By wind and wave the sailor brave has fared
To shores of every sea;
But, never yet have seamen met or dared
Grim death for victory,
In braver mood than they who died
On drifting decks in Apia's tide
While cheering every sailor's pride,
The Banner of the Free.
Columbia's men were they who then went down,
Not knights nor kings of old;
But brighter far their laurels are than crown
Or coronet of gold.
Our sailor true, of any crew,
Would give the last long breath he drew
To cheer the old Red, White and Blue,
The Banner of the Bold.
With hearts of oak, through storm and smoke and flame,
Columbia's seamen long
Have bravely fought and nobly wrought that shame
Might never dull their song.
They sing the Country of the Free,
The glory of the rolling sea,
The starry flag of liberty,
The Banner of the Strong.
We ask but this, and not amiss the claim;
A fleet to ride the wave,
A navy great to crown the state with fame,
Though foes or tempests rave.
Then, as our fathers did of yore,
We'll sail our ships to every shore,
On every ocean wind will soar
The Banner of the Brave.
Oh! this we claim that never shame may ride
On any wave with thee,
Thou ship of state whose timbers great abide
The home of liberty.
For, so, our gallant Yankee tars,
Of daring deeds and honored scars,
Will make the Banner of the Stars
The Banner of the Sea.
The school having been roused to a proper pitch of enthusiasm by the reading of these verses, Colonel Butler rose in an atmosphere already surcharged with patriotism to make his presentation speech. Hearty applause greeted the colonel, for, notwithstanding his well-known idiosyncrasies, he was extremely popular in Chestnut Hill. He had been a brave soldier, an exemplary neighbor, a prominent and public-spirited citizen. Why should he not receive a generous welcome? He graciously bowed his acknowledgment, and when the hand-clapping ceased he began:
"Honored teachers, diligent pupils, faithful directors, patriotic citizens, and friends. This is a most momentous occasion. We are met to-day to do honor to the flag of our country, a flag for which—and I say it with pardonable pride—I, myself, have fought on many a bloody and well-known field."
There was a round of applause.
The colonel's face flushed with pleasure, his voice rose and expanded, and in many a well-rounded phrase and burst of eloquence he appealed to the latent patriotism of his hearers.
At the end of fifteen minutes he glanced at his watch which was lying on a table at his side, and then looked at his daughter Millicent who was occupying a chair in the front row as she had said she would. She frowned at him forbiddingly. But he was as yet scarcely half through his speech. He picked up his manuscript from the table and glanced at it, and then looked appealingly at her. She was obdurate. She held a warning forefinger in the air.