“Why,” says she, “I couldn’t have him in the drill. How could I? The children’s mothers is coming down here to trim ’em. Lots of ’em—Mis’ Grace and Mis’ Morgan Graves and some more, said flat out they wouldn’t let their children be in it if they had to trim ’em along with her.”
“My land,” I says, “my land!”
I couldn’t say anything more. And Mis’ Sykes called the children, and they all went shouting round her over to the middle of the green. All but Chris.
I picked him up and set him on the counter of the booth, and I stood side of him. But he didn’t pay much attention to me. He was looking off after the children, forming in two lines that broke into four, and wheeled and turned, and waved their wands. He watched ’em, and he never says a word.
“Come and help me tack tacks, Chris,” I says, when I couldn’t stand it any longer.
And then he says: “When they do it, it’s going to be a band playing, won’t there?”
“Yes,” I says, “but we’ll all be hearing the music. Come and——”
“When they do it,” he says, still looking off at the children, “they’ll all have white on ’em, won’t they?”
“Yes,” I says, “white on ’em.” And couldn’t say no more.
Then he turns and looks me right in the face: “I got my new white suit home,” he says, whispering.