ntal, for she was
harnessed to the pole of "Hecla Number One," and the old tub
"ruckle-chuckled" along at her heels on its little red trucks. From
its brake-bars hung the banners won in the past-and-gone victories
of twenty years of musters. Among these was one inscribed
"Champions."

And behind Hecla marched, seventy-five strong, the Ancients of
Smyrna, augmented, by Hiram Look's enterprise, until they comprised
nearly every able-bodied man in the old town.

To beat and pulse of riotous drums and shrilling fifes they were
roaring choruses. It was the old war song of the organization,
product of a quarter-century of rip-roaring defiance, crystallized
from the lyrics of the hard-fisted.

They let the bass drums accent for them.

"Here wec-come from old Sy-myrna
Here wec-come with Hecly One;
She's the prunes for a squirt, gol durn her--
We've come down for fight or fun.
Shang, de-rango! We're the bo-kay,
Don't giveadam for no one no way.

"Here wec-come--sing old A'nt Rhody!
See old Hecly paw up dirt.
Stuff her pod with rocks and sody,
Jee-ro C'ris'mus, how she'll squirt!
Rip-te-hoo! And a hip, hip, holler,
We'll lick hell for a half a dollar!"

The post-office windows rattled and shivered in the sunshine. Horses
along the line of march crouched, ducked sideways, and snorted in
panic. Women put their fingers in their ears as the drums passed.
And when at the end of each verse the Ancients swelled their
red-shirted bosoms and screamed, Uncle Trufant hissed in the ear of
his nearest neighbor on the post-office steps: "The only thing we
need is the old Vienny company here to give 'em the stump! Old Vienny,
as it used to be, could lick 'em, el'funt and all."

The Smyrna Ancients were file-closers of the parade; Hiram Look had
chosen his position with an eye to effect that made all the other
companies seem to do mere escort duty. The orderly lines of
spectators poured together into the street behind, and went elbowing
in noisy rout to the village square, the grand rallying-point and
arena of the day's contests. There, taking their warriors' ease
before the battle, the Ancients, as disposed by their assiduous
foreman, continued the centre of observation.

Uncle Brad Trufant, nursing ancient memories of the prowess of
Niagara and the Viennese, voiced some of the sentiment of the envious
when he muttered: "Eatin', allus eatin'! The only fire they can
handle is