“Father,” I said, in a low and gentle tone, “need I remind you that it is at present almost seven P. M. and that the Stars and Stripes, although supposed to be lowered at sunset, are still hanging out this window?”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” he said in a releived tone. “You’re nothing if you’re not thorough, Bab! Well, as they have hung an hour and fifteen minutes to long as it is, I guess the Country won’t go to the dogs if you shut that window until I get a shirt on. Go away and send William up in ten minutes.”
“Father,” I demanded, intencely, “do you consider yourself a Patriot?”
“Well,” he said, “I’m not the shouting tipe, but I guess I’ll be around if I’m needed. Unless I die of the chill I’m getting just now, owing to one shouting Patriot in the Familey.”
“Is this your Country or William’s?” I insisted, in an inflexable voice.
“Oh, come now,” he said, “we can divide it, William and I. There’s enough for both. I’m not selfish.”
It is always thus in my Familey. They joke about the most serious things, and then get terrably serious about nothing at all, such as overshoes on wet days, or not passing in French grammer, or having a friend of the Other Sex, etcetera.
“There are to many houses in this country, father,” I said, folding my arms, “where the Patriotism of the Inhabatants is shown by having a paid employee hang out and take in the Emblem between Cocktails and salid, so to speak.”
“Oh damm!” said my father, in a feirce voice. “Here, get away and let me take it in. And as I’m in my undershirt I only hope the neighbors aren’t looking out.”
He then sneazed twice and drew in the Emblem, while I stood at the Salute. How far, how very far from the Plattsburg Manual, which decrees that our flag be lowered to the inspiring music of the Star-Spangled Banner, or to the bugel call, “To the Colors.”