the crossroads, and across the street from
it his father's store. But neither at the blacksmith's shop nor at
the store across from it was there anything to awaken even a passing
interest. Some farmers' teams and dogs, Pat Larkin's milk wagon with
its load of great cans on its way to the cheese factory and some stray
villagers here and there upon the street intent upon their business. Up
the street his eye travelled beyond the crossroads where stood on the
left Cheatley's butcher shop and on the right McKenny's hotel with
attached sheds and outhouses. Over the bridge and up the hill the street
went straight away, past the stone built Episcopal Church whose spire
lifted itself above the maple trees, past the Rectory, solid, square and
built of stone, past the mill standing on the right back from the street
beside the dam, over the hill, and so disappeared. The whole village
seemed asleep and dreaming among its maple trees in the bright sunlight.

Throwing another glance at the robin still singing on the treetop
overhead, the boy took from his pocket a mouth-organ, threw back his
head, squared his elbows out from his sides to give him the lung room he
needed, and in obedience to a sharp word of command after a preliminary
tum, tum, tum, struck up the ancient triumph hymn in memory of that
hero of the underground railroad by which so many slaves of the South in
bygone days made their escape "up No'th" to Canada and to freedom.

"Glory, glory, hallelujah, his soul goes marching on." By means of
"double-tongueing," a recently acquired accomplishment, he was able to
give a full brass band effect to his hymn of freedom. Many villagers
from door or window cast a kindly and admiring eye upon the gallant
little figure stepping to his own music down the street. He was brass
band, conductor, brigadier general all in one, and behind him marched
an army of heroes off for war and deathless glory, invisible and
invincible. To the Widow Martin as he swung past the leader flung a wave
of his hand. With a tender light in her old eyes the Widow Martin waved
back at him. "God bless his bright face," she murmured, pausing in
her work to watch the upright little figure as he passed along. At the
blacksmith's shop the band paused.

Tink, tink, tink, tink,
Tink, tink-a-tink-tink-tink.
Tink tink, tink, tink,
Tink, tink-a-tink-tink-tink.

The conductor graduated the tempo so as to include the rhythmic beat
of