“Children,” asked Miss Mary, the teacher, “do you know what day this is?”

“Yes, ma’am!” cried Bobby Wilkins, looking up with sparkling eyes.

“Does any one else know?” asked Miss Mary.

No one spoke. The boy John knew very well what day it was, but he was off in the clouds, thinking of William the Conqueror, and did not hear a word Miss Mary said. Billy Green knew, too, but he had been reproved for chewing gum in class, and was in the sulks, and would not speak. Of course Joe did not know, for he never knew anything of that kind; and none of the girls were going to answer when the boys were reciting. So Bobby Wilkins was the only one who spoke.

“It is a day,” said Miss Mary, looking round rather severely, “which ought to waken joy in the heart of every American, young or old.”

Bobby felt his cheeks glow, and his heart swell. He thought Miss Mary was very kind.

“It is a day,” she went on, “to be celebrated with feelings of pride and delight.”

Bobby felt of the bright new half-dollar in his pocket, and thought of the splendid kite at home, and of the cake that mother was making when he came away. He had not wanted to come to school to-day, but now he was glad he had come. He had no idea that Miss Mary would feel this way about it. He looked round to see how the others took it, but they all looked blank, except the boy John, who was standing on the field of Hastings, and whose countenance was illumined with the joy of victory.

“It is a day,” said Miss Mary, with kindling eyes (for the children were really very trying to-day), “which will be remembered in America as long as freedom and patriotism shall endure.”

Bobby felt as if he were growing taller. He saw himself in the President’s chair, or mounted on a great horse, like the statues of Washington, holding out a truncheon.

“One hundred and eighteen years ago to-day,” cried Miss Mary—

“Oh! oh my, it ain’t!” cried Bobby Wilkins, springing up. “It’s only seven.”

“Bobby, what do you mean?” asked Miss Mary, looking at him severely. “You are very rude to interrupt me. What do you mean by ‘seven?’”

“My birthday,” faltered Bobby. “I ain’t a hundred anything, I’m only seven.”

“Come here, dear!” said Miss Mary, holding out her hand very kindly. “Come here, my little boy. I wish you very many happy returns, Bobby dear! but—but I was speaking of the battle of Bunker Hill.”

Poor Bobby! Miss Mary shook her head at the children over his shoulder, as he sat in her lap, as a sign not to laugh, but I suppose they could not help it. They did laugh a good deal,—all except the boy John, who was watching Harold die, and feeling rather sober in consequence.