tomhouse. He lived over on Forquier Street, one of the
men was telling me--there are six of them, the guard of honor for him,
on the train--and his name was Isador Framberg. He was born in Russia,
too, in Kiev, the place of the massacres, you remember. See, dad, here
comes the guard!"

Peter Thorold swung his father around until he faced six uniformed
men who fell into step as they went forward toward the baggage-car.
"It's too bad, isn't it," the boy continued, "that any of the boys had
to die down in that greaser town? But, if they did, I'm proud that we
proved up that Chicago had a hero to send. Aren't you, dad?" James
Thorold did not answer. Peter's hands closed over his arm. "It reminds
me," he said, lowering his voice as they came closer to the place where
the marines stood beside the iron carrier that awaited the casket of
Isador Framberg's body, "of something the tutor at Westbury taught us
in Greek last year, something in a funeral oration that a fellow in
Athens made on the men who died in the Peloponnesian War. 'Such was
the end of these men,'" he quoted slowly, pausing now and then for a
word while his father looked wonderingly upon his rapt fervor, "'and
they were worthy of Athens. The living need not desire to have a more
heroic spirit. I would have you fix your eyes upon the greatness of
Athens, until you become filled with the love of her; and, when you
are impressed by the spectacle of her glory, reflect that this empire
has been acquired by men who knew their duty and who had the courage
to do it, who in the hour of conflict had the fear of dishonor always
present to them.'" With the solemnity of the chant the young voice
went on while the flag-covered casket was lifted from car to bier.
"'For the whole earth is the sepulchre of famous men; not only are
they commemorated by columns and inscriptions in their own country,
but in foreign lands there dwells also an unwritten memorial of them,
graven not in stone but in the hearts of men. Make them your examples,
and, esteeming courage to be freedom and freedom to be happiness, do
not weigh too nicely the perils of war.'"

He pulled off his cap, tucking it under his arm and dragging his
father with him to follow the men who had fallen in behind the marines
as they moved forward toward the gates and the silent crowd beyond.
Almost unwillingly James Thorold doffed his hat. The words of Peter's
unexpected declamation of Pericles's oration resounded in his ear