VII.--PYROTECHNY. But the headstrong young man went to work, making fireworks. He bought and carefully studied a work on pyrotechny. The villagers knew that he was a remarkably skilful young man, and they all said, "We shall have a great treat next 4th of July." Meanwhile Pettingill worked away. VIII.--THE DAY. The great day came at last. Thousands poured into the little village from far and near. There was an oration, of course. IX.--ORATORY IN AMERICA. Yes; there was an oration. We have a passion for oratory in America--political oratory chiefly. Our political orators never lose a chance to "express their views." They will do it. You cannot stop them. There was an execution in Ohio one day, and the Sheriff, before placing the rope round the murderer's neck, asked him if he had any remarks to make? "If he hasn't," said a well-known local orator, pushing his way rapidly through the dense crowd to the gallows--"if our ill-starred feller-citizen don't feel inclined to make a speech and is in no hurry, I should like to avail myself of the present occasion to make some remarks on the necessity of a new protective tariff!" X.--PETTINGILL'S FIREWORKS. As I said in Chapter VIII., there was an oration. There were also processions, and guns, and banners. "This evening," said the chairman of the committee of arrangements, "this evening, fellow-citizens, there will be a grand display of fireworks on the village green, superintended by the inventor and manufacturer, our public-spirited townsman, Mr. Reuben Pettingill." Night closed in, and an immense concourse of people gathered on the village green. On a raised platform, amidst his fireworks, stood Pettingill. He felt that the great hour of his life had come, and, in a firm, clear voice, he said: "The fust fireworks, feller-citizens, will be a rocket, which will go up in the air, bust, and assume the shape of a serpint." He applied a match to the rocket, but instead of going up in the air, it flew wildly down into the grass, running some distance with a hissing kind of sound, and causing the masses to jump round in a very insane manner. Pettingill was disappointed, but not disheartened. He tried again. "The next fireworks," he said, "will go up in the air, bust, and become a beautiful revolvin' wheel." But alas! it didn't. It only ploughed a little furrow in the green grass, like its unhappy predecessor. The masses laughed at this, and one man--a white-haired old villager--said, kindly but firmly, "Reuben, I'm 'fraid you don't understand pyrotechny." Reuben was amazed. Why did his rockets go down instead of up? But, perhaps, the others would be more successful, and, with a flushed face, and in a voice scarcely as firm as before, he said: