pired me, and kindled the fire of patriotism in my
youthful breast. The little spark lay smoldering for two long years, 'till
at last it burst forth into a full blaze. When Fort Sumter was bombarded,
I was a midget of a boy; a barefooted, ragged newsboy in the city of New
York. The bombardment was threatened for several weeks before it actually
occurred; and many nights I would have been bankrupted, but that everyone
was on the "qui vive" for the event, and I got myself into lots of trouble
by shouting occasionally, "Fort Sumter Bombarded!" I needed money; it sold
my papers, and I forgave myself. When the authentic news did come, I think
it stirred up within me as big a piece of fighting desire as it did in
larger and older people. I mourned the fact that I was then too small to
fight, but lived in hopes that the war would last until I should grow. If
I could have gone south, I felt that I could have conquered the rebellious
faction alone, so confident was I of my fighting abilities.

In the fall of '61 my dear mother died, and my father who had a great
desire to make possibilities out of improbabilities, and believing a farm
the proper place to bring up a family of boys, bought one away in the
interior of Maine. The farm was very hilly, covered with huge pines and
liberally planted with granite ledges. I used to think God wanted to be
generous to this state and gave it so much land it had to be stood up
edgeways. Picture to yourself, dear reader, four boys taken from the busy
life of a great city, place them in the wilderness of Maine, where they
had to make a winrow of the forest to secure a garden spot for the house,
pry out the stumps and blast the ledges to sow the seed, then ask yourself
what should the harvest be?

Father's business required all of his time in New York City, and we were
left with two hired men to develop the farm, our brains and muscles, but
mine didn't seem to develop worth a cent. I didn't care for the farmer's
life. The plow and scythe had no charms for me. My horny, hardened little
hand itched and longed to beat the drums that would marshall men to arms.

After eight months of hard work we had cleared up quite a respectable
little farm, an oasis in that forest of pines. A new house and barn had
been built, also new fences and stone walls, but not much credit for this
belonged to me. Soon after, we received a letter from father stating that
he would be with us in a short time and bring us a ne