utures mostly behind. Then there were gay fox-hunting
holluschickies, without serious intent and minus both future and past
worth mentioning, who called and sat on the front porch because they
thought their presence would be pleasing and relieve the tedium of
widowhood.

Then there was a young Scotch schoolmaster, educated, temperate and
gentlemanly, who came to instruct the two children of the widow in long
division, and who blushed to the crown of his red head when the widow
invited him to tea.

Have a care, Widow Syme! Destiny has use for you with your lively ways
and portly form. You are to make history, help mold a political policy,
fan the flames of war, and through motherhood make yourself immortal.
Choose your casket wisely, O Widow Syme! It is the hour of Fate!

* * * * *

The widow was a Queen Bee and so had a perfect right to choose her mate.
The Scotchman proved to be it. He was only twenty-five, they say, but he
was man enough when standing before the Registrar to make it thirty.
When he put his red head inside the church-door some one cried,
"Genius!" And so they were married and lived happily ever after.

And the name of the Scotchman was John Henry--I'll not deceive you,
Sweet!

John and Sarah were well suited to each other. John was exact,
industrious, practical. The wife had a lively sense of humor, was
entertaining and intelligent. Under the management of the canny Scot the
estate took on a look of prosperity. The man was a model citizen--honors
traveled his way: he became colonel of the local militia, county
surveyor, and finally magistrate. Babies arrived as rapidly as Nature
would allow and with the regularity of an electric clock--although, of
course, there wasn't any electricity then.

The second child was named Patrick, Junior, in honor of and in deference
to a brother of the happy father--a clergyman of the Established Church.
Patrick Henry always subscribed himself "P. Henry, Junior," and whether
he was ever aware that there was only one Patrick Henry is a question.

There were nine altogether in the brood--eight of them good, honest,
barnyard fowls.

And one was an eagle.

Why this was so no one knew--the mother didn't know and the father could
not guess. All of them were born under about the same conditions, all
received about the same training--or lack of it.

However, no one at first suspected that the eagle was an eagle--more
than a score of ye