FullReads

From a box-elder down the street climbed another boy; one popped out of a crabapple orchard; a dozen others from drowsy distances. They scurried like suddenly disturbed ants. They could be heard calling, clattering into houses. They came out again in Scout uniforms; they raced down the street and fell into line.

They stood with clean backs rigid, eyes forward, waiting to obey orders. As he looked at them, Mr. Gale knew that some day Wakamin would again have a soul.

Jimmy Martin came marching up to Mr. Gale. His voice was plaintive and reedy, but it was electric as he reported: “The Boy Scouts are ready, sir. ”

“‘Tention!” shouted Mr. Gale.

The old men’s backs had been straightening, the rheumy redness of disappointment had gone from their eyes. They lined out behind the boys. Even the Wakamin stableman seemed to feel inspiration. He sprang from his car, helped Mrs. Tiffany in, and wheeled the car to join the procession. From nowhere, from everywhere, a crowd had come, and stood on the sidewalk, rustling with faint cheering. Two women hastened to add flowers to those in Mrs. Tiffany’s basket. The benumbed town had awakened to energy and eagerness and hope.

To the clergyman Mr. Gale suggested, “Do you suppose that just for once this Yankee fife-and-drum corps could play ‘Dixie’?” Instantly the clergyman-drummer and the banker-fifer flashed into “Way Down South in the Land of Cotton. ” The color-bearer raised the flag.

Mr. Gale roared, “Forward! M—”

There was a high wail from Mrs. Tiffany: “Wait! Land o’ goodness! What’s Decoration Day without one single sword, and you menfolks never thinking—”

She ran into her house. She came out bearing in her two hands, as though it were an altar vessel, the saber of Captain Tiffany.

“Mr. Gale, will you carry a Northerner’s sword?” she asked.

“No, ma’am, I won’t!”

She gasped.

He buckled on the sword belt, and cried, “This isn’t a Northerner’s sword any more, nor a Southerner’s, ma’am. It’s an American’s! Forward! March!”