I'll run and get that, and then I'll recite the 'Landing of the Pilgrims' to you while the rabbit cooks." Presently a savory odor began to steal along the winding paths of the garden, between the laurel-bushes,--a smell of barbecued meat sputtering over the fire.

Above the door of the little kiosk, with many a soft swish of silken stirrings, hung the beautiful old flag.

Then a clear little voice floated up through the pine-trees: "My country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing!" All the time that Joyce sang, she was moving around the table, setting out the plates and rattling cups and saucers.

She could not keep a little quaver out of her voice, for, as she went on, all the scenes of all the times that she had sung that song before came crowding up in her memory.

There were the Thanksgiving days in the church at home, and the Washington's birthdays at school, and two Decoration days, when, as a granddaughter of a veteran, she had helped scatter flowers over the soldiers' graves.
Somehow it made her feel so hopelessly far away from all that made life dear to be singing of that "sweet land of liberty" in a foreign country, with only poor little alien Jules for company.
Maybe that is why the boy's first lesson in patriotism was given so earnestly by his homesick little teacher.