* * * * *
It was evening, five days later, when they arrived at their new
home. All about the hills, and the woods, above the winding river,
and along the edge of the distant forest, brooded that purple
smokiness that haunts the late days of August--the smokiness that
was born of distant fires, where the Indians and pioneers were
"clearing" their lands. The air was like amethyst, the setting sun
a fire opal. As on the day when she first had come into his life,
George helped her to alight from the carriage, and they stood a
moment, hand in hand, and looked over the ample acres that composed
their estate. The young Indian had worked hard to have most of the
land cleared, leaving here and there vast stretches of walnut
groves, and long lines of majestic elms, groups of sturdy oaks, and
occasionally a single regal pine tree. Many a time in later years
his utilitarian friends would say, "Chief, these trees you are
preserving so jealously are eating up a great deal of your land.
Why not cut away and grow wheat?" But he would always resent the
suggestion, saying that his wheat lands lay back from the river.
They were for his body, doubtless, but here, by the river, the
trees must be--they were for his soul.
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