



Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Rick Morris, MFR and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net






[Illustration: “CHARLIE”]




                            BETTER THAN MEN


                                   BY
                            RUSH C. HAWKINS

                              J. W. BOUTON
                      TEN WEST TWENTY-EIGHT STREET
                                NEW YORK
                                  1896

                          Copyright, 1896, by
                              J. W. Bouton

 TO MY BELOVED AND LOVING WIFE, EVER FAITHFUL AND TRUE, WHOSE GOODNESS
                       PASSETH ALL UNDERSTANDING




                                CONTENTS


  Explanatory                                                           1
  The Excursion                                                        13
  Tim, the Dissipated                                                  91
  Carlo, the Soldier                                                  113
  Jeff, the Inquisitive                                               127
  Toby, the Wise                                                      139
  Two Dogs                                                            149
  Two Innocents Abroad                                                165
  About Columbus, by an old showman                                   171
  In Relation to Mysteries                                            187
  Mysteries                                                           195




                              EXPLANATORY


The title chosen for the following sketches, written for the purpose of
presenting certain prominent characteristics of the lower animals worthy
of the attention of the human animal, stands for rather a serious
proposition which may be questioned by a majority of those readers whose
kindly interest in our mute friends has not already been seriously
awakened.

To write so that those who read may infer that a certain selected number
of so-called lower animals are better, by nature and conduct, in certain
elemental virtues, than men, is, to say the least, rather imprudent, and
to the optimistic student of human nature may appear irreverent to an
unpardonable degree. Usually, to the minds of such observers, humanity
is accepted for its traditional value, regardless of established
conditions or inherent actualities. Such investigators investigate only
one side of their subject. They start out handicapped with the old
theory that in every respect the human animal is superior to every
other, without attempting to analyze unseen interior conditions, whether
natural or developed.

In relation to natural conditions, the large majority of Christian sects
are perfectly logical. They lay down as a clearly established
fundamental fact that all human beings, owing to what they designate as
Adam’s fall, are born into this world morally corrupt and completely
depraved, but that they have within their control for ready application
an appropriate panacea for a certain cure of these natural defects. But
the optimist neither admits the disease nor the necessity for cure; he
says always, at least inferentially, that all human beings come into the
world in a state of innocence and purity, and that their few defects
represent a certain amount of degeneration.

Both of these theories may be wrong. It is possible that all children
come into the world with a certain number of well-known natural
qualities—good, bad, strong, and weak—in no two alike, and for which
they are in no way responsible; and that what they become in their
mature years depends largely, if not entirely, upon home training and
the care bestowed upon them by the government under whose laws they
exist. Strong, healthy, intellectual, and moral parents, aided by a wise
and honestly administered government, assist each other in forming
characters which make fine men and women. But without the combination of
those parental qualities ever actively engaged in instructing and
controlling, sustained by a wise political organization, there is
usually but little development of the higher and better qualities of our
nature, either moral or intellectual.

It is at this point that we may be permitted to cite the difference
between the so-called upper and lower animal. In the dog and horse,
notably, their better qualities are inherent, born with them, grow
stronger with time, and their almost perfect and complete development is
natural, and continues without aid, example, or instruction. Not more
than one dog or horse in a thousand, if kindly treated and left to
himself, would turn out vicious, and treat them as we may, no matter how
unjustly or cruelly, we can never deprive them of their perfect
integrity and splendid qualities of loyalty to master and friends.

These most valuable of all moral qualities are natural to certain
animals, and, no matter what man may do, they can never be extinguished.
Although intangible, they are as much parts of the living organism of
the horse and dog as are their eyes or the other organs needed for
physical purposes. The affection of the dog for those whom he loves is
actually boundless. It has neither taint of selfishness nor has it
limits, and it can only be extinguished with the loss of life. The
ever-willing horse will run himself to death to carry from danger, and
especially from the pursuit of enemies, those who make use of his
friendly aid. Other animals will do as much, but they never volunteer
for a dangerous service.

In India, where the elephant is used for domestic purposes and is
sometimes treated as a domestic animal, he has been known to protect
children left in his charge, and in the performance of his daily task
will yield willing obedience to orders; but he is a knowing and cautious
constructionist, and seldom goes outside of the strict line of duty. He
will always fight for his own master or friends when told, and sometimes
volunteers to encounter a danger to protect those around him who seek
the aid of his superior powers. He is however, a natural conservative,
and prefers peace to war.

