"Oh, yes; _then_ I was." The old man laughed. "Scared plenty!"

"I don't see why," the boy said promptly. "I wouldn't be scared in a
battle."

"Wouldn't you?"

"'Course not! Grandpa, why don't you march in the Decoration Day Parade?
Wouldn't they let you?"

"I'm not able to march any more. Too short of breath and too shaky in
the legs and too blind."

"I wouldn't care," said the boy. "I'd be in the parade anyway, if I was
you. They had some sittin' in carriages, 'way at the tail end; but I
wouldn't like that. If I'd been in your place, Grandpa, and they'd let
me be in that parade, I'd been right up by the band. Look, Grandpa!
Watch me, Grandpa! This is the way I'd be, Grandpa."

He rose from the garden bench where they sat, and gave a complex
imitation of what had most appealed to him as the grandeurs of the
procession, his prancing legs simulating those of the horse of the grand
marshal, while his upper parts rendered the drums and bugles of the
band, as well as the officers and privates of the militia company which
had been a feature of the parade. The only thing he left out was the
detachment of veterans.

"Putty-boom! Putty-boom! Putty-boom-boom-boom!" he vociferated, as the
drums--and then as the bugles: "Ta, ta, ra, tara!" He addressed his
restive legs: "_Whoa_, there, you Whitey! Gee! Haw! Git up!" Then,