ngle in my
right hand! There, you're all ironed out and your Aunt Jane can put on
your white dress and braid your hair up again good and tight. Perhaps
you won't be the hombliest of the states, after all; but when I see you
comin' in to breakfast I said to myself: I guess if Maine looked like
that, it wouldn't never a' been admitted into the Union!'"

When Uncle Sam and the stagecoach drew up to the brick house with a
grand swing and a flourish, the goddess of Liberty and most of the
States were already in their places on the "harricane deck."

Words fail to describe the gallant bearing of the horses, their
headstalls gayly trimmed and their harnesses dotted with little flags.
The stage windows were hung in bunting, and from within beamed Columbia,
looking out from the bright frame as if proud of her freight of loyal
children. Patriotic streamers floated from whip, from dash-board and
from rumble, and the effect of the whole was something to stimulate the
most phlegmatic voter.

Rebecca came out on the steps and Aunt Jane brought a chair to assist in
the ascent. Miss Dearborn peeped from the window, and gave a despairing
look at her favorite.

What had happened to her? Who had dressed her? Had her head been put
through a wringing-machine? Why were her eyes red and swollen? Miss
Dearborn determined to take her behind the trees in the pine grove
and give her some finishing touches; touches that her skillful fingers
fairly itched to bestow.

The stage started, and as the roadside pageant grew gayer and gayer,
Rebecca began to brighten and look prettier, for most of her beautifying
came from within. The people, walking, driving, or standing on
their doorsteps, cheered Uncle Sam's coach with its freight of
gossamer-muslined, fluttering-ribboned girls, and just behind, the
gorgeously decorated haycart, driven by Abijah Flagg, bearing the jolly
but inharmonious fife-and-drum corps.

Was ever such a golden day! Such crystal air! Such mellow sunshine! Such
a merry Uncle Sam!

The stage drew up at an appointed spot near a pine grove, and while the
crowd was gathering, the children waited for the hour to arrive when
they should march to the platform; the hour toward which they seemed to
have been moving since the dawn of creation.

As soon as possible Miss Dearborn whispered to Rebecca: "Come behind the
trees with me; I want to make you prettier!"

Rebecca thought she had suffered enough from that process already during