“Hate you! You, whom I love better than my heart!”
“You’ve got to; for I am a Greek, and you are a Turk.”
She folded me in her arms. “What a funny baby—and this on your birthday! Now don’t talk foolishness. Show me your presents.”
From under my pillow, where I had tucked it, I produced the little flag.
She gazed at it, her head cocked on one side.
“What’s this?”
“This,” I said with emphasis, “is the flag of my country—and my birthday present.”
“What a funny present,” she murmured. “And is this all the grand old gentleman gave you?”
I was disappointed at her reception of it, and to save my little flag from feeling the mortification I hugged it and kissed it. I wanted very much to explain to Kiamelé all that it stood for, and how my sons some day must carry it forward; but how could I, since to show my allegiance to that flag I must hate her, my bestest of friends? So I said nothing, and on that, my fifth birthday, I began to see that battles did not only exist between people, storms did not only rage among the elements of nature, but that heart and mind could be at such variance as to cause conflicts similar to those taking place outside my window.