Hence their banishment and the singular pageant of numberless led cows, in charge of little boys, that paraded through the streets on the last day of their freedom. They wanted to see as much of the show as they could while they had the chance. And see it they did—greens, flags, flowers, and all. Into the very yard of our hotel I found one youngster leading his cow to see the tent they were putting up there for the overflow, and also the flag that Hans Petersen, or Peter Hansen, or somebody, had hoisted in his back yard, where no one could see it but he himself. But then, was he nobody? It was his chance to show his loyal good-will, and he took it, as did all the rest of us.
The rising sun found an orchestra of bareheaded men on top of the church tower “blowing in” the festival with old hymn tunes, that all might hear and rejoice. That is one use the big tower is put to. Of another the fat stone balusters that hedge in its top give a hint under close scrutiny. Three or four of them have been replaced by wooden ones with copper skins. The old were shot away in a duel with the Swedes who had taken the castle in the seventeenth century and were pelted with cannon-balls from the tower. Truly, the Church militant! but the tower was built in the beginning for warfare. The centuries and the Church—perhaps also the modern artillery—tamed it slowly. As the day wore on, one excitement followed another. A big blow brewed in the west, and by the middle of the afternoon the North Sea itself came in to have a look at the King. Where the cows had been pastured, suddenly there was water, and the royalties turned out, eager to see the famed “storm-flood.” But the wind died down, and the cows went back to their own. Night found the Old Town in a blaze of light. In every window of every house stood lighted candles; the river was alive with boats carrying colored lanterns and joyous singers. Above it all a black cloud of bewildered rooks flew with loud squawks from the old Cloister to the Dom and back again, frightened out of their night’s rest, and thinking, no doubt, that the end of the world had come.
King Christian comes from Church.
Old King Christian had tears in his eyes when he arose at the banquet to thank his people, and so had we all of us when he broke down utterly and pleaded for patience “with an old man eighty-six years and over.” And then he gave me the surprise of my life; for in the midst of it all he sent one of the gold-gallooned lackeys to tell me that he desired to drink to my health, and did. Now you may call me a snob, or anything else you like; I own that I was never so proud in all my days. For there sat my old townsmen, with whom I had been, shall we say, just a bit off-color in spite of all, because I did not do according to the rules, but broke over the traces every way, and went off to America to do mercy knows what outlandish stunts in the way of earning a living. There they sat now, in their own town, and saw the King himself toast me before their very faces! I did think my measure was full when I beheld the President of the United States take my wife in to dinner in the White House—I know I nearly burst with pride in her and in him—but now, indeed, it was running over. In self-defence, lest I grow vain and foolish, I had to pinch myself, and remember the Iowa farmer who sized me up last winter. I met him going to one of my lectures, and when he found out that I was the man who was to speak, he looked me up and down, and passed verdict thus:
“Well, now, you never kin tell from lookin’ at a toad how far he’ll jump!”
Back to the soil, is the proper cure for the big head any day.
Now that I am back home I can speak of another surprise that befell, if the little people can be left out the while. They might not understand. It was when I looked my classmates from the Latin School over. There were fifteen of us, and the thirteen took the strait and narrow road. They were good and they prospered. Hans and I were the black sheep who perennially disputed the dunce’s seat on the last bench, and disputed pretty much everything else. It seems that we never found time to learn for fighting, and no doubt the class felt it as a relief when we quit, out of season, Hans to go into business where he belonged, I to learn a trade. And now, after a lifetime, what was my surprise to find that of the whole fifteen the two whom the King had singled out for decoration with his much-coveted cross were—Hans and myself. The thing came to me with a stunning sensation when I saw the ribbon pinned on Hans’s coat that day; and when we were together in his home at tea, it worked out into my consciousness.
“Hans,” I said, “did it occur to you—”
A motion of his hand stayed me. “Fritz!” he called, sharply, “time you were at your lessons,” and not until the door had closed upon the reluctant retreat of the son of the house did he turn to me with a twinkle in the eye.