“I know _something_ inspires me with unlimited hope just now. There is, certainly, as far as the comforts and elegances of civilized life are concerned, a look of great privation in the village and among the people we have just left. And yet—and yet—whether it is because the inhabitants are mostly young and full of health and hope, or that the houses are all new, or that the primeval wealth and exuberance of nature is not only undiminished, but almost untouched; whether it is any or _all_ of these causes, I do not know, but certainly to me there is about this country an air of youth, vigor, hope, promise, unlimited, indescribable! I feel its influence, without being able to explain it. It seems to me that here, the age, the weariness, and the sorrow of the old world has been left behind. That this is a breaking out in a new place, or rather that this country and people, and we ourselves, are a new creation, fresh from the hand of God, and with a new promise! Let us be faithful to our part of the covenant. Oh, let us be faithful; let no sin, selfishness, injustice of ours cause us to lose the glorious promise!” A pressure of the hand, at once approving, kind, and warning, from Mark Sutherland, reminded Rosalie that they were not alone. A little farther on, the sprightly eyes of the girl lighted upon a large, speckled bird, standing still, almost in their road. “What a beautiful bird! What is it?” inquired Rosalie. “It’s a prairie chicken. Now, I want you just to take notice o’ that creetur; it won’t take the trouble to move—you’ll see,” said the man, driving slowly past, and leaving the bird behind them, standing still. “They must be very tame,” said Rosalie. “No, they ain’t nyther, but they’ve got a heap o’ sense. We are driving. Now, if I had o’ been afoot with a gun, or anything that looks like a gun to _it_—say a stick—why, it would a-taken wing in a minute. I’ve took notice of it often and often. Same case with a deer—it’ll stand right still and look at you going past with your team; but only just let it catch its eyes on you when you’re walking ’long o’ your gun, and it’s off in an instant. Well knowing of that, you see, I often just quietly lays my gun down in the bottom of the wagon, to be ready for the creeturs.” In desultory talk like this, which nevertheless gave our young immigrants some little insight into the manners of the country, they passed over the three miles of intervening prairie land, and entered Wolf’s Grove.