He scrambled to his feet as he spoke, saluted an imaginary flag and recited the pledge to it.
I, too, got up pretty quick, for I am an American pony and have played many national games with children in which I always bow and scrape whenever the flag is mentioned.
As I stepped gaily round and round doing a march step and whinnying with feeling, the boy fell into an ecstasy.
"Do you mean to say you are a fellow-countryman," he cried, "an American pony citizen in this strange forest land?" and in his emotion he forgot his fear of me and throwing his arms round my neck gave me a good hug.
I was thunderstruck. In all my life before and with all my experience with boys I had never felt the wet tears of any of them against my smooth neck. Poor lad! What could be the matter with him?
He was crying in a queer way—quietly and as if he were afraid someone might hear him. Then in a flash he flung up his head and dashed the tears from his eyes.
"Excuse me, Pony-Boy. You'll find me an utter coward. Let's think of our country. Hurrah for the Stars and Stripes. Let's sing a verse." Then he opened his young mouth,
"My Country 'tis of thee
Sweet land of liberty
Of thee I sing."