Many other animals are capable of becoming affectionate pets and
interesting companions, but in no respect can they be compared with the
dog, the horse, or the elephant. In their separate and individual
combination of qualities which render them fit and useful companions for
man, they stand quite by themselves. The question of treating animals
with kindly consideration is usually disposed of by saying they are not
capable of appreciating kind treatment; that their brain capacity is so
limited in respect to quantity as to render them quite incapable of
distinguishing active kindness from passive indifference or even cruel
treatment.

This is the theory of the thoughtless.

The Newfoundland dog which, in the summer of 1866, I saw leap from a
bridge into a rapid-running deep creek and rescue a two-year-old child
from death, thought—and quickly at that. In a second he appreciated the
value of a critical moment, and estimated not only the magnitude but the
quality of the danger. No human being could have taken in the whole
situation more completely or caused the physical organization to respond
to the brain command with greater celerity. The whole incident was over
by the time the first on the spot of the would-be human rescuers had
taken off his coat.

Crowley, the remarkable chimpanzee, who had his home in the Central Park
Menagerie for about four years, proved to be a most convincing item of
testimony in favor of the intellectual development of one of the lower
animals. The gradual and certain unfolding of his intelligence betrayed
the presence of a quantity of natural brainpower almost equal to that of
an intelligent child of his own age.

Among his numerous accomplishments was a complete outfit of the table
manners of the average well-bred human being. His accurate holding of
knife, fork, and spoon, his perfect knowledge of their use, and the
delicate application to his lips of the napkin, proved the possession of
exceptional knowledge and a well-ordered memory.

The things he did and the words he tried to speak, for he made thousands
of efforts every day to utter his thoughts, would make a convincing list
of items all going to prove the presence of a capacity for thinking
quite worthy of consideration.

In elaborating the various powers which he employed in his methods of
expression he showed remarkable ingenuity. He, no doubt, reflected upon
his deficiencies, and thought the whole matter over with reference to
means of communication with those he cared to converse with, and then,
from out the store of his natural capacities, invented an extensive
combination of hand and feet signs with the variety of sounds at his
command, which finally enabled him to make himself perfectly understood
by those about him.

The intellectual development of Crowley, of which I have given only an
inadequate idea, came from kind treatment and constant contact with his
keeper and the director of the menagerie, both of whom were his devoted
friends and teachers.

These little character sketches, as they may perhaps be described, were
written for the purpose of awakening the personal interest of those who
may read them, with the hope also of enlisting their active influence in
behalf of spreading abroad a better understanding of the nature of our
four-footed friends and servants, who give so much and receive so little
in return. The better appreciation of their exceptionally fine qualities
will surely lead to closer relations between them and their masters,
and, in the end, insure better treatment for those humble and confiding
creatures which the Creator has placed so completely in the power of
man.

Fiction plays but a little part in these pages. It has long been a
source of pleasure to me to note the marks of intelligence in the
animals that we admit to our companionship, that we make a part of our
family rule and association. These sketches are nearly all based upon
personal experiences and observations of my own. They are my plea for
their greater civil rights—at least in the way of kindness and
appreciation. Incidentally I have given such local color to the stories
as they require. The first sketch, for example, has for its frame the
pleasant hills and valleys of Vermont. It recalls old days worth the
recording and a people of pure Anglo-Saxon blood worth a lasting memory.

                                                                R. C. H.




                             THE EXCURSION


A particular summer, back in the fifties, I spent in one of the
beautiful valley villages of the “Green Mountain State.” The
old-fashioned, unpretending country tavern was comfortable and the air
and scenery all that could be desired. The amusements, or rather
occupations, afforded to the sojourners, aside from reading the solid
literature of the period, were neither novel nor exhausting, but they
gave pleasure, were reposeful, and were innocent enough to have
satisfied the code of the most exacting moralist. The daily routine was
limited, not costly, and within easy reach.

Of course, the first rural recreation was to fish in streams where there
were no fish; to climb the highest hills as often as possible; argue
religious, political, and commercial questions with the numerous oracles
of the village, and diagnose the autumn crop question with the farmers.
These occupations were staple commodities, always in stock and on tap
ready to flow.

The good people of the town were very much astonished when they found I
had discovered an additional occupation. I had made the acquaintance of
all the town dogs, and found them a most entertaining and sociable lot
of easy-going vagabonds. The majority were much given to loafing,
barking at strangers and the passing vehicles, and not over-anxious to
earn the scant meals grudgingly doled out to them by the thrifty
housewives, who frequently addressed them in terms not of a
complimentary nature.

