memorable winter of 1777-8. Indeed, the country throughout this vicinity is replete with points bringing to recollection interesting dates and facts of history. Through the kindness of a fellow-traveler, who sat smoking in a seat near him, my officer was made familiar with some of these most eventful localities. And still there appeared to be no end to the succession of hills and vales, wooded mountain sides and fertile fields. Yet onward swept the train, bearing its precious living freight. Passing beyond the populous city of Reading, late in the afternoon, the agricultural lands began, as the stranger thought, a silent struggle with rocks and rills and more rugged mountains. As they still proceeded swiftly on their route, the rough country gained the mastery, and the fleeting show increased in boldness, culminating in a grand and craggy beauty when the locomotive whistled “down the brakes” at a point some distance short of Port Clinton. By this time portentous clouds had arisen darkly in the west, as the sun sunk to its couch, and there were other premonitions of an impending storm of wind and rain. Port Clinton is seventy-eight miles from Philadelphia, at a spot where the two great forks of the Schuylkill—the Schuylkill proper and the Little Schuylkill—form a union, both having had their origin, not so far separated, in the distant northern coal-fields. [Illustration: “_He entered, resting his burden upon the floor!_”] It was eight o’clock in the evening when McKenna, with baggage swinging from his shoulder, stood for the first time upon the floor of the massive, brown-stone, turret-roofed depot building at Port Clinton and looked about him for a house which might yield him a night’s lodging and supper, as he was both sleepy and hungry after his ride and the unusual excitements of the day. Starting out into the increasing darkness, he was unable to see and appreciate the tall mountains towering above him on all sides; but, feeling his way carefully, he crossed the canal bridge and sought a public house. Seeing a bright light not far away, he directed his steps toward it, and in a short time came to a structure which proved to be a village tavern or saloon. Thinking, despite the sounds of revelry heard within, that it might be a proper stopping-place for him, he entered, rested his burden on the floor—weary enough with its carriage, and wishing thus early, he had been content to leave one-half the baggage at home—and civilly inquired of the presiding genius—a big, burly fellow, with milky-white eyes, a cherry-red nose and very stiff, black, straight hair, planted widely apart on his bullet-shaped head—who had evidently “too much taken” of the liquids he dispensed to others—when they had funds to pay for them—if he could have supper and lodging at his hotel. He did not half fancy the crowd he had come up with. Mostly of the lower class of Germans, the men were in the midst of a spree that bid fair to last until another day. Liquor had