who, the whole time I was there, sat upon a stool in the
chimney-corner; indeed, he looked as if he had sat there ever since he was born. One of the wagon-masters said to the landlady one day, "Mother, is that your son that sits in the corner?" "My son!" said she, "why, don't you see he is a negro?" "A negro! is he?" said the man, "why I really thought he was your son, only that he had sat there until he was smoke-dried."
While the storm continued, to pass our time, several of our party went to a tavern in the neighbourhood. We here gambled a little for some liquor, by throwing a small dart or stick, armed at one end with a pin, at a mark on the ceiling of the room; while I was at this amusement I found that the landlord and I bore the same name, and upon further discourse I found that he had a son about my age, whose given name was the same as mine. This son was taken prisoner at fort Lee, on the Hudson river, in the year 1776, and died on his way home. These good people were almost willing to pursuade themselves that I was their son. There were two very pretty girls, sisters to the deceased young man, who seemed wonderfully taken up with me, called me "brother," and I fared none the worse for my name. I used often, afterwards, in my cruises to that part of the State, to call in as I passed, and was always well treated by the whole family. The landlord used to fill my canteen with whiskey, or peach or cider brandy to enable me, as he said, to climb the Welch mountains. I always went there with pleasure and left with regret. I often wished afterwards that I could find more namesakes.
I was sent one day, with another man of our party, to drive some cattle to the Quartermaster-General's quarters. It was dark when we arrived there. After we had delivered the cattle, an officer belonging to the Quartermaster-General's department asked me if I had a canteen. I answered in the negative, (I had left mine at my quarters.) "A soldier," said he "should always have a canteen," and I was sorry that I was just then deficient of that article, for he gave us a half pint tumbler full of genuine old Jamaica spirits, which was, like Boniface's ale, "as smooth as oil." It was too late to return to our quarters that night, so we concluded to go to camp, about three miles distant, and see our old messmates. Our
