I strayed on the common after school instead of hurrying home to read.

I hung on fence rails, my pet book forgotten under my arm, and gazed off to the yellow-streaked February sunset, and beyond, and beyond.

I was no longer the central figure of my dreams; the dry weeds in the lane crackled beneath the tread of Heroes.
What more could America give a child?
Ah, much more! As I read how the patriots planned the Revolution, and the women gave their sons to die in battle, and the heroes led to victory, and the rejoicing people set up the Republic, it dawned on me gradually what was meant by _my country_.

The people all desiring noble things, and striving for them together, defying their oppressors, giving their lives for each other--all this it was that made _my country_.

It was not a thing that I _understood_; I could not go home and tell Frieda about it, as I told her other things I learned at school.