“Al, regardin' that makin'-over business, I shouldn't be surprised if it was a kind of--er--mutual thing between you and me. We both had some prejudices to get rid of, eh?” “Perhaps so. I'm sure I did.” “And I'm sartin sure I did. And the war and all that came with it put the finishin' touches to the job. When I think of what the thousands and thousands of men did over there in those hell-holes of trenches, men with names that run all the way from Jones and Kelly to--er--” “Speranza.” “Yes, and Whiskervitch and the land knows what more. When I think of that I'm ready to take off my hat to 'em and swear I'll never be so narrow again as to look down on a feller because he don't happen to be born in Ostable County. There's only one thing I ask of 'em, and that is that when they come here to live--to stay--under our laws and takin' advantage of the privileges we offer 'em--they'll stop bein' Portygees or Russians or Polacks or whatever they used to be or their folks were, and just be Americans--like you, Al.” “That's what we must work for now, Grandfather. It's a big job, but it must be done.” They walked on in silence for a time. Then the captain said: “It's a pretty fine country, after all, ain't it, Albert?” Albert looked about him over the rolling hills, the roofs of the little town, the sea, the dunes, the pine groves, the scene which had grown so familiar to him and which had become in his eyes so precious. “It is MY country,” he declared, with emphasis. His grandfather caught his meaning. “I'm glad you feel that way, son,” he said, “but 'twasn't just South Harniss I meant then. I meant all of it, the whole United States. It's got its faults, of course, lots of 'em. And if I was an Englishman or a Frenchman I'd probably say it wasn't as good as England or France, whichever it happened to be. That's all right; I ain't findin' any fault with 'em for that--that's the way they'd ought to feel. But you and I, Al, we're Americans. So the rest of the world must excuse us if we say that, take it by and large, it's a mighty good country. We've planned for it, and worked for it, and fought for it, and we know. Eh?” “Yes. We know.” “Yes. And no howlin', wild-eyed bunch from somewhere else that haven't done any of these things are goin' to come here and run it their way if we can help it--we Americans; eh?” Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza, American, drew a long breath. “No!” he said, with emphasis. “You bet! Well, unless I'm mistaken, I smell salt fish and potatoes, which, accordin' to Cape Cod notion, is a good American dinner. I don't know how you feel, Al, but I'm hungry.” End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Portygee, by Joseph Crosby Lincoln