By their eyes and queer speech I guessed that these children were Poles, or of some other race from Eastern Europe. I guessed the same about the men celebrating. Every porch on both sides of that street held some heavy headed creatures from presumably the same foreign parts. They were, no doubt, good citizens after their peculiar fashion, but with countenances that I could not read. Though the next explosion seemed to jolt the earth out of its orbit, they merely blinked.
I said to myself, “This is not the fourth of July. Therefore it must be the anniversary of the day when ‘Freedom shrieked’ and ‘Kosciuszko fell.’”
I reached the end of the street; nothing beyond but a hollow of hills and a dubious river, enclosing a new Tophet, that I learned afterwards was Shickshinny. It was late. I wanted to get beyond to the green fields.
I zigzagged across that end of the street to folk on the front porches that I thought were Americans. Each time I vainly attempted conversation with some dumb John Sobieski in Sunday clothes. I wondered what were the Polish words for bread, shelter, and dead broke.
II
The Son of King Coal
Some spick and span people came out on the porch of the last house. Possibly they could understand English. I went closer. They were out and out Americans.
So I looked them in the eye and said: “I would like to have you entertain me to-night. I am a sort of begging preacher. I do not take money, only food and lodging.”
“A beggin’ preacher?”
“My sermon is in poetry. I can read it to you after supper, if that will suit.”
“What sort of poetry?” asked the man.