Our supper being over, Blott brought his story of the Black Hawk war to an end, and the horses being ready, we mounted without loss of time, and hurried forward on our journey.
Mr. and Mrs. Blake were greatly surprised at my coming, as you may imagine, but their pleasure was only the more on that account, they said. This I could not help but believe, for both of them did all they could to make me feel I was welcome and at home. Blott did not stop, but hurried away; and as it was late, Mrs. Blake shortly after showed me to the room her son had occupied, saying it was mine now and always would be. Bidding her good night, I threw myself on the bed, and when at last I fell asleep, it was to dream of Standing Bear and Red Rose, which latter appeared sometimes as an Indian maiden, but more often as my own true love, Constance.
[*] It has been calculated by those curious in such matters that the consideration the Indians received under the treaty referred to by Blott--if the amount agreed upon had really been paid, which it was not--amounted to less than one cent for each two hundred and twenty-five acres of land relinquished. In this connection it is a curious thing and pathetic even in Indian annals, that in the case of the great chief Black Hawk persecution should not have ended even with his life. For shortly after his death in 1838--at the age of seventy-one years--his grave was opened by a vandal white and the body stolen, and with it his medals, sword, jewelry, and other decorations. Black Hawk's sons, discovering the crime, recovered the body and had it reinterred, but only to have the grave again opened, and the body stolen a second time. Thus the great man, harassed throughout life, failed to find a resting-place even in death, his body being moved hither and thither, his bones at last finding a place of lodgment--to be stared at by the gaping crowd--in the Burlington (Iowa) Geographical and Historical Society; and only, in the end, to find rest in oblivion through the fortunate happening of a great fire in 1855---THE AUTHOR.
When I awoke the next morning the yellow sunlight streamed into my window, as if to be first to make known the presence of a friend. Looking out, the blue sky, contemplative and mild, smiled upon me, and as if some other presence dwelt there of like serenity, but which no vicissitude of season or tempest could overcast. This welcome that the heavens hold out to country people is not imaginary, but real and sensible to the eye and heart, and its comfort and companionship make solitude sweet to them, oftentimes to the exclusion of other and more practical company. To all such it does not lessen the fellowship of the clouds that they are but storehouses of wind and rain. Their movement and change of shape make them attractive and companionable, though their forms take flight while we look. So at night, the moon and stars tell a story of their own, each having its office of friendship. However far off, their brightness and steadfast ways are not mere reflections of some distant object, but present companions, looking down in serenity, brightening when we smile and steadfast when we grieve, awaiting us always in their places, like friends to be found when needed. To city people, who see such things but imperfectly from the angles of buildings and deep-set streets, they lack these romantic attributes, but to him who dwells in the solitude of the country they are as I say.