THE GRAND MARCH.
"Please, aunty, lend me your wash-stick."
As he spoke Charlie was all excitement, running eagerly from the barn into
the house. Obtaining the coveted treasure, he as eagerly ran back. Two
minutes passed.
"May I have the curtain-stick up in your chamber that you don't want?"
"How do you know I don't want it?"
"'Cause it's doing nothing, standing up in the corner."
"O what eyes! Yes, you may have it."
Three minutes went.
"Aunty, couldn't I have the broom-handle out in the entry? Some of the
boys knew you wouldn't let me, but I said you would. I knew you would let
a feller take it," said the ingenious Charlie.
"For pity's sake, Charles Pitt Macomber, what next?"
This was Charlie's real name and used for greater impressiveness.
"That broom-handle is what I fasten the back window with, and if any
bugglars get in tonight, I must blame you."
However, Charlie carried his point. In a few minutes he appeared again,
and pointed at his shoulder.
"Aunty, see here!"
"Why, Charles Pitt, what have you done to your shoulder?"
Charlie grinned. There, on the left shoulder, was a chalk shield.
"Teacher, of course, must have time to make our silk shields, and so we
got up these."
Aunt Stanshy's eyes let out some funny, bright sparks.
"O, no, it's only the grand march."
"The grand march!"
"Yes, and see here, aunty. I have only this chalk shield, and you don't
want your boy to go that way. Please let me take that old sword above the
sitting-room mantel-piece," pleaded Charlie, with beseeching eyes.
"Grandsir's sword? O that wont do. Why, that sword was at the battles of
Quebec and Banker Hill and Waterloo and--"
Constantia! In her loyalty to grandsir's memory, she was unconsciously
mentioning places he had never been in! All this array of names only fired
Charlie's ardor. At last Aunt Stanshy said, "There, take it! The next
thing, I spose, you'll want me."
"We may; but you'd have to dress up in man's clothes, you know."
"Never!" said Aunt Stanshy, firmly. "Don't go out of the lane with
grandsir's sword!"
"We'll be along soon."
"How will I know it? I may be up stairs."
"We will give three cheers under the window."
There was an increasing commotion in the barn chamber.
"Now, fellers!" exclaimed Sid Waters. "You won't be ready for the grand
march."
"Yes, yes, yes," they shouted back.
"Is the chariot ready for the president?" inquired Sid.
"Yes," said Charlie, who purposed to furnish his go-cart for the occasion.
"It's down in the yard."
"I have the first ride, you know."
"And I the second," said the governor.
"Yes, but the governor must go behind while the president rides."
Rick's heart sank within him, but all had promised to obey orders and
there was no appeal.
"Every feller's--I mean knight's--uniform ready?" asked the president.
Charlie's certainly was. Every moment he could spare out of school that
day, he had been sewing in his snug little bedroom. Such stitches! They
looked like pairs of bars trying to straddle a brush fence. For epaulets
he arranged pieces of black cloth, the center of each being brightened
with a strip of red. His belt was made of white flannel dotted with a
flaming row of red stars, and with these were interspersed various sizes
of mild chocolate suns. Each of the other warriors sported a chalk shield,
as did Charlie. This was the only thing in common. Other insignia varied
in character, color, and size, as much as would those of Chinese,
Anglo-Saxon and Zulu troops. Pip Peckham, in his anxiety for distinction,
had chalked a shield on each shoulder! The cheapness of the material used
would readily permit this, but Pip's appearance was insignificant beside
Charlie's, who strode forward to the march, flourishing grandsir's sword.
Not even Alexander, Julius Cæsar, Napoleon, or General Grant, ever had a
sword to be compared with Charlie's that day. The warriors moved out from
their "armory" into the yard. Aunt Stanshy was up stairs making a bed.
Suddenly under her window, arose a wild, semi-civilized, semi-barbarous
shout.
"What is to pay?" she screamed. "O those little boobies!" and she sprang
to the window. The "Grand March" had been inaugurated with full pomp. Sid
Waters, as president, was sitting in the go-cart, his head ornamented with
a huge smothering three-cornered hat, made out of a New York daily. Rick
Grimes, as governor, was walking behind the go-cart, now and then giving
the "chariot" an obsequious push, but impatiently awaiting his turn for a
ride. Billy Grimes and Pip Peckham were serving as horses, and soldiers
also, pulling along the president and sharing the broom-handle between
them. Whether that handle might be a "musket" or a "spear," no one could
say. Charlie served as a body-guard, now looking at Aunt Stanshy's window
and then glancing in pride at grandsir's sword. Juggie was a color-bearer,
and at the same time a color-guard of one appeared in the shape of Tony,
flourishing Aunt Stanshy's clothes-stick. The colors were a very small
American flag on a very long bean-pole. Twenty feet ahead of the whole
procession, in solitary glory, walked Wort. He was a kind of "chief
marshal," Sid had said, but Wort could not forget that he had also been
made "keeper of the great seal" that very day, and in token of it he took
along the borrowed curtain-stick.
