{illust. caption = my father, George Moore.}

My father’s name was George Moore, and his father’s name was Martin Moore.  He was of Irish descent.  He had two brothers who died when the cholera raged in Kentucky, about 1842.  One of them, William Moore, married a Miss Blackburn of Versailles, Ky.  He had several sisters, some of them died young.

Mark Antony, in his memorial address over the body of Caesar, said that Brutus was Caesar’s angel.  If I ever had an angel on earth, it was my father.  I have met many men who had lovable characters, but none equaled him in my estimation.  He was not a saint, but a man—­one of the noblest works of God.  He was impetuous, quick, impatient, but never nervous, could collect himself in a moment and was always master of the situation.  I have seen him in many trying places but never remember to have seen him in a condition of being afraid.  When he lived in Cass County, Mo., during the war, we saw Quantrell’s men coming up to the house.  These men were dressed in slouch hats, gray suits, and had their guns and haversacks roped to their saddles.  My father was a union man, but a southern sympathizer.  He cried like a child when he heard the south had seceded and taken another flag.  He did not know to what extent he was disliked by this gang of bushwhackers, and we were very much alarmed; fully expected some harm was meant.  Men on both sides were frequently taken out and shot down.  When the Bushwhackers would kill a union man then the Jayhawkers would kill “a secesh.”

My father said to us:  “You stay in the house and keep quiet.  I will meet them.”  I watched him through a window.  He was tall and straight as an Indian.  He walked up to them, taking off his hat and called “Good morning” to them in a friendly tone.  Asked them to get off their horses, for he had a treat for them.  In the corner of the yard was the carriage house and under that was a rock spring house, through which a living stream of water ran around the pans of milk.  He took them to the door, gave them seats, then went in this milkhouse and brought out a jar of buttermilk.  I have heard it said that buttermilk is one of the greatest treats to a soldier.  He talked with these men as if they had been friends; brought out fruit; loaded them with bread, butter and milk; and they left without even taking a horse from us.  I fully believe it was their intention to do some harm, but by the tact of my father they were disarmed.  “A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir up strife.”  He was a thorough business man, but his social qualities exceeded all others.  He often had to pay security debts, one for Mr. Key, his brother-in-law, of five thousand dollars.  Just before the election of Lincoln, he took a large drove of mules to Natchez, Miss., twenty-two of these mules were of his own raising.  While there Lincoln was elected, which threw the south into war.  He sold the mules on time and never