rose the domes and steeples and general architectural confusion of a
city–a city with an imposing umbrella of black smoke spread over it.
This was St. Louis. The children of the Hawkins family were playing
about the hurricane deck, and the father and mother were sitting in the
lee of the pilot house essaying to keep order and not greatly grieved
that they were not succeeding.
“They’re worth all the trouble they are, Nancy.”
“Yes, and more, Si.”
“I believe you! You wouldn’t sell one of them at a good round figure?”
“Not for all the money in the bank, Si.”
“My own sentiments every time. It is true we are not rich–but still you
are not sorry—you haven’t any misgivings about the additions?”
“No. God will provide”
“Amen. And so you wouldn’t even part with Clay? Or Laura!”
“Not for anything in the world. I love them just the same as I love my
own: They pet me and spoil me even more than the others do, I think.
I reckon we’ll get along, Si.”
“Oh yes, it will all come out right, old mother. I wouldn’t be afraid to
adopt a thousand children if I wanted to, for there’s that Tennessee
Land, you know–enough to make an army of them rich. A whole army,
Nancy! You and I will never see the day, but these little chaps will.
Indeed they will. One of these days it will be the rich Miss Emily
Hawkins–and the wealthy Miss Laura Van Brunt Hawkins–and the Hon.
George Washington Hawkins, millionaire–and Gov. Henry Clay Hawkins,
millionaire! That is the way the world will word it! Don’t let’s ever
fret about the children, Nancy–never in the world. They’re all right.
Nancy, there’s oceans and oceans of money in that land–mark my words!”
The children had stopped playing, for the moment, and drawn near to
listen. Hawkins said:
“Washington, my boy, what will you do when you get to be one of the
richest men in the world?”
“I don’t know, father. Sometimes I think I’ll have a balloon and go up
in the air; and sometimes I think I’ll have ever so many books; and
sometimes I think I’ll have ever so many weathercocks and water-wheels;
or have a machine like that one you and Colonel Sellers bought; and
sometimes I think I’ll have–well, somehow I don’t know–somehow I ain’t
certain; maybe I’ll get a steamboat first.”
“The same old chap!–always just a little bit divided about things.–And
what will you do when you get to be one of the richest men in the world,
Clay?”
“I don’t know, sir. My mother–my other mother that’s gone away–she
always told me to work along and not be much expecting to get rich, and
then I wouldn’t be disappointed if I didn’t get rich. And so I reckon
it’s better for me to wait till I get rich, and then by that time maybe
I’ll know what I’ll want–but I don’t now, sir.”
“Careful old head!–Governor Henry Clay Hawkins!–that’s what you’ll be,
Clay, one of these days. Wise old head! weighty old head! Go on, now,
and play–all of you. It’s a prime lot, Nancy; as the Obedstown folk say
about their hogs.”
A smaller steamboat received the Hawkinses and their fortunes, and bore
them a hundred and thirty miles still higher up the Mississippi, and
landed them at a little tumble-down village on the Missouri shore in the
twilight of a mellow October day.
The next morning they harnessed up their team and for two days they
wended slowly into the interior through almost roadless and uninhabited
forest solitudes. And when for the last time they pitched their tents,
metaphorically speaking, it was at the goal of their hopes, their new
home.
By the muddy roadside stood a new log cabin, one story high–the store;
clustered in the neighborhood were ten or twelve more cabins, some new,
some old.
In the sad light of the departing day the place looked homeless enough.
Two or three coatless young men sat in front of the store on a dry-goods
box, and whittled it with their knives, kicked it with their vast boots,
and shot tobacco-juice at various marks. Several ragged negroes leaned