"Halt!"
This summons came not from the chief marshal but the president, and was
promptly obeyed by all. Wort retreated from his advanced position and
assumed command. "The grand review will now begin," he shouted. "The whole
of you may get into line. Now forward! For--_ward_!"
"Say wheel, first!" called out Sid, not intending Aunt Stanshy or any
other spectator should hear the advice be thought it necessary to give the
chief marshal.
"Wheel first!" shouted Wort, but the only "wheel" that started was one on
the go-cart, which concluded to leave its axle, much to the disgust of the
president and the confusion of the company. Sid sprang from the cart.
"Here, let me do it, Wort."
"Form in line!" Wort shouted majestically.
"Form in line!" Sid was whispering to several old veterans. "Where's
Juggie?"
"Here, cap'n."
"Keep your bugle handy and sound it when Wort says, 'Charge!'"
Juggie proudly brandished a fish-horn which he had borrowed of Simes
Badger.
"Shoulder arms!" screamed Wort.
"Ground arms!"
"Ow, my teeth!" squeaked Pip, whose foot had been vigorously rammed by
Billy Grimes.
"Order arms! Present arms! March! Charge!"
These directions followed one another so rapidly that only the oldest
veterans, and they wildly, could attempt obedience.
"Blow your bugle!" shouted Sid to Juggie.
"Charge! Cavalry, forward!" Wort was shrieking.
It was a wild melee. The cavalry (go-cart) was shoved forward by Gov.
Grimes, running it against Pip and Billy, while the "infantry" rushed
ahead, each on his own hook, the color-bearer and the color-guard trying
to get into place somewhere. Wort vainly endeavored to keep at the head of
something or somebody. All this time Juggie was swelling his cheeks and
sounding his horn, and this was the only thing that was successfully done.
Fortunately the ground to be charged across was not a long stretch, and in
a moment they were all shoving against the fence.
"Wort, you didn't do that right," claimed the president.
"Yes, I did."
"No, you're wrong," asserted Sid.
"Let me try?" asked Rick.
"No, this will do," said Sid. "You may march us, Rick."
This compromise was accepted. Away they all went, Rick strutting forward
with great dignity, but Juggie waved his flag cautiously, for the
flourishing of such a long pole might lead to his capsizing. Tony followed
Juggie. Billy and Pip still tugged at the go-cart that the president
continued to monopolize. Charlie solemnly guarded the precious freight in
the "chariot." Wort, who had been at the head of the column, had now
wandered to the rear, and his face wore a puzzled look, as if he did not
know where to put the chief marshal.
"You ought to have two policemen in front," squeaked a little voice from
the sidewalk. It was Tommy Keys, a small boy, who had seen a procession in
Boston, and thought he knew how such things ought to be managed.
"Shet up," shouted the governor, indignant at even the faintest suggestion
of weakness, and he rushed upon Tommy with a drawn clothes-stick. Away
went the terrified Tommy.
"So may all our foes be routed!" said the president, and to this sentiment
there was a response of three cheers. Alas, how soon all that pride was to
be humiliated! The column was now nearing the head of the lane which ran
into Water Street, the leading business avenue of the town. Sid, who
always had an eye out to the course that was prudent, was exclaiming, in
low tones, "Don't--don't go too near Water Street! Look out for
down-townies, fellers!" It is often the case in a village of any size that
there will be among the boys two parties representing two different
sections and supposed to represent two different ideas and civilizations.
Seamont had its boy-clans, those at the lower end of the village being the
down-townies, and those at the upper end were designated as up-townies.
The club belonged to the up-townies, "the only fit class for gentlemen,"
Sid had declared The down-townies delighted to hurl all kinds of epithets
at the other boys, and these "gentlemen" up-townies could sling titles
almost as successfully, and both sides would sometimes give additional
flavor to their epithets by means of missiles, even as mothers sometimes
season their injunctions to boys with a twig from the old apple-tree in
the yard. The club had had no hand in these intestine feuds, but
sympathized with the warriors in their neighborhood, the up-townies. There
had been war recently between the two hostile sections, so that the boys
did not venture far from their homes, and what did our valiant column now
run into but a band of six belligerent down-townies! The club, at Sid's
suggestion, had already passed a vote to give no quarter to down-townies,
and that in case of trouble it should be "war to the last drop!" They
prudently did not say what that drop might be, blood or only perspiration.
Here was a grand test-hour close at hand. One of the down-townies raised a
provoking cry, "Ho, fellers; see those little ragamuffins!"
