fire. The prairies were frequently fired. One day when the wind was very high I saw a band of soldiers on a high ridge some three miles away. Two in the rear seemed to stop. A blaze arose. The flames came leaping toward where I was, and I believe in less than ten minutes they had covered the three miles. The whole sky was black with smoke. Some neighbors fought the fire and escaped injury to their farms. Others did not.

CHAPTER V.

"ORDER NO. 11."-A TRUE ACCOUNT BY ONE OF ITS VICTIMS, WHO, WITH THE WONDERING EYES OF A BOY, SAW ITS HORRORS.

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T LAST the awful end came. On August 23, 1863, General Ewing, a commander of United States troops at Kansas City, Mo., issued the famous "Order No. 11." This order required every one in our home county, Jackson, and other adjacent territory to leave in fifteen days. The following is a true copy of the order:

GENERAL ORDER NO. 11.

"Headquarters, District of the Border, Kansas City, Mo., August 25, 1863. "First.-All persons living in Cass, Jackson and Bates Counties, Missouri, and in that part of Vernon included in this district, except those living within one mile of the limits of Independence, Hickman's Mills, Pleasant Hill and Harrisonville, and except those in that part of Kaw Township, Jackson County, north of Brush Creek and west of the Big Blue, embracing Kansas City and Westport, are hereby ordered to remove from their present places of residence within fifteen days of the date hereof. Those who, within that time, establish their loyalty to the satisfaction of the commanding officer of the military station nearest their present places of residence, will receive from him certificates stating the fact of their loyalty and the names of the witnesses by whom it can be shown. All who receive such certificates will be permitted to remove to any military station in this district, or to any part of the State of Kansas, except the counties on the eastern border of that State. All others shall remove out of this disrict. Officers commanding companies and detachments serving in the counties named will see that this paragraph is promptly obeyed.

"Second. All hay and grain in the field, or under shelter in the district, from which the inhabitants are required to remove, within reach of military stations, after the 9th of September, next, will be taken to such stations and turned over to the proper officers there; and reports of the amounts so turned over made to district headquarters, specifying the names of all loyal owners

and the amount of such produce taken from them. All grain and hay found in such district after the 9th of September, next, not convenient to such stations, will be destroyed.

"Third. The provisions of General Order No. 10 from these headquarters will be at once vigorously executed by officers commanding in the parts of the district, and at the stations not subject to the operations of paragraph first of this order-especially in the towns of Independence, Westport and Kansas City.

"Fourth.-Paragraph 3, General Order No. 10, is revoked as to all who have borne arms against the government in this district since August 20, 1863 "By order of Brigadier General Ewing,

"H. Hannahs, Adjutant."

The Union forces had full possession of all the towns, and were, except as to the trouble given them by the Guerrillas, in absolute control of the country. There was nothing to do but obey the Order. It was a tragic hour. All of our horses broke to work, except two, had by this time been taken. We had three or four yoke of oxen. Many of our neighbors had no conveyance of any kind. Marshall, who was still with us, with the oxen and a big wagon, and I with the two horses and an ordinary wagon, undertook in the hour of necessity, and of course without recompense, to transfer these neighbors and their household goods to Independence, the nearest military post. We worked at it day and night, Marshall killing an extra young ox, which had been pressed into service, and I overworking the horses until one of them was afterwards worthless. Indeed, we worked for others until we were one day over-time in leaving the country.

Our outfit as we moved slowly to Callaway County, Missouri, our destination, was as follows: In the lead was a wagon containing household goods drawn by one yoke of oxen, driven by my father. Then came a rickety old surrey, an old "rockaway," as we called it, in which were seated my mother, A. A. Wallace, then an infant, and T. B. Wallace, next to the youngest, also my step-sister, Emma Ryley, and a negro girl, Louisa. This "rockaway" was drawn by a very old, worn-out sorrel horse. Our buggy harness had all been stolen, and old sorrel was clad in harness consisting of an old plow blind-bridle, a work back-band, big wide breeching, commonly used on the wheelers in a six-horse team, and ordinary iron trace-chains. Next came Marshall, driving two yoke of oxen with a big wagon filled with household goods, mainly furniture and bedding. Our blankets and things of that sort had been stolen. On the top of this load were seated my two brothers, John and Charles, Aunt Mary and her daughters, Mandy

and Patsy. Then came in the rear a few mares, colts and cattle driven by my step-brother, Archie Ryley, and myself.

As intimated above, Archie, Marshall and myself were one night over-time in leaving, a dangerous experiment caused by hauling for neighbors. No other night has painted upon my memory such a scene of silent horror. My father, mother and the younger children had gone on ahead, crossing the Missouri River at Kansas City, leaving Archie, Marshall and myself behind. The big wagon stood in the yard, close to the house, loaded. Soldiers had just camped in the yard the night before, hitching their horses to the trees, and leaving the straw and pieces of a beef they had killed and fragments of burned rails used in cooking scattered about on the ground. Tired, I climbed to the top of the load on the big wagon, and lay down to rest. Night was just coming on, and we were to start before day the next morning. Houses were on fire in the distance. The yoked oxen lay silent in the lot. The few remaining stock were penned farther away. Probably not a human being was within fifteen miles of us. We had no cover for the wagon, and I gazed at the stars as they came out. Though I knew I could see them when I reached my destination, it seemed that I was telling my boyhood stars goodby forever. It was August, and the balmy air was not stirring a leaf; the hush was intense.

