I called to Euphemia and told her that I had found the old tavern sign. She came to look at it, and I pulled it out.
“Soldiers and sailors!” she exclaimed; “that's funny.”
I looked over on her side of the sign, and, sure enough, there was the inscription:
“SOLDIERS
AND
SAILORS'
HOUSE.”
“They must have bought this comprehensive sign in some town,” I said. “Such a name would never have been chosen for a country tavern like this. But I wish they hadn't taken it down. The house would look more like what it ought to be with its sign hanging before it.”
“Well, then,” said Euphemia, “let's put it up.” I agreed instantly to this proposition, and we went to look for a ladder. We found one in the wagon-house, and carried it out to the sign-post in the front of the house. It was raining, gently, during these performances, but we had on our old clothes, and were so much interested in our work that we did not care for a little rain. I carried the sign to the post, and then, at the imminent risk of breaking my neck, I hung it on its appropriate hooks on the transverse beam of the sign-post. Now our tavern was really what it pretended to be. We gazed on the sign with admiration and content.
“Do you think we had better keep it up all the time?” I asked of my wife.
“Certainly,” said she. “It's a part of the house. The place isn't complete without it.”
“But suppose some one should come along and want to be entertained?”
“But no one will. And if people do come, I'll take care of the soldiers and sailors, if you will attend to the farmers and mechanics.”