“Uncle Munch,” said Diavolo as he clambered up into the old warrior’s lap, “I don’t suppose you could tell us a story about Decoration Day could you?”
“I think I might try,” said Mr. Munchausen, puffing thoughtfully upon his cigar and making a ring with the smoke for Angelica to catch upon her little thumb. “I might try—but it will all depend upon whether you want me to tell you about Decoration Day as it is celebrated in the United States, or the way a band of missionaries I once knew in the Cannibal Islands observed it for twenty years or more.”
“Why can’t we have both stories?” said Angelica. “I think that would be the nicest way. Two stories is twice as good as one.”
“Well, I don’t know,” returned Mr. Munchausen. “You see the trouble is that in the first instance I could tell you only what a beautiful thing it is that every year the people have a day set apart upon which they especially honour the memory of the noble fellows who lost their lives in defence of their country. I’m not much of a poet and it takes a poet to be able to express how beautiful and grand it all is, and so I should be afraid to try it. Besides it might sadden your little hearts to have me dwell upon the almost countless number of heroes who let themselves be killed so that their fellow-citizens might live in peace and happiness. I’d have to tell you about hundreds and hundreds of graves scattered over the battle fields that no one knows about, and which, because no one knows of them, are not decorated at all, unless Nature herself is kind enough to let a little dandelion or a daisy patch into the secret, so that they may grow on the green grass above these forgotten, unknown heroes who left their homes, were shot down and never heard of afterwards.”
“Does all heroes get killed?” asked Angelica.
“No,” said Mr. Munchausen. “I and a great many others lived through the wars and are living yet.”
“Well, how about the missionaries?” said Diavolo. “I didn’t know they had Decoration Day in the Cannibal Islands.”
“I didn’t either until I got there,” returned the Baron. “But they have and they have it in July instead of May. It was one of the most curious things I ever saw and the natives, the men who used to be cannibals, like it so much that if the missionaries were to forget it they’d either remind them of it or have a celebration of their own. I don’t know whether I ever told you about my first experience with the cannibals—did I?”
“I don’t remember it, but if you had I would have,” said Diavolo.
“So would I,” said Angelica. “I remember most everything you say, except when I want you to say it over again, and even then I haven’t forgotten it.”