Years before, when he and his children had played together, he had told them a story about lions.  Some of the boys had been called the lion cubs, and henceforth their father was to them “The Old Lion.”

On the sixth of January, one of his sons, who was at home recovering from his wounds, sent a message to his brothers in France: 

    The Old Lion is dead.

He was buried in a small cemetery near his Long Island home.  A plain grave-stone marks the place.  To his grave have come a King and a Prince and other men of great name from Europe, to lay wreaths there, as they put them on the tombs of Washington and Lincoln.  But what would have pleased him even more is that every Sunday and holiday thousands of men, women and children who knew him, thousands who loved him, although they never saw him, men who fought at his side, and men who fought against him, go out to stand for a moment at his grave, because they know him now as a wise, brave, and patriotic American.

The end