Good water seemed a serious question. There were so few springs good for anything. We caught rain water in the wet season and filtered it, putting it in bottles for time of need, when after a good shaking up it answered very well. The water from the lake was fine if taken from a little distance out or farther up. The river was simply dreadful.
One of the best springs had an odd story. The children used often to congregate about it and drink their fill. I used to wonder if it tasted as good to the stag at Monan's rill as to the thirsty children. It was called Colonel Baubein's punch bowl. Half a dozen years or so before, the State ordered that the militia of Cook County should be duly organized, and officers elected. There was quite a rivalry, but Mr. John Baubein was elected over all opposition, and it was resolved to have a fine celebration. At the base of a small bluff the spring made a natural basin. This was dammed up across the outlet and a keg of brandy poured in. Six dozen lemons, four packages of loaf sugar were added, and the whole stirred with a new clean stick. Most of the town turned out, and sitting around swapped stories and drank punch until they absolutely lowered the novel punch bowl and went home in a high state of hilarity. For days after one and another stole down, happy even in getting a taste of the weaker stimulant.
It was delightful water long after that, and the two Baubein brothers were famous men in old Chicago.
Champaign squibs and songs had a new impulse just then. Even the children who could made rhymes to the glory of Tippecanoe. And then there was a sudden and well-nigh unexpected rejoicing—William Henry Harrison gained the day by a handsome majority.
Father was deeply delighted, though he did not exactly crow over his opponents.
"You'll see now," he said, "this will be the beginning of good times. Four years from now you will hardly know yourselves." No one could have imagined then his reign would be so brief.
"If there could be more money, more money," cried everybody. The canal was given up for better times, but the lake was left. And when one looked over the list of enterprising citizens and found the hides and wheat, the corn and pork and beef, the beans, salt, the furs, and the lead, there was no need of feeling really discouraged. "Rome wasn't built in a day," was a favorite saying of father's.
Mrs. Hayne and I had good long letters from Norman. Mine were written at intervals and finished at Detroit, that, like some of the other towns, had a rather romantic history. It had been French and English, it had been a great trading place in the pioneer days; it had been turned over to the United States by treaty, then given up to the English by General Hull at the same time the order had been sent for the evacuation of Fort Dearborn. It had been destroyed by fire and rebuilt on a more generous plan, and bid fair to be a fine city.
But with all these interesting matters Norman's heart did not waver, and he was looking steadily forward. One year was almost gone. He had been very busy and happy, had proved of great service to Mr. Le Moyne, and had acquired much knowledge. He could talk French quite well, and was learning to read correctly. It seemed as if most of the northern world was French. Now they were to go to Montreal and Quebec. Would I find some histories or books and read up about those famous cities and the heroes who had fought and died for them? And would I tell him all about myself? Was I growing tall? And did my hair keep its beautiful light tint, and he hoped I would care for my complexion. He had seen some such beautiful girls, some splendid Indian maidens, so lovely he did not wonder white men married them. Did Ben come often, and did I like him very much? But I must not put any one in his place.
He could write ever so much more—and there were pages and pages in the letter, but there were so many things to do, and this letter would go by private hands, with some other matters consigned to Newberry & Dole. For postage was very high and increased with additional miles.