Those were not the days of romantic names for dogs. The New England
_répertoire_ for the canine race had been handed down, in an unbroken
line, from a remote Puritan period. If a dog was of a large size he was
sure to respond to the name of Tige, Rover, or Lion, and, if small, he
was usually adorned with the name of Skip, Fido, or Zip. In those days
there were neither kennel clubs nor dog exhibitions, and the high-flown
English names, such as attach to the canine blue-bloods of to-day, were
unknown.

Within the ranks of this lazy, good-for-nothing, good-natured tribe,
with its headquarters in my particular village, was a characteristic
specimen of a perfect nobody’s dog. He was not unpleasant to the vision,
but, on the contrary, rather attractive. He was of a light brindle
color, with a black nose, and was blessed with a pair of beautiful,
sympathetic, and expressive dark-brown eyes, that had a frank way of
looking clear into the eyes of whoever addressed him. But he was without
pedigree, industry, or hope, cared nothing for worldly possessions, was
always ready to wag a hearty response to every salutation, and was an
ever-flowing fountain of good nature and kindness, but not devoid of
character. Along with all his apparent indifference he had his strong
points, and good ones at that.

His great weakness was the woodchuck season. No sportsman was ever more
watchful for the return of the shooting period than was Rover for the
opening of the first woodchuck hole. For days before the first opening
he would range the fields very much after the manner of the truly
accomplished shopping woman of a large city in search of opportunities
on a “bargain day.” He had the keenest nose for his favorite game of any
dog in the town, and so devoted was he to his particular sport, that
frequently, while the season lasted, after a hard day’s work, he would
go to bed with an empty stomach, his chance mistress having issued an
edict to the effect that the kitchen door was to be closed at a certain
hour—Rover or no Rover. And so it came to pass that our devoted
sportsman often went to his couch in the shed a very hungry dog, not
happy for the moment, but always full of hope for the coming morning.

While his sporting season lasted he had but one occupation. As soon as
he had licked his breakfast plate clean, even to the last mite of food,
he would start off for new adventures, and, as soon as he had succeeded
in finding a new subterranean abode of his favorite game, he would give
a joyous bark, and commence a most vigorous digging, and, if the soil
happened to be of a soft nature, he would soon bury his body so as to
leave no part of his belongings in sight but the tip end of a very
quick-moving tail amid the débris of flying soil. If called from his
pursuit he would come out of his hole wagging most joyously and saying
as plainly as possible: “I wish you would turn in and help a fellow.”

He had never been known to capture a “chuck,” but he had his fun all the
same.

There is a story of a Frenchman, who, when walking in the woods, heard
the whistle of a woodcock and thereupon became possessed of an ardent
desire _pour la chasse_. He equipped himself by borrowing a gun from one
friend, a dog from another, a game-bag from a third, and the making of a
complete shooting outfit from several others. Early in the morning,
after the delusive whistle, he was up and off to the woods. Filled with
eager expectation he tramped hills and swamps the whole day through
without seeing a bird or getting a shot, and returned to the hotel much
the worse for the wear and tear of the search, but, Frenchman like, was
vivacious and cheerful. An English friend asked to see the inside of his
game-bag. “Ah,” answered the would-be huntsman, “I did not get ze
leetle—ze _bécasse_, I did hear his whistle, _mais j’ai eu ma chasse_
all ze same, and I am very happie.” And so it was with Rover. He saw
where his would-be victim was located, enjoyed the pleasure of hope, and
had a day’s digging.

