[Subsection]

It was cloudy this morning, and I was afraid of rain; but for all that, I went out "à la bonne aventure." And to set out thus by one's self is so delightful. I followed a little path which wound through low boscage over the prairie. I there met some little children, who, with their mat-baskets in their hands, were wandering along to school. I accompanied them, and came to a little house built also of logs, and extremely humble. This was the school-house. The school-room was merely a room in which were some benches; the children, about a dozen in number, were ragged--regular offspring of the wilderness. But they seemed willing enough to learn; and upon the log walls of the room hung maps of the globe, upon which the young scholars readily pointed out to me the countries I mentioned; and there were also in that poor school-house such   [p. 645]   books as the "National Geography," by Goodrich, Smith's "Quarto Geography," which contains views of the whole world; while in the reading-book in common use I found gems from the literature of all countries, and particularly from that of England and North America. The schoolmaster was an agreeable young man. His monthly stipend was fifteen dollars.

I went onward, the sun broke through the clouds; the day became glorious, and again I spent a lovely day alone on the prairie.

The host and hostess of my log-house are of Dutch origin, and not without education. The food is simple, but good; I can have as much excellent milk and potatoes as I desire (without spice or fat, and potatoes in this country are my best food), as well as capital butter and bread. Every thing is clean in the house, but the furniture and the conveniences are not superior to such as are to be met with in common Swedish peasant-houses. I sit at table with the men and maid-servants of the family, just as they come in from their work, and not over clean, as well as with thousands of flies.

The further I advance into the West the earlier become the hours of meals. What do you say to breakfasting at six in the morning, dining at twelve, and having tea at half past six in the evening? I do not dislike it. It is a thousand times better than the fashionable hours for meals in New York and Boston.

It is evening. It has begun to rain and blow, and it is no easy thing to keep the wind and rain out of the window, which I am sometimes obliged to open on account of the oppressive heat occasioned by an iron pipe, which goes through the room from an iron stove in the room below. I am beginning to feel not quite so comfortable, and shall be glad to go in the morning to Galena. As far as my neighbors are concerned, I do not hear a sound of them, so silent are they. Log-houses are in general warm,   [p. 646]   but very dusty; so at least I have heard many people say, and I can myself believe it.