Of course, the Great World’s War has completely overshadowed all previous unpleasantnesses, but in the old days, minor events, as they are deemed to-day, were of the most vital importance. Take, for instance, the Trent Affair in 1861, when the United States had forcibly taken Mason and Slidell, the Confederate ambassadors, on their way to Great Britain from the British steamer _Trent_ at Nassau, Bahama Islands. Great Britain demanded their instant release, and there being a prolonged delay in complying by the United States, steps were immediately taken to enforce the demand. There was a call to arms and a surprising response in Canada. Many thousands more recruits volunteered than were asked for. Although only fourteen years of age, I, with other Whitby youths who, like myself were tall for their age, enlisted. There was no medical examination in those times, and in a couple of days we donned the now discarded scarlet infantry uniform. We drilled every night, carrying the old heavy Enfield rifle which seemed to weigh a ton, and we kids went through our military exercises until we almost became as lop-sided as a pig with one ear. There wasn’t one of us but devoutly hoped, like the man with the invalid wife that she would get well—or something—only we hoped something or other would happen and we didn’t care a continental what it was, so long as we were relieved of that awful tiring, monotonous drill. The United States, knowing it was in the wrong, according to the laws of nations, gracefully delivered up Messrs. Mason and Slidell and the episode happily ended without any blood being shed. An Adventure With Colonel Denison In 1866, there was another call to arms, when the Fenians invaded Canada at Fort Erie. Whitby sent an able bodied contingent, of which I was a high private, to Niagara Falls, which was reached as the skirmish at Ridgeway was being fought. That campaign was a picnic, and as we were billeted at the swagger Cataract House, and afterwards in barracks, it was not so bad. We had particular instructions to allow no one to enter the camp without the password, and one day, Private Jimmy Shier and I were on sentry go. Colonel Bob Denison, a fine soldier, as all the Denisons were, endeavored to pass the lines on horseback. I halted him and demanded the password, and he, evidently to try me out, said: “You know me, I’m Col. Denison.” “Yes, sir, you doubtless are, but orders are orders. Password, please.” He didn’t give it, and I called for Jimmy, who, dropping his rifle, climbed like a cat up the horse’s side, and unceremoniously pulled the colonel to the ground. We called out the guard, and marched the Colonel to headquarters. Then the trouble commenced, and Jimmy and I were brought before the commanding officer, who had issued the orders which we had faithfully fulfilled. We were promptly and properly acquitted.