“Is he a great talker?” I immediately asked, for, but a short time previous I had made several trips to see pioneers solely for the purpose of committing to paper their adventures; and others, after much trouble I had reached their domicils, I found as uncommunicative as a Saracenic mute. “He loves to talk, and nothing pleases him more than to have such patient and willing listeners as you are; with you he will talk from morning till night.” I rubbed my hands with delight; the volume which had danced before my imagination for a few minutes past, now swelled in size from an octavo to a folio; and my impatience to see the hero, almost became insupportable. “There is one failing which my old uncle has,” continued my friend, “and that is, he possesses a very exuberant imagination.” “So much the better,” I exclaimed, “then his recitation will not continue on that dead level, which gives such prolixity to a narrative; now and then a flight of the imagination adds a marvellous spice to such things; a single narration, you know, only draws the picture and shades it—it is left for imagination to paint it.” “But you do not precisely understand me; I mean that my uncle—who is getting old now, you know—is in the habit, if allowed to commence in that way, to dwell for hours together upon the most marvellous adventures, which he draws solely from imagination, and confounds with his real ones; but leave this to me, and I will set him on the right track; by the way, there is one incident connected with his very mutable life which I must prevail upon him to relate; I call his imagined adventures yarns—so let us ride forward, for yonder is the house.” We dashed down the long lane—lined on each side with towering poplar trees, whose pointed tops reached far above the surrounding trees—and we soon stood at the door of the old soldier’s house. We dismounted, and giving our horses to an attendant, we entered the house, and the first person that we saw was the old veteran himself. He hurried towards us—by aid of a stout cane—and bade us welcome. Truly was the old man’s appearance equal to my ideal of him; his form—though somewhat bent with age—had once, I could easily perceive, been tall and sinewy; and his limbs still retained a degree of that muscular power, which had so repeatedly contributed to bring him safe from _melées_, where weaker men had perished. The old man’s hair was white as the snow, and accumulating years had continued to thin it, till only two small locks were left. With sparkling eyes and animated features, the veteran grasped our hands, and gave us a true soldier’s welcome; and then leading us to a small room, he introduced us to his sister—a venerable and corpulent matron of fifty—and then to what was still more pleasurable, a smoking breakfast.