiece," replied Herbert. "An enormous sum, but
one cannot expect to see Old Abe, General Grant, Jim Blaine, and Grover
Cleveland for just nothing at all."

"Oh, uncle!" cried little Elsie, "are all those great men there? Oh, no,
of course they can't be--'cause some of them are dead. I know it was dear,
good Mr. Lincoln they called Old Abe, and that a wicked man shot him long,
long ago; and that General Grant was sick and died."

"That is all true," returned her uncle, "but these fellows still wear
their feathers, and are very much alive."

"Oh, I know now," laughed the little girl. "You mean the ostrich man has
named some of his birds after those famous men." They were now on the
northern