the memory of his great gratitude.

"I don't want to preach," he went on, "but I must say that you young people, I fear, miss the spirit with which the nation should honour this day, if you do not see that the success of its celebration depends entirely on this same transforming power. A heartfelt gratitude to the heroes who won and kept our liberty can make beautiful the most commonplace act of commemoration."

Later, when the February afternoon was nearing twilight, there was a muffled sound of fife and drum on the hospital stairs. The many feet stepped lightly, but with a measured tramp, tramp as Miss Clay's school marched down the long corridor, four abreast.

The captain had been delirious at intervals all the afternoon. Now he opened his eyes with a puzzled expression, for the martial music made him forget his surroundings.

"It's just the young people from the school," explained the nurse, opening the door wider, that he might see the long rows of bright-faced boys and girls in the hall.

Max came in and took the old soldier's hand, stroking it affectionately while he talked. "They're going to sing 'Hail Columbia,' captain. You know how it goes:

"You see we never were really 'mindful what it cost' until we knew you, captain," Max went on, "so we never thought about being especially grateful to anybody before. This is a sort of thank-offering to such men as Washington—and you."

The captain tried to raise himself from the pillows—tried to speak some word of greeting to the young people who were watching him, but sank back exhausted.

"I can't!" he said to the nurse in a voice that trembled pitifully. "You tell them how glad—how proud—" Then speech failed him. The next moment the boys and girls began to sing.

A happy light came into the dim old eyes, as the sweet voices were lifted up in the inspiring airs that he loved so well.

They marched out softly when the songs were done, waving good-bye to him with their handkerchiefs. Down the street the music of fife and drum sounded fainter and fainter. The room was growing dark.

Max, who lingered behind, saw the white head turn on the pillow and heard a long-drawn sigh of satisfaction: "The dear children! God help 'em to keep the old flag flying!" And that was the captain's last audible prayer.

JODE'S CIRCUS MONEY

It was nearly school-time, but Jode didn't seem to be at all in a hurry. He sat on the wood-pile with the empty chip-basket beside him, slowly untying his shoes. The old gobbler strutted around the corner of the kitchen, and halted suddenly with one foot drawn up, as he caught sight of the red stockings.

"Quit! quit!" he cried, stretching his neck with an angry gobble.

Aunt Jane had come to the door to shake the table-cloth. She stood a moment, sniffing the warm spring air, and peering up at the pink peach-tree buds through her spectacles.

"Quit! quit!" cried the turkey again, and his angry voice attracted her attention.

"Well, Mary Ann," she exclaimed, "I just wish you'd see what that boy's a-doin'! It isn't for me to say, but if he was mine, he'd not go around barefoot this kind of weather. Next thing will be croup. You'd better 'tend to him."

"Meddlesome old thing!" muttered Jode, disrespectfully, throwing a chip at the gobbler. "Both of you had to go and tell."

The table-cloth whisked into the kitchen, followed by the complaining voice, and soon after his mother came to the door and called him.

"Have you fed the calves, Joseph?"

"Yes'm."

"And filled the chip-basket?"

"Almost."

"Then hurry, my son; it is nearly school-time."

"I say, ma," he began, "can't I go barefooted? It's plenty warm, and lots of the boys do."

"Why, no, child," she answered. "I told you the other day not to think of such a thing for another month at least. Put on your shoes immediately, and don't let me hear another word about it. It's of no use to tease."

Jode knew that, perfectly. In all the ten years of his varied experiences, it never had been of any use. Now, although the feet that slipped back into the red stockings and stout shoes were very loath to go, they went slowly but surely in.

"Wish't I was an Indian," he said, as he went through the orchard, balancing his geography on his head and swinging his lunch-basket, while the dog frisked around him. He had a queer way of talking to himself. "I could stay out-doors all the time then, and never have to go to school. Indians have a better time than anybody, 'thout it's dogs. O Penny, ain't you glad you're a dog?"

The first bell was just beginning to ring when he went through the gate at the end of the lane, so he had plenty of time to stop when he reached Squire Hooper's barn, and look at the flaming show-bills with which it was covered.

Johnny Harris was there ahead of him, and he noticed, with a pang of envy, that his feet were bare, and that his stubby toes were digging up the soft earth, as he stood looking at the pictures.

"I'm goin' to the show," announced Jode, proudly. "Our hired man said he'd take me if I'd pay. Pa always pays me every spring for dropping corn, so I'll have more than enough."

Johnny did not say anything, for his father was the drunken shoemaker of the little settlement, and the cross-road tavern took all their spare pennies. He stood and looked with longing eyes at the pictures of the animals. He knew what a stir there would be circus-day. How the wagons would begin to rattle along the roads at daylight from all directions; and how the band would play in town; and the frightened country horses would prance, and the crowds of people would block the streets to see the long, gay procession. But it would be six miles away, and he would miss it all.

While they looked at the side-show pictures,—the fat woman and the two-headed man and the African giant,—the second bell began to ring and away they raced to the schoolhouse. In his haste Jode left his geography on the gate-post by Squire Hooper's barn, and never thought of it again until after the noon-hour, when they came tramping in from the playground.

"You are very careless, Joseph," said the teacher. "Sit with Harris to study, and don't let it happen again, sir."

The boys put their heads together behind the map of the New England States, and began studying their boundaries.

"Let's begin with the littlest," whispered Jode. "And don't you talk to me, old fellow; I don't want to be kept in again after school. Rhode Island is bounded on the north by Massachusetts, on the east by—"

"Oh, say," interrupted Johnny, "I've got some field-mice in a box at home. I was going to bring them to-day, but was afraid the teacher would take 'em away. They're the cunningest little things! Come over after school and I'll show 'em to you."

"All right," whispered Jode, with one eye on the teacher. "On the north by Massachusetts, on the east by Massachusetts and Atlantic Ocean, on the south by—"

"Oh gracious! look there!" interrupted Johnny again. "Look at Boney Woods! What's he a-doin'?"

Boney had his book propped up in front of him. His head was bowed studiously over his lesson, but his lesson was farthest from his thoughts. He had cut a piece of leather from the top of his boot-leg, and was making a