“They don’t get the pepper sass into it these days they used to,” he said.  “These last two years, if it wa’n’t for the red shirts and some one forgettin’ and cussin’ once in a while, you’d think they was classes from a theological seminary marchin’ to get their degrees.  I can remember when we came down from Vienny twenty years ago with old Niag’ry, and ev’ry man was over six feet tall, and most of ’em had double teeth, upper and lower, all the way ’round.  And all wore red shirts.  And ev’ry man had one horn, and most of ’em tew.  We broke glass when we hollered.  We tore up ground when we jumped.  We cracked the earth when we lit.  Them was real days for firemen!”

“Ain’t seen the Smyrna Ancient and Honorable Firemen’s Association, Hiram Look foreman, and his new fife-and-drum corps, and the rest of the trimmin’s, have you, Uncle Brad?” drawled a man near him.  “Well, don’t commit yourself too far on old Vienny till the Smyrna part of the parade gets past.  I see ’em this mornin’ when they unloaded Hecly One and the trimmin’s ’foresaid, and I’d advise you to wait a spell before you go to callin’ this muster names.”

It became apparent a little later that hints of this sort were having their effect on the multitude.  Even the head of the great parade, with old John Burt, chief marshal, titupping to the grunt of brass horns, stirred only perfunctory applause.  The shouts for Avon’s stalwart fifty, with their mascot gander waddling on the right flank, were evidently confined to the Avon excursionists.  Starks, Carthage, Salem, Vienna strode past with various evolutions—­open order, fours by the right, double-quick, and all the rest, but still the heads turned toward the elm-framed vista of the street.  The people were expecting something.  It came.

Away down the street there sounded—­raggity-tag! raggity-tag!—­the tuck of a single drum.  Then—­pur-r-r-r!

“There’s old Smyrna talkin’ up!” shrilled a voice in the crowd.

And the jubilant plangor of a fife-and-drum corps burst on the listening ears.

“And there’s his pet elephant for a mascot!  How’s that for Foreman Hiram Look and the Smyrna Ancients and Honer’bles?” squealed the voice once more.

The drum corps came first, twenty strong, snares and basses rattling and booming, the fifers with arms akimbo and cheeks like bladders.

Hiram Look, ex-showman and once proprietor of “Look’s Leviathan Circus and Menagerie,” came next, lonely in his grandeur.  He wore his leather hat, with the huge shield-fin hanging down his back, the word “Foreman” newly lettered on its curved front.  He carried two leather buckets on his left arm, and in his right hand flourished his speaking-trumpet.  The bed-wrench, chief token of the antiquity of the Ancients, hung from a cord about his neck, and the huge bag, with a puckering-string run about its mouth, dangled from his waist.