“I can’t be what my mother wanted me to be,” said small Francis plaintively. “My father says she wanted me to be a great man like my grandfather, but how can I be like you, sir? All the things you’ve done won’t ever be done again, ever, will they? There will never be another Declaration of Independence and you wrote that. I know. My father told me.” Jefferson circled the lad with an arm. All about, clustered close to the fire, the young Randolphs were abruptly and amazingly quiet. “That’s so,” the old man agreed. “I did write that paper, didn’t I? And after I’d written it, four other men sat around in Philadelphia for about a week and picked it to pieces and made changes in it and couldn’t make up their minds whether to adopt it or not. I guess they never would have made up their minds and we’d still be British subjects and paying taxes to the king. But at last they all decided to accept the Declaration of Independence, leaving out some parts I had labored hard to make perfect. So—we declared ourselves independent of Great Britain.” The small Randolphs were convulsed in a hysteria of giggles but young Francis kept a grave face. “On the fourth of July, 1776,” he said, “and I know the names of those other men too, Grandfather.” “So do I!” piped up a cousin. “One was John Adams and one was Benjamin Franklin—” “And Roger Sherman of Connecticut and Robert Livingston of New York,” finished Francis, “and Thomas Jefferson of Virginia. But you should have been the first man to sign it, Grandfather. Why did you let John Hancock beat you?” “He was the president of the Congress, my son. It was his right to put his name first. Have you read the Declaration, any of you?” “Ha!” shouted some older ones. “We know it by heart.” And straightway there began a chanting recitation, the big ones trying to drown out the smaller ones. Jefferson jumped up, waving his hands for silence. “Enough! Enough! You know it. I concede that you know it. Better than your grandfather no doubt, for I have to think hard at times to remember parts of it.” It was Ann, the oldest Randolph daughter, who broke up the conclave around the fire. “Grandfather, the wagons have come!” she announced from the door. “Do you want all those boxes brought in here?” “All of them.” He jumped up and was quickly at the door. Now he would open and arrange all his papers at his leisure. Slaves tramped in and out through the outer library, endlessly piling up heavy parcels. “Twenty-nine,” counted Martha finally. “Papa, there should be thirty. I know. I counted them twice in Washington.” “Something has been lost or stolen,” he worried, “and I won’t know what it is until I have emptied every box.” “I know what it is!” she cried, studying the pile. “It’s that wooden box we packed in your bedroom—there at the last. The one that had all your Indian writing in it.”