New Bed-Time Stories

by Louise Chandler Moulton

Jack was in the highest spirits. He was sure he and his pistol were a necessary part of the day; and he sincerely pitied Conn, because she was a girl and must stay at home.

“‘Bang, whang, whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife;
Oh! a day in the city square, there is no such pleasure in life!’”

he quoted; and then he called back to her from the gate,—

“It’s too bad, Conn, that there’s no fun for you; but keep your courage up, and I’ll bring you something.”

And so they marched away, in the gay, glad morning sunshine, following their band of music,—a boy’s band that was, too.

Conn stood and watched them, with a wistful, longing look in her great violet eyes, and the soft, bright color coming and going on her girlish cheeks. At last she gathered a bunch of late red roses, and put them in her bosom and went into the house. She sewed a little, and then she tossed her work aside, for who cares to work on holidays? Then she took up her new book; but the tale it told seemed dull and cold beside the warm throbbing life of which the outside world was full. She wished over and over that she were a boy, that she might have marched away with the rest. Then she wondered if she could not go into town and see them from somewhere in all their glory. Very little idea had she of a Boston crowd on Fourth of July. She had been into town often enough, with her aunt or her uncle, and walked through the quiet streets; and she thought she should have little trouble in doing the same now. She looked in her purse; she had not much money, but enough so that she could ride if she got tired, and she would be sure to save some to come home. She called her Aunt Sarah’s one servant, and made her promise to keep the secret as long as she could, and then tell Aunt Sarah that she had gone to Boston to find Jack and see him march with the rest.

The girl was a good-natured creature, not bright enough to know that it was her duty to interfere, and easily persuaded by Conn’s entreaties and the bit of blue ribbon with which they were enforced.

And so Conn started off, as the boys had done before her, and went on her way. But she had no gay music to which to march, and for company she had only her own thoughts, her own hopes. Still she marched bravely on.

There were plenty of other people going the same way; indeed it seemed to Conn as if everybody must be going into Boston. Excitement upheld her, and she trudged along, mile after mile, across the pleasant mill-dam, and at last she reached Beacon Street. Her head had begun to throb horribly by the time she got into town. It seemed to her that all the world was whirling round and round, and she with it. But she could not turn back then; indeed, she did not know how to find any conveyance, and she knew her feet would not carry her much farther. Surely, she must see Jack soon. He had said they should march through Beacon Street. She would ask some one. She had an idea that every one must know about any thing so important as the Brighton Blues. At last she got courage to speak to a kind-looking servant-maid in the midst of a group on the steps of one of the Beacon-street houses. The girl pitied her white face, so pale now, with all the pretty pink roses faded from the tired young cheeks, and answered kindly.

She did not know about the Brighton Blues, but she guessed all the companies had been by there, or would come. Wouldn’t the young lady sit down with them on the steps, and rest, and wait a little?