One privilege had been always kept inviolate at the Double-Crank, until it had come to be looked upon as an inalienable right.

The Glorious Fourth had been celebrated, come rain, come shine.

Usually the celebration was so generous that it did not stop at midnight; anywhere within a week was considered permissible, a gradual tapering off--not to say sobering up--being the custom with the more hilarious souls.
When Dill with much solemnity tore off June from the calendar in the dining room--the calendar with Custer's Last Charge rioting redly above the dates--Billy, home for a day from the roundup, realized suddenly that time was on the high lope; at least, that is how he put it to Dill.
"Say, Dilly, we sure got to jar loose from getting rich long enough to take in that picnic over to Bluebell Grove.

Didn't know there was a picnic or a Bluebell Grove?
Well now, there is.

Over on Horned-Toad Creek--nice, pretty name to go with the grove, ain't it ?--they've got a patch uh shade big over as my hat.