74 The Book of Bugs. 



and its heat burned my face. It was then I saw the first 

 and the most glorious sky-rockets of my life. But I saw 

 more wonderful things yet. I saw the superintendent of 

 the Sunday-school of whose infant-class i was a member 

 screaming and staggering about, snatching men's hats off 

 and flinging them into the fire. I saