time with her feet.

"Here we go marchin' on," hummed she. But the crowd "marchin' on" with
her was a strange one. Carts full of hammers, pincers, and all sorts of
iron tools, and men in gray shirts, with black caps on their heads. Some
of the men had banners, with great black words, such as "Equal Rights,"
or something like them, in German; but of course Fly could not tell one
letter from another. She only knew it was all very "homebly," in spite
of the music. She began to think she had better get away as soon as she
could; so she tried to cross the street, but some one held her back; it
was a lady, carrying a small dog in her arms, like a baby.

"Don't go there, child; that's a strike, you'll get killed."

Fly knew but one meaning for the word _strike_; and, tearing herself
from the lady, ran screaming down Broadway, with the thought that every
man's hand was against her.

On she went, and on went the strike, close behind her. A little while
ago she had been following music, and now music was following her. But
the fifes and drums were rather slow, and Flyaway's feet were very
swift; so it was not long before the gray men, with their white banners
and clattering carts, were far behind her. No danger now that any of the
wicked creatures would strike her; so she slackened her pace.

She did begin to wonder why she had not found Horace; still, she was not
at all alarmed, and there was a dreadful din in the streets, which
confused her thoughts. It seemed as if people were making it on purpose.
Once, at Willowbrook, she had heard boys banging tin pans, grinding
coffee mills, and pounding with mortars. She had liked that,--they