At this period of time, however, it is likely that his lively imagination was more vividly impressed with two or three other books which had found their places on the book-shelf of the house—books of adventure, with their thrilling scenes, their deeds of danger, dashing and gallant. And accordingly it is related that about this time James Garfield became deeply interested in the life of Napoleon, as told by Grimshaw. How eagerly he must have followed out the magical story of that wonderful career of glory and blood through all its varied windings; seeing first a young Corsican lieutenant on the road to Paris, by sudden and brilliant successes rising quickly, step by step, but ever on the run, to be First Consul of the new French Republic, and then Emperor. Austerlitz, its carnage, its awful crisis, and its splendid victory; the terrible Russian campaign, with the untold horrors of that memorable retreat before the fierce troops of Cossack riders; on, and ever on through the changing fields of bright transfigurations and the Cimmerian darkness of defeat, down to the fell catastrophe at Waterloo,—and young Garfield lived and moved in it all, like an old soldier of the Imperial Legion. Another brave old book he knew was a “Life of Marion,” which had the added interest of telling the story of our own first great struggle for liberty. No wonder then, that, with such food for wild fancies as these at hand, James felt in his veins the hot blood of a martial hero, and resolved aloud, before his laughing relatives, that he meant to “be a soldier, and win great battles, as Napoleon did.” But the smoke of battle was yet afar off. So on flew the winter days and nights at more than lightning speed, in hours of work and school, books and dreams, and all the myriad modes and moods of human life. So, too, passed the summer time, whose busy labors preserved the family from want. Our young farmer and carpenter kept ever at the post of duty. Pressed by necessity from without, moved from within by the growing restlessness of a spirit which fed on stories of adventure, a nervous and ceaseless activity pushed him steadily forward to the new experiences which only waited for his coming. Another motive, more to the credit of his goodness of heart, which kept James busy, was that deathless love for his mother which, from the beginning, was the chief fountain of all good in his life. He knew how the faithful widow had lived and worked only for her children; that her hopes were bound up in their fortunes; and he determined that, as for him, she should not be disappointed. With this high purpose in mind, he worked on,—worked on the farm, labored on the neighboring farms, exercised his carpentering skill in country and in village, till his friends proudly said: “James Garfield is the most industrious boy in his neighborhood; there is not a lazy hair on his head.”