The boys are at marbles, if it is muddy enough, or one-old-cat, or
pom-pom-peel-away, with the normal percentage of them in reboant
tears - that is to say, one in three.

But even this is not the moment of illumination, when it comes upon
you like a flood how glorious is the land we live in, upon what
sure and certain footing are its institutions, when we know by
spiritual insight that whatsoever be the trial that awaits us, the
people of these United States, we shall be able for it! Yes. We
shall be able for it.

If you would learn the secret of our nation's greatness, take your
stand some winter's morning just before nine o'clock, where you can
overlook a circle of some two or three miles' radius, the center
being the Old Red School-house. You will see little figures picking
their way along the miry roads, or ploughing through the deep drifts,
cutting across the fields, all drawing to the school-house, Bub in
his wammus and his cowhide boots, his cap with ear-laps, a knitted
comforter about his neck, and his hands glowing in scarlet mittens;
and little Sis, in a thick shawl, trudging along behind him, stepping
in his tracks. They chirrup, "Good-morning, sir!" As far as you
can see them you have to watch them, and something rises in your
throat. Lord love 'em! Lord love the children!

And then it comes to you, and it makes you catch your breath to
think of it, that every two or three miles all over this land,
wherever there are children at all, there is the Old Red
Schoolhouse. At this very hour a living tide, upbearing the hopes
and prayers of God alone knows how many loving hearts, the tide
on which all of our longed-for ships are to come in, is setting