my opinion, gave Grant and Sherman the terms they later offered Lee and

terms.

"Both the peoples of the North and the South read the same Bible and pray to the same God, and each invokes his aid against the other. . . The prayers of both could not be answered. That of neither has been answered fully. . . With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive to finish the work we are in."

There was only one other leader on either side of that great conflict who could have spoken thus-Robert E. Lee. But Stevens and Sumner and Winter Davis sharpened their weapons as if the war were just beginning, heightened their hatreds and suffered passion and interest and needless fear to rule them. Toward the end of March, the forces of the Confederacy weakening every day, and Lee broken in fortune, in health, the president went to City Point, the irate Sumner with him, to advise with Grant, expectant of victory, and with Sherman, running up from North Carolina, the ungainly, modest, democratic chief of the great Northwest giving law at last to the aristocrats of the humbled South, Sumner calling again and again for the blood of the guilty, Sumner who had said to all the world: "there is no war that is honorable, no peace that is dishonorable." The president, in

As Lincoln set his face toward Washington, Lee met Grant at Appomattox. The greatest soldier of his time surrendered with all the dignity any victor might have commanded to little Ulysses S. Grant of Galena, who bore himself with all the modesty greatness ought ever to command. It was one of the great moments in world history, the Union saved once and for all, "government of the people, by the people, for the people"-was it, or was there already a power in the North too great for Lincoln's democracy?

On the eleventh of April, all the North rejoicing as few peoples have ever rejoiced, Lincoln said from a portico of the White House: "Whether the Southerners have ever been out of the Union or not does not concern me. Finding themselves safely at home, it would be utterly immaterial whether they had ever been abroad." And three days later to the cabinet, poor Stanton present: "I hope there will be no persecution, no bloody work after the war is over. . . . We must extinguish our resentment if we expect peace.'

There was forming all over the East a mighty group, business chiefs and resolute senators fanning the passions of simple men, a group that made ready to take from Lincoln the baton of leadership, the sort of men who rise in their might at the end of every great war and demand the dismissal of those who think to make peace by forgiving their enemies. The homely Lincoln had run his course, a long and toilsome course

T

HIRTY-SEVEN last month, I was -thirty-seven. An' I was goin' on nine when Pop was sick first. Years an' years I done for this fam❜ly. It ain't right.

It could be right, but it ain't right. The twins was sweet little things -by Gar, how happy I was when they come! Own sisters to me, an' mine to work for-Pop sick an' all. I thought they'd always be so. Well

"My kids," I'd think, an' like that. But now it's come to me this is Pop's fam'ly. It ain't mine-an' I'm thirty-seven.

This here is right comfortableonly Mom sweepin' round me, like she's always doin'. She don't know what I'm thinkin' anyway.

It's

The stove is nice an' warm. a terrible wind to-day. February is a drear month.

279

Pop used to work good like me. I remember some-an' Mom tells of it. But then he got his hand sore from that bullhead. They can sting, too, I know. He must 'a' been to Winton hospital near three months, when it got infected. He'd 'a' lost the hand, too, if he'd let 'em. "I guess not," he'd say, when they'd ask him. I bet they was awful mad, all right. Pop was set, once he made up his mind. But he was right, all right. It healed fine.

It healed fine, an' he come home. I remember how happy I was. I thought I'd just help, like before he was sick; he'd run the farm again, natchully. I was bone tired. At first, there I got used to it, o' course, an' never thought-till now. just now.

Till

He set round. I was surprisedonly a kid. I couldn't know. He was soft, of course, livin' easy like he done, all them months to the hospital. He tol' me, when I asked him. "I got to take it easy," he says. I remember the time I dug them potatoes. I asked him again.

"What's the matter?" he says. "Ain't you got sense? I can't do no diggin' yet."

I was such a kid I wanted to help him. "I'll dig," I says; "I like it, Pop. You can just pick up."

I

I'll never forget the way he looked at me, rockin' in this same rocker. never said nothin' again.

I never said nothin' 'bout his settin', but it was a long time before I stopped thinkin', "Pop'll help with this; Pop'll help with that; Pop'll be round by that time." I kept countin' on him for a long, long while.

Well, we got through that winter somehow.

It come to me I was the man o' the place. I was ten. I wasn't so big built for my years, neither. Spring, an' I plowed.

Mom changed too. I'd run to her, before Pop was like that. She'd joke me, real often. Cookies too. An' do little things for me that was real nice.

But, after, Mom changed. Natchul enough, I suppose. Pop settin' there, rockin', rockin', an' eatin' us out o' house an' home. No woman could stand it. But it made it hard

on me.

