April was near its end. The hills were turning green, albeit we
could see, here and there on the high ledge above us, little
patches of snow--the fading footprints of winter. Day and night we
could hear the wings of the wild fowl roaring in the upper air as
they flew northward. Summer was coming,--the summer of 1812,--and
the war with the British. The President had called for a hundred
thousand volunteers to go into training for battle. He had also
proclaimed there would be no more whipping in the ranks. Then my
father told me that, since I could have no peace at home, I should
be off to the war and done with it.

We were working near the road that day Thurst Miles came galloping
out of the woods, waving his cap at us. We ran to meet him--my
father and I and the children. He pulled up a moment, his horse
lathered to the ears.

"Injuns!" he shouted. "Git out o' here quick 'n' mek fer the
Corners! Ye 'll be all massacreed ef ye don't."

Then he whacked the wet flank of his horse with a worn beech bough,
and off he went.

We ran to the house in a great panic. I shall never forget the
crying of the children. Indians had long been the favorite bugbear
of the border country. Many a winter's evening we had sat in the
firelight, fear-faced, as my father told of the slaughter in Cherry
Valley; and, with the certainty of war, we all looked for the red
hordes of Canada to come, in paint and feathers.

"Ray," my father called to me, as he ran, "ketch the cow quick an'