“Alexander!” exclaimed momma at once.  “What a dreadful idea!  I think I might be able to manage it.”

The photographer was there with his camera.  The guide marshalled us up to him, falling back now and then to bark at the heels of the lagging ones, and, with the assistance of a bench and an acacia, we were rapidly arranged, the short ones standing up, the tall ones sitting down, everyone assuming his most pleasing expression, and the Misses Bingham standing alone, apart, on the brink, looking on under an umbrella that seemed to protect them from intimate association with the democracy in any form.  We saw the guide approach them in gingerly inquiry, but, before simultaneous waves of their two black fans, he retired in disorder.  The bride had slipped her hand upon her husband’s shoulder, just to mark his identity; the fat gentleman had removed his hat and hurriedly put it on again, and the photographer had gone under his curtain for the third time, when Mr. Hinkson of Iowa, who sat in a conspicuous cross-legged position in the foreground, drew from his pocket a handkerchief and spread it carefully out over one knee.  It was not an ordinary handkerchief, it was a pocket edition of the Stars and Stripes, all red, and blue, and white, and it attracted the instant attention of every eye.  One of the eyes was Mr. Pabbley’s, who appeared to clear the group at a bound in consequence.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” exclaimed Mr. Pabbley with vehemence, “does anyone happen to have a Union Jack about him or her?”

They felt in their pockets, but they hadn’t.

“Then,” said Mr. Pabbley, who was evidently aroused, “unless the gentleman from Iowa will withdraw his handkerchief, I refuse to sit.”

“I guess we aren’t any of us annexationists,” said a middle-aged woman from Toronto in a duster, and proceeded to follow Mr. Pabbley.

The rest of the Canadians looked at each other undecidedly for a moment and then slowly filed after the middle-aged woman.  There remained the mere wreck of a group clustering round the national emblem on the leg of Mr. Hinkson.  The guide was expostulating himself speechless, the photographer was in convulsions, the Senator saw it was time to interfere.  Leaning over, he gently tapped the patriot from Iowa on the shoulder.

“Aren’t you satisfied with the sixty million fellow-citizens you’ve got already,” said poppa, “that you want to grab nine half-starved Canucks with a hand camera?”

“They’re in the majority here,” said Mr. Hinkson fiercely, “and I dare any one of ’em to touch that flag.  Go along over there and join ’em if you like—­they’re goin’ to be done by themselves—­to send to Queen Victoria!”

But that was further than anybody would go, even in defence of cosmopolitanism.  The Republic rallied round Mr. Hinkson’s leg, while the Dominion with much dignity supported Mr. Pabbley.  As momma said, human nature is perfectly extraordinary.