Part 16 (1/2)

”And now, if you please, Ladies and Gentlemen,” Tom had closed the door to upon the last of his party, ”we will drive first to The Vermont House, a hostelry well known throughout the surrounding country, and conducted by one of Vermont's best known and honored sons.”

”Hear! Hear!” Jack Ward cried. ”I say, Tom, get that off again where Uncle Jerry can hear it, and you'll always be sure of his vote.”

They had reached the rambling old hotel, from the front porch of which Uncle Jerry himself, surveyed them genially.

”Ladies and Gentlemen,” standing up, Tom turned to face the occupants of the stage, his megaphone, carried merely as a badge of office, raised like a conductor's baton, ”I wish to impress upon your minds that the building now before you--liberal rates for the season--is chiefly remarkable for never having sheltered the Father of His Country.”

”Now how do you know that?” Uncle Jerry protested. ”Ain't that North Chamber called the 'Was.h.i.+ngton room'?”

”Oh, but that's because the first proprietor's first wife occupied that room--and she was famous for her Was.h.i.+ngton pie,” Tom answered readily.

”I a.s.sure you, sir, that any and all information which I shall have the honor to impart to these strangers within our gates may be relied upon for its accuracy.” He gave the driver the word, and the Folly continued on its way, stopping presently before a little story-and-a-half cottage not far below the hotel and on a level with the street.

”This cottage, my young friends,” Tom said impressively, ”should be--and I trust is--enshrined deep within the hearts of all true Wintonites. Latterly, it has come to be called the Barker cottage, but its real t.i.tle is 'The Flag House'; so called, because from that humble porch, the first Stars and Stripes ever seen in Winton flung its colors to the breeze. The original flag is still in possession of a lineal descendant of its first owner, who is, unfortunately, not an inhabitant of this town.” The boyish gravity of tone and manner was not all a.s.sumed now.

No one spoke for a moment; eleven pairs of young eyes were looking out at the little weather-stained building with new interest. ”I thought,”

Bell Ward said at last, ”that they called it the _flag_ place, because someone of that name had used to live there.”

”So did I,” Hilary said.

As the stage moved on, s.h.i.+rley leaned back for another look. ”I shall get father to come and sketch it,” she said. ”Isn't it the quaintest old place?”

”We will now proceed,” Tom announced, ”to the village green, where I shall have the pleasure of relating to you certain anecdotes regarding the part it played in the early life of this interesting old village.”

”Not too many, old man,” Tracy Dixon suggested hurriedly, ”or it may prove a one-sided pleasure.”

The green lay in the center of the town,--a wide, open s.p.a.ce, with flagstaff in the middle; fine old elms bordered it on all four sides.

The Vermont House faced it, on the north, and on the opposite side stood the general store, belonging to Mr. Ward, with one or two smaller places of business.

”The business section” of the town, Tom called it, and quite failed to notice Tracy's lament that he had not brought his opera gla.s.ses with him. ”Really, you know,” Tracy explained to his companions, ”I should have liked awfully to see it. I'm mighty interested in business sections.”

”Cut that out,” his brother Bob commanded, ”the chap up in front is getting ready to hold forth again.”

They were simple enough, those anecdotes, that ”the chap up in front”

told them; but in the telling, the boy's voice lost again all touch of mock gravity. His listeners, sitting there in the June suns.h.i.+ne, looking out across the old green, flecked with the waving tree shadows, and bright with the b.u.t.tercups nodding here and there, seemed to see those men and boys drilling there in the far-off summer twilights; to hear the sharp words of command; the sound of fife and drum. And the familiar names mentioned more than once, well-known village names, names belonging to their own families in some instances, served to deepen the impression.

”Why,” Edna Ray said slowly, ”they're like the things one learns at school; somehow, they make one realize that there truly was a Revolutionary War. Wherever did you pick up such a lot of town history, Tom?”

”That's telling,” Tom answered.

Back up the broad, main street they went, past the pleasant village houses, with their bright, well-kept dooryards, under the wide-spreading trees beneath which so many generations of young folks had come and gone; past the square, white parsonage, with its setting of green lawn; past the old stone church, and on out into the by-roads of the village, catching now and then a glimpse of the great lake beyond; and now and then, down some lane, a bit of the street they had left. They saw it all with eyes that for once had lost the indifference of long familiarity, and were swift to catch instead its quiet, restful beauty, helped in this, perhaps, by s.h.i.+rley's very real admiration.

The ride ended at Dr. Brice's gate, and here Tom dropped his mantle of authority, handing all further responsibility as to the entertainment of the party over to his sister.

Hilary was carried off to rest until supper time, and the rest scattered about the garden, a veritable rose garden on that June afternoon, roses being Dr. Brice's pet hobby.

”It must be lovely to _live_ in the country,” s.h.i.+rley said, dropping down on the gra.s.s before the doctor's favorite _La France_, and laying her face against the soft, pink petals of a half-blown bud.

Edna eyed her curiously. She had rather resented the admittance of this city girl into their set. s.h.i.+rley's skirt and blouse were of white linen, there was a knot of red under the broad sailor collar, she was hatless and the dark hair,--never kept too closely within bounds--was tossed and blown; there was certainly nothing especially cityfied in either appearance or manner.