“Well, a pretty thing that would be to do,” said the New Boy, shocked. “We had it in the Sunday school lesson,” Mary Elizabeth maintained. “Oh, well,” said the New Boy. “I don’t mean about such things. I mean about what you _do_.” But I remember that Mary Elizabeth still looked puzzled.) Especially was Judge Rodman’s final sentence generally repeated for days afterward:-- “At Faneuil Hall,” said the judge, “the hour at last had struck. The hands on the face of the clock stood still. ‘The force of Nature could no further go.’ The supreme thing had been accomplished. Henceforth we were embalmed in the everlasting and unchangeable essence of freedom--freedom--_freedom_.” Indeed, he held our attention from the first, both because he did not read what he said, and because the ice in the pitcher at his elbow had melted before he began and did not require watching. Then came the moment when, having completed his address, he took up the Decoration of Independence, to read it; and began the hunt for his spectacles. We watched him go through his pockets, but we did so with an interest which somewhat abated when he began the second round. “What _is_ the Decoration of Independence, anyhow?” I whispered to Mary Elizabeth, our acquaintance with it having been limited to learning it “by heart” in school. “Why, don’t you know?” Mary Elizabeth returned. “It’s that thing Miss Messmore can say so fast. It’s when we was the British.” “Who decorated it?” I wanted to know. “George Washington,” replied Mary Elizabeth. “How?” I pressed it. “How’d he do it?” “I don’t know--but I think that’s what he wanted of the cherry blossoms,” said she. At this point Judge Rodman gave up the search. “I deeply regret,” said he, “that I shall be obliged to forego my reading of our national document which, next to the Constitution itself, best embodies our unchanging principles.” And then he added something which smote the front rows suddenly breathless:-- “However, it occurs to me, since this is preeminently the children’s celebration and since I am given to understand that our public schools now bestow due and proper attention upon the teaching of civil government, that it will be a fitting thing, a moving thing even, to hear these words of our great foundation spoken in childish tones. Miss Messmore, can you, as teacher of the city schools, in the grades where the idea of our celebration so fittingly originated, among the tender young, can you recommend, madam, perhaps, one of your bright pupils to repeat for us these undying utterances whose commitment has now become, as I understand it, a part of our public school curriculum?” There was an instant’s pause, and then I heard Margaret Amelia Rodman’s name spoken. Miss Messmore had uttered it. Judge Rodman was repeating it, smiling blandly down with a pleased diffidence.