That child has been defrauded who has not had a hero in his own home.
I was at no loss to know who mine was, on this bland spring morning, as my father and I leaned on a fence on the hither side of the creek and watched the proceedings of the cooks and managers about the al fresco kitchen.
“Too many cooks spoil the dinner!” quoth I, as negroes bustled from fire to fire, and white men yelled their orders and counter-orders. “Not that it matters much what kind of victuals are served at a Democratic barbecue, so long as there is plenty to drink.”
“Easy, easy, daughter!” smiled my auditor. “There are good men and true in the other party. We are in danger of forgetting that.”
“None as good and great as Mr. Clay, father?”
He raised his hat slightly and involuntarily. “I do not think he has his equal as man and pure patriot in this, or any other country. God defend the right!”
“You are not afraid lest Polk”—drawling the monosyllable in derision—“will beat him, father?”
The smile was a laugh—happily confident.
“Hardly! I have more faith in human nature and in the common-sense of the American people than to think that they will pass over glorious Harry of the West, and forget his distinguished services to the nation, to set in the presidential chair an obscure demagogue who has done nothing. Wouldn’t you like to go down there and see half an ox roasted, and a whole sheep?”