"Don't you worry a minute, dear," said Mrs. Merrill, "I'm as anxious to take that ride as you are. In fact I had Hal get the seats in the automobile yesterday evening, so there would be no doubt about our being able to go this morning. I've never taken it either, you know, so we'll be seeing things together. Now everybody up and see who can beat getting dressed and ready for breakfast."
When they stepped up to the big sightseeing car, an hour and a half later, they found that Uncle Hal had bought their seats for the front row which pleased them very much. Mary Jane liked to see things without dodging the head of somebody in front, and Alice and Mrs. Merrill liked to be close to the man who tells about the historic scenes on the way, so they could ask questions and could hear everything that was said.
The car soon filled up with interested sightseers and the journey was begun.
Alice eagerly listened to all that was told and fitted it into what she knew of early American history. The old church where the lights were hung to give the signal to Paul Revere; the road he dashed across on his long journey—marked now, by a big bronze tablet which the girls got out of the car to read; the "green" where one of the early battles was fought—Alice had read all the stories and seemed to live over the scenes as she saw the famous sites.
Of course Mary Jane didn't know as much history as her sister did, but she knew something of the historical stories, as all American girls should even if they are only in first grade, and she learned more history in that two hours of riding than she would have learned in a month of reading. It didn't seem like history out of a book, it seemed like really truly—as it was.
The car turned down a long, shady road and came to a stop by a tiny wooden bridge.
"There," said the driver, "is the Concord bridge and you may get out and walk across if you like. There's no hurry."
"The Concord bridge?" exclaimed Alice, "why I thought it was a big bridge—I've heard so much about it."
"Size doesn't count for everything," laughed the driver; "it's what happens that counts."
They climbed out of the automobile and walked across the tiny bridge. It was a low, wooden foot bridge, so narrow that one had to walk carefully to pass anybody coming from the other direction. On one side was a hand rail, on the other nothing but the clear water of the little creek so close below.