although by so doing his own life would be endangered. Throwing
himself flat on the roof like a bat, he slid down headforemost to the
gutter, which, fortunately, was very wide. Placing himself on his back
in this gutter so as to be able to arrest the other poor boy in his
fall, he waited until the lightning-rod struck the roof, then called
out loudly, "Let go; I'll catch you." The boy obeyed, and as he
slipped down the roof in an almost unconscious condition, his rescuer
in the gutter grasped and held him until he recovered his
self-possession, when both pulled off their shoes and climbed the
steep roof to the skylight. Both boys were gallant soldiers, but
perhaps neither was ever again in greater danger than when excess of
patriotism cost the one that hazardous ride on the lightning-rod, the
other to assume the equally dangerous but noble position of rescuer.

Both are still living,--veterans now. One, occupying a position of
honor and of public trust, is a personal friend of the writer.

To me the Confederate flag was an object of profound love and
passionate devotion. It represented hopes that I thought could never
fail, possibilities so glorious that imagination was dazzled. I used
to go to the square before sunrise, leading my little boy, trying
vainly to make him understand and share in some degree my own
enthusiasm, but instead he only busied himself in trying to steal near
enough to pounce upon one of the many little birds flitting from spray
to spray with happy songs. Approaching the beautiful monument where
the statues are so lifelike as to appear real companions, sentient and
cognizant of one's presence, I chose always a seat where I could gaze
upon the face of Patrick Henry, recalling his stirring words, trying
to imagine what he would have thought and said now, and almost daring
to wish that soul of fire might come, if only for a moment, to animate