Ramsey Milholland

Ramsey Milholland

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ramsey Milholland, by Booth
Tarkington This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost
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Title: Ramsey Milholland
Author: Booth Tarkington
Release Date: March 21, 2006 [EBook #2595]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAMSEY
MILHOLLAND ***

Produced by Earle Beach and David Widger

RAMSEY MILHOLLAND
by Booth Tarkington

To the Memory of Billy Miller (William Henry Harrison Miller II)

1908 - 1918 Little Patriot, Good Citizen Friend of Mankind
Chapter I
When Johnnie comes marching home again, Hurrah! Hurrah! We'll
give him a hearty welcome then, Hurrah! Hurrah! The men with the
cheers, the boys with shouts, The ladies they will all turn out, And we'll
all feel gay, when Johnnie comes marching home again!
The old man and the little boy, his grandson, sat together in the shade
of the big walnut tree in the front yard, watching the "Decoration Day
Parade," as it passed up the long street; and when the last of the
veterans was out of sight the grandfather murmured the words of the
tune that came drifting back from the now distant band at the head of
the procession.
"Yes, we'll all feel gay when Johnnie comes marching home again," he
finished, with a musing chuckle.
"Did you, Grandpa?" the boy asked.
"Did I what?"
"Did you all feel gay when the army got home?"
"It didn't get home all at once, precisely," the grandfather explained.
"When the war was over I suppose we felt relieved, more than anything
else."
"You didn't feel so gay when the war was, though, I guess!" the boy
ventured.
"I guess we didn't."
"Were you scared, Grandpa? Were you ever scared the Rebels would
win?"
"No. We weren't ever afraid of that."

"Not any at all?"
"No. Not any at all."
"Well, weren't you ever scared yourself, Grandpa? I mean when you
were in a battle."
"Oh, yes; then I was." The old man laughed. "Scared plenty!"
"I don't see why," the boy said promptly. "I wouldn't be scared in a
battle."
"Wouldn't you?"
"'Course not! Grandpa, why don't you march in the Decoration Day
Parade? Wouldn't they let you?"
"I'm not able to march any more. Too short of breath and too shaky in
the legs and too blind."
"I wouldn't care," said the boy. "I'd be in the parade anyway, if I was
you. They had some sittin' in carriages, 'way at the tail end; but I
wouldn't like that. If I'd been in your place, Grandpa, and they'd let me
be in that parade, I'd been right up by the band. Look, Grandpa! Watch
me, Grandpa! This is the way I'd be, Grandpa."
He rose from the garden bench where they sat, and gave a complex
imitation of what had most appealed to him as the grandeurs of the
procession, his prancing legs simulating those of the horse of the grand
marshal, while his upper parts rendered the drums and bugles of the
band, as well as the officers and privates of the militia company which
had been a feature of the parade. The only thing he left out was the
detachment of veterans.
"Putty-boom! Putty-boom! Putty-boom-boom-boom!" he vociferated,
as the drums--and then as the bugles: "Ta, ta, ra, tara!" He addressed
his restive legs: "Whoa, there, you Whitey! Gee! Haw! Git up!" Then,
waving an imaginary sword: "Col-lumn right! Farwud March! Halt!

Carry harms!" He "carried arms." "Show-dler harms!" He "shouldered
arms," and returned to his seat.
"That'd be me, Grandpa. That's the way I'd do." And as the grandfather
nodded, seeming to agree, a thought recently dismissed returned to the
mind of the composite procession and he asked:
"Well, why weren't you ever afraid the Rebels would whip the Unions,
Grandpa?"
"Oh, we knew they couldn't."
"I guess so." The little boy laughed disdainfully, thinking his question
satisfactorily answered. "I guess those ole Rebels couldn't whipped a
flea! They didn't know how to fight any at all, did they, Grandpa?"
"Oh, yes, they did!"
"What?" The boy was astounded. "Weren't they all just reg'lar ole
cowards, Grandpa?"
"No," said the grandfather. "They were pretty fine soldiers."
"They were? Well, they ran away whenever you began shootin' at 'em,
didn't they?"
"Sometimes they did, but most times they didn't. Sometimes they
fought like wildcats--and sometimes we were the ones that ran away."
"What for?"
"To keep from getting killed, or maybe to keep from getting captured."
"But the Rebels were bad men, weren't they, Grandpa?"
"No."
The boy's forehead, customarily vacant, showed some little vertical