And the man,--the tall old man with a slight stoop in his shoulders,
the old man who wears the alpaca coat and the white lawn tie seen in
the upper picture,--sometimes he wanders into the stately front room
with a finger in a census bulletin as a problem in his head creases
his brow--and the sight of the sword always makes him smile, and
sometimes the smile is a chuckle that stirs the cockles of his heart.

For his mind goes back to that summer night of August 4, 1861, and he
sees himself riding on a horse with a little boy behind with his arms
in the soldier's belt. It is dusk, and "C" Company on foot is filing
down a Missouri hill. It is a muddy road, and the men are tired and
dirty. There is no singing now. A man driving an ox team has turned
out of the road to let the soldiers pass. Some one in the line asks
the man, "Where's Price?"

"Over the hill yonder," replies the man, pointing with his hickory
whip-stock. The word buzzes up and down the line. The captain on his
horse with the boy clutching at his belt does not hear it. But the
line lags and finally halts. The men have been only two days under
military discipline. That day last week Phil Ward--who was he,
anyway? Henry Schnitzler and Oscar Fernald could have bought him and
sold him twice over. So the line halted. Then the captain halted. Then
he called Second Lieutenant Dolan and asked to know what was the
matter. "They say they are going to camp," responded Dolan, touching
his cap. Captain Ward's face flushed. He told Dolan to give the order
to march. There were shouts and laughter, and Gabriel Carnine cried,
"Say, Phil, this here Missourian we passed says old General Price is
over that hill." The boys laughed again, and Ward saw that trouble was
before him. The men stood waiting while he controlled his rage before
he spoke. Dolan said under his breath from the ground beside the