a fine poem."

"Alec wrote an essay on the Alamo," Blue Bonnet explained to Knight,
"and it won a prize--the Sargent prize--in our school this year."

Alec squirmed with a boyish dislike of hearing himself praised; but
Knight slapped him on the shoulder enthusiastically.

"Bully for you, old chap! Tell the fellows the story of the Alamo,
will you? Uncle Bayard likes them to hear historical things like
that--can't hear them too often."

Alec looked horrified at the idea, but Blue Bonnet joined Knight in
urging him. "You tell the story of the fight and maybe Sandy will
finish with the Hymn."

Sandy promising to do his part, Alec finally yielded. Sinking far back
in the shadow where his face could not be seen by any of the great
circle of listeners, and his voice came out of the blackness with a
decided tremor in it, the boy told, and told well, the story of the
frontier riflemen in their struggle for the liberation of Texas from
the yoke of the Mexican dictator.

How the Texas lads thrilled at the recital of heroism, and thrilled at
the mention of such names as Travis and Crockett! It was not a new
tale; not a boy there but knew the story of that handful of men--less
than two hundred of them--who, barricading themselves within the Alamo
fortress, for ten days defied the Mexicans, over four thousand strong;
only to be massacred to a man in the final heartrending fall.

Alec's voice lost its tremor and ended with a patriotic ring that made
Blue Bonnet glow with pride--pride in the heroes he told of, and in
the friend who told of them.

"It just needs Colonel Potter's poem to add the right climax to that
bit of history," Dr. Judson declared; and Sandy stood up at once.

Sandy was used to "talking on his feet;" and he stood in an easy
posture, tossing his light reddish hair back from his broad forehead,
and with one hand resting lightly on the alpenstock he had been
carving for Blue Bonnet.

Listening to him, Blue Bonnet lost all her early prejudice against the
clever lad, and responding to the unbounded enthusiasm and the true
orator's ring in the boyish voice, thrilled warmly to the spirit of
the lines:

HYMN OF THE ALAMO

"Arise! Man the wall--our clarion blast
Now sounds its final reveille,--
This dawning morn must be the last
Our fated band shall ever see.
To life, but not to hope, farewell;
Yon trumpet's clang and cannon's peal,
And