When a feller comes in tired, it ain't no time to pick at him. An' never no fun a-tall. But I never But I never thought o' fun in them days. An' when the twins come, they made up for it, all right. They certainly was

cute.

Gee, Doc was mad. I never will forget his face. "By God, Mis' Barlow," he says. But Mom looked at him, an' he stopped. An' it was hard on her, too-she was dead right.

"An' the boy," he says, but easier. "You're wearin' him out, as it is. An' now this."

I remember how surprised I was that Doc thought o' me. I felt like cryin'. I wanted to tell him I was glad 'bout the baby, but I didn't, o' course. I went out.

It was a long time after that Doc come an' called me. I was in the barn.

"There's two of 'em," he told me. My skin prickled. "Girls. You got your hands full now, my boy." was sixteen then.

I

down to it, I got no strings on 'em. This last summer learned me that, even though they has steadied down, now that they got to.

At first, there, gee, wasn't they cunnin'! Molly had all them little curls close to her head, an' Glen had that dimple. An' now they both got both. But at first they wasn't so much of a pair. They always clung to me. Mom took care of 'em good, o' course. But it was hard on Mom.

I couldn't be in none-just passin' through. But how them kids would reach for me! It makes a feller step out. I worked good.

They got to playin' round like a couple puppies. Only more fun. I was a big feller by then-'bout eighteen, an' tall an' broad. I'd took a spurt there, an' grew.

The summer people begun to come in 'bout that time. They liked to have me round, seems. I made good money. I dressed them kids good.

They was cute. No hand-medowns, always in pairs, like the Stuart girls down to the lake, summers. An' blues, for their eyes, like that artist said. It was fun, goin' over the catalogue an' pickin' the stuff out. An' when it come, by Gar, how they always loved their new things!

"You'll spoil 'em, Jamie," Doc says to me once. But I didn't mind. I guess I done it though. Well, a feller's got to have some fun. Pop just set an' rocked. He didn't He never got the kids sorted out, after the first, even. But Mom was always pickin'.

care.

"You big fool," she'd say, an' like that. But the kids would run to me. They was real sweet. It lasted

a long time too. I ain't one to begrudge.

It begun easy. I didn't notice at first. They changed to me when them fellers from the military school was campin' down to the lake, that first year. Everything was dressed up an' stylish. That all was new, hereabouts. The girls was sixteen. They got goin' round. I liked to see 'em.

O' course I liked to see 'em. Asked to the city folks' houses, they was. I was proud. I'd walk by in the dark, times, when there was a party, an' look in. My girls was the purtiest o' the whole lot-blues, I kept 'em in-an' their fluttery curls. I'd puff up.

I done no harm. I wasn't about to find fault or to pry. I was just lookin' on. There ain't much to do for fun hereabouts. When Molly says to stop, I stopped, but I didn't get the meanin'. Only after, when I heard 'em all jokin' the kids 'bout the "night-watchman," an' somethin' 'bout their old man, an' they laughed like they done. It give me a funny feelin'. I thought one or the other of 'em would speak out an' say somethin'. They knew I wasn't mean. They knew I wasn't no nagger. I liked for them to be gay. "Oh, him!" Molly says, an' Glen laughed too. It made me feel queer. I come away quiet.

It has grew. That was the first. I couldn't know, o' course, but it was a beginnin'.

That winter they went down to Dalleytown to the high school. By Gar, how wild they was! How they tore round, an' sung. How we ordered an' ordered! An' then the packages come!

They was real sweet to me them days-here to the house, where no city folks could see 'em, o' course. I remember they used to hang on each arm, an' tease me for this, an' tease me for that. An' sometimes they'd push me in a chair, an' one would sit on my lap, an' one would stand behind an' hug my head. I'd make believe I wouldn't give in to 'em. Lordy, them was great times. We'd keep it up. How they'd tease me, an' laugh! "You big fool," Mom would say.

I missed them kids that winter. It was awful lonely.

"You big fool," Mom would say. "You're just ruinin' them girls. You dress 'em gay, you board 'em good; they should work to Dalleytown, like all the mountain girls does, that gets to the high school." I guess she was right too. But a feller's got to have some fun. An' Pop never said nothin'. He just set an' rocked, like always.

I liked buyin' for 'em. I liked to give 'em things.

I missed the kids terrible. I driv down an' got 'em for Saturdays an' Sundays real often that first winter. It made it nice. After, o' course, they had other things they had to do, an' couldn't get home so often. They was awful sweet 'bout it, so I never let on I minded.

But I minded terrible. I was all alone. A feller's got to have somethin'.

I'd try to visit with Pop. He'd listen all right, but he never was no talker hisself. He just set here an' looked at this stove. "You big fool," Mom would say to me, after.

It was that spring Pop died. He caught cold. It was awful quick. I