“‘But Linden saw another sight,’” said Polly, flushed with pleasure, shielding her eyes with her hand and gazing anxiously about the barn. “First-rate!” cried her instructor. “I tell you, little Mary, you’ve got the real spirit for reciting! Now that gesture had never come into my mind, and yet there ’tis, fitting in complete. I make no doubt Linden folks were out looking just that way, bound to see, yet scared of what would meet ’em. Now for the drums!” “‘When the drum beat at dead of night,’” said Polly, valiantly belaboring her right palm with the clenched fingers of her left hand. “‘Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.’” “There’s not a bit of fault to be found with that,” said Hiram, as he received the lantern from the hands of his pupil, who had seized it and swung it wildly about when the “fires of death” were lighting. “Of course, the lantern will be behind you the night of the entertainment, ready for use.” “Of course,” said Polly. “Now comes the best verse of all, I think, Mr. Hiram: “‘By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,’ I shall have a candle and the tin horn that night, you know-- “‘Each horseman drew his battle-blade--’” Uncle Blodgett’s gift was drawn with a fierce flourish-- “‘And, furious, every charger neighed To join the dreadful revelry.’” The verse ended with an indescribable sound, and Hiram drew his hand across his mouth before he spoke in answer to Polly’s questioning eyes. “I call that a pretty fair neigh,” he said, encouragingly. “I don’t know as I’d go so far as to say ’twould deceive anybody into thinking there was a horse right on the spot, but it’s improving in its quality all the time, I notice.” “I’m so glad,” said Polly, “because, you see, I can’t make the roars and other noises for the ‘dreadful revelry’ the way you can, and I wanted to do something.” The next two verses finished Polly’s recitation for that evening. Hiram had promised to assist with “the hills with thunder riven” and the “red artillery.” The thunder was to be made with a pair of wooden dumb-bells, and the “red artillery” was a little old lantern with a red glass front which would dart about Polly’s figure in Mr. Green’s hand. “That was an extra good rehearsal,” said he, as the little girl sat down beside him on the stairs. “Now, we’ll learn the next verse, shall we, and call it we’ve finished for the night?” When the next lines, with their “furious Frank and fiery Hun,” were pronounced perfect, Polly begged for a story. “Just a little bit of a short one, Mr. Hiram, before I go to bed,” she said, coaxingly, “and I don’t care whether it is true or not.”