She saw him set the hat on the head of a scarecrow whose construction had occupied his spare hours, and in which he felt some little pride.  But after surveying the result a moment he seemed to feel that he had insulted a helpless object, for he took the hat off, spat into it, and kicked it into shapeless pulp.  Then he came back to the house and grimly asked his wife if she had anything handy to take the poison out of hornet stings.

XIII

In Newry, on the glorious Fourth of July, the Proud Bird of Freedom wears a red shirt, a shield hat, and carries a speaking-trumpet clutched under one wing.  From the court-house—­Newry is the county’s shire town—­across to the post-office is stretched the well-worn banner: 

    WELCOME TO THE COUNTY’S
    BRAVE FIRE-LADDIES

That banner pitches the key for Independence Day in Newry.  The shire patriotically jangles her half-dozen bells in the steeples at daylight in honor of Liberty, and then gives Liberty a stick of candy and a bag of peanuts, and tells her to sit in the shade and keep her eye out sharp for the crowding events of the annual firemen’s muster.  This may be a cavalier way of treating Liberty, but perhaps Liberty enjoys it better than being kept on her feet all day, listening to speeches and having her ear-drums split by cannon.  Who knows?  At all events, Newry’s programme certainly suits the firemen of the county, from Smyrna in the north to Carthage in the south.  And the firemen of the county and their women are the ones who do their shopping in Newry!  Liberty was never known to buy as much as a ribbon for her kimono there.

So it’s the annual firemen’s muster for Newry’s Fourth!  Red shirts in the forenoon parade, red language at the afternoon tub-trials, red fire in the evening till the last cheer is yawped.

So it was on the day of which this truthful chronicle treats.

Court Street, at ten, ante-meridian, was banked with eager faces.  Band music, muffled and mellow, away off somewhere where the parade was forming!  Small boys whiling away the tedium of waiting with snap-crackers.  Country teams loaded to the edges, and with little Johnny scooched on a cricket in front, hustling down the line of parade to find a nook.  Anxious parents scuttling from side to side of the street, dragging red-faced offspring with the same haste and uncertainty hens display to get on the other side of the road—­having no especial object in changing, except to change.  Chatter of voices, hailings of old friends who signified delighted surprise by profanity and affectionate abuse.  Everlasting wailings of penny squawkers!

Behold Newry ready for its annual:  “See the Conquering Heroes Come!”

Uncle Brad Trufant stood on the post-office steps, dim and discontented eyes on the vista of Court Street, framed in the drooping elms.