From beyond the gates Green Valley and Spring Road and Elmwood watched
its heroes and its children. In David Allan's smart rig sat a little
city girl, her face crumpled and stained like a rain-beaten rose. She
was saying to no one in particular, "Oh--my daddy was a soldier too but
I know that he never had a Decoration Day like this."

The bands played again and each class went through its number on the
programme with grace and only a very few noticeable blunders. Tommy
Downey, ears rampant, a tooth missing and a face radiant with joy and
absolute self-confidence, mounted the bunting and flag-draped stage and
in a booming voice wholly out of proportion to his midget dimensions
and in ten dashing verses assured those assembled that the man who wore
the shoulder straps was a fine enough fellow to be sure, but that it
was after all the man without them who had to win the day.

The old country roads rippled with applause and Tommy's mother,
forgetting for once Tommy's funny ears which were her greatest source
of grief, drew the funny little body close and explained to admiring
bystanders that Tommy "took" after one of her great-uncles, a soul much
given to speech making.

So number after number went off and then there came the speech of the
day. It had been decided at the last moment that Doc Philipps must
make this, because the specially ordered and greatly renowned speaker,
one Daniel Morton from down Brunesville way, had at the last moment and
at his ridiculous age contracted measles.

Now Green Valley knew how Doc Philipps hated to talk about almost
everything except trees. But Green Valley also knew that Doc could