After a while the silence was broken. A dog left behind at a neighboring house began to howl piteously. The dogs throughout the neighborhood took it up. Their howls rang out upon the stilly air, some of them seeming miles away. They missed their masters and the children with whom they had played, and their doleful voices continued throughout the night. Thus was the awful reign of "Order No. 11" howled in.

We were off the next morning before it was good light. When about two miles west of Lone Jack, and still four or five miles inside of Jackson County, we met a band of Federal troops. Our crowd consisted of two boys and one negro, and although we were inside of forbidden territory over-time, they said not a word to us.

Marshall, Archie and myself passed through Lafayette County, getting the negroes last above named, where they were staying at Dr. Keith's, near what is now known as Odessa. We crossed the river at Lexington, and joined, near Richmond, Mo., my father, mother and the other children, who had crossed at Kansas City. With the outfit above described we continued our journey to

Fulton, Mo. We stopped several days at Columbia, Mo., where a brother of my step-mother, Dr. Archibald Young, resided, and where relatives of my own mother lived. When within a few miles of Columbia my father bade me proceed into town and announce our coming. Before starting my mother wished me to make my toilet. I was then clad in an old straw hat, a tow linen coat and what we would now call a working man's shirt, a pair of tow linen trousers and plow shows. My toilet was quickly made, for all I had to do was to climb over a rail fence into a hemp patch and put on a working man's clean shirt, all the extra wardrobe I had. I made the announcement, and in a short time the caravan above described moved slowly up the main street into the Athens of Missouri.

We were most kindly received. The beautiful homes of Columbia were thrown wide open to us. In less, I think, than twentyfour hours Mrs. J. L. Stephens, mother of Hon. E. W. Stephens, Mrs. R. B. Price and Miss Lizzie Hockaday, all sisters and first cousins of my own mother, asked me to go down town with them, where they bought me a nice fall suit of clothes.

After a short stay in Columbia we proceeded to Fulton, Mo., where my father, at a very small salary, was given a professorship in Westminster College-then in very straitened circumstances. We lived on a rented farm. That winter was a fearful ordeal for us. Seven of our horses and colts, including my old pony, sold for $142, all told. Some of the cattle went about as cheap. We paid $20 a ton for hay to feed the little stock we had left. The thermometer was for some time below zero that winter. I had no overcoat and nothing to wear except that fall suit given me in Columbia, and a cotton shirt under it. I said to my mother one day that I got a little cold while milking, feeding the stock and getting up wood. She made me a flannel shirt. My! what comfort I got from it! Some church in St. Louis, hearing of our condition, sent us a big goods box full of old second-hand clothes. My mother said we had some pride still left and that we would shiver in the winter's blast rather than wear them. The box and contents were returned. Our food that winter was about as scanty as our clothing. When people get poorer, Heaven pity them!

CHAPTER VI.

WORKING AS A FARM HAND AND TEACHING SCHOOL TO GET SUFFICIENT MONEY TO ATTEND COLLEGE-REFENCING THE

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FARM-MY COLLEGE DAYS.

FTER two years' stay at Fulton, during which time I attended the preparatory department and began the study

of Latin and Greek at Westminster College, the war was over and my father, with one yoke of oxen-the others had been soldand a pair of old dilapidated mules, which he had purchased, prepared for the journey back to the farm. A benevolent citizen from whom he had rented, Judge T. B. Nesbit, wanted to know what he was going to do with the boy, Will. My step-brother was then dead. My father replied that he had no money to send Will to college, and would be compelled to take him back to the farm. Judge Nesbit said, "Let him stay at my house and get a college education. His board will not cost you a cent." I stayed at his home as a member of his family for three and a half years and attended college, paying of course expenses outside of my board with money my father gave me or I earned myself. Heaven bless Judge Nesbit's noble, generous soul. I am sure he is with that God-man whom he loved and who lived for others and gave his life for them.

When my father returned to his home at the close of the war his farm had been laid waste. Practically nothing remained but the old house, which the bluegrass in the yard seemed to have protected from the fires which desolated the prairie lands. He had no money and not much stock. I left Judge Nesbit's for a time and joined him. He began with dauntless energy to get upon his feet again. The negroes were gone, and my brothers were yet too young to work, the oldest one of them being about seven years younger than myself. My father had no money to hire. even one farm hand. The country settled up almost by magic, farmers not ruined by the war pouring in from Illinois and elsewhere. My father taught school in one country district. Though only eighteen, I taught in another. I taught in an old stable about fifteen feet square with fodder set up around the sides to keep the wind out. My father and I fed the stock as a rule during the winter before it was good light, and after dusk. More than once by moonlight reflected from the snow we cut and hauled wood at