How the mighty had fallen, since I was a boy. Nothing there but patches of corn, weeds and briers and desolation every where else, except where the Rail Road and public road made a difference. I walked on to the right were the sign Greenwood is and the bridge across the creek, and where the water tank wood shed had been. I found nothing there, but two tired looking men, sitting about twenty feet apart, saying nothing, in garbs like I wear when doing manual labor. No houses in sight, and no one there in that lonesome place but us three, and I did not know their attitude toward me, but I knew mine toward them was one of apprehension, lest they were "hold up men" and that I would be fortunate to escape with the loss of a few dollars. I thought it best not to ask their names, lest they should think that it was none of my business. They volunteered no information, only one talked, and he only as I pulled it out of him. I ask him, if he lived around there? and his answer was, "yes, down in Houseton valley," which helped me none, for I had never heard of such a valley, which made bad matters worse with me, concerning them. I had intended going down the creek apiece, to the old washhole, where I learned myself to swim, in 1865, 73 years before; but the way looked weedy and lonesome, and decided these fellows might follow me, hold me up, and fix me so I would swim no more. I knew, That wise men change their opinion, and fools never, so I bade them good day, and felt better as I put distance between us. Like going, I tried to skip the mud as much as possible, on my return, and on arrival I sat on a running board of a car, pulled out my pocket knife and scraped the mud off my Sunday shoes. Directly, Walter McCalla came out got a cloth and wiped them clean. I told him, That he was doing the spirit of feet-washing as found in the Bible. After he had put the mud back on earth, where it belong, he polished and made them as glossy, as my fine-new boots were, when I married his aunt, Miss Kate F. McCalla, Dec., 25, 1881, she 19, and I 27. But I must pull myself up and back to modern times and finish my tale of being scared. Well, I went in and sat down, and when there was a break in the conversation, I said: Let me tell you a joke I got on myself down at Greenwood. Then I told them what I had been through, and found out that Houston valley was near, which I had known as Hambright. Then Albert McCalla said: "Those men may be your kinfolks." I said they are in middle life, and one had lost an eye. Then McCalla said, "They are your kinfolks." Then the joke turned into a loss with me, and all the fun was lost, because I was up there to touch up with kinfolks, and behold I had found two more of them face to face; and let them slip through my fingers, because of my ignorance, and too scared to ask their name. If I had known their name was Ware, all affright, would have turned to joy, and we would have had a feast of memories.

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