chase to the eminent satisfaction of both horse and rider. It was nearly nine o'clock when there appeared the welcome light of a candle shining through the little window of a cabin on the west side of the road. To my call from outside the gate, as I rode up, a man soon answered by coming to the door. Having announced the fact I had suspected for several hours, that I was very hungry and that my horse must be in a similar condition, I asked permission to enjoy the hospitalities of his cabin for the night, to which he promptly replied, "Sartain! you go right in, and wife will get you some supper, and I'll take care of your horse," which by that time I had led through the gate. Turning to the woman who stood near him, and who had been an interested observer, he asked her to prepare a supper. While this work was proceeding in the room where I was sitting by the fire, I quietly and expectantly enjoyed the fragrance of coffee and fried bacon. I was about to take seat at the table, when the head of the household again entered and reported that he had waited a little for the horse to cool off, and then had watered and fed him. As I was transferring the first slices of bacon to my plate, the gentleman opened the conversation by the question, "Where are you from?" "I just came up from Salt Lake City to-day. I left there this morning. Your wife tells me that your name is Childs," I added, and then gave him my name. "Yes," he replied, "my name is Childs, but I presumed that you were from the States. Is Salt Lake your home?" "No. I have spent three or four months there. My home is in Wisconsin." "I had a brother once who lived in Wisconsin," said Mr. Childs. "Oh, yes. I know him very well." "You know him?" exclaimed my host. "Why do you think you know him? I haven't even told you his name or where he lived." "His name is John Childs," said I, starting in on a second cup of coffee. The man and his wife gazed at each other with expressions of surprise. The fact was that I did well know a prominent farmer, an old and esteemed settler in Wisconsin, whose name was John Childs, and as he was the only man I did know who bore that family name, I took a flyer in jest, and it happened to hit the mark. "Where did the John Childs that you know live?" asked my host. "In Lima, Wisconsin," was my prompt answer. "Then he is probably not my brother. My brother went to Whitewater." "Oh, that's all right," said I, "but you are mistaken in the supposition that your brother lives in Whitewater. He lives in the town of Lima, but the villages are only six miles apart. The railroad station is known as Child's Station." This statement on my part was not so remarkable as it would appear to be, because I was familiar with the situation. "Do you mean to say that he is now living?" asked Mr. Childs, as he drew very close to me at the table, while his wife also took a seat and listened intently.