"Crowns are all right," we had agreed with her. "It's the regal part that we object to. Not on Columbia you don't put no crown!" And we made her wear a wreath of stars. But the wreath was near over one eye when she came to me there, between the acts. "Killy Poulaki," she says, "he stole that whole basket of stuff we sent down to old Mis' Herman by him. Mis' Herman found it out." "For his ma, though," I says pitiful. "Ma or no ma, stole is stole," says Mis' Sykes. "We're going to make an example of him." And I thought: "First we starve Achilles on two dollars a week, and then when he steals for his ma, we make an example of him. Ain't there anything else for him...." There wasn't time to figure it out, because the flag curtain was parting for the children--the children that came capering up to do their drill, all proud and pleased and important. They didn't represent anything only themselves--the children of all the world. And Ruth Holcomb stood up to drill them, and she was the _Spirit of To-morrow_. The curtains had parted on the empty stage, and _To-morrow_ had stepped out alone and given a short, sharp word. And all over the house, where they were sitting with their families, they hopped up, boys and girls, and flashed into the aisles. And the orchestra started them, and they began to sing and march to the stage, and went through what Ruth had taught them. Nothing military. Nothing with swords or anything of that. But instead, a little singing dance as they came up to meet _To-morrow_. And she gave them a star, a bird, a little pretend animal, a flower, a lyre, a green branch, a seed, and she told them to go out and make the world more beautiful and glad. They were willing! That was something they knew about already. They lined up at the footlights and held out their gifts to the audience. And it made it by far the more wonderful that we knew the children had really come from so many different nations, every one with its good gift to give to the world. You know how they looked--how all children look when you give them something like that to do. Dear and small and themselves, so that you swallow your whole throat while you watch. Because they _are_ To-morrow, and they want life to be nice, and they think it's going to be--but we haven't got it fixed up quite right for them yet. We're late. As they stood there, young and fine and ready, Ruth, that was _To-morrow_, said: "Now!" They began speaking together, clear and strong and sweet. My heart did more things to my throat while I looked at them. "I pledge allegiance to my flag and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all." Somebody punched at me, violent. "Ain't it magnificent to hear 'em say it?" says Mis' Sykes. "Ain't it truly magnificent?" But I was looking at Achilles and thinking of her being willing to make an example of him instead of helping him, and thinking, too, of his two dollars a week.