SCOTTY AND BALDY
"I like all kinds o' speakin', too; not jest the fiery sort that makes you want t' fight fer your country, an' mebbe die fer it like Robert Emmett; but the kind that jest makes you want t' be good ter folks an' dogs, an' do the best you kin when things is agin you, an' you don't see much ahead—"
The Woman nodded gravely. "Yes, I know. It's the most difficult sort of bravery—the sort without flags, and music, and cheers to keep you up to the firing line."
"That's the kind, ma'am. Mebbe you know Bishop Rowe. That's what he preaches—jest doin' your best all the time, like you was in some big race. When he's in Nome I allers go t' St. Mary's. He talks plain an' simple, an' cheers you up—I guess kinda the way Lincoln talked—jest like he knew all about people's troubles an' didn't blame 'em fer mistakes, but wanted t' help 'em t' do better. Sometimes his talks don't sound smooth, an' made up beforehand, but you never forgit 'em."
"Eloquence of the heart instead of the tongue," murmured the Woman.
"An' last August I went every night fer near a week, when Mr. Wickersham was talkin' men inter sendin' him t' Washington, no matter what they felt an' said agin his goin' when he wasn't before 'em."
"You have certainly had a variety of orators, and a wide range of subjects."
"You kin see I ain't missed a single chanct t' hear any of 'em since I made up my mind t' be a great man"—and then appalled by his lengthy burst of eloquence the child colored violently and concluded in confusion—"an' this mornin' I got so interested in them speeches o' Daly's an' Fink's, I must 'a' lost all track o' time, fer when I come out it was noon, an' Baldy was gone."