ca is the only civilized country in the
world," said March.

The shower passed as quickly as it had gathered, and the band which it
had silenced for a moment burst forth again in the music which fills the
Carlsbad day from dawn till dusk. Just now, it began to play a pot pourri
of American airs; at the end some unseen Americans under the trees below
clapped and cheered.

"That was opportune of the band," said March. "It must have been a
telepathic impulse from our patriotism in the director. But a pot pourri
of American airs is like that tablet dedicating the American Park up here
on the Schlossberg, which is signed by six Jews and one Irishman. The
only thing in this medley that's the least characteristic or original is
Dixie; and I'm glad the South has brought us back into the Union."

"You don't know one note from another, my dear," said his wife.

"I know the 'Washington Post.'"

"And don't you call that American?"

"Yes, if Sousa is an American name; I should have thought it was
Portuguese."

"Now that sounds a little too much like General Triscoe's pessimism,"
said Mrs. March; and she added: "But whether we have any national
melodies or not, we don't poke women out in the rain and keep them
soaking!"

"No, we certainly don't," he assented, with such a well-studied effect of
yielding to superior logic that Mrs. Adding screamed for joy.

The boy had stolen out of the room, and he said, "I hope Rose isn't
acting on my suggestion?"

"I hate to have you tease him, dearest," his wife interposed.

"Oh, no," the mother said, laughing still, but with a note of tenderness
in her laugh, which dropped at last to a sigh. "He's too much afraid of
lese-majesty, for that. But I dare say he couldn't stand the sight. He's
queer."

"He's beautiful!" said Mrs. March.

"He's good," the mother admitted. "As good as the day's long. He's never
given me a moment's trouble--but he troubles me. If you can understand!"

"Oh, I do understand!" Mrs. March returned. "By his innocence, you mean.
That is the worst of children. Their innocence breaks our hearts and
makes us feel ourselves such dreadful old things."

"His innocence, yes," pursued Mrs. Adding, "and his ideals." She began to
laugh again. "He may have gone off for a season of meditation and prayer
over the misbehavior of these bicyclers. His mind is turning that way a
good deal lately. It's only fair to tell you, Mr. March, that he seems to
be giving up his notion o