independent of Mexico. He served under Governor Micheltorena in the revolution of 1845, and was present at the battle of the Alamo, where that governor was defeated by Pico and Castro and driven out of the territory. He enlisted in Fremont's battalion and served in it until it was mustered out of the service.

Juan Flaco never received any compensation for his perilous ride. It was but one of the many brave deeds unhonored and unsung of the daring pioneers, who explored and conquered the far west.

He died at Stockton, December 10, 1859. John Brown, but generally known and called by his California nick-name Juan Flaco (Lean John) was a man of strict integrity, of a social disposition and generous impulses. He died in very straitened circumstances.

MY RECOLLECTIONS OF EX-PRESIDENT MARTIN VAN

BUREN AND HIS FRIENDS.

BY JOHN WARD COONEY, OF MISSOULA, MONTANA.

Martin Van Buren was president of the United States from 1837 to 1841. The historians (I am told) say that his administration is not considered much of a political or administrative success, and that he is now looked upon as one of our mediocre presidents. However that may be I do not know. As a boy of twelve I knew him only as a kind and considerate employer, a pleasant and genial old man who stood high in the estimation of all who came into contact with him.

Shortly after Mr. Van Buren in 1841 returned from Washington and resumed his residence in the little Dutch village of Kinderhook, Columbia county, New York, my father, Patrick J. Cooney, moved from Plattsburgh, New York, and accepted a position with the expresident as manager of his large estate. The ex-president's home was located near the village of Kinderhook, on one corner of the old patroon estate of old Peter Van Ness, one of the old Dutch aristocracy, and his residence, the old Van Ness homestead, which Mr. Van Buren had remodeled by building at one end a large tower which gave the old building quite a castle-like appearance. In this roomy old mansion which he rechristened "Lindenwall," Mr. Van Buren lived until the time of his death.

During ten years I had much opportunity of seeing a great deal of the personal side of the man who had been once the president of the United States. Like another and a later ex-president, Mr. Van Buren seemed to find his chief recreation in fishing and outdoor tramps across the country. On such occasions I was his constant companion, carrying his lunch basket or fishing-rods and guiding him to the best fishing spots. As a result of this I was dubbed in the village the "president's boy," an appellation which for some boyish reason I resented furiously and which cost some of my playmates sundry black eyes, on various occasions.

As I remember Mr. Van Buren he was a little man with keen eyes, a gentle smile, a wide full forehead and gray side whiskers, which he had a habit of twisting sidewise to a point when he was very much moved. Perhaps his chief characteristic was the kindli

ness of heart. He hated to give pain to any living creature. One incident which I remember recalls this forcibly to mind.

Returning from one of his trips to New York the President brought with him a splendid fishing-rod, which was said to have cost ten dollars, in those days an enormous price for a fishing-rod. To be able to boast that I had caught a fish with the president's wonderful new rod became at once the greatest object in my life. Eagerly I accompanied him on the next fishing trip. On the road we passed an enormous turtle and the president with the almost childish curiosity which was one of his characteristics, amused himself by poking the reptile with the end of the pole, a proceeding which the turtle resented by grabbing it and proceeding calmly on its way.

"Johnny! Why, Johnny!" gasped the old man, as he tugged at it ineffectually. "Why-he has my new rod. What shall we do to make him let go?"

We exhausted all expedients, but it was no use. Let go, the turtle would not, not even for an ex-president of the United States. "Well," I concluded, "there are only two things we can do: Cut off the turtle's head, or cut off the end of the rod."

"No, Johnny, no; we can't kill it-we mustn't kill it."

And for over an hour we followed his turtleship, one end of the rod in the turtle's mouth, the other in the president's hand, the latter fretting and fuming, but unable to make up his mind whether to sacrifice the rod or the turtle. Finally I strongly advised killing the turtle, but Mr. Van Buren again objected.

"No, Johnny, we can't kill the poor thing. Cut off the rod as close as you can."

In vain I protested, but Mr. Van Buren's mind was made up and the ten-dollar fishing-rod was sacrificed to save the turtle's life.

With about six inches of the rod still uptilted aggressively in his mouth the creature waddled on down the road, with a triumphant air. Amused at the ludicrous sight, Mr. Van Buren sat down on a stone by the roadside and laughed heartily.

"Look at him, Johnny. Why, he looks like a drunken sailor smoking a cigar."

To the President's home at Lindenwall came many of the prominent politicians of the time.-men whom I do not doubt figure prominently in our nation's history, but I was too small at the time. to remember all their names. Three names, however, I am sure of, principally on account of their generous tips, which no one at that time was too proud to refuse. Henry Clay, Commodore Singleton and Lieutenant Nicholson, the latter a naval officer. Most clearly

of all do I recall Henry Clay, the tall man who was especially generous with his coin, and whose long face seemed to my boyish imagination to bear some fancied resemblance to the head of a horse.

On one occasion when the "Big House," as we called the President's residence, was filled with visitors, the President, accompanied by several gentlemen, came down the garden path to where I was busily engaged in weeding a bed of onions.

"John, these gentlemen and I are going fishing tomorrow. Stop your work and go catch us some bait."

Sulkily I continued my work, and the President, somewhat surprised, repeated his request.

"I don't want to go catching bait for you, Mr. Van Buren.” "But, why?-My goodness!-Why, Johnny?"

I did not mince words. I had been nursing my grievance for over a week in silence.

"Because the last time I went you did not pay me."

There was a simultaneous roar of laughter from the visitors, and they proceeded to make merry at the President's expense.

"But, Johnny," he protested, "you did not catch any minnows the last time you went."

"I know it," I protested, "but I worked hard all day. It was not my fault that the rain had raised the creek. I worked for my pay and I should have it."

Again the visitors became hilarious and Henry Clay putting his hand in his pocket handed me a dollar with the remark:

You

"Well argued. Young man, I think you have a good case. will be a lawyer when you grow up." All those present, even the President, who was exact in business dealings even (his critics said) to the point of penuriousness, followed suit, and I found myself the proud possessor of eight or ten dollars. Needless to say that fishing expedition was well supplied with bait.

On his visits to Lindenwall, Clay was always accompanied by his negro valet, a tall, well-dressed negro named Alexander. With what wondering awe we boys gazed upon that colored man, for not even the lilies of the field were attired as gaily as he. Garbed always in the height of fashion in his master's cast-off clothes, black suit, white vest, white spats, with a gilt chain draped across his middle, and carrying a cane hooked on his arm he daily paraded the streets of the village of Kinderhook, with his head held high in the air, as if he reflected the national importance of his master. That a mere negro should assume such airs was gall and wormwood to our boyish souls, and I have no doubt that Alexander from the height of his

self-complacency looked down on us of the village as "poor white trash." But there was to come a time when the pride and glory of Alexander were to be extinguished in a cloud of humiliation.

One morning the Kentucky statesman called for his valet, but Alexander came not. Search of the estate and the village failed to discover him. Alexander, like his historic namesake, had been longing for other worlds to conquer, and finding himself in a free state, had quietly left during the night for parts unknown.

"Let him go," said Henry Clay, when they told him the news, "he will soon be back."

And come back he did in three weeks, the guadiness of his raiment transformed to rags and patches. For a whole day he hung about the village afraid to venture near the President's house, a mark for the jibes and jeers of all the boys in the village, before he could screw his courage up to the sticking point. As he approached with crestfallen mein, Henry Clay standing on the lawn stared at him coldly.

"I am glad you have come back, Alexander. I have your freedom papers all ready for you. You can take them and go."

But two weeks washing dishes in the kitchen of an Albany hotel had given Alexander a different view of freedom. He dropped to his knees on the grass and with tears streaming down his face begged:

"For God's sake, Massa Clay, I doan't want no freedom. Take me back. Whip me, punish me ef you wants to, but take me back. I won't run away no mo'."

But his master was obdurate, while the one-time haughty Alexander for ten minutes remained on his knees wailing piteously. But Clay must have relented, for an hour after, while passing through the servants' quarters, I saw Alexander, busy blacking his master's boots and singing happily to himself.

"Those poor white trash up at Albany doan't know how to use a colored gen'leman nohow," he confided to me a few days later.

Another incident I recall with the utmost vividness. Lying one night in bed gazing out the window, I noted that the lights, though it was near midnight, were still burning in the big room of the President's house, and the sound of voices came drifting to me through the night. The temptation to play the part of an eavesdropper overcame me, as I knew that the President and his friends were sitting up late talking politics. Barefoote 1 and bareheaded, I crept across the dew-soaked lawn and took refuge behind a tree before the wide-open bay window.

At the table were seated a dozen men, some of them in military