husking corn. Advancing up to his father this “William,” as they called him, said: “Father, here is a real Yankee, right from Pennsylvania.” “What part of Pennsylvania are you from?” asked the father. I told him from Erie county. “Well,” he said, “my boy here was born in that state, in Crawford county. Well, how do you do? I am very glad to see you. William, what have you got that gun for?” “Why, father, don’t you know that I took a hard oath to serve my country?” “Yes, you took an oath, my poor boy, but deserted the Southern service, knowing that your poor father was a Northern Union man. Yes, yes, you took a wonderful oath, but, William, you must let this man go.” All the talk the poor old man could say to his son was of no avail, and now his kind brother plead with him. This boy was only seventeen years old. He had lost his right arm above the elbow. Then came, last of all, his sisters, and if ever I have heard pleading for one’s life it seemed that these poor souls did it. It seemed that all this man’s aim was to try his firearms on me, for after a long talk with his young brother and sisters, the brother came to me and told me that the only way that William would release me was for me to start off a little distance and then run. He said William would probably shoot at me and that he was afraid it would mean death to me very soon. The brother and his two sisters came back shortly, and the former told me what he had concluded to do. He allowed that he would just get off a short distance and then I must get up and run. Then William would turn and shoot at me, and I must run all the faster. He started and walked off about ten rods and I saw that he did not intend to go any further. So I arose as quickly as possible from a shock of corn I had been husking and started for a very steep bluff which was almost straight down, and it did seem as though I fairly flew down this hill so rapid was my flight. Dear reader, if you was never compelled to flee from a foe with a gun and then to be shot at, you can imagine the plight I was in. Now I want to say right here that in eternity I expect to meet this same man, and I don’t want him to come up before me and say: “You wrote a tale, away back there, against me that you scattered broadcast which was untrue.” Now if I never complete this tale of my sad life, or if I do, I just ask God to direct my pen that I might not purposely insert one word that is not true, to the best of my knowledge. I do praise God from the depth of my heart that my faith is in Him.