February Twelfth
By Mary H. Howliston
It was early in the evening in a shop where flags were sold.
There were large flags, middle-sized flags, small flags and little bits of flags. The finest of all was Old Glory. Old Glory was made of silk and hung in graceful folds from the wall.
“Attention!” called Old Glory.
Starry eyes all over the room looked at him.
“What day of the month is it?”
“February Twelfth,” quickly answered the flags.
“Whose birthday is it?” “Abraham Lincoln’s.”
“Where is he buried?” “Springfield, Illinois.”
“Very well,” said Old Glory, “you are to take some of Uncle Sam’s children there to-night.”
“Yes, captain,” said the flags, wondering what he meant.
“First, I must know whether you are good American flags. How many red stripes have you?”
“Seven!” was the answer.
“How many white stripes?” “Six!”
“How many stars?” “Forty-five!” shouted the large flags.
The little ones said nothing.
“Ah, I see,” said Old Glory, “but you are not to blame. Do you see that open transom?” he went on. “Go through it into the street, put your staffs into the hands of any little boys you find and bring them here.”
“Yes, captain,” called the flags, as they fluttered away.
Last of all, Old Glory pulled his silken stripes into the hallway and waited for the flags to come back. “It’s much too cold for little girls,” he said to himself. “Their pretty noses might freeze.”
By and by the flags came back, each bringing a small boy. Old Glory looked at them.
“What’s the matter?” said he; “you don’t seem pleased.”
No one spoke, the little boys stared with round eyes at Old Glory, but held tightly to the flags.
At last one of the flags said: “Please, captain, these are the only little boys we could find.”
“Well!” said Old Glory.
“And we think they don’t belong to Uncle Sam,” was the answer.
“Why not?” said Old Glory.
“Some of them are ragged,” called one flag.
“And some are dirty,” said another.
“This one is a colored boy,” said another.
“Some of them can’t speak English at all.”
“The one I found, why, he blacks boots!”
“And mine is a newsboy.”
“Mine sleeps in a dry goods box.”
“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.
It made the snow and ice shine.
“It’s almost time,” said Old Glory softly.
“Hark! you must not wink, nor cough nor sneeze nor move for three-quarters of a minute!”
That was dreadful!
The newsboy swallowed a cough.
The boot-black held his breath for fear of sneezing.
The brown-stone boy shut his eyes so as not to wink.
They all stood as if turned to stone.
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, came a faint sound of bells.
Nothing else was heard but the beating of their own hearts.
In exactly three-quarters of a minute, Old Glory said, “What do you think of that?”
Behold! a wonderful fairy sleigh, white as a snowdrift, and shining in the moonlight as if covered with diamond dust.
It was piled high with softest cushions and robes of fur.
It was drawn by thirteen fairy horses, with arching necks and flowing manes and tails.
Each horse wore knots of red, white and blue at his ears and the lines were wound with ribbons of the same.
“Jump in,” said Old Glory.
Into the midst of the cushions and furs they sprang.
Crack went the whip, tinkle went the bells. Over the house-tops, through the frosty air, among the moonbeams, up and away sailed fairy horses and sleigh, American flags and Uncle Sam’s boys.
Santa Claus with his reindeer never went faster.
Presently the tinkling bells were hushed, and the fairy horses stood very still before the tomb of Abraham Lincoln.
“Come,” said Old Glory, and he led them inside.
You must get your father or mother to tell you what they saw there.
Just before they left, a dirty little hand touched Old Glory and a shrill little voice said: “I’d like to leave my flag here. May I?”
“And may I?” said another.
Old Glory looked around and saw the same wish in the other faces.
“You forget,” said he, “that the flags are not yours. It would not be right to keep them. What did the people call Mr. Lincoln? You don’t know? Well, I’ll tell you. It was ‘Honest Old Abe,’ and Uncle Sam wants you to be like him.”
Again the merry bells tinkled, again the proud horses, with their flowing manes and tails, sprang into the air, and before the moon had said “good-night” to the earth, they were back at the flag shop.
The very moment they reached it, horses and sleigh, cushions and robes, melted away and the children saw them no more.