THE SUMMIT OF THE YEAES 



storms and tempests of life; it lays it open also to the 

 light and the sunshine, and to the singing and the 

 mating birds. A childless life is a tree without 

 branches, a house without windows. 



I missed being a soldier in the armies of the Union 

 during the Civil War, which was probably the great- 

 est miss of my life. I think I had in me many of the 

 qualities that go to the making of a good soldier — 

 love of adventure, keenness of eye and ear, love of 

 camp-life, ability to shift for myself, skill with the 

 gun, and a sound constitution. But the rigidity of 

 the military system, the iron rules, the mechanical 

 unity and precision, the loss of the one in the many 

 — all would have galled me terribly, though better 

 men than I willingly, joyously, made themselves a 

 part of the great military machine. I should have 

 made a good scout and skirmisher, but a poor fighter 

 in the ranks. I am a poor fighter, anyhow. 



My grandfather was a soldier of the Revolution, 

 and he seems to have used up about all the fighting 

 blood there was in the family, for little of it has 

 shown itself since. When one of his sons was 

 drafted in the War of 1812, he went in his stead, but 

 did not get face to face with the enemy. 



I got near enough to the firing line during our 

 Civil War — when Early made his demonstration 

 against the Capital in 1864, and I was a clerk in the 

 Treasury Department — to know that I much 

 prefer the singing of the birds to the singing of 

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