, for I am
not so sure that it was patriotism, after all--while I heard the rusty
old cannon that did duty at Willow Lane, booming out its sentiments
about matters and things in general, and the declaration of American
independence in particular. As long ago as I can remember, I know the
sound of a drum almost overturned the little sense I had. Oh, what a
quantity of martial spirit was set in motion in my brain, when, as it
sometimes happened, I got a chance to beat on that drum myself--to
beat on it with both hands, "like a trainer." It was one of the
proudest achievements of my childhood, I do believe--that performance
on the drum--the real drum, the identical one which the "trainers"
used.

It is not quite so with me, now-a-days. You may wonder why. I almost
wonder why myself. But so it is. The deafening roar of cannon, the
racket of a thousand muskets, the clatter of junior drums, and the
thunder of senior ones, have not _such_ a moving effect on me as they
used to have. They _move me out of the way_ now. That is about all.
I suppose, if the truth was known, I dislike _war_ more than I did
when I was a child. War seems a terrible thing to me, whenever I think
of it. I cannot bear the thought that hostile men should meet each
other on the field of battle, and use all the art they are masters of,
in trying to kill each other.

[Illustration: THE YOUNG DRUMMER.]

But enough of this. Children, as I was saying, love to hear the noise
of the cannon. It stirs up the embers of their patriotism, or fills
them with some other kind of fire. We will not stop now to inquire
very particularly as to the nature of the blaze. Our two friends felt
as if there was a young Vesuvius burning in their bosoms, as they
listened to the sound of the cannon. Frederick especially, was quite
beside himself. War had completely turned his head. Oh, how he longed
to be a soldier. I am not sure but he almost wished some nation or
other would pick a quarrel with us, so that he might have a chance to
shoulder his musket, and start right off, and fight the battles of his
country. Like a great many other children, he saw only one side of
war, and that was its bright side. He heard no groans from dying men,
no whizzing of cannon balls past his ears. He saw no river of blood
flowing from human veins. He had lost no limb of his own; he was in
danger of losing none. I hardly think he had read the poetical
confessions of a young hero just returned fr