mmon
after school instead of hurrying home to read. I hung on fence rails,
my pet book forgotten under my arm, and gazed off to the
yellow-streaked February sunset, and beyond, and beyond. I was no
longer the central figure of my dreams; the dry weeds in the lane
crackled beneath the tread of Heroes.

What more could America give a child? Ah, much more! As I read how the
patriots planned the Revolution, and the women gave their sons to die
in battle, and the heroes led to victory, and the rejoicing people set
up the Republic, it dawned on me gradually what was meant by _my
country_. The people all desiring noble things, and striving for them
together, defying their oppressors, giving their lives for each
other--all this it was that made _my country_. It was not a thing that
I _understood_; I could not go home and tell Frieda about it, as I
told her other things I learned at school. But I knew one could say
"my country" and _feel_ it, as one felt "God" or "myself." My teacher,
my schoolmates, Miss Dillingham, George Washington himself could not
mean more than I when they said "my country," after I had once felt
it. For the Country was for all the Citizens, and _I was a Citizen_.
And when we stood up to sing "America," I shouted the words with all
my might. I was in very earnest proclaiming to the world my love for
my new-found country.

"I love thy rocks and rills.
Thy woods and templed hills."

Boston Harbor, Crescent Beach, Chelsea Square--all was hallowed ground
to me. As the day approached when the school was to hold exercises in
honor of Washington's Birthday, the halls resounded at all hours with
the strains of patriotic songs; and I, who was a model of the
attentive pupil, more than once lost my place in the lesson as I
strained to hear, through closed doors, some neighboring class
rehearsing "The Star-Spangled Banner." If the doors happened to open,
and the chorus broke out unveiled--

"O! say, does that Star-Spangled Banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?"--

delicious tremors ran up and down my spine, and I was faint with
suppressed enthusiasm.

Where had been my country until now? What flag had I loved? What
heroes had I worshipped? The very names of these things had been
unknown to me. Well I knew that Polotzk was not my country. It was
_goluth_--exile. On many occasions in the year we prayed to God to
lead us out of exile. The beautiful Passover service