The Southerner - Jr. Thomas Dixon

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words comforted him until he neared the house. And then a sense of bitter loss welled up in spite of all.

      "Did I do right, Ma?" he asked wistfully.

      She placed her hand on his forehead:

      "Yes—I'm proud of you. I know what that gift cost a boy's heart. It was big because it was all you had and the pride of your soul was in it."

      The sense of loss was gone and he was rich and happy again.

      When the supper was over and they sat before the flickering firelight he asked her a question over which his mind had puzzled since he left the old soldier.

      "Why is it," he said thoughtfully, "British soldiers can't fight?"

      The mother smiled:

      "Who said they couldn't fight?"

      "The old soldier I gave my fish to. He said we just made hash out o' them. We've licked 'em twice and we can do it again!"

      The last sentence he didn't quote. He gave it as a personal opinion based on established facts.

      "We didn't win because the British couldn't fight," the mother gravely responded.

      "Then why?" he persisted.

      "The Lord was good to us."

      "How?"

      The question came with an accent of indignation. Sometimes he couldn't help getting cross with his mother when she began to give the Lord credit for everything. If the Lord did it all why should he give his string of fish to an old soldier!

      The grey eyes looked into his with wistful tenderness. She had been shocked once before by the fear that there was something in this child's eternal why that would keep him out of the church. The one deep desire of her heart was that he should be good.

      "Would you like to hear," she began softly, "something about the Revolution which my old school teacher told me in Virginia?"

      "Yes, tell me!" he answered eagerly.

      "He said that we could never have won our independence but for God. We didn't win because British soldiers couldn't fight. We held out for ten years because we outran them. We ran quicker, covered more ground, got further into the woods and stayed there longer than any fighters the British had ever met before. That's why we got the best of them. Our men who fought and ran away lived to fight another day. General Washington was always great in retreat. He never fought unless he was ready and could choose his own field. He waited until his enemies were in snug quarters drinking and gambling, and then on a dark night, so dark and cold that some of his own men would freeze to death, he pushed across a river, fell on them, cut them to pieces and retreated.

      "The number of men he commanded was so small he could not face his foes in the open if he could avoid it. His men were poorly armed, poorly drilled, half-clothed and half-starved at times. The British troops were the best drilled and finest fighting men of the world in their day, armed with good guns, well fed, well clothed, and well paid."

      She paused and smiled at the memory of her teacher's narrative.

      "What do you suppose happened on one of our battlefields?"

      "I dunno—what?"

      "When the Red-coats charged, our boys ran at the first crack of a gun. They ran so well that they all got away except one little fellow who had a game leg. He stumbled and fell in a hole. A big British soldier raised a musket to brain him. The little fellow looked up and cried: 'All right. Kill away, ding ye—ye won't get much!'

      "The Britisher laughed, picked him up, brushed his clothes and told him to go home."

      The Boy laughed again and again.

      "He was a spunky one anyhow, wasn't he?"

      "Yes," the mother nodded, "that's why the Red-coat let him go. And we never could have endured if God hadn't inspired one man to hold fast when other hearts had failed."

      "And who was he?" the Boy broke in.

      "General Washington. At Valley Forge our cause was lost but for him. Our men were not paid. They could get no clothes, they were freezing and starving. They quit and went home in hundreds and gave up in despair. And then, Boy——"

      Her voice dropped to a tense whisper:

      "General Washington fell on his knees and prayed until he saw the shining face of God and got his answer. Next day he called his ragged, hungry men together and said:

      "'Soldiers, though all my armies desert, the war shall go on. If I must, I'll gather my faithful followers in Virginia, retreat to the mountains and fight until our country is free!'

      "His words cheered the despairing men and they stood by him. We were saved at last because help came in time. Lord Cornwallis had laid the South in ashes, and camped at Yorktown, his army of veterans laden with spoils. He was only waiting for the transports from New York to take his victorious men North, join the army there and end the war, and then——"

      She drew a deep breath and her eyes sparkled:

      "And then, Boy, it happened—the miracle! Into the Chesapeake Bay in Virginia, three big ships dropped anchor at the mouth of the York River. Our people on the shore thought they were the transports and that the end had come. But the ships were too far away to make out their flags, and so they sent swift couriers across the Peninsula, to see if there were any signs in the roadstead at Hampton. There—Glory to God! lay a great fleet flying the flag of France. The French had loaned us twenty millions of dollars, and sent their navy and their army to help us. Had the Lord sent down a host from the sky we couldn't have been more surprised. They landed, joined with General Washington's ragged men, and closed in on Cornwallis. Surprised and trapped he surrendered and we won.

      "But there never was a year before that, my Boy, that we were strong enough to resist the British army had the mother country sent a real general here to command her troops."

      "Why didn't she?" the Boy interrupted.

      Again the mother's voice dropped low:

      "Because God wouldn't let her—that's the only reason. If Lord Clive had ever landed on our shores, Washington might now be sleeping in a traitor's grave."

      The voice again became soft and dreamy—almost inaudible.

      "And he didn't come?" the Boy whispered.

      "No. On the day he was to sail he put the papers in his pocket, went into his room, locked the door and blew his own brains out. This is God's country, my son. He gave us freedom. He has great plans for us."

      The fire flickered low and the Boy's eyes glowed with a strange intensity.

       Table of Contents

      A barbecue, with political speaking, was held at the village ten miles away. The family started at sunrise. The day was an event in the lives of every man, woman and child within a radius of twenty miles. Many came as far as thirty miles and walked the whole distance. Before nine o'clock a crowd of two thousand had gathered.

      The dark, lithe young mother who led her boy by the hand down the crowded aisle of the improvised brush arbor that day performed a deed which was destined to change the history of the world.

      The speaker who held the crowd spellbound for two hours was Henry Clay. The Boy not only heard an eloquent orator. His spirit entered for all time into fellowship with a great human soul.

      In words that throbbed with passion, he pictured the coming glory of a mighty nation whose shores would be washed by two oceans, whose wealth and manhood would be the hope and inspiration of the world. Never before had words been given such wings. The ringing tones found the Boy's soul and set his brain on fire. A big idea was born within his breast. This was his country. His feet pressed

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