At the date of the narration alluded to in the foregoing chapter, more than forty years had elapsed since the blows of the settlerŐs axe were first heard in the township. Those who had come in the strength of early manhood, if living, were far advanced in life. Some had moved to other places to find homes with children or relatives. Others "weary with the march of life" were dropping from the ranks. They had wrought well and endured much, not for themselves alone, but for their descendants as well. Their study blows compelled the wilderness to give place to the homes we occupy. They richly merit a warm place in the memory of those who came after them. Let not their voices come to us from the misty past in the pathetic refrain:

"Ye do not answer ! Ye do not hear !
We are forgotten and, in your austere
And calm indifference, ye little care
Whether we come or go, or whence or where.

"What passing generations fill these halls,
What passing voices echo from these walls,
Ye heed not ! We are only as the blast,
A moment heard and then forever past !Ó
Longfellow.

No, the men to whom we owe so much must never be forgotten. The printed page shall bear to the generations which follow them and us the history of their deeds.