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When the news was flashed across the country that Fort Sumter had been fired upon the writer was a 12-year-old boy residing in West Carthage. The events of those days stand forth in his memory like the hillcrests of a landscape. The shot electrified the north, and the martial current that went from man to man was imparted to the boys. Favorite sports and pastimes lost their zest. Juvenile military companies paraded the streets every evening and mimic battles were fought every Saturday afternoon. The flag lowered over Fort Sumter was unfurled everywhere. Flags cost money in those days, too, but they were flung to the breeze from the tops of churches, school houses, business places and the homes of the rich and the poor. I used to go up on the roof of my home nearly every day to count the new banners. The rendezvous for the boys of our neighborhood was Jim Corey's blacksmith shop. Jim was a typical «village blacksmith» with a hearty greeting for every one, old and young. The boys could always count on Jim's sympathy if they had a stone bruise, got a licking at home or lacked ten cents of the price of a circus ticket. Corey's shop was also a favorite meeting place for the men. Here they would assemble after supper and discuss the all-absorbing topic, the war.