After partaking of as luxuriant a _déjeuner_ as ever caused an epicure’s eyes to dance, we wandered around the farm—the old soldier limping along with us—and after bestowing the necessary eulogiums upon the fine appearance of his Berkshire pigs, his imported stallion, and his Durham cattle, we returned to the house; and then partaking of a glass of cider wine, (which excellent fluid needs but a high price to become as regal as champaigne) we got the old man seated. “This young friend of mine,” began my cautious companion, “is passionately fond of revolutionary tales, and as he is now engaged in writing sketches embodying all the adventures of the revolution,” here Ned gave me a meaning look, “he wishes to hear a few of your adventures; couldn’t you gratify him, uncle?” The veteran propped his rheumatic leg upon a chair, and laid aside his cane. “Ha! he wishes to hear tales of the wars, does he? Well, then, ’spose I tell him about the death of poor old Joshua Brews——” “Oh, no, uncle! I think something less melancholy will please him.” “I don’t like melancholy tales,” I said. “Then, ’spose I tell him about the fight that Ben Bunker and me had——” “That I _know_ wouldn’t please him,” and Ned quickly whispered in my ear “a _yarn_.” “Ah, I have it now; tell him about ‘The Rescue at the Eleventh Hour.’” “I hate to tell that; my blood freezes whenever I think of it.” “’Tis surprising,” thought I, “how compatible it is for old men to delight in lies.” “Which of the tales mentioned would you rather hear; we will leave the decision to you, won’t we, uncle?” “Certainly, my son; but recollect that the fight which Ben Bunker and me had _is mighty_ entertaining.” “I have no doubt of it, sir; still, as I have taken a fancy to ‘The Rescue at the Eleventh Hour,’ you would oblige me by relating that.” The old veteran bowed, swallowed a glass of wine, and commenced the tale. “The days of which I now speak, my son, were pregnant with perils. When we retired to our beds at night, we knew not what the morning might bring forth. We might hear of the death of a father, mother, or sister, by the ruthless hand of a British forager, or equally sanguine tory. Or else our ears would be greeted with the wail of some outcast, who had travelled all night to flee the ravagers of his property. Every hour was pregnant with news, either in favor or against the interests of our country. The British, at the time of which I speak, were overrunning the land, devastating the fairest farms, and murdering or making captive their inhabitants. “I was then young—but twenty years had passed over my head, and, of course, I possessed all the sanguine nature of youth: added to which, my soul was kindled to anger by the horrid accounts which reached us daily of British brutality. My father, who had fought in the old French and Indians wars, had taught me to despise oppression, but to worship freedom.