I had got so far when I heard a noise of footsteps within, and Mr. Easton himself came out, in his shirt-sleeves.

“By cricky, Davy,” said he, “I’m right glad ter see ye ag’in.  Readin’ the General’s bill, are ye?  Tarnation, I reckon Washington and all his European fellers east of the mountains won’t be able ter hold us back this time.  I reckon we’ll gallop over Louisiany in the face of all the Spaniards ever created.  I’ve got some new whiskey I ’low will sink tallow.  Come in, Davy.”

As he took me by the arm, a laughter and shouting came from the back room.

“It’s some of them Frenchy fellers come over from Knob Licks.  They’re in it,” and he pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the proclamation, “and thar’s one young American among ’em who’s a t’arer.  Come in.”

I drank a glass of Mr. Easton’s whiskey, and asked about the General.

“He stays over thar to Clarksville pretty much,” said Mr. Easton.  “Thar ain’t quite so much walkin’ araound ter do,” he added significantly.

I made my way down to the water-side, where Jake Landrasse sat alone on the gunwale of a Kentucky boat, smoking a clay pipe as he fished.  I had to exercise persuasion to induce Jake to paddle me across, which he finally agreed to do on the score of old friendship, and he declared that the only reason he was not at the barbecue was because he was waiting to take a few gentlemen to see General Clark.  I agreed to pay the damages if he were late in returning for these gentlemen, and soon he was shooting me with pulsing strokes across the lake-like expanse towards the landing at Fort Finney.  Louisville and the fort were just above the head of the Falls, and the little town of Clarksville, which Clark had founded, at the foot of them.  I landed, took the road that led parallel with the river through the tender green of the woods, and as I walked the mighty song which the Falls had sung for ages to the Wilderness rose higher and higher, and the faint spray seemed to be wafted through the forest and to hang in the air like the odor of a summer rain.

It was May-day.  The sweet, caressing note of the thrush mingled with the music of the water, the dogwood and the wild plum were in festal array; but my heart was heavy with thinking of a great man who had cheapened himself.  At length I came out upon a clearing where fifteen log houses marked the grant of the Federal government to Clark’s regiment.  Perched on a tree-dotted knoll above the last spasm of the waters in their two-mile race for peace, was a two-storied log house with a little, square porch in front of the door.  As I rounded the corner of the house and came in sight of the porch I halted—­by no will of my own—­at the sight of a figure sunken in a wooden chair.  It was that of my old Colonel.  His hands were folded in front of him, his eyes were fixed but dimly on the forests of the Kentucky shore across the water; his hair, uncared for, fell on the shoulders of his faded blue coat, and the stained buff waistcoat was unbuttoned.  For he still wore unconsciously the colors of the army of the American Republic.