a company of soldiers, and that company came marching up on the Common.  They had served out one term in the Civil War and had reenlisted, and they were being received by their native townsmen.  I was but a boy, but I was captain of that company, puffed out with pride on that day—­why, a cambric needle would have burst me all to pieces.  As I marched on the Common at the head of my company, there was not a man more proud than I. We marched into the town hall and then they seated my soldiers down in the center of the house and I took my place down on the front seat, and then the town officers filed through the great throng of people, who stood close and packed in that little hall.  They came up on the platform, formed a half circle around it, and the mayor of the town, the “chairman of the Selectmen” in New England, took his seat in the middle of that half circle.  He was an old man, his hair was gray; he never held an office before in his life.  He thought that an office was all he needed to be a truly great man, and when he came up he adjusted his powerful spectacles and glanced calmly around the audience with amazing dignity.  Suddenly his eyes fell upon me, and then the good old man came right forward and invited me to come up on the stand with the town officers.  Invited me up on the stand!  No town officer ever took notice of me before I went to war.  Now, I should not say that.  One town officer was there who advised the teacher to “whale” me, but I mean no “honorable mention.”  So I was invited up on the stand with the town officers.  I took my seat and let my sword fall on the floor, and folded my arms across my breast and waited to be received.  Napoleon the Fifth!  Pride goeth before destruction and a fall.  When I had gotten my seat and all became silent through the hall, the chairman of the Selectmen arose and came forward with great dignity to the table, and we all supposed he would introduce the Congregational minister, who was the only orator in the town, and who would give the oration to the returning soldiers.  But, friends, you should have seen the surprise that ran over that audience when they discovered that this old farmer was going to deliver that oration himself.  He had never made a speech in his life before, but he fell into the same error that others have fallen into, he seemed to think that the office would make him an orator.  So he had written out a speech and walked up and down the pasture until he had learned it by heart and frightened the cattle, and he brought that manuscript with him, and taking it from his pocket, he spread it carefully upon the table.  Then he adjusted his spectacles to be sure that he might see it, and walked far back on the platform and then stepped forward like this.  He must have studied the subject much, for he assumed an elocutionary attitude; he rested heavily upon his left heel, slightly advanced the right foot, threw back his shoulders, opened the organs of speech, and advanced his right hand at an angle of forty-five.  As he stood in that elocutionary attitude this is just the way that speech went, this is it precisely.  Some of my friends have asked me if I do not exaggerate it, but I could not exaggerate it.  Impossible!  This is the way it went; although I am not here for the story but the lesson that is back of it: