“He heard the tramp of horses
And the fall of marching feet;
He saw a dust on the hill road,
Regiments in the street,
While men were thick in the highway
And drums in the market beat.
“He watched how the townsfolk hurried
Eagerly to and fro;
He heard the voice of his mother,
Quiet and brave and low;
And he saw his father shoulder
A queer old gun and go.
“Your great-great-great-grandfather,
Sturdy and strong like you,
Glad of the blowing bugles,
Proud of the flags that flew,
Was glad and proud as you, lad—
Son of a soldier, too!”
“Why, I am the son of a soldier!” Amos cried, delighted. “Though I don’t know how you found it out, to be sure.”
“Now, Amos,” the Journeying Man put in, “it’s only fair that you should give us your poem about a band.”
Amos turned red. “My poem about a band!” he echoed. “I don’t know any poem about a band.”
“One—two—three,” chimed an old grandfather clock on the stairs; and all at once the little boy, much to his astonishment, began to recite. This is what he recited:—
“A band is such a brave, bright thing,
With tassels tossed, and burnished brass,
And music quick and fluttering—
I love to see one pass.