Miss Ralston studied his face in silence while she gathered up some papers on her desk, preparatory to leaving. In the back of her mind she asked herself to how many of the native children in her class the Fourth of July meant anything besides fire-crackers.
'Get your things, David,' she said presently, as she locked her desk. 'It’s time we were going. Think if we should get locked up in the building!'
David smiled absently. In his ears ran the familiar line, 'Land where my fathers died—my fathers died—fathers died.'
'It’s something like the Psalms!' he said suddenly, himself surprised at the discovery.
'What is like the Psalms, dear?'
He hesitated. Now that he had to explain, he was not sure any more. Miss Ralston helped him out.
'You mean "America," sounds like the Psalms to you?' David nodded. His teacher beamed her understanding. How did she guess wherein the similarity lay? David had in mind such moments as this when he said of Miss Ralston, 'Teacher talks with her eyes.'
Miss Ralston went to get her coat and hat from the closet.
'Get your things, David,' she repeated. 'The janitor will come to chase us out in a minute.'
He was struggling with the torn lining of a coat-sleeve in the children’s dressing-room, when he heard Miss Ralston exclaim,—