"Mine plays a violin on the street corner."
"Just look at mine, captain!" said the last flag proudly, when the rest were through.
"What about him?" asked Old Glory.
"I'm sure he belongs to Uncle Sam; he lives in a brown-stone house and he wears such good clothes!"
"Of course I belong to Uncle Sam," said the brown-stone boy quickly, "but I think these street boys do not."
"There, there!" said Old Glory; "I'll telephone to Washington and find out," and Old Glory floated away.
The little boys watched and waited.
Back came Old Glory.
"It's all right," said he, "Uncle Sam says every one of you belongs to him and he wants you to be brave and honest, for some day he may need you for soldiers; oh, yes! and he said, 'Tell those poor little chaps who have such a hard time of it and no one to help them, that Mr. Lincoln was a poor boy too, and yet he was the grandest and best of all my sons.'"
The moon was just rising.