From Watertown, I worked East, where I fell in with a family by the name of Thompson, who owned a large stock-raising farm in the foot hills of Mount Seward, not far from North Elba, the Adirondack home of John Brown.

My experience with the Thompsons left a vivid impression on my memory which never grows dim.

As I remember them Mr. Thompson was short, heavy set, blue eyed, fair complexion, with a physiognomy indicating that he seldom suffered defeat. He was usually thoughtful and serious, but when telling stories or relating experience he was full of mirth.

Mary, his wife, was an interesting woman. Her stout figure, dark eyes and hair with fair skin made her look striking, especially in laughing, when her eyes twinkled and gave expression of mirth. All the animals on the farm were seemingly her special pets, but their little dog Joe came in for the lion's share. Really the little white, curly fellow with black eyes and nose, when standing erect with head and tail up, did look as though he was monarch of all he surveyed. Everybody loved him except the cats. Much of Mrs. Thompson's time was given over to church work, for which she must have been well fitted, as her Christian character was discernible at every move and turn.

Vida, their daughter of sixteen summers, was fair, with large dark eyes, auburn hair and prominent chin. Her quick glance and mirthful smile betokened self-esteem and decisive character, while glee and dare innocently portrayed pent emotion and artful design.

During the evening I turned the conversation to the story of John Brown, and was glad to learn that Mr. Thompson had been a near friend of Brown and was with him on the Kennedy farm only a few days before the raid on Harper's Ferry.

At Mrs. Thompson's suggestion we planned that we four take a horseback ride after church services on the morrow, up to the Brown farm and see John's grave and the big rock nearby from which, in former days, he had done much preaching to the mountaineers.

Our horses were good lopers, taking us up and downhill through the woods to the farm, at which we arrived very quickly, but found none of the family at home. We finally gained entrance to the little farm house and sat in John's chair by his cheap desk. Afterwards we climbed on the big rock now near his grave which seems to stand as a lone sentinel, in the rocky wilds, silently calling the coming generations to the resting place of the ashes of him who followed the dictates of conscience, regardless of immediate results.

After enjoying hot cream biscuit with wild honey and crabapple jelly, with a neighbor of the Browns, we started down the mountain, and through the evening we sat before the crackling hickory flames in the great fireplace while Mr. Thompson gave his experience with the Browns, which were substantially as follows:

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