Dialogues Sur L'Eloquence (1861)

It was a warm fall day when the young man came out of the woods. He had been on his feet for 48 hours and found himself cold, hungry, and alone. He had met a kind woman that day, who was willing to give him a meal, which, he said, was fit for a king. Before he could leave, he found that he was running for his life. The Feds and local police were after him for a crime he did not commit. He ran across that corn stubble field trying to make it to the trees in the distance, but, as fate would have it, his life ended that day. He was shot and killed as he sat wounded on the ground, unarmed and alone. He received no trial, no judge, no jury. Pretty Boy Floyd was dead. Maybe he has moved on to another dimension, but could he be as close as my outstretched hand? Yes, and this is his story from the other side.