One of the bravest of our Indian fighters was Guy V. Henry. Personally, he was a typical representative of the knightly American soldier. Officially, it was his fortune to perform conspicuous services in at least three expeditions subsequent to the Civil War. He was a West Pointer, and the son of another, born in the service at Fort Smith in the Indian Territory. Graduating in 1861, a mere boy, he participated in four years of the hardest fighting in the Civil War, from Bull Run to Cold Harbor. At the age of twenty-three, his merit won him the appointment of Colonel of the Fortieth Massachusetts Volunteers, “a regiment that was never whipped.” The tall, brawny Yankees fairly laughed at the beardless stripling who was appointed to command them. “They laugh best who laugh last,” and Henry had the last laugh. He mastered them, and to this day they love his memory. He was thrice mentioned in despatches, and brevetted five times for conspicuous gallantry in action during the war, out of which he came with the rank of brigadier-general. For heroic and successful fighting at Old Cold Harbor, he received the highest distinction that can come to a soldier, the medal of honor. Having two horses shot from under him in the attack upon the Confederate lines, he seized a third from a trooper, mounted him under a withering fire, and led his soldiers forward in a final assault, which captured the enemy’s intrenchments; this third horse was shot under him just as he leaped the breastworks. “Thin as a shoestring and as brave as a lion,” he was a past-master of military tactics and a severe disciplinarian. “I tell you he is a martinet,” cried one young officer angrily, smarting under a well-deserved reproof. “You are wrong,” replied a wiser officer, who knew Henry better; “he is trying to make your own record better than you could ever make it yourself.” Sudden as a thunderbolt and swift as a hawk when he struck the red Sioux, in his family and social relations he was a kindly, considerate, Christian gentleman. He could kill Indians—but never cruelly, mercilessly, only in open warfare—and teach a class in Sunday-school. I’ve seen him do the latter, and no man did it better; the boys of his class simply idolized him. And his men in the army did the same. Cool and tactful, a statesman, for all his fiery energy, he was perhaps the best of our colonial governors. When he died the people of Porto Rico mourned him as a friend, where the little children had loved him as a father. II. A March in a Blizzard