These “Academy boys” were ambitious; each annual exhibition was crowded, to listen to the speeches “of Coriolanus, Iago, Brutus, and Cassius” by “raw lads from the village and adjoining farms,” in all the bravery of local militia uniform—­blue coats “faced with red, matross swords, and hats of ’76.”  On such an occasion James Cooper, then a child of eight years, became the pride and admiration of Master Cory for his moving recitation of the “Beggar’s Petition”—­acting the part of an old man wrapped in a faded cloak and leaning over his staff.  It is recorded that James had the fine, healthy pie-appetite usual to his age, for, says the record, when his eldest brother “was showing the sights of New York to the youngest, he took him to a pasty-shop, and, after watching the boy eat pasty after pasty, said to him:  ’Jim, eat all you want, but remember that each one costs the old man a lot.’” Pasty then outbalanced property for “Jim.”

In due time the lad outgrew the Academy’s instruction, but from boy to-man he never outgrew Master Cory’s affection, nor his own for the dear home scenes on the shores of the “Haunted Lake,” which he was so soon to leave for his first important schooling.  The books he wrote later tell how he never forgot the howl of the wolf across the icy field of Otsego on cold winter nights, the peculiar wail of the sharp-toothed panther in the quiet wood roads, nor the familiar springs where the deer lingered latest.  One autumn day, while still a pupil under Master Cory’s charge, the future author of “The Pioneers” was at play in his father’s garden, when suddenly he was surprised by a deer which came leaping over the fence from the street, almost brushing his face as it bounded away into the pine woods at the back of the house.  This incident he often related to his children.

It was not long before this youngest son was sent from home.  The eventful journey to Albany was made in the care of a near and worthy farmer, “who was carrying toward the Hudson a load of wheat from the fields of Otsego.”  They went over the fine turnpike,—­the great highway of that day,—­“just finished from the Hudson to Cherry Valley.”  The child had heard much of this wonder of roads from the gentlemen at his father’s table who were interested in it, and he was eager to see its toll-gates and stone bridges.  After leaving “the corduroy tracks” leading to it from Cooperstown, the famous turnpike burst upon the gratified schoolboy’s vision.  As they trotted slowly along the farmer pointed out, among-other marvels of the way, “a tavern for every mile” of the sixty between Albany and Lake Otsego.  A long-train of farmers’ wagons, filled with the precious wheat, was slowly rolling eastward, passing-emigrant wagons of “growing families” and household gear moving westward to the great lake countries.  All this delighted the boy of nine, who was finally set down at the door of St. Peter’s Rectory at Albany, New York.  Here for four years he became