West Point Colors by Anna Bartlett Warner

The lions, if they left not the forest, would capture no prey; and the arrow, if it quitted not the bow, would not strike the mark.
—Arabian Nights.
The precise date of my story does not matter: the world strikes a much more even average than we are apt to think; and still, as of old, “the thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done, is that which shall be done.”
Once upon a time, then, there was a boy whose name was Charlemagne Kindred.
“Magnus” was the home version. I think his two young sisters were perhaps rather proud of the royal-republican title, and would by no means let it come down to “Charley,” and so lose itself in the crowd. Once in a while, when a longer lecture than usual was called for, Mrs. Kindred would say Charlemagne: but I doubt if it had much effect, unless to give Magnus some slighting thoughts of the ancestor who had first borne his name.