e first instance I could tell you only what a beautiful
thing it is that every year the people have a day set apart upon which
they especially honour the memory of the noble fellows who lost their
lives in defence of their country. I'm not much of a poet and it takes
a poet to be able to express how beautiful and grand it all is, and so
I should be afraid to try it. Besides it might sadden your little
hearts to have me dwell upon the almost countless number of heroes who
let themselves be killed so that their fellow-citizens might live in
peace and happiness. I'd have to tell you about hundreds and hundreds
of graves scattered over the battle fields that no one knows about,
and which, because no one knows of them, are not decorated at all,
unless Nature herself is kind enough to let a little dandelion or a
daisy patch into the secret, so that they may grow on the green grass
above these forgotten, unknown heroes who left their homes, were shot
down and never heard of afterwards."

"Does all heroes get killed?" asked Angelica.

"No," said Mr. Munchausen. "I and a great many others lived through
the wars and are living yet."

"Well, how about the missionaries?" said Diavolo. "I didn't know they
had Decoration Day in the Cannibal Islands."

"I didn't either until I got there," returned the Baron. "But they
have and they have it in July instead of May. It was one of the most
curious things I ever saw and the natives, the men who used to be
cannibals, like it so much that if the missionaries were to forget it
they'd either remind them of it or have a celebration of their own. I
don't know whether I ever told you about my first experience with the
cannibals--did I?"

"I don't remember it, but if you had I would have," said Diavolo.

"So would I," said Angelica. "I remember most everything you say,
except when I want you to say it over again, and even then I haven't
forgotten it."

"Well, it happened this way," said the Baron. "It was when I was
nineteen years old. I sort of thought at that time I'd like to be a
sailor, and as my father believed in letting me try whatever I wanted
to do I took a position as first mate of a steam brig that plied
between San Francisco and Nepaul, taking San Francisco canned tomatoes
to Nepaul and bringing Nepaul pepper back to San Francisco, making
several dollars both ways. Perhaps I ought to explain to you that
Nepaul pepper is red, and hot; not as hot as a furnace fire, but hot
enoug