"This evening," said the chairman of the committee of arrangements, "this evening, fellow-citizens, there will be a grand display of fireworks on the village green, superintended by the inventor and manufacturer, our public-spirited townsman, Mr. Reuben Pettingill."
Night closed in, and an immense concourse of people gathered on the village green.
On a raised platform, amidst his fireworks, stood Pettingill.
He felt that the great hour of his life had come, and, in a firm, clear voice, he said:
"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."