“And you will always get it, O spirit of old-fashioned Roses!”
In opening a window he disturbed an enormous fly, whose buzzing filled every corner of the roof. “To me,” he said, “this atmosphere recalls long marches and battles, with splendid victories and awful defeats.”
“I don’t see why. To me it seems delightfully restful.”
From an ancient horse-hair trunk he brought forth a box, and seating himself at her feet, emptied its contents upon the floor.
“This is why,” and he arranged in parallel lines the little leaden soldiers, diminutive cannons, some with wheels and some without, and a quantity of dominos, two by two. “These are troops, and if you care to know how I passed the rainy days of boyhood this will show you.”
“But, what are the dominos?”
“They are the enemy. These lead soldiers are mine, and they are all veterans, and all brave. This is myself,” and he held up a bent and battered relic on a three-legged horse.
“And who are you in these fights, Goosey?”
“Napoleon, generally; often Cæsar and Frederick, and sometimes George Washington and General Lee.”
“But you have no head. Isn’t that a drawback for a commander?”