"The fust fireworks, feller-citizens, will be a rocket, which
will go up in the air, bust, and assume the shape of a serpint."

He applied a match to the rocket, but instead of going up in the
air, it flew wildly down into the grass, running some distance
with a hissing kind of sound, and causing the masses to jump
round in a very insane manner.

Pettingill was disappointed, but not disheartened. He tried
again.

"The next fireworks," he said, "will go up in the air, bust, and
become a beautiful revolvin' wheel."

But alas! it didn't. It only ploughed a little furrow in the
green grass, like its unhappy predecessor.

The masses laughed at this, and one man--a white-haired old
villager--said, kindly but firmly, "Reuben, I'm 'fraid you don't
understand pyrotechny."

Reuben was amazed. Why did his rockets go down instead of up?
But, perhaps, the others would be more successful, and, with a
flushed face, and in a voice scarcely as firm as before, he said:

"The next specimen of pyrotechny will go up in the air, bust, and
become an eagle. Said eagle will soar away into the western
skies, leavin' a red trail behind him as he so soars."