Dear Jones: What the devil are you in such a hurry for, Uncle Larry? It looked abominably rude to leave those people in that way!
III.
THE THIRD CONVERSATION.
Tuesday, May 30, 1882.
As the first band of the Decoration Day procession struck up “Marching through Georgia” and marched past Uncle Larry’s house, a cheerfully expectant party filed out of the parlor windows upon the broad stone balcony, draped with the flag that had floated over the building for the four long years the day commemorated. Uncle Larry had secured the Duchess to matronize the annual gathering of young friends, the final friendly meeting before the flight out of town; and many of those who accepted him as the universal uncle had accepted also this invitation. Dear Jones and Baby Van Rensselaer were seated in the corner of the balcony that caught the southern sun, Baby Van Rensselaer, in Uncle Larry’s own study chair, while Dear Jones was comfortably and gracefully perched on the broad brown-stone railing of the balcony.
Baby Van Rensselaer: Now, doesn’t that music make your heart leap?
Dear Jones: M’—yes.
Baby Van Rensselaer: You know I haven’t the least bit of sympathy with that affected talk about not being moved by these things, and thinking it vulgar and all that. I’m proud to say I love my country, and I do love to see my country’s soldiers. Don’t you?
Dear Jones: M’—yes.
Baby Van Rensselaer: Of course, I can’t really remember anything about the war, but I try to pretend to myself that I do remember when I was held up at the window to see the troops marching back from the grand review at Washington. (Rather more softly.) Mama told me about it often before she died. And “Marching through Georgia” always makes the tears come to my eyes; don’t it yours?
Dear Jones: M’—yes.