Winning His Way

Winning His Way, by Charles Carleton Coffin

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Title: Winning His Way
Author: Charles Carleton Coffin

Release Date: October 7, 2007 [eBook #22913]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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WINNING HIS WAY.
by
CHARLES CARLETON COFFIN,
Author "Story of Liberty," "Boys of '76," "My Days and Nights on the Battlefield," "Our New Way Round the World," "Following the Flag," Etc.

Boston, Mass.: Perry Mason & Co. 1888.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by Charles Carleton Coffin, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts

CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. FIRST YEARS 1
II. HARD TIMES 27
III. MERRY TIMES 42
IV. MUSIC AND PAINTING 63
V. THE NIGHT-HAWKS 82
VI. PAUL'S FRIENDS 91
VII. IN A TRAP 103
VIII. KEEPING SCHOOL 116
IX. RALLYING ROUND THE FLAG 126
X. A SOLDIER 144
XI. SCOUTING 156
XII. MISSED FROM HOME 170
XIII. THE MARCH 175
XIV. THE BATTLE 180
XV. SHOWING WHAT HE WAS MADE OF 190
XVI. HONOR TO THE BRAVE 200
XVII. CHICKAMAUGA 207
XVIII. HOW HE LIVED IN THE MEMORY OF HIS FRIENDS 211
XIX. WHAT BECAME OF A TRAITOR 217
XX. DARK DAYS 224
XXI. CONSECRATION 233
XXII. UNDER THE OLD FLAG 241
XXIII. THE JAWS OF DEATH 248
XXIV. HOME 253

WINNING HIS WAY.
CHAPTER I.
FIRST YEARS.
Many years ago, before railroads were thought of, a company of Connecticut farmers, who had heard marvellous stories of the richness of the land in the West, sold their farms, packed up their goods, bade adieu to their friends, and with their families started for Ohio.
After weeks of travel over dusty roads, they came to a beautiful valley, watered by a winding river. The hills around were fair and sunny. There were groves of oaks, and maples, and lindens. The air was fragrant with honeysuckle and jasmine. There was plenty of game. The swift-footed deer browsed the tender grass upon the hills. Squirrels chattered in the trees and the ringdoves cooed in the depths of the forest. The place was so fertile and fair, so pleasant and peaceful, that the emigrants made it their home, and called it New Hope.
They built a mill upon the river. They laid out a wide, level street, and a public square, erected a school-house, and then a church. One of their number opened a store. Other settlers came, and, as the years passed by, the village rang with the shouts of children pouring from the school-house for a frolic upon the square. Glorious times they had beneath the oaks and maples.
One of the jolliest of the boys was Paul Parker, only son of Widow Parker, who lived in a little old house, shaded by a great maple, on the outskirts of the village. Her husband died when Paul was in his cradle. Paul's grandfather was still living. The people called him "Old Pensioner Parker," for he fought at Bunker Hill, and received a pension from government. He was hale and hearty, though more than eighty years of age.
The pension was the main support of the family. They kept a cow, a pig, turkeys, and chickens, and, by selling milk and eggs, which Paul carried to their customers, they brought the years round without running in debt. Paul's pantaloons had a patch on each knee, but he laughed just as loud and whistled just as cheerily for all that.
In summer he went barefoot. He did not have to turn out at every mud-puddle, and he could plash into the mill-pond and give the frogs a crack over the head without stopping to take off stockings and shoes. Paul did not often have a dinner of roast beef, but he had an abundance of bean porridge, brown bread, and milk.
"Bean porridge is wholesome food, Paul," said his grandfather. "When I was a boy we used to say,--
'Bean porridge hot, Bean porridge cold,-- Bean porridge best Nine days old.'
The wood-choppers in winter used to freeze it into cakes and carry it into the woods. Many a time I have made a good dinner on a chunk of frozen porridge."
The Pensioner remembered what took place in his early years, but he lost his reckoning many times a day upon what was going on in the town. He loved to tell stories, and Paul was a willing listener. Pleasant winter-evenings they had in the old kitchen, the hickory logs blazing on the hearth, the tea-kettle singing through its nose, the