now all was ready; the moment of fate was absolutely at hand; the fife-and-drum corps led the way and the states followed; but what actually happened rebecca never knew; she lived through the hours in a waking dream. every little detail was a facet of light that reflected sparkles, and among them all she was fairly dazzled. the brass band played inspiring strains; the mayor spoke eloquently on great themes; the people cheered; then the rope on which so much depended was put into the children's hands, they applied superhuman strength to their task, and the flag mounted, mounted, smoothly and slowly, and slowly unwound and stretched itself until its splendid size and beauty were revealed against the maples and pines and blue new england sky.
then after cheers upon cheers and after a patriotic chorus by the church choirs, the state of maine mounted the platform, vaguely conscious that she was to recite a poem, though for the life of her she could not remember a single word.
“speak up loud and clear, rebecky,” whispered uncle sam in the front row, but she could scarcely hear her own voice when, tremblingly, she began her first line. after that she gathered strength and the poem “said itself,” while the dream went on.
she saw adam ladd leaning against a tree; aunt jane and aunt miranda palpitating with nervousness; clara belle simpson gazing cross-eyed but adoring from a seat on the side; and in the far, far distance, on the very outskirts of the crowd, a tall man standing in a wagon—a tall, loose-jointed man with red upturned mustaches, and a gaunt white horse headed toward the acreville road.
loud applause greeted the state of maine, the slender little white-clad figure standing on the mossy boulder that had been used as the centre of the platform. the sun came up from behind a great maple and shone full on the star-spangled banner, making it more dazzling than ever, so that its beauty drew all eyes upward.
abner simpson lifted his vagrant shifting gaze to its softy fluttering folds and its splendid massing of colors, thinking:
“i don't know's anybody'd ought to steal a flag—the thunderin' idjuts seem to set such store by it, and what is it, anyway? nothin; but a sheet o' buntin!”
nothing but a sheet of bunting? he looked curiously at the rapt faces of the mothers, their babies asleep in their arms; the parted lips and shining eyes of the white-clad girls; at cap'n lord, who had been in libby prison, and nat strout, who had left an arm at bull run; at the friendly, jostling crowd of farmers, happy, eager, absorbed, their throats ready to burst with cheers. then the breeze served, and he heard rebecca's clear voice saying:
“for it's your star, my star, all the stars together, that make our country's flag so proud to float in the bright fall weather!”
“talk about stars! she's got a couple of em right in her head,” thought simpson.... “if i ever seen a young one like that lyin; on anybody's doorstep i'd hook her quicker'n a wink, though i've got plenty to home, the lord knows! and i wouldn't swap her off neither.... spunky little creeter, too; settin; up in the wagon lookin' bout's big as a pint o' cider, but keepin' right after the goods!... i vow i'm bout sick o' my job! never with the crowd, allers jest on the outside, s if i wa'n't as good's they be! if it paid well, mebbe i wouldn't mind, but they're so thunderin' stingy round here, they don't leave anything decent out for you to take from em, yet you're reskin' your liberty n' reputation jest the same!... countin' the poor pickin's n' the time i lose in jail i might most's well be done with it n' work out by the day, as the folks want me to; i'd make bout's much n' i don't know's it would be any harder!”
he could see rebecca stepping down from the platform, while his own red-headed little girl stood up on her bench, waving her hat with one hand, her handkerchief with the other, and stamping with both feet.
now a man sitting beside the mayor rose from his chair and abner heard him call:
“three cheers for the women who made the flag!”
“hip, hip, hurrah!”
“three cheers for the state of maine!”
“hip, hip, hurrah!”
“three cheers for the girl that saved the flag from the hands of the enemy!”
“hip, hip, hurrah! hip, hip, hurrah!”
it was the edgewood minister, whose full, vibrant voice was of the sort to move a crowd. his words rang out into the clear air and were carried from lip to lip. hands clapped, feet stamped, hats swung, while the loud huzzahs might almost have wakened the echoes on old mount ossipee.
the tall, loose-jointed man sat down in the wagon suddenly and took up the reins.
“they're gettin' a little mite personal, and i guess it's bout time for you to be goin', simpson!”
the tone was jocular, but the red mustaches drooped, and the half-hearted cut he gave to start the white mare on her homeward journey showed that he was not in his usual devil-may-care mood.
“durn his skin!” he burst out in a vindictive undertone, as the mare swung into her long gait. “it's a lie! i thought twas somebody's wash! i hain't an enemy!”
while the crowd at the raising dispersed in happy family groups to their picnics in the woods; while the goddess of liberty, uncle sam, columbia, and the proud states lunched grandly in the grange hall with distinguished guests and scarred veterans of two wars, the lonely man drove, and drove, and drove through silent woods and dull, sleepy villages, never alighting to replenish his wardrobe or his stock of swapping material.
at dusk he reached a miserable tumble-down house on the edge of a pond.
the faithful wife with the sad mouth and the habitual look of anxiety in her faded eyes came to the door at the sound of wheels and went doggedly to the horse-shed to help him unharness.
“you didn't expect to see me back tonight, did ye?” he asked satirically; “leastwise not with this same horse? well, i'm here! you needn't be scairt to look under the wagon seat, there hain't nothin' there, not even my supper, so i hope you're suited for once! no, i guess i hain't goin' to be an angel right away, neither. there wa'n't nothin' but flags layin' roun' loose down riverboro way, n' whatever they say, i hain't sech a hound as to steal a flag!”
it was natural that young riverboro should have red, white, and blue dreams on the night after the new flag was raised. a stranger thing, perhaps, is the fact that abner simpson should lie down on his hard bed with the flutter of bunting before his eyes, and a whirl of unaccustomed words in his mind.
“for it's your star, my star, all our stars together.”
“i'm sick of goin' it alone,” he thought; “i guess i'll try the other road for a spell;” and with that he fell asleep.
