Fourth of July came and went—the very patriotic one, when everybody saved their fireworks-money to buy W.S.S. with. We bought W.S.S. and made very grand fireworks out of joss-sticks. Joss-sticks have wonderful possibilities that most people don’t know about. The three of us went down to the foot of the garden after dark and did an exhibition for the others. By whisking the joss-sticks around by their floppy handles you can make all sorts of fiery circles. I made two little ones for eyes, and Greg did a nose in the middle, and Jerry twirled a curvy one underneath for a mouth that could be either smiling or ferocious. A little way off you can’t see the people who do it at all, and it looks just like a great fiery face with a changing, wobbly expression.
Then Greg did a fire dance with two sparklers. He dances rather well,—not real one-steps and waltzes, but weird things he makes up himself. This one lasted as long as the sparklers burned, and it was quite gorgeous. After that we had a candle-light procession around the garden, and the grown people said that the candles looked very mysterious bobbing in and out between the trees. We felt more like high priests than patriots, but it was very festive and wonderful, and when we ended by having cakes and lime-juice on the porch at half-past nine, everybody agreed that it had been a real celebration and quite different.
In spite of being up so late the night before, Greg was the first one down to breakfast next morning. Our postman always brings the mail just before the end of breakfast, and we can hear him click the gate as he comes in. This morning Jerry and Greg dashed for the mail together, and Greg squeezed through where Jerry thought he couldn’t and got there first. When they came back, Jerry was saying:
“Let me have it, won’t you; it’ll take you all day!” and dodging his arm over Greg’s shoulder.
“Messrs. Christopher, Gerald, and Gregory Holford; 17 Luke Street,” Greg read slowly. Then he tripped over the threshold and floundered on to me, flourishing the big envelope and shouting:
“It’s funny paper, and it’s funny writing, and I know it’s from The Bottle!”
“My stars!” said Jerry, with a final snatch.
But I had the envelope, and I looked at it very carefully.
“Boys,” I said, “I truly believe that it is.”