home in which James A. Garfield was born, on the 19th day of November, 1831, and from which he went forth to his first day at school, as already described.

Abram Garfield was a tall, heavy, handsome man, capable of great endurance; just the man to plunge into a wilderness to make a home and clear land for a farm. He possessed the strength, will, and wisdom for such an enterprise. His brain was in fair proportion to his body, large and active, making him a strong- minded man; and, under other and more favourable circumstances, he might have made a broad and deep mark on his day and generation. But he thought of little except his family in that day of hardship and want, and so he chose a home and occupation where honour and fame were out of the question. But, with all his physical strength, the loving husband and father was not exempt from the attacks of disease. One day, in the midst of his hard toil, he heard the alarm of “Fire in the forest.” Forest fires were common in summer time, and often large tracts of wood were burned over; and sometimes pioneer cabins were destroyed, and the crops on little farms in the wilderness were injured.

“It is coming this way certainly,” said Mr. Garfield, with some anxiety, after satisfying himself as to the danger. “I’m afraid it will make trouble for us. Mehetabel, run to the house with my axe, and bring me the shovel.”

The girl was assisting her father. Within five minutes Mr. Garfield had the shovel, and Mrs. Garfield, and all the children, except the baby, were out to watch the fire.

“We must fight it,” said Mr. Garfield, “or only ashes will be left of our home at sundown.”

“I fear as much,” replied Mrs. Garfield. “These forest fires are terrible.”

“Mehetabel, you and Thomas follow me;” and he ran across the house-lot to the edge of the woods to prevent the fiery demon from attacking his habitation.

Thomas and his sister followed. The fire reached the spot almost as soon as they did, and the battle with it began. It was a long and hard fight. Mr. Garfield met the enemy with all the vigour of father contending for his children. He fully realized what their situation would be if the sun should go down upon the ruins of their home, and the thought impelled him to superhuman efforts. For nearly two hours, in the burning sun of a hot July day, he fought the fire with his strong arm. Sometimes the battle seemed to turn in favour of the fiery element, and again the resolute pioneer appeared to have the advantage over it. At last, however, the fire was conquered, or rather, was prevented from devouring the little cabin and desolating the crops, though it swept on beyond the farm, whither the wind drove it.

Thoroughly heated and exhausted, Mr. Garfield sat down upon a stump to rest, and enjoy the cool, refreshing breeze that sprang up from the West. He did not dream that he was exposing his health by sitting, covered with perspiration, in that cool wind. But that night he was seized violently by congestion of the throat, and his stout framed writhed in pain, threatening speedy dissolution. As early in the morning as possible, Mehetabel was posted away to Mr. Boynton’s, and Thomas to a neighbour in another direction, for their assistance. There was no physician within many miles; but one of the neighbours summoned claimed to possess some medical knowledge, and the patient was passed over into his hands, substantially, after he arrived. He applied a blister, thereby aggravating the disease, and hurrying the sick man to his grave. Mrs. Garfield did all that true love and remarkable efficiency could do to save her husband, but her tender and faithful ministrations were fruitless; he sank rapidly, and at last died without a struggle. His last words were, looking upon his children, and then addressing his wife:

“I have planted four saplings in these woods; I must now leave them to your care.”

Oh, what a dark pall settled upon that abode! A happier family never dwelt in a palace than was found in that cabin. And now the burden of sorrow that rested upon the widowed wife and fatherless children was gauged by the greatness of bereaved affection. Little James was but eighteen months old when his father died—too young to understand the irreparable loss, or to feel the pangs of grief that well-nigh