Bobby felt as if he were growing taller. He saw himself in the President’s chair, or mounted on a great horse, like the statues of Washington, holding out a truncheon.
“One hundred and eighteen years ago to-day,” cried Miss Mary—
“Oh! oh my, it ain’t!” cried Bobby Wilkins, springing up. “It’s only seven.”
“Bobby, what do you mean?” asked Miss Mary, looking at him severely. “You are very rude to interrupt me. What do you mean by ‘seven?’”
“My birthday,” faltered Bobby. “I ain’t a hundred anything, I’m only seven.”
“Come here, dear!” said Miss Mary, holding out her hand very kindly. “Come here, my little boy. I wish you very many happy returns, Bobby dear! but—but I was speaking of the battle of Bunker Hill.”
Poor Bobby! Miss Mary shook her head at the children over his shoulder, as he sat in her lap, as a sign not to laugh, but I suppose they could not help it. They did laugh a good deal,—all except the boy John, who was watching Harold die, and feeling rather sober in consequence.
A PASTORAL.
