At the beginning of the century, the crusty Preble, commodore of the blockading fleet before Tripoli, was sent a consignment of these “boys” to aid him in his work. The names of the “boys” were Decatur, Stewart, Macdonough, Lawrence, and Perry. Excepting Decatur, who was twenty-six, there was not one who was over twenty-four, and two or three of them were under twenty. The commodore grew red in the face and swore mighty oaths when he thought of the things he had to accomplish with the youngsters under his command. But he found before long that though youth might be inconvenient, it could not be considered as a reproach in their case. Decatur, with a volunteer crew, went under the guns at Tripoli, captured and blew up the “Philadelphia” in a way that paled all deeds of gallantry done before or since. The dreamy Somers went in with a fire-ship and destroyed both the shipping and himself. In the hand-to-hand fights on the gunboats, Lawrence, young Bainbridge, Stewart, and the others fought and defeated the best hand-to-hand fighters of the Mediterranean. The Dey of Algiers, when Decatur came before him to make terms of peace, stroked his black beard and looked at the young hero curiously. “Why,” he said, “do they send over these young boys to treat with the older Powers?” When the war was over, Preble no longer grew red in the face or swore. He loved his school-boys, and walked his quarter-deck with them arm-in-arm. And they loved him for his very crustiness, for they knew that back of it all was a man. These youthful heroes were not the only ones. Young Farragut, an infant of twelve years, with an old “Shoot-if-you’re-lucky,” quelled a promising mutiny. At eighteen Bainbridge did the same. Farragut, at thirteen, was recommended for promotion to a lieutenancy he was too young to take. Perry was about thirty when he won the victory of Erie. A youngster’s character bears a certain definite relation to the times he lives in. Skies blue and breezes light, he shapes his life’s course with no cares but the betterment of his mental condition. Baffling winds create the sailor, and storm and stress bring out his greater capabilities. The Spanish war has proved that heroes only slumber, and that the young gentleman with the finely-tempered mind of an Annapolis training is capable of the great things his father did. The blue-jacket of to-day has plenty of hard work to do, but he is as comfortable as good food and sleeping accommodations, regular habits, and good government can make him. As a class, the United States Jacky is more contented, perhaps, than any other man of similar conditions. Unlike the soldier, he does not even have to rough it very much, for wherever he goes he takes his house with him.