"There's but one name on every lip in this country now, Boy, and that's Old Hickory. He'd be President next time—but for one thing—just one thing—he didn't have a chance to learn when he was a boy. He's not educated."
The brother paused, and a dreamy look came into his eyes. "We may make him President anyhow. But if he'd been educated—there wouldn't be any if or and about it. Washington and Jefferson and Madison belong to the rich and powerful class. Jackson is a yeoman like your father. But he'd be President. Boy, if he'd been educated! Nothing could stop him. Don't you see this is your country? This is a poor man's world. All you have to do is to train your mind. You've got to do this—you understand—you've got to do it—"
The man paused suddenly and looked into the Boy's wondering eyes. He had forgotten the child's rebellion. The young pioneer of the wilderness was talking to himself. Again he had seen a vision.
He seized the Boy's arms:
"Don't you see, Boy, don't you?"
The child's mouth hardened again:
"No, I don't. I'm just a little boy. I love my Mamma. She's good and sweet to me and I'm not going to leave her—"
Again Polly laughed.
A smile slowly played about the brother's lips and eyes. He must show his trump card.
"But you don't know what I've got for you—"
"What?"
"Something you've always wanted to have for your own—"
"A pony?"
The man slowly rose:
"Come out to the big road—"
The Boy seized his sister's hand:
"Polly, let's see!"
The girl's eyes grew dim:
"Oh, Jeff, I know you're goin'!"
"No—we'll just see what it is—come on!"
In five minutes they emerged from the deep woods into the clearing around a cabin. Beside the roadway stood a horse and pony, both bridled and saddled.
The swift feet of the Boy flew across the opening, the sister wide-eyed and trembling, close on his heels. He threw his arms around the pony's neck and stroked his head with gentle touch. The pony pressed his mouth against the Boy's cheek in friendly response.
"Did you see him kiss me, Polly?" he cried tremblingly.
"Yes, I saw him," was the solemn response.
"Isn't he a beauty? Look, Polly—he's got a white spot on every foot and one in his forehead and black as a coal all over—and Oh—what a saddle—a red belt and red martingales!"
He touched the saddle lovingly and circled the pony's neck with his arms.
The brother smiled again:
"Well, what do you think of that?"
The Boy was trembling now from head to foot, his heart in his throat as he slowly asked:
"You mean that—you'll—give—him—to me—for—all my own?"
"If you'll be a good boy, go to school and work hard—yes."
"All right, Big Brother," was the quick answer, "I'll go. Help me on him quick, and let me try him!"
The Boy lifted his bare foot into the strong hand, sprang into the saddle, bounded down the road, wheeled, flew back and leaped to the ground.
"He's a dandy!"
Polly dropped her head and started home, making a brave fight to keep back the tears. Half way across the clearing she gave up in a long pitiful wail.
The Boy, busy with his pony, had not missed her. In a moment he was by her side, his arms about her neck.
"Don't cry, Polly honey, I'll be back before long," he pleaded.
The only answer was a sob:
"Good-by, Jeff—"
Her hands slowly slipped through his.
"Good-by, Polly—"
He watched her go with quivering lips, and as the little figure slowly faded into the shadows of the woods he called in broken accents:
"Kiss Mamma for me—and tell her I wanted to go back and say good-by—but Joe wouldn't let me!"
"Yes, honey!"
"And you—watch out for that old drunk man we saw once in the woods, Polly!"
"Yes!"
"Don't let him get you—"
"No—I won't—good—good-by!"
"Good-by—"
The last good-by stuck in the Boy's throat, but he lifted his blue eyes, saw his pony and smiled through the tears.
II
THE WILDERNESS
A journey of a thousand miles through the unbroken wilderness—the home of the Choctaw and Chickasaw Indian Nations and all on his own beautiful pony! It was no time for tears.
The Boy's soul leaped for joy.
The party was a delightful one. Major Hinds, a veteran of General Jackson's campaign, the commander of the famous Mississippi Dragoons at the battle of New Orleans, was the leader, accompanied by his wife, her sister and niece, and best of all a boy his own age, the Major's little son Howell.
Howell also was riding a pony. He was a nice enough pony, of course, as ponies went, but couldn't compare with his own. He made up his mind to race the first chance they got, and show those pretty white heels to his rival. He was just dying to tell him how fast they could beat the ground—but he'd wait and surprise the party.
A negro maid accompanied the ladies and a stalwart black man rode a pack-mule laden with tents, blankets and a cooking outfit. They stopped at houses when one could be reached at nightfall. If not, they camped in the woods beneath the towering trees. There was no need of the tents unless it rained. So dense was the foliage that only here and there a bright star peeped through, or a moonbeam shot its silvery thread to the ground. The Indians were all friendly. It was the boast of the Choctaws that no man of their breed had ever shed the blood of a white man.
For days they followed the course of the majestic river rolling its yellow flood to the sea and watched the lazy flat and keel boats drift slowly down to New Orleans bearing the wealth of