t.
Paul for that pretty attention.

The time of the passing of the presidential train seemed well known,
even on the Dakota prairies. At one point I remember a little brown
schoolhouse stood not far off, and near the track the school-ma'am,
with her flock, drawn up in line. We were at luncheon, but the
President caught a glimpse ahead through the window, and quickly took
in the situation. With napkin in hand, he rushed out on the platform
and waved to them. "Those children," he said, as he came back, "wanted
to see the President of the United States, and I could not disappoint
them. They may never have another chance. What a deep impression such
things make when we are young!"

At some point in the Dakotas we picked up the former foreman of his
ranch and another cowboy friend of the old days, and they rode with
the President in his private car for several hours. He was as happy
with them as a schoolboy ever was in meeting old chums. He beamed with
delight all over. The life which those men represented, and of which
he had himself once formed a part, meant so much to him; it had
entered into the very marrow of his being, and I could see the joy of
it all shining in his face as he sat and lived parts of it over again
with those men that day. He bubbled with laughter continually. The
men, I thought, seemed a little embarrassed by his open-handed
cordiality and good-fellowship. He himself evidently wanted to forget
the present, and to live only in the memory of those wonderful ranch
days,--that free, hardy, adventurous life upon the plains. It all came
back to him with a rush when he found himself alone with these heroes
of the rope and the stirrup. How much more keen his appreciation was,
and how much quicker his memory, than theirs! He was constantly
recalling to their minds incidents which they had forgotten, and the
names of horses and dogs which had escaped them. His subsequent life,
instead of making dim the memory of his ranch days, seemed to have
made it more vivid by contrast.

When they had gone I said to him, "I think your affection for those
men very beautiful."

"How could I help it?" he said.

"Still, few men in your station could or would go back and renew such
friendships."

"Then I pity them," he replied.

He said afterwards that his ranch life had been the making of him. It
had built him up and hardened him physically, and it had opened his
eyes to the wealth of manly character among the plainsme