That same rifle now stands in my bedroom. It was made over
thirty-five years ago, with the bright name of John W. Alexander on it.
He is now an old resident of Dearborn, a useful and ingenious man, and
fills a prominent place in society; if he were gone it would be
difficult to find a man capable of filling his place.
But I must return to my drawing wood. The place where we heaped it was on
the north side of the railroad, about fifteen rods east of where the
postoffice is now kept. The woodyard, including the depot, I should
judge, was not more than one hundred feet square. Here we piled our wood,
sometimes ten feet high. We were to have seven shillings a cord for it
and if we chopped and hauled three cords a day we thought we did well. I
drew it as fast as I could, sometimes I got to Dearborn just as the old
Solar made his appearance in the east. The Lunar had already done her
work toward helping me, veiled her face and disappeared. When we had
drawn a lot of wood in father had it measured up and got his voucher for
the amount. One time when he went to Detroit to get his money I went with
him. We went on the cars.
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