The other dogs of the village were not ambitious, save at meal-time,
when they were vigorously punctual, but very unpunctual when there was
anything useful to do, such as going after the cows at milking-time,
driving enterprising pigs out of the garden, chasing the hens from the
front entrance of the house, and the like. As a rule they were content
to pass the sunny hours of the day beneath protecting shades, resting
their lazy carcasses upon the softest patch of greensward to be found,
and they were usually experts in the art of finding such spots. It was
not so, however, with Rover. He was an active dog, without a lazy bone
in his body, always on the alert for an occupation, no matter if
sometimes useful. Take them, however, for all in all, this worthless
pack of four-footed worthies were not a bad sort of a lot. All save one
were good-natured and sociable. That exception was a maltese-
abridgment of a mastiff, short-haired and old. He was the property of
one of the village doctors, who was a pestiferous Whig, with the
reputation of being the “tongueyist man in the county, if not in the
State.” He carried chips upon both shoulders, was the proprietor of a
loud voice—plenty of it—and was always ready for a war between tongues.
He “argered” for the sake of argument, but his ancient “Spot,” with a
thickened throat and wheezy voice, could only keep up a running _pro
forma_ barking accompaniment while his master “downed” his opponent. The
old dog had unconsciously contracted his master’s habit of controversy,
and felt that he must help him out. It is due to the memory of that
ancient canine to record that he attended strictly to his own affairs,
and would brook no interference from frivolous idle dogs with no
particular occupation, nor would he associate with them when off duty.
When not with his master, he kept inside his own fence, and barked and
made disagreeable faces at all would-be intruders.

As bearing upon the story that will develop, I may add that besides the
dogs there are, in Vermont, other four-footed friends and servants of
man worthy of consideration. The Vermont “Morgan horse” is one of the
acknowledged native “institutions,” and no lover of that animal has ever
made the intimate acquaintance of one of his strain without being
fascinated with his delicate, refined beauty, affectionate disposition,
intelligence, endurance, and willingness to serve.

I was brought up with them, and used to romp and race with the colts,
ride the mothers without saddle, bridle, or halter, and purloin sugar
and salt to feed them when the “old folks were not looking.” Among my
happiest hours were those of my childhood and boyhood spent in close
association with the great groups of animals that lived upon the hills
of the old farm at the “crotch in the roads.” Calves, among the most
beautiful of all the young animals, with their great soft eyes and
innocent faces, were a source of infinite joy to me, and even the silly
and unintellectual sheep always appealed to my affections and sense of
protection. These I regarded as wards to love and protect, but the dogs
and Morgan horses were my petted friends and companions. From their
habitual display of good faith, perfect integrity and affection I
learned all the lessons applicable to every-day life that have been of
value to me. From man I could have learned the arts of deceit and
cunning, selfishness and want of feeling, and the practise of vanity,
but never a single quality which came to me from the habitual
association with the honest four-footed friends of my youth.

The people of my native State, among their other fine characteristics,
have always been noted for their kindness to animals, which fact alone
stands for a very elevated plane of civilization. Ever since nearly a
century ago, when the Morgan horse first came to them, he has been an
object of their affection, and it is undoubtedly, to a great extent,
owing to that creditable fact that he has always been the same charming
animal that he is to-day.

That the equine hero of this sketch was not of that noble breed will not
detract from his special virtues or impair my passing tribute to the
Vermont horse and his master. The one selected for my riding excursions
was the only saddle-horse of repute in the county; he belonged to a
livery stable, and was of the “calico” red and white sort, tall, long of
body, sound of legs and feet, with large, liquid, expressive eyes, small
ears, and a beautiful open nostril. His pedigree was unknown, and no one
in the village could say where he came from. He had been turned out lame
from a “travelling show” the year before, and had been bought for a
song. Such only was his brief known history. To his physical beauties
were added the higher qualities of head and heart in abundance. He was
the sort of a beautiful creature that could not have done a mean act.
Nature never furnished him tools for that kind of work.

He was effusively affectionate, and his intelligence was of a high order
for a horse. We took a great fancy to each other, and both of us to
Rover, who once in a while could be coaxed from his pursuit of “chucks”
to take a run with us over the country roads.

Thus we became chosen friends, and I selected them as companions for a
recreative excursion which I had planned, and which we shall now
retrace.

An early breakfast for man, dog and horse, and off. The general plan was
to ride early and late, and rest during the hot hours of the middle
portion of the day. A village with a decent “tavern” for the night was
the objective point for each evening, and the usual daily distance, made
at an easy canter, was about twenty miles. Between each stretch of three
or four miles there was a halt for a dismount, a rest for the animals,
and a leg exercise for the rider. Rover was always glad for a loll
beneath the shady trees, but “Charlie,” my calico friend, improved his
opportunities for a nibble of the tender grass and sprouts within his
reach. During the first two or three days I had to retrace my steps to
remount, but I soon succeeded in making my companions understand the
nature and object of a call, and, before the tour was half over, they
would not permit me to walk out of their sight. Rover was on the watch,
and, as soon as he saw me disappearing in the distance, would give the
alarm, and then both would start off on a smart run to overtake me.

Upon one occasion, after climbing a sharp hill, I had left them at the
beginning of a long level piece of road, and had walked on. After going
about half a mile, I met a large drove of cattle. When I had succeeded
in passing through and beyond it, my attention was attracted by a
confused noise in the rear. Upon looking back I discovered a great cloud
of dust, and amidst it a confusion of moving horns and tails, while soon
there appeared, racing through the excited mass of bovines at the top of
his speed, Charlie, accompanied by his faithful attendant barking at the
top of his voice. The cattle were excited and frightened up to the point
of jumping and running they knew not where. Some went over fences,
others through them, while the main body kept to the road, and, for a
considerable distance, carried everything before them. I realized at
once that my zealous companions had got me into trouble.

For the information of readers not acquainted with the average
“droveyer” of forty and fifty years ago, it is necessary to record that
he was not the sort of an individual calculated to adorn refined
society, and the language used by those in charge of this particular
“drove” was more characteristic for its strength than for its elegance
or politeness. I tried to appease their wrath, apologized for the
unseemly conduct of dog and horse, alleged sudden fright, marshalled a
fine array of other excuses, and finally succeeded in neutralizing the
flow of their ire—just a little. But the chief spokesman was not
satisfied with excuses and soft words; he was a materialist, and wanted
to know, then and there, who was to put up the fence and pay for the
damage done by the trampling down of growing crops. Under the
circumstances the query did not seem to be an unreasonable one, and I
suggested that the better course to pursue would be for the authors of
the mischief to make terms with the owner of the crops, state facts, and
await his decision.

The season happened to be between planting and harvest, and “the
men-folks,” we were told, “are up on yender hill mending fence, and
won’t be down till dinner.” The head “droveyer,” impatient to keep with
his “drove,” would not wait, and informed me, in a rather emphatic sort
of way, that I would have to wait and “settle up.” There was no appeal
in sight from his decision. So he went and I waited.

The hot part of the day had arrived, and it was within about two hours
“till dinner.” After “hitchin’” the horse in the barn, away from the
flies, I suggested the loan of an axe. This excited surprise, and the
question came from the head of the interior of that particular domestic
establishment: “What are _you_ going to do with an axe?” I answered:
“I’m going to mend the fence where those cattle broke through.” This
feather came very near breaking the back of the housewife, and her sense
of the ridiculous was excited up to the point of explosion, but she was
too well bred to give the laugh direct, full in the face, and contented
herself by making an acute mental survey of my physical points. She
measured with her eye the hands and girth of chest, and made a close
calculation as to the amount of biceps assigned to each arm, and after
some reflection, said: “You’ll find an old axe in the woodshed; you can
take it and try and patch up the places, and, when you hear the horn,
you can come in and eat with the rest of the folks.” I started off,
filled with the pride born of knowledge, and confident of a coming
success, but the even flow of my happiness was soon disturbed by a sound
from the upper register of a very loud, shrill voice, saying, “Don’t
split your feet open with that are axe.” This was like a small streak of
ice water down the spinal column, but I was on my mettle and not to be
discouraged. The vacant spaces in the broken fence were encountered and
yielded to superior force, and a fairish amount of success was
accomplished about the time the welcome tones of the sonorous horn
announced the hour for feeding.

I was introduced to the “men-folks” as the stranger whose dog and horse
had “scart the cattle inter the oats.” At first it was easy to see that
I was not regarded with favor, but, as the dinner proceeded, and as
anecdotes succeeded each other about men, things and far-off countries I
had seen, the Green Mountain ice began to melt, and, by the time the
“Injun puddin’” was emptied out of its bag, cordial relations were
established. The two bright-faced boys had become communicative, and the
older members of the family had forgotten for the time the damage to the
oats.

The dinner ended, I requested a board of survey and an estimate. The
first relevant observation in relation to the case before the court came
from the grandfather: “Well, I declare, I couldn’t done it better
myself. I didn’t know you city folk could work so. Where did you l’arn
to mend fences?” This first witness for the defence produced a marked
effect upon the jury. The next point of observation was the field of
damaged oats. The eldest son, a Sunday-school-sort of boy, exclaimed:
“By pepper, they are pretty well trampled down, ain’t they? No cradle
can git under ’em; guess’ll have ter go at ’em with the sickle, but we
can save the heft of ’em by bending our backs a little.”

During the investigation not a word was uttered about compensation, and,
after leaving the field, the conversation ran into generalities; but
before we reached the house the grandfather’s curiosity got the better
of his timidity, and he asked: “Where did you l’arn to mend fences?”
When I told him that my name was ——, that I was a grandson of ——, was
born at the “Old H. Place at the crotch of the roads in the town of
P——,” learned to mend fences there, etc., etc., he had great difficulty
in suppressing the dimensions of the proud satisfaction my information
had produced. In his mind I was a degenerate Vermonter, living in the
great City of New York, but had not forgotten the lessons learned at the
old farm. I knew how to mend a fence, and that, for him, was my
certificate of character.

From the moment of my disclosures, I was admitted to the inner family
circle, and there was no more farm-work for the rest of the day, while
the afternoon hours were devoted to reminiscences of the olden times:
“Ah,” said the old grandfather, “when I first laid eyes on ye, I thought
I’d seen somebody like ye afore, and I remember it was your grandfather
on yer father’s side. He was a soldier of the Revolutionary War in one
of the Rhode Island ridgiments, and my father belonged to one from
Massachusetts; both served till the end of the war, and then emigrated
to Vermont, together. My father settled on this farm, where I was born
in 1790; your grandfather took up some land in P——, and till the end of
his days was the best schoolmaster and surveyor anywhere round these
parts. He was a master-hand at poetry, and used to write sarcastical
varses agin the lop-sided cusses he hated. There’s allus some mean
critters in these country towns, who take advantage of poor folks that
ain’t very smart and cheat ’em outer their property. They used to feel
mighty mean, I tell ye, when they read your grandfather’s varses about
’em. I heerd old Si Simmons, up to town meeting only last year, telling
about a mean old critter down in P—— by the name of Podges and how your
grandfather writ a varse for his gravestun, and I remember it was about
like this:

  “‘Here lies the body of Podges Seth,
  The biggest knave that e’er drew breath;
  He lived like a hog and died like a brute,
  And has gone to the d——l beyond dispute.’”

I was able to respond in kind, for I happened to remember about another
local poet, who hated a surviving son of this rural vampire, who quite
worthily perpetuated the detestable qualities of his defunct parent,
and, when he died, as he did not many years after his father, the other
local poet, not to be outdone by my grandfather, composed the following
verse as a fitting epitaph:

  “Here lies the body of Podges Ed,
  We all rejoice to know he’s dead;
  Too bad for Heaven, too mean for Hell,
  And where he’s gone no one can tell.”

In the “Old Times” there were strong, honest, rugged characters among
the Vermont hills. The majority of them were men of plain speech and
unyielding contempt for meanness in any form. A goodly number of the
early settlers in the eastern counties were soldiers of the Revolution
who had emigrated to the new State soon after its close, and they
brought with them the simple, manly habits and ways of thinking which
are characteristic of service in the field. Many were the anecdotes told
of them that day—the day of the accident to the oats—very much to the
edification of the juniors, who were all eyes and ears, at least for
that occasion.

The old house at the “crotch of the roads,” when I was a boy, was the
Saturday and Sunday halting-place for the old soldiers of my own and
several of the neighboring towns. The larder was always well-supplied,
and the barrels of cider that lined a capacious cellar were ready to
respond to every call. Under the influence of an abundant supply of that
exhilarating beverage, the fighting over of old battles was always
vigorous and sometimes vividly realistic.

The most famous of the local veterans, of my time, was known among his
neighbors as “Uncle Daniel V——.” He was a Lexington-Bunker Hill man, who
had served till the end of the war. As I remember him, he was a most
interesting character, humorous, with a good memory, a famous drinker of
hard cider, and a notable singer of the patriotic soldier songs of the
“Seventy-six” period. I can recall, in his showing “how the Yankee boys
flaxed the Britishers,” how he would shoulder one of his canes—he was a
rheumatic and walked with two—and march up and down the broad kitchen of
the old house, going through the motions of loading, aiming and firing
at an imaginary enemy, greatly to my childish delight, for those were
the first fierce war’s alarms I had ever witnessed, and I can never
forget how my imagination was fired; nor how ardently I wished I had
been at Lexington and Bunker Hill, where “we gave it to the Red Coats.”
Uncle Daniel was far too good a patriot to say anything about the return
compliments, “How the Red Coats gave it to us,” upon one of those
historic fields. Since his day I have learned that one of his
glorification songs, which professed to give a correct account