cise in its fulfillment. We seldom presumed
a second time on his forgetfulness or tolerance. We knew he loved us,
for he often took us to his knees of an evening and told us stories of
marches and battles, or chanted war-songs for us, but the moments of his
tenderness were few and his fondling did not prevent him from almost
instant use of the rod if he thought either of us needed it.

His own boyhood had been both hard and short. Born of farmer folk in
Oxford County, Maine, his early life had been spent on the soil in and
about Lock's Mills with small chance of schooling. Later, as a teamster,
and finally as shipping clerk for Amos Lawrence, he had enjoyed three
mightily improving years in Boston. He loved to tell of his life there,
and it is indicative of his character to say that he dwelt with special
joy and pride on the actors and orators he had heard. He could describe
some of the great scenes and repeat a few of the heroic lines of
Shakespeare, and the roll of his deep voice as he declaimed, "Now is the
winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of York,"
thrilled us--filled us with desire of something far off and wonderful.
But best of all we loved to hear him tell of "Logan at Peach Tree
Creek," and "Kilpatrick on the Granny White Turnpike."

He was a vivid and concise story-teller and his words brought to us
(sometimes all too clearly), the tragic happenings of the battlefields
of Atlanta and Nashville. To him Grant, Lincoln, Sherman and Sheridan
were among the noblest men of the world, and he would not tolerate any
criticism of them.

Next to his stories of the war I think we loved best to have him
picture "the pineries" of Wisconsin, for during his first years in the
State he had been both lumberman and raftsman, and his memory held
delightful tales of wolves and bears and Indians.

He often imitated the howls and growls and actions of the wild animals
with startling realism, and his river narratives were full of
unforgettable phrases like "the Jinny Bull Falls," "Old Moosinee" and
"running the rapids."

He also told us how his father and mother came west by way of the Erie
Canal, and in a steamer on the Great Lakes, of how they landed in
Milwaukee with Susan, their twelve-year-old daughter, sick with the
smallpox; of how a farmer from Monticello carried them in his big farm
wagon over the long road to their future home in Green county and it was
with deep emotion that he described the bi