Almost every year Frank Beard was at Chautauqua, teaching a class in art, making pictures in the children's class, giving one or two crayon lectures, and occasionally on Sunday evenings an illustrated Bible reading. As already intimated, that was the age when there was a craze for autographs, and everybody carried around an autograph album, seeking signatures from the celebrities. After a popular lecture a crowd hastened to the platform and a hundred hands, each holding an album, would be stretched out toward the speaker, demanding his autograph. Of course every child, and nearly every grown-up, must have Frank Beard's autograph, and with it a picture drawn by his hand. Frank said once in a religious meeting that his idea of heaven was a place where there were no autograph albums. Every year at Chautauqua is held a National Army Day, when the Civil War veterans from near and far assemble, wear their G. A. R. uniforms and badges, and listen to an address in the Amphitheater. One year, I think it was 1886, but I am not sure, the orator was late in coming, and Mr. Beard, himself a veteran of the war, was called upon to fill the vacancy. He told the story of "The Chaplain's Leg," of which some incredulous people have doubted the authenticity. As I remember it was somewhat as follows. He would come forward, slapping his right leg, and saying: That is a good leg, but it isn't mine. It belonged once to the chaplain of our regiment; I was in a battle and happened to have a tree between myself and the whole rebel army. There was a change in the front, and I started to make a detour to another tree. Just in the middle of my march I ran against the chaplain, who was also making a detour, and at that moment came along a rebel shell, which took off one of his legs and also one of mine. We lay on the ground only a minute or two, and then an ambulance took us and the two legs on board. They carried us to the field hospital, and put on our legs, which grew just as they should, so that after a few weeks I was dismissed as cured. Well, I had been a long time, for me, without liquid refreshment, and I knew that out in the woods near the camp was an extemporized bar, in the shape of a board laid on two stumps of trees. I found it hard to walk in that direction, and had to pull my right leg along; but I thought that it needed only a little practice to be as good as ever. I got to the bar and ordered a glass of something; it might have been ginger-pop or it might have been something else. Just after it was poured out and before I could take hold of it, that right leg of mine lifted itself up and kicked over the whole contraption--glass, and jug, and bar, and then in