The hour hand of the clock was on three. Twenty pairs of restless eyes watched the minute hand as it drew close, very close to twelve. The books had been placed in the desks; there was a hush of attention. The children sang "America," saluted the flag, and marched out of the room. As Wathemah returned to visit with his teacher, she asked him what he had learned that day.
"Country love!" answered the child. As he spoke, he stepped to the flag, that hung from the staff in graceful folds, and caressed it.
"Oh, Miss Bright, Miss Bright!" shouted James Burns. "Brigham's come fur yer! He's brung his horse fur yer ter ride! Golly! But he looks fine! Come see!"
And James led the way to Brigham and the horse. Sure enough! There they were. The little lad, radiant with pride, the huge bay horse, lean and gaunt and hairy, bedight as never was horse before. He seemed conscious that this was a gala day, and that it behooved him to deport himself as became a respectable family horse.
Numerous small bouquets, tied to white muslin strings, adorned his bridle. The animal was guiltless of saddle, but there was an improvised cinch of white cotton cloth around him. This, likewise, was adorned with butterfly-like bouquets.
"Ain't he some?" said one lad, admiringly.
"Gee! but I'd like ter ride him!" shouted another.
"Brigham dressed old Jim up just 'cause yer wuz goin' ter ride him, Miss Bright," said Donald.
To the last remark, the teacher replied:
"Ride him? I never rode bareback in my life. I am afraid to try it. I might slip off."