ST. NICHOLAS
Copyright, 1914, by The Century Co. All rights reserved.
TWO BOYS AND THE
FLAG
BY ELEANOR SCHUREMAN
I
J. Q. A. SmiTH, JRr., only son and heir of Center- ville's leading citizen, better known to his mama’s circle as Johnny, and to the boys as Quince, trod gingerly the graveled path from the front door to the gate. A becoming self-respect prevented him from walking on the grass, though the un- expected tenderness of his feet seriously modified the rapture of going barefoot for the first time that season. Once outside the gate, however, even the exacting code of boyhood did not for- bid him to leave the plank sidewalk, where in- sidious splinters lurked; and he scuffed comforta- bly along in the soft dust of the road, swinging his lunch-box and whistling “The Star-Spangled Banner” with admirable spirit, though somewhat off the key.
To whistle was for Johnny, that morning, a necessity. The sky was so blue; the locust blos- soms were so white and fragrant; the early morn- ing air, cool and still, was so saturated with the vague promise of coming summer. Then, too, he had been allowed to leave off his coat, as well as his shoes and stockings. And literally to crown all, he had a new straw hat, that ultimate symbol of the joyous change from winter to spring. But aside from all these sources of inspiration, Johnny had a special reason for whistling “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
As he turned into Main Strect, he quickened his pace to a canter; for there it lay, just ahead of him, on the grass of Court-house Square, the
Gougle
long-expected, municipal flagstaff. The superb polished shaft of Oregon fir was the elder Smith'’s gift to Centerville. He had said at breakfast that it was at the station, and would probably be in the square this morning; but his small son, John Quincy Adams Smith, Jr., had scarcely dared trust the hope till it was justified by sight.
“Yes, sir! There she is! Twice as long,” he told his exultant heart, “as any telegraph-pole.” And astride the noble butt of it, gripping it with patched knees and caressing it with freckled hands, sat Mickey O’Shea; Mickey, red-headed and ragged, rude son of a peasant sire, prone to lapse into the brogue in moments of excitement; vet, by virtue of his quick wit, high spirits, and cssential “squareness,” Johnny's chosen comrade and soul-mate. Before Martin’s Pharmacy, across Main Street from the square, the paternal O’Shea’s rickety milk-wagon was drawn up at the curb, while its wizened owner, leaning for- ward from the driver's seat, discussed Center- ville’'s new possession with two early loiterers.
“H'lo,Quince !” hailed grinning Mickey. “She’s come, an’ she ‘s a whopper!”
“She sure is,” assented Quince, dropping down beside him and stroking the smooth bole with de- lighted fingers. *“Ma says,” he proceeded to dis- pense the information glecaned at breakfast, “the Civic Lcague 's got th' flag 'most done. Pa ’s goin’ to present it to th’ town on th’ Fourth; an’ they 're goin’ t’ have a raisin’, with th’ Reg’- mental Band from th’ fort, an’ speeches, an’ songs, an’ all sorts o' doin’s.”
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