ld me; and,
my faith! so, too, did all the boys. 'Is this one a teacher?' I asked
one of the scholars. 'He does not look so; he is too small and pale
and thin.'--'No,' replied the boy; 'it is Napoleon.'--'And who is
Napoleon?' I asked; for at that time I was as ignorant as all of you
here. 'Is he our patron? Is he the king? Is he the pope?'--'No; he is
Napoleon,' the boy replied again, shrugging his shoulders. I did not ask
more. The boy was right. Napoleon was neither boy nor man, patron,
king, nor pope; he was Napoleon! You should have seen him while we
were working. His hand was pointing continually,--here, there,
everywhere,--indicating what he wished to have done; his clear voice was
ever explaining or commanding. Then, when we had cut paths in the snow,
and had built ramparts, dug trenches, raised fortifications, rolled
snow-balls--then the attack began. I had nothing more to do, I looked
on. But my heart beat fast; I wished that I might fight also. But I was
the porter's son, and did not dare to join in the scholars' play. Every
day for a week, while the snow lasted, the war was fought at each
recess. Snow-balls flew through the air, striking heads, faces, breasts,
backs. The shouting and the tumult gave me great pleasure; but, oh! the
shoes I had to blacken! Then I said to myself, 'I wish to be a soldier.'
And I kept my word."

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE LITTLE CORPORAL.

"But why," asked the Corsican, as old Nonesuch concluded his story, and
all the veterans applauded with cane and boot, "why did you not say, 'I
wish to be a general,' and keep your word. Others like you have been
soldiers of the emperor--and generals, marshals, princes."

"Yes, Corsican," replied old Nonesuch sadly; "what you say is true. But
I will tell you what prevented my advancement. I did not know how to
read as well as a lot of the schemers who were in my regiment. In fact,"
old Nonesuch confessed, "I could not write; I could not read at all."

"Why did you not learn, then, father?" asked one of the veterans, who,
because he sat up late every night to read the daily paper, was called
by his comrades "the scholar."

"I did try to learn, Mr. Scholar," replied old Nonesuch, taking a pinch
of snuff from the Corsican's box; "but indeed it was not in the blood,
don't you see? Not one of my family could read or write; and then I saw
so much trouble over the pens and the books when I was blackening my
boots at Brienne school, that then