ought the
training of men and mounts to a point of excellence such enthusiasts as
Cranston only dreamed of in the old campaigning days, when there was
little opportunity for experiment or practice in any other branch of
the trooper's art than that developed on the trail of savage foe.
Already the men who were stripling soldiers in '76 are wearing
patriarchal--long since they assumed patronizing--airs towards those who
came too late to learn campaigning when the Indian was not hemmed in by
railways, but ruled the Plains, proud monarch of all he surveyed.
Already silver threads are streaking the beards and temples of even such
rollicking spirits as Sanders, while Boynton is gray as the chargers of
the troop he commands. Cranston's squadron was cheered to the skies when
it marched away from Chicago after its month of riot duty, and on the
plains of Evanston during the manoeuvres the visitors thronged to see
the feats in horsemanship displayed by the men of Davies's troop. Even
in the Eleventh he was held to be the most brilliant instructor as well
as the most judicious and successful troop commander. Old-time dragoons
simply couldn't understand it. Here was a man who would neither drink,
swear, nor flare up and boil over when things went wrong on drill, but
preserved a calm, even-tempered, dignified bearing at all times. True,
he had native gifts which were not shared by all his kind,--a deep,
resonant voice, a ringing word of command, a fine physique, an admirable
seat, and an easy, practised hand, all of which were combined with a
consummate knowledge of his art. He was equally at home in saddle or
squad-room, and at all times was friend and almost father to his men.
"A" Troop, once the worst-drilled in the Eleventh, and universally known
as the "Differentials," is now called "the Parson's Flock," but there is
no irreverence in the term, for soldiers honor men like him whose faith
is backed by courage long tried on many a field. There isn't a man in
Cranston's squadron who would not resent an affront to their pet troop
commander, as they would were the major himself the object of aspersion,
and as for Agatha, his wife,--Florence Nightingale was not more beloved.

They were talking of it all the other evening, seated among the tents on
the broad, level prairie just before the separation for the winter
stations was announced. The old chaplain was there to say farewell to
his own stalwart son, now wearing his first shoulder-