and shrapnel in the bushes, is not so cheerful an occupation;
in fact, it is a low proceeding altogether.
"Whooping along from time to time 'thoro bush-thoro
brier,' with a wildish throng, firing, cheering, laughing, and running,-that, is a very different story, and holding the advance point in spite of orders to retire (!) is another thing to make even novices chuckle inwardly when they once feel they can do it, but Theodore was the sparkle to all that fun.
"I could make your flesh creep, however, with horror; meanwhile, you can picture to yourself in pleasant nightmares, flocks of vultures and buzzards, the dead and wounded lost in the tangled growth,-and swarms of crabs, great big land crabs with one, enormous, lobster-like claw, creeping, rustling, scuffling thro' the dried aloes and palmettoes. . . . War never changes its hideous phantasms. The heroism of even modern men (and none the less of the women who let them go) is the one thing to glory and hope in. We pack up tonight. My love to all."
And so ended the brief and glorious career of the Rough Riders, a career which has about it a touch of Roland and Robin Hood. These letters, written at the time, are valuable refutations of some bruited questions, and the very people who criticised certain actions of my brother, at the time, would be the first, I verily believe, now, to wish they had withheld their criticism.
The depleted regiment, emaciated beyond words, returned to Montauk Point on Long Island, and my husband and I came down from the Adirondack Mountains to meet them at Camp Wyckoff. What a night we spent in a Red Cross tent at the camp ! How we talked ! How good it was to greet the gallant men again, so many of whom we knew and loved, and how infinitely interesting to come in contact with the wild Westerners about whose courage and determination my brother had written such glowing accounts.
In the last letter my brother wrote to my husband from Santiago, the sentence "As for the political effect of my actions,