ached my
third birthday.

Ah, Cincinnati! To me you shall always be my City of Destiny, for it was
within your boundaries that I, boy and man, met my several fates. One
sent me through the turmoil and suffering of the Civil War; another sent
me westward mounted on the wings of youthful hope and ambition. For that
alone I am ever in the debt of Ohio's fairest city, which I hope to see
again some day before there sounds for me the Taps.... But I do not
know. The tide of life is more than past its ebb for me and I should be
thinking more of a quiet rest on the hillside, my face turned to the
turquoise blue of Arizona's matchless infinity, than to the treading
again of noisy city streets in the country of my birth.

But this is to be a story of Arizona, and I must hasten through the
events that occurred prior to my leaving for the West. When I had
reached three years of age my father married again--a milliner--and
moved to Philadelphia. My grandmother, who had raised me practically
from birth, removed with me to Maysville in Kentucky, where I was sent
to school. Some of my pleasantest memories now are of that period in the
old-fashioned Kentucky river town.

Just after my ninth birthday my father came back to Maysville, claimed
me, took me to Philadelphia with him and afterwards turned me over to
one William Turner, his wife's brother, who was the owner of a farm on
the eastern shore of Maryland. I stayed at the Turner farm until the
outbreak of the Civil War in the fall of '61, when my father, who was
then working for Devlin & Son, clothiers, with headquarters at Broadway
and Warren streets, New York City, enlisted in Duryea's Zouaves as
orderly sergeant in Company K. The Zouaves wintered at Federal Hill,
Baltimore, and I joined my father and the regiment there. In the spring
we moved to Washington, joining there the great Army of the Potomac,
with which we stayed during that army's succession of magnificent
battles, until after the Fredericksburg fight in '63.

In Washington we were quartered at Arlington Heights and I remember that
I used to make pocket money by buying papers at the Washington railway
depot and selling them on the Heights. The papers were, of course, full
of nothing but war news, some of them owing their initial publication to
the war, so great was the public's natural desire for news of the
titanic struggle that was engulfing the continent. Then, as now, there
were many conflicting statements as to