Years after, the little town of Lancaster, which had grown from the humble courthouse of the Cross Roads, was in a state of excitement such as only villages are liable to experience.  It was the occasion of a school examination, and the citizens were all more or less interested.  At the appointed hour the house was full, and the classes were marshalled in due order to the front.  Four o’clock struck, and the programme was drawing to a close, when one of the dignitaries of the town entered the hall, accompanied by a tall, distinguished-looking stranger, whose presence inspired the children with a certain sense of awe.  It was at once whispered about that the great statesman, Henry Clay, was among them.  Upon presenting him to the teacher, the school rose, and chairs being provided, the exercises went on.  When the time came for making recitations, the young people exhibited marked signs of embarrassment; but one by one they acquitted themselves creditably.  At length a little blue-eyed, sunny-haired child ascended the platform and recited “The Old Oaken Bucket,” with wonderful pathos, so accurate was her enunciation, so impressive the varying cadences of her sweet voice.

“Who is she?” I inquired the great man when the storm of applause had somewhat subsided.

“We call her ‘Daisy of the Glen,’” was the reply.  “She is a prodigy for her age.  Her history is a little singular.  She was found not far from here in a wild glen, or ravine, when about three years old, and has never been able to tell who or where her parents are.  But I will relate the circumstances to you at another time.  At present the trustees are pressing in their invitation to you to say something to the children.”

Whereupon the grandest orator of his day arose and addressed a few remarks in simple language to his youthful audience.  He told them of the day, when on the highway from Virginia into the Blue Grass region, he rode into their woodland council on the rugged spot where their pretty little village now stood.  And as their forefathers had cultivated the then dense wilderness, so he admonished them to study and improve their minds in school.  Great men and noted women had already sprung into fame from their young city, and many a glorious achievement of word, of pen, and of sword, had given renown to the place whose birth he had incidentally witnessed in the long ago.

When he ceased speaking he had implanted the germ of honest ambition in the hearts of many of the little men and women whose future influence was to wield power for good or ill.  That night, seated among friends in the best room the little tavern afforded, Henry Clay learned further particulars concerning wee, winsome Daisy of the Glen, whose appearance and address had so charmed his fancy.  She was evidently a stolen child.  Her dress, when she was discovered by a hunter, was fine, and her whole appearance indicative of an easy sphere of life.  It was supposed that