Crittenden

And there a surgeon told him how the wounded had lain there during the

fight singing: "My Country, 'tis of thee!"

And Grafton beat his hands together, while his throat was full and his

eyes were full of tears. To think what he had missed--to think what he

had missed!

He knew that national interest would centre in this regiment of Rough

Riders; for every State in the Union had a son in its ranks, and the

sons represented every social element in the national life. Never was

there a more representative body of men, nor a body of more varied

elements standing all on one and the same basis of American manhood. He

recalled how, at Tampa, he had stood with the Colonel while the regiment

filed past, the Colonel, meanwhile, telling him about the men--the

strong men, who made strong stories for Wister and strong pictures for

Remington. And the Colonel had pointed with especial pride and affection

to two boy troopers, who marched at the head of his column--a Puritan

from Massachusetts and a Cavalier through Virginia blood from Kentucky;

one the son of a Confederate General, the other the son of a Union

General--both beardless "bunkies," brothers in arms, and fast becoming

brothers at heart--Robert Sumner and Basil Crittenden. The Colonel waved

his hand toward the wild Westerners who followed them.

"It's odd to think it--but those two boys are the fathers of the

regiment."

And now that Grafton looked around and thought of it again--they were.

The fathers of the regiment had planted Plymouth and Jamestown; had

wrenched life and liberty and civilization from the granite of New

England, the fastnesses of the Cumberland, and the wildernesses of the

rich valleys beyond; while the sires of these very Westerners had gone

on with the same trinity through the barren wastes of plains. And, now,

having conquered the New World, Puritan and Cavalier, and the children

of both were come together again on the same old mission of freedom, but

this time the freedom of others; carrying the fruits of their own

struggle back to the old land from which they came, with the sword in

one hand, if there was need, but with the torch of liberty in the

other--held high, and, as God's finger pointed, lighting the way.

To think what he had missed!

As Grafton walked slowly back, an officer was calling the roll of his

company under the quiet, sunny hill, and he stopped to listen. Now and

then there was no answer, and he went on--thrilled and saddened. The

play was ended--this was war.