always driving the cat away from his work bench, for she seemed possessed to hang around and get his waxed ends jummixed up. This visit of the cobbler was quite an event each year. Father would prepare for it by swapping a pair of cattle or a load of potatoes down at Foster's tan-yard, a mile the other side of Luddington's Tavern, for a few sides of leather. Then the cobbler would come for a week or so and make the leather up into foot-wear. So when the news he brought was about a war, and about the goings-on in the great world outside, a boy of fifteen was going to listen with both ears. When the cobbler came it was the boy's work to whittle out the pegs for him. A boy would really get more news from the cobbler than any other member of the family, since he would be nearer to him.

In these ways, little by little, we learned about the victory of Commodore Perry on Lake Erie, and the big doings of our navy out on the high seas. But it seems that these victories on water hadn't done much good; because the military campaign along the entire northern frontier of our country was going against us. The English were pushing in on every side. It looked as though New York might be taken. The President had issued a draft for troops to defend the country. And men were paying as high as a hundred dollars for a substitute. That hundred dollars looked big to me. It seemed an easy way to earn a large lump of money. Times

my

were getting harder and harder out on our hillside farm; for banks all over the country were stopping specie payment, and silver was getting as scarce as hens' teeth. So when, on top of it all, my father died, I decided that the time had come. I made up mind to leave the farm in charge of my brother Tom (he being the oldest, he was by rights the one to stay home and take care of things), and go out and see the world, and make money as a substitute in the army. First along mother didn't exactly take to the idea. But I showed her I was sure to make big money. I was to get one hundred dollars out of hand; and as my board in the army wouldn't cost me anything, the money would be clear gain. It was a powerful argument, because she was thrifty. A hundred dollars all in a lump looked pretty nigh as big to her as it did to me. But just then she happened to think of another thing. For mother was old-fashioned.

"See here, Danny," said she; "you're under age, and to get into the service you'd have to tell a lie. And besides, you might get killed; and then where would the hundred dollars be?" I answered that I would agree to leave the hundred dollars with her to keep for me, before I started. As to my being under age, I told her not to bother herself about that point. I would take care of that. Women, anyhow, are apt to be squeamish about business transactions. Men are more sensible they know that if a cat would

eat fish she must be willing to wet her feet. And I told mother that I would take care of the age limit. I calculated that, for a fellow as tall for his years as I was, I could fix my age all right.

And I did. The Government was hard pressed for men. So the recruiting sergeant didn't narrow me down very close when I told him I was of age. I got my hundred dollars, handed it over to mother to keep for me, and in full regimentals of the State Militia, with knapsack on back and musket over my shoulder, I set out for Peekskill. There I found a sloop going to New York, and got aboard. These sloops were big affairs. They carried people, live stock and freight, all huddled together. When the wind and tide were contrary, or when the wind died down altogether, they anchored, and you would be out all night just in making the trip to New York. In that case you'd have to sleep the best way you could. But you could find a good berth on the hay or straw which usually formed a part of the boat's cargo. As long as it didn't rain, you could pass a night very comfortable.

It was a great event in my life, this trip to New York. When finally we came to where the Harlem River empties out into the North River, the man at the helm pointed it out to the passengers, and said, "there was the island, and the city was at the lower end of it." Another hour of sailing brought us to where the city lay. We landed at a wharf alongside

where the Washington Market now stands. (The shore at that point has been filled in a good deal since that day. Back in those days, boats of light draft could sail right in and land pretty near to the market.) They marched me off along with the rest, and took me across the North River to Fort Gainesvort, opposite New York City. It was near Paulus Hook (which is now Jersey City). There my company was stationed, I suppose to protect New York.

And now my good luck in enlisting showed itself. For my company didn't have to do a smitch of fighting. I just lived there in the camp, without it costing me a cent for food or lodging; and at the end of three months, on a February's day, a British sloop-of-war from Europe sailed into New York Harbour with the news that our Peace Commissioners at Ghent had succeeded in making a treaty. The war was over.

It was mighty good news for everybody. That winter had been one of the hardest New York City had ever seen. The weather was so severe, the North River froze over to Paulus Hook. Hickory wood sold in New York that winter for $20 a cord, and hogs fetched $11 a hundred. (That price for butcher's meat set me thinking, as will be seen a little later.) Milk was a shilling a quart. And the President, when the news came, had been just on the point of calling for 75,000 more militia. I was as glad as the rest. Perhaps a little more so.

I never was cut out to be a soldier. Not that I worried much about the hardships of life in camp. When a fellow has been reared on a hill-side farm, his cradle a sap-trough, and has been brought up to eat from wooden plates, he's used to pot-luck, and life in an army camp doesn't seem hard at all. Still I was glad when the news came of peace. In a battle there's always a danger from bullets and bayonets, and from cannon balls. I'm by nature a peaceable man. And I had cleaned up a hundred dollars in the space of three months. It was a good stroke of business.

I set out for home as soon as I was mustered out. And for a few days I was glad to be back. But I soon saw that I wasn't intended for a humdrum life. I had had a smack of big things, and now the everlasting chores on the farm didn't gee with my tastes. My brother Tom was there to take care of those things. (He said, with something pretty near to cuss words, when I spoke to him on the subject, that since I was such a gadabout, somebody had to buckle down and run the farm, in order to take care of mother.)

So I made my plans. Going to mother, I said, "Mother, I want my substitute money. I'm going

into business."

"Goodness sakes!" she replied; "what is it this time? Some new fangle, I'll bet, to waste your money on."