In rough log cabins, out in the midst of wild woods, we have read that six of our prèsidents were born; the seventh, James Abram Garfield, was born in Orange, Ohio, on November 19th, 1831.

His father had built, with his own hands, their small, rude home; and it stood deep in the wild wood, whose trees would, at times, catch fire from the sparks thrown from the steam engines some miles off. Near the Garfield home was their field of grain; one day this caught fire, and in trying to save his wheat, the father of little James lost his life. It was a hard life to which he left his young wife and the four little ones; but she was a brave good woman; she had to work hard of course, and so did the boys; but the mother taught them from books as well; and little James was but four years old when he went to his first school. He was a tough, strong boy, and soon did a large part of the farm work; in the long summers he had the most work to do, and then in the winters he could go to school; he was a brave boy, for the school was miles from home, and his road lay through the deep woods, in which wild beasts roamed at will. But he went his way, and if he felt fear, did not show it; he had a great love for books, and late at night, with the big woodfire for his light, he would read over and over his few books. His mother had taught him to love the Biblé, and this Good Book he knew well. But, at last, the time came when he was so old that he could leave home, and so help the mother more than he had done. The first thing he did was to drive mules on the towpath of the Ohio Canal; here he earned $10.00 a month, but the men he met were coarse and rough, and the life rude and vile; so, with a sad heart, the young boy, fresh from his good home in the quiet woods, took what he had made here, and went back to the place he loved. He was sick for a long while now; and as he lay on his bed, he made up his mind that he would go to collège, and lead a good, useful life out in the big world; that he would use his brains more than his hands. With this hope in front of him, he made money in the summer to pay his way at school in winter; and soon knew all that they could teach and went to Hiram Collège; here at first he did all sorts of work to pay his way; rang the bells, swept the floors, and built the fires; but he was soon paid to teach in the collège, for he was too bright and quick to do such hard work long. In 1854, he went to Williams Collège, and left at the head of his class in 1856.

From now on he rose fast; he taught school when he left collège; his boys loved the big strong man and said so much in his praise, that men learned to love him too; and in 1859 he was made one of the Ohio Senate, and soon after sent to Congress. Then came the Civil War, in which he fought bravely; he won much fame in some of the great battles, and was made a general. He was a warm, close friend of Lincoln; and on the day of Lincoln’s death, it was Garfield who spoke such calm, good words to a mob of men on Wall Street, New York, that he kept them from rash acts at this sad time. At the close of the war, Garfield was in Europe for a short time; and when he came home, he was sent to Congress, where he kept his seat for a long time. In 1880 he was named for prèsident, and took his seat in 1881. But there was a great grief in store for this land, once more. On July 2d, 1881, just four months from the time he took his seat, Garfield was shot by Charles Guiteau, as he, with James G. Blaine, was on his way to take a train north from Washington. They bore him back to the White House, and the man who had done this foul act was seized. The whole land prayed for Garfield’s life, but he grew worse fast; and it was thought best at last to take him to Long Branch, where it was cooler than in Washington. But the long, hot months dragged on; and the sick man did not grow well in the cool salt air, as it had been hoped; in spite of all care, the prèsident failed day by day; and on September 19th, 1881, the whole world heard with sorrow of this good man’s death. The great men of the day wept side by side, as Garfield lay in state in Washington; and men of note, in all walks of life, felt his death as a great grief. He now lies at rest in Cleveland, Ohio. Guiteau was hanged for the crime he had done; and it is but just to say, that some thought he was not in his right mind when he shot Garfield.