FROM Detroit, I went, by railroad, to Toledo, Ohio, distant eighty or ninety miles. I stopped there with the view of visiting an uncle of mine, whom I had never seen, and who resided near a little village called Holland, nine miles from the city. I inquired a whole day for a village of that name, but no one knew where it was. I began to think of offering a reward for it; but at last went to the post-office, where I gained the desired information. I was told that Holland was a little place on the Air Line Railroad, and that it was also—and, in fact, regularly—called Springfield. I was furthermore told that the first train would go at ten o’clock that night.

As I did not contemplate remaining long at my uncle’s, I left my trunk at an hotel in Toledo, and went out to Holland, alias Springfield, on that ten-o’clock train. It happened to be a naturally slow train, and, besides, it met with a little accident on the way; so that it was eleven o’clock when we reached Holland, which I found to be a little village, comprising a couple of dwelling-houses and a small grocery-store.

When I got off the train, it moved on, and I found myself standing beside the track, alone—a “stranger in a strange land,” at night-time. What was I to do? The village appeared to be wrapped in sleep, and not a light was to be seen. Presently, however, I looked toward Toledo, and saw a man—obviously an employé of the road—approaching me, carrying a red lantern in his hand.

“Good evening,” said I.

“How do you do?” he returned, sleepily. “Did you just come up?”

“Yes—just got off the train.”

“How did you—O, I thought it was Simon McCann,” he said, as he drew nearer.

“No, I am not Simon,” I replied. “On the contrary, my name is Smith—first name John. Do you know any one of that name here?”

What a question to ask anywhere in the world!

“O, yes; half-a-dozen families. There’s old John, and——”

“Do you know William Smith?”

“Yes—quite an old man, is he not?”

“Probably he is. I never saw him. He moved here twenty-five years ago.”

“From Pennsylvania?”

“Yes.”

“Are you from Pennsylvania?”

“Yes; can you——”

“I see you’ve lost a”—I began to tremble now—“leg.”

“Yes, can——”

“In the army?”

I shuddered at the thought of having to stand there and answer four or five hundred questions, at that time of night; and I determined, as I perceived he was getting into a regular train of army questions, to make a desperate attempt at insulation.

“Yes, can——”

“What battle?”

“Antietam where does——”

“What reg——”

I had already begun to ignore commas, and I now saw the necessity of throwing out the spaces between my words; and I hurriedly replied:

“Eighthpennsylvaniareserveswheredidyousaywilliamsmithlives?”

The spell was broken, and he responded, like a white man:

“About two miles from here.”

“Is there no hotel here?”

“None.”

“No house of entertainment?”

“No.”

“Is there any chance then to get a conveyance?”

“None that I know of.”

“Then I must walk it. Will you direct me to his house?”

“Yes; you go——”

He gave me the directions, and they appeared so plain that I fancied I could find my uncle’s house with my eyes shut.

The moon was just up, the night was beautiful and pleasant, and the roads surpassingly muddy; and I had a walk that night that, I think, will never “slip my memory.” The land in this portion of Ohio is low and flat, the soil black, loose and soft—very fertile, too, so far as that is concerned; but a man isn’t particular about rich ground to walk on with a crutch—and the soundings were from three to thirty inches.

At the first cross-road, I went astray—took the wrong road, traveled half-a-mile on it, and, beginning to grow apprehensive, stopped by a gate, yelled, waked somebody’s neighbor, and asked if that was the road to William Smith’s?

“Did you come from the station?” was the response of the neighbor, who was in his night-dress.

“Yes.”

“Then you are on the wrong road. You should have kept on toward the south at the cross-roads. It is at the next cross-road after that. Then you turn to the——” I thought he said——“right.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

The door closed, and I was alone. I retraced my muddy way, followed closely by a large savage dog belonging to the owner of the house, while—the soil being unusually pliable there—my crutch sunk in eighteen inches at every step.

Before reaching my uncle’s that night, I got off the wrong road, and on it again, five times, did two miles of superfluous walking and two miles of the requisite article, waked whole dozens of neighbors, and alarmed whole battalions of dogs. These faithful creatures barked furiously as I approached, and set others to barking, in response, at a distance, and they barked and set others to barking at another distance, and they others, and so on, and so on, again; till I must have indirectly and innocently aroused or disturbed the greater portion of the population of Ohio that night. Cleveland, Sandusky, Steubenville, Columbus, Dayton, and Cincinnati, all heard from me through the dogs.

At last, worn and weary and covered with mud, I found the place, and not without apprehensions of getting shot for a robber, approached the door, and knocked.

As intimated, I had never seen my uncle, and how did I know what kind of man he was, or what sort of reception awaited me? Suppose he should be ill-natured, being disturbed at that time of night, and make me feel as though I were not welcome? Such misgivings suggested themselves to me, as I stood at the door.

I knocked a couple of times, without getting any reply, and began to fear that my uncle supposed me to be a burglar and was getting his gun ready to shoot through the door. I therefore stepped aside, and yelled:

“Hallo!”

I heard a movement within, but no reply.

“Hallo!” I repeated: the somber echoes of my voice rang through a gloomy wood near by; and I was a little afraid it might stir up a panther or wildcat, and tempt it to come out and eat a piece of me.

“Who is there?” came from within.

“Does William Smith live here?” was my non-committal rejoinder.

“Yes.”

“I am his nephew from Pennsylvania, John Smith, Junior,” said I, in a distinct voice.

The whole house shook, as my uncle sprung from the bed and alighted on the floor of the little old-fashioned farm-house.

“Wait one moment,” said he, in a voice that was musical with welcome.

There was a hasty fumbling among garments for a moment, and a glad little light sprung up within, and peeped slyly out at me from crevices about the door. Then the door opened, and before me stood a strong old man of seventy-three, with snow-white hair and beard.

“Is this my uncle?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied, cordially grasping my hand. “Come in, my boy! You are my nephew John?”

“Yes.”

“And have lost your leg. Too bad!”

“O, I don’t mind that any more, uncle,” I said, as I walked in.

Never have I been received anywhere with such open-hearted welcome, as by this aged uncle. It was nearly two o’clock; my aunt—only two years younger than he—soon made her appearance, and welcomed me as cordially as he had done: ten thousand questions were asked and answered, and the early morning would have found us still in conversation, but that my uncle, by and by, observed that I must be tired, after my walk, and said I had better take some rest.

That I had walked from the station with my crutch and cane, lost my way several times, and wandered about over some portion of the State of Ohio, was a matter of marvel to him.

Not to tire the reader with family affairs—however interesting a general history of the Smith Family might be—I will silently pass over the brief and happy period I spent with my good uncle and aunt.

I took a propeller at Toledo, for Buffalo, and after a pleasant voyage of two nights and a day, on Lake Erie, arrived at that city.

I spent a few days there among my Cold Spring friends—in the course of which I had but one narrow escape from drowning, while out on the lake on a pleasure-excursion—then returned to Philadelphia, via the New York and Erie, Northern Central, and Pennsylvania Central Railroads.