"Oh Father, Father—_don’t!_—such language before the child!" Mother would cry, and that would be the end of the new end of Grandfather’s story. On a soap-box in Abe Jones’s corner grocery, Grandfather argued politics with Old Man Stubbs and the rest of the boys. "I’ve voted the straight Republican ticket all my life," he would say, proudly, when the fray was at its height, "and, by George! I’ll not make a darned old fool o’ myself by turning coat now. Pesky few Democrats ever I see who—" Here Old Man Stubbs would rise from the cracker-barrel. "If I understand you correctly, sir, you have called me a darned old fool." "Not at all, Stubbs," Grandfather would reply, soothingly. "Not by a jugful. Now you’re a Democrat—" "And proud of it, sir," Old Man Stubbs would break in. "You’re a Democrat, Stubbs, and as such you are not responsible; but if I was to turn Democrat, Stubbs, I’d be a darned old fool." And in the roar that followed, Old Man Stubbs would subside to the cracker-barrel and smoke furiously. Then Grandfather would say: "Stubbs, do you remember old Mose Gray?" That was to clear the battle-field of the political carnage, so to speak—so that Old Man Stubbs would forget his grievance and walk home with Grandfather peaceably when the grocery closed for the night. If it was winter-time, and the snowdrifts were too deep for grandfathers and little boys, you sat before the fireplace, Grandfather in his arm-chair, you flat on the rug, your face between your hands, gazing into the flames. "Who was the greatest man that ever lived, Grandfather?" "Jesus of Nazareth, boy." "And who was the greatest soldier?" "Ulysses S. Grant." "And the next greatest?" "George Washington." "But Old Man Stubbs says Napoleon was the greatest soldier." "Old Man Stubbs? Old Man Stubbs? What does he know about it, I’d like to know? He wasn’t in the war. He’s afraid of his own shadder. U. S. Grant was the greatest general that ever lived. I guess I know. I was there, wasn’t I? Napoleon! Old Man Stubbs! Fiddlesticks!" And Grandfather would sink back into his chair, smoking wrath and weed in his trembling corn-cob, and scowling at the blazing fagots and the curling hickory smoke. By-and-by— "Who was the greatest woman that ever lived, Grandfather?" "Your mother, boy." "Oh, Father"—it was Mother’s voice—"you forget." "Forget nothing," cried Grandfather, fiercely. "Boy, your mother is the best woman that ever lived, and mind you remember it, too. Every boy’s mother is the best woman that ever lived." And when Grandfather leaned forward in his chair and waved his pipe, there was no denying Grandfather. At night, after supper, when your clothes were in a little heap on the chair, and you had your nighty on, and you had said your prayers, Mother tucked you in bed and kissed you and called Grandfather. Then Grandfather came stumping up the stairs with his cane. Sitting on the edge of your bed, he sang to you,