THE VIKING SHIP.
“Instead of trying to get up new things,” said Harry, half aloud, “we ought to go to China and study ancient history.”
Harry had a feeling of discouragement in spite of his interest. He had always entertained a vague idea that some day he might give his mind to it and make a big invention—a phonograph or a flying railway, or some little thing like that; but now, when he saw how everything seemed to have been done, and done better than he could have dreamed of—well, he said to himself, “This Fair has spoiled one great inventor, for I would not dare to think there was anything new!”
But then he caught sight of a picture called the “March of Time,”—representing a great procession of soldiers, of generals and veterans,—which restored his good spirits, for right in front, “leading the whole crowd,” was a row of rollicking small boys. He was grateful to the artist.
One stand of arms showed muskets—relics of the Civil War—injured by bullets. Into one of them a Confederate bullet had entered to stop a forthcoming shot, and, meeting, they had burst open the barrel. Another had been split into ribbons at the muzzle. There were also relics of the Custer massacre, and a gun recaptured from an Indian after he had tastefully ornamented it with brass-headed nails.
The less bloody side of battle was recalled by General Thomas’s “office wagon,” the side of which formed a desk when lowered, and revealed some very neat pigeonholes for papers, pens, and red tape. Uniforms and equipment, models of pontoons, artillery, a model of undermining, one by one each claimed the hasty glance that was all any visitor had to spare. A longer look was claimed by an oil painting showing Lieutenant Lockwood’s observation of the “Farthest North.”
Then Harry returned to the Rotunda, and executed a rapid circular movement, hasty, but full of reverence, toward the cases of Revolutionary and Colonial relics—portraits on ivory, letters, flags, snuff-boxes—an endless array of antiquities. Harry was glad to see one miniature, excellently painted, by Major André; for up to that day he had not thought much of the unfortunate major’s drawing, having seen only the well-known “sketch of himself” in pen and ink. Washington’s diary was another thing the boy found very interesting: as he said, it was “neat as wax and right as a trivet.” Harry wondered whether it wouldn’t be fun to keep a diary. This reminded him of the flight of time, and, looking at his watch, he set his face once more toward the “Illinois,” for it was after half-past ten.
Many were going that way—and, indeed, in every other. Two small boys who, in sailor suits, strode along the pier like two pygmy admirals, gave him another subject for his sketch-book; but they were but atoms in a long procession, for there was no cessation in the coming and going of visitors all the time he was on the vessel.
