grandfather; his sister, Miss Abigail Nutter; and Kitty Collins, the
maid-of-all-work.

Grandfather Nutter was a hale, cheery old gentleman, as straight and as
bald as an arrow. He had been a sailor in early life; that is to say, at
the age of ten years he fled from the multiplication-table, and ran away
to sea. A single voyage satisfied him. There never was but one of our
family who didn't run away to sea, and this one died at his birth. My
grandfather had also been a soldier--a captain of militia in 1812. If I
owe the British nation anything, I owe thanks to that particular British
soldier who put a musket-ball into the fleshy part of Captain Nutter's
leg, causing that noble warrior a slight permanent limp, but offsetting
the injury by furnishing him with the material for a story which the old
gentleman was never weary of telling and I never weary of listening to.
The story, in brief, was as follows.

At the breaking out of the war, an English frigate lay for several days
off the coast near Rivermouth. A strong fort defended the harbor, and a
regiment of minute-men, scattered at various points along-shore, stood
ready to repel the boats, should the enemy try to effect a landing.
Captain Nutter had charge of a slight earthwork just outside the mouth
of the river. Late one thick night the sound of oars was heard; the
sentinel tried to fire off his gun at half-cock, and couldn't, when
Captain Nutter sprung upon the parapet in the pitch darkness, and
shouted, "Boat ahoyl" A musket-shot immediately embedded itself in the
calf of his leg. The Captain tumbled into the fort and the boat, which
had probably come in search of water, pulled back to the frigate.

This was my grandfather's only exploit during the war. That his prompt
and bold conduct was instrumental in teaching the enemy the hopelessness