ccess
which followed. It all seems clear enough now, though vague and
uncertain then, that what we really did was to _use_ the obstreperous
and irritating traits of each of us instead of trying to repress them.

There was the old Captain, for example. Ed thought him a "dodo," and
wanted to put him on the shelf, where many a vigorous old man's heart
has bitterly rusted out just because his loving friends, lovingly taking
his life work out of his hands, have been too stupid to know how to use
the treasures of his experience. Nort smiled at the way he tourneyed
like Don Quixote with windmills of issues long dead, and I was
impatient, the Lord forgive me, with his financial extravagances at a
time when the _Star_ was barely making a living. But Anthy loved him.

I don't know exactly how it came about, but one evening when we were all
in the office together the talk turned on the Civil War. Some one asked
the Captain:

"You knew General McClellan personally, didn't you, Cap'n?"

I remember how the old Captain squared himself up in his chair.

"Yes, I knew Little Mac. I knew Little Mac----"

It took nothing at all to set the Captain off, and he was soon in full
flood.

"I said to Little Mac, riding to him at full gallop ... and Little Mac
said to me:

"'Captain Doane.'

"'Yes, sir, General,' said I.

"'Do you see that rebel battery down there on the hillside?'

"'I do, General.'

"'Well, Cap'n Doane,' said he, 'that battery must be taken--at any cost.
May I depend on you?'

"'General,' said I, 'I will do my duty,' and I wheeled on my horse and
rode to the front of my troop.

"'Forward--_March!_ Draw--_Sabres!_ Gallop----_Charge!_----'"

By this time the old Captain was on his feet, cane in hand for a sabre,
the wonderful light of a by-gone conflict shining in his eyes. I could
see him charging down the hill with his clattering troop; hear the clash
of arms and the roll of musketry; see the flags flying and the men
falling--dust and smoke and heat--the cry of wounded horses.... They
took the battery.

Well, when he finished his story that evening there was a pause, and
then I saw Anthy suddenly lean forward, her hands clasped hard and her
face glowing.

"Such stories as that," she said, "ought not to be lost, Uncle Newt.
They are _good_ for people. The coming generation doesn't know what its
fathers suffered and struggled for--or what the country owes to
them----" And then, wistfully: "I wish those stori