the careless dilapidated appearance of every thing around and about the old man’s farm.

He finally unyoked his oxen, dropped the yoke right where he took it off and turned his cattle into the yard. “Now then, we’ll get a bite to eat, and I’ll show you two horses, and durn me if I won’t give you your choice and a good trade.” “Martha-Ann,” he called, “Martha-Ann!”

In a moment a little, bright, bustling old woman came to the door and shading her eyes with her apron, called back: “What is it, Dan’l? Did you bring the merlasses, and candles, and the broom?”

“Yes,” he answered back.

“And the salt?”

“Yes.”

“And the rennet for the cheese, and the salt-pork?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he answered, “and I’ve brought a young man, Phil. Ulmer’s son; goin to trade him ‘Dick.’”

“What?” said she, coming out to where we were. “Now, Dan’l, you are not going to do anything of the kind.”

“Yes, I be,” he said.

“You shan’t, I won’t have my horse sold; you know he is the only one I can drive, and he is so kind and gentle, and the only good horse you have; you shan’t sell him.” And then she sat down on the cart-tongue and cried as if her heart would break, and I began to think I was going to really get a splendid horse at a bargain.

All through the dinner she sobbed, and when she would pass me bread or anything, it was with a heartbroken sigh, and I began to want that horse.

Finally dinner finished, he took me to the barn. There were two horses together standing on the barn-floor eating corn-husk. They both looked as if they never had eaten anything else. One was a bay, and the other a grey; they were so poor that you could mistake either for a barrel with half the staves fallen in.

“Thar, sir, be two fine critters; you can have either; this grey one is Dick, the one the old woman is so sot on, but he’s getting too frisky for her ter handle, he’s the best dispositioned animal yer ever saw; yer do anything with him, he’s always ready. Get him with ’tother on a load at the bottom of a big hill and he’s thar every time; yer see, he’s a leetle sprung in one knee thar, he done that by pulling; it don’t hurt him a bit ter drive, and go! Why, do you know he’s trotted in two minutes? You notice, one eye’s bit off color! Blue? Wall sir, that was strained a leetle by watching over his blinder to see that no other hoss should pass or get near him when he were druve on the race track twelve years ago, but it don’t hurt him now.”

“You praise this horse,” I remarked, “but don’t say a word about the other.”

“Oh, he don’t need it,” said the old man dryly.

I was so anxious to get a horse, I concluded to take Dick. I thought, he must be the best on Martha-Ann’s account, and really there didn’t seem much choice.

“You want a harness and waggin too, don’t yer?”

“Yes,” I replied, “I shall have to have something to drive him in.”

“Wall, I guess I can fix you out with a full rig.”

So after looking through the sheds, he pulled out an old gig with one shaft broken and without wheels. “Guess I’ll find the wheels of this somewhar. Do you know this is the same gig that very Dick yused ter haul on the race track; he may remember it after yer hitch him into it. If he does, you want to look out for him, and here are the wheels.”

He pulled them out of a pile of old lumber and rubbish, and fitted them on; one was badly dished in and was painted red, the other was as badly dished out and one day had been painted yellow; but I was anxious and didn’t object; I wanted to get home.

So after getting the “gig” together, he patched a harness from the odd pieces he found, then fitted them on to the poor horse who looked as if he was sorry he was alive.

Finally we had everything all ready. I mounted the “gig.” As I did so, I noticed it seemed one sided, and looking at the wheels, I found one was somewhat larger than the other, but said nothing. Taking up the lines made up my mind to get home and fix it there. I pulled on the reins and spoke to “Dick,” but he didn’t move. The old man took him by the bridle and led him to the road remarking at the same time, “Dick never did like to go away from home.”

After we reached the road, the old man hit “Dick” with a hoe handle, and off he started. It was four miles from his house to ours, and I reached home NEXT DAY. Figured up what the whole thing cost me: The horse stood me $33.50, the “gig” $7.50, and the harness, (?) 75 cents. This was my outfit to make or break me. My brothers laughed at my trade, but I didn’t care, I had a purpose, and I was bound to accomplish it.

When I wanted to use my “rig,” to harness the horse, I was obliged to take a ladder to put his bridle on, lead him alongside of the steps to put the saddle and breeching on, and back him up to the well-curb to put his tail in the “crupper,” and after he was hitched to the “gig,” nine times out of ten he would wait till he was ready to go.

Some time after I learned that uncle “Dan’l” was a regular horse dealer and kept just such old plugs around him, and that they were always his wife’s favorites when the old man wanted to get one off his hands. However, Dick and I became great friends. I fixed up the old “gig,” and it answered my purpose. I got there with it.

It became a customary daily routine for me to harness this poor animal, start at sundown and drive all night. Where? Why to Augusta to try and get mustered in, but I would always ride back broken hearted and disappointed, my ardor, however, not dampened a bit. I became a guy to my brothers and neighbors. My father and step-sister indulged me in my fancy, helping me all they could—father by furnishing me with money, and step-sister by putting up little lunches for my pilgrimages during the night. They thought me partially insane, and judged it would be best to let me have my own idea, with the hope that it would soon wear off. But it didn’t. I would not give up. The Yankee yearning for fight had possession of me, and I could neither eat, sleep nor work. I was bound to be a soldier. I prayed for it, and I sometimes thought, my prayers were answered; that the war should last ’till I was big enough to be one—for it did.

I had enlisted four times in different towns, and each time I went before a mustering officer, I was rejected. “Too small” I was every time pronounced, but I was not discouraged or dismayed—the indomitable pluck and energy of those downeast boys pervaded my system. I was bound to get there, for what I didn’t know, I did not care or didn’t stop to think. I only thought of the glory of being a soldier, little realizing what an absurd-looking one I would make; but the ambition was there, the pluck was there, and the patriotism of a man entered the breast of the wild dreamy boy. I wanted to go to the front—and I went.

After several unsuccessful attempts to be mustered into the service at Augusta, which was twenty-five miles from our little farm, I thought I would enlist from the town of Freedom and thereby get before a different mustering officer who was located in Belfast. I had grown, I thought, in the past six weeks, and before a new officer, I thought my chances of being accepted would improve; so on a bright morning in September I mounted my “gig,” behind