The truth is, my father was an object of suspicion to the frontiersmen.  Even as a child I knew this, and resented it.  He had brought me up in solitude, and I was old for my age, learned in some things far beyond my years, and ignorant of others I should have known.  I loved the man passionately.  In the long winter evenings, when the howl of wolves and “painters” rose as the wind lulled, he taught me to read from the Bible and the “Pilgrim’s Progress.”  I can see his long, slim fingers on the page.  They seemed but ill fitted for the life he led.

The love of rhythmic language was somehow born into me, and many’s the time I have held watch in the cabin day and night while my father was away on his hunts, spelling out the verses that have since become part of my life.

As I grew older I went with him into the mountains, often on his back; and spent the nights in open camp with my little moccasins drying at the blaze.  So I learned to skin a bear, and fleece off the fat for oil with my hunting knife; and cure a deerskin and follow a trail.  At seven I even shot the long rifle, with a rest.  I learned to endure cold and hunger and fatigue and to walk in silence over the mountains, my father never saying a word for days at a spell.  And often, when he opened his mouth, it would be to recite a verse of Pope’s in a way that moved me strangely.  For a poem is not a poem unless it be well spoken.

In the hot days of summer, over against the dark forest the bright green of our little patch of Indian corn rippled in the wind.  And towards night I would often sit watching the deep blue of the mountain wall and dream of the mysteries of the land that lay beyond.  And by chance, one evening as I sat thus, my father reading in the twilight, a man stood before us.  So silently had he come up the path leading from the brook that we had not heard him.  Presently my father looked up from his book, but did not rise.  As for me, I had been staring for some time in astonishment, for he was a better-looking man than I had ever seen.  He wore a deerskin hunting shirt dyed black, but, in place of a coonskin cap with the tail hanging down, a hat.  His long rifle rested on the ground, and he held a roan horse by the bridle.

“Howdy, neighbor?” said he.

I recall a fear that my father would not fancy him.  In such cases he would give a stranger food, and leave him to himself.  My father’s whims were past understanding.  But he got up.

“Good evening,” said he.

The visitor looked a little surprised, as I had seen many do, at my father’s accent.

“Neighbor,” said he, “kin you keep me over night?”

“Come in,” said my father.

We sat down to our supper of corn and beans and venison, of all of which our guest ate sparingly.  He, too, was a silent man, and scarcely a word was spoken during the meal.  Several times he looked at me with such a kindly expression in his blue eyes, a trace of a smile around his broad mouth, that I wished he might stay with us always.  But once, when my father said something about Indians, the eyes grew hard as flint.  It was then I remarked, with a boy’s wonder, that despite his dark hair he had yellow eyebrows.