Up there in Post-office Hall the lights were all on, just as we'd left them, and there was kind of a cozy feel of supper in the air. "Look here," says Mis' Toplady, "there's quarts of coffee hot on the back of the stove and a whole mountain of sandwiches--" "Let's," I says. And we all begun to do so. We all begun to do so, and I begun to do something more. I'd learned quite a little from seeing them there in the hall and kitchen that afternoon, the Swensons and Poulakis and Amachis and the rest. And now here were these others, from the bunk cars,--big, beautiful eyes they had, and patient looks, and little bobbing curtsies, and white teeth when they smiled. I saw them now, trying to eat and behave the best they knew how, and back of them the Foreign booth, under the Foreign flag. And what I begun to have to do, was to get in over behind that Foreign Booth and wipe up my eyes a little. Once I peeked out. And I happened to see the sheriff going by. He was needed, like Mis' Sykes told him he might be, but not the same, either. He was passing the sugar and cream. What brought me out finally was what I heard Mis' Sykes saying: "Ladies," says she, "let's us set her up there in the middle of the Foreign Booth, with her little boy in her lap. That'll be just the finishing foreign touch," says she, "to our booth." So we covered a chair with foreign flags, promiscuous, and set her there. Awful pretty and serious she looked. "If only we could talk to her," says Mis' Sykes, grieving. "Ladies, any of you know any foreign sentences?" All any of us could get together was terra cotton and delirium tremens. So we left it go, and just stood and looked at her, and smiled at her, and clucked at the little boy, and at all her little folks that come around her in the booth, under the different flags. "We'll call her Democracy!" says Marne Holcomb, that often blazes up before the match is lit. "Why not call her the Spirit of Democracy, in the newspaper write-up?" With that Mis' Sykes kind of stopped winking and breathing, in a way she has. "My land," she says, "but _s'pose he's an enemy baby and she's his enemy ma_?" There hadn't one of us thought of that. For all we had made out, they might be anything. We got hold of Mis' Poulaki and Mis' Amachi, hot foot. "Ast her what she is," we told them. "Ast her what country it is she comes from." "Oh," says Mis' Poulaki, "that we know already. They're Lithuanians--that is what they are." Lithuanians. Where was it? Us ladies drew together still more close. Was Lithuanians central power or was it ally? Us ladies ain't so very geographical, and not one of us knew or could make out. "Say," says Mis' Toplady finally, "shut up, all of us. If it gets around for folks to wonder at--Why, my land," she says, "their bunk car's burned up anyhow, ain't it? Let's us shut up." And so we done. And everybody was up around the Foreign Booth. And the Friendship Village booth was most forgot.