He pointed toward the column, whose advance Juggie was enthusiastically
stimulating by loud and prolonged blasts on the fish-horn.
"Boys, let's go for 'em," said one of the down-townies. Raising the
war-whoop of the down-townies, which was a savage, senseless yell, and
lacking the fine martial tones of the up-townies' battle-cry, the enemy
made their charge. Sid Waters stepped, or leaped rather, from the
"chariot" and ran toward the barn. Away went the "colors" in the hands of
Juggie, almost capsizing him, as the tall standard swayed violently. Away
went Wort, and away went Tony. Away rattled the go-cart, Billy and Pip
making excellent time as they dragged it along. An engine rushing to a
fire could not have gone much faster.
"Don't run!" shouted Gov. Grimes. "Stand your ground, my men! Rally!"
"No, sir," said Charlie, replying to the first appeal, and then, in
response to the second, said, quickly, "Yes, sir."
Charlie was the only one among "my men" willing to "rally." But the
governor was not discouraged. He was resolute, even at times to
stubbornness.
He waved his clothes-stick and shrieked, "Come on! I defy you!"
Charlie also looked defiant; but he was so intent on facing the enemy that
he did not pay proper attention to his armor, and the sword that had been
so loyal to grandsir now turned into a rebel to Charlie. It did what
swords will sometimes do; it insisted on mixing up with his chubby legs as
he changed his position, and over he went! Rick had grappled the enemy,
but it was a hopeless struggle, and things looked ominous for that
fragment of the club now in the battle.
Suddenly a sharp, penetrating, commanding voice was heard. "Don't you
touch 'em, you rascals," and a tall, resolute figure rose above the
prostrate Charlie, flourishing a broom. It was Aunt Stanshy, who, from her
window, had watched the boys, and, seeing the approach of that down-town
thunder-cloud, rushed out to meet the storm. Her prowess was witnessed by
Simes Badger, who, as a leading village gossip, was loafing away an hour
of leisure in a flag-bottomed chair before Silas Trefethen's grocery. He
told the story to all the village gossips of the masculine sex who
gathered at the grocery as soon as they had swallowed their tea and had
done as few chores at home as possible.
"Well!" said Simes, laughing.
He was a gaunt, long-drawn-out man, owning a straggling, gray beard, a
pair of brown, twinkling eyes, and a nasal voice.
"I saw something, to-day, that beat the Dutch. It was Aunt Stanshy, and
she did beat the Dutch; yes, she did, yaw, yaw, yaw! You see a parcel of
young ones went up the lane in fine feather, colors flying and drums
beat-in'." (This, to mildly put it, was a misstatement, as not a drum was
there to be beaten; but Simes had a weakness for "misstatements.") "Well,
they neared Water Street, and just then the enemy appeared, a lot of
down-townies, yaw, yawl My, didn't those sojers scatter, all but two! I
expected them two would be cut up like meat in a sausage-machine, but,
turnin' to look down the lane, I saw a sight! It was Stanshy! She had left
the house, broom in hand, and rushed up to the battle-ground, and there
she stood among them down-townie chaps, and she fetched that broom
backward an forward in grand style, as if sweepin' out of the way a lot of
dirt!"
Here Simes, who always fancied that he was gifted with dramatic powers
unusually fine, pulled a broom out of the stock in a neighboring barrel,
and began to sway it backward and forward.
"My! didn't Stanshy sweep the battle-field? The enemy went down like
leaves before a November gale!"
Simes, who was bound to act out the narrative, gave an unlucky sweep with
his broom above the heads of his grinning and gaping auditors, and whacked
Silas Trefethen, who was behind the counter putting up codfish.
"Mind, Simes, there! What are you up to, man?" shouted Silas, tartly,
trying to make a stand against the staggering blow dealt amid the laughter
of Simes's auditors.
"O, O! 'Scuse me, Silas! I was only 'lustratin'."
"'Lustrate next time on that post behind you. If Stanshy Macomber had such
rigor in her arm as that, I pity those down-townies!"
Was not Aunt Stanshy indignant when she heard how Simes Badger had taken
her off at the store! "I'll try my broom on him next time," she told
Juggie's granny.
Aunt Stanshy was very popular with the club, who passed a vote of thanks
to their honorary member. The down-townies, though, christened her "the
dragon of the lane," and did not venture near her. Knowing that this fear
existed, Sid Waters and other members of the club, especially the
runaways, now ventured several times as far as Water Street, shouting
defiance to imaginary enemies behind corners and trees. Sid was
exceedingly daring with his tongue. It was noticed that he never again
_rode_ on such occasions. He evidently wished to have his legs handy, as
he could rely on these better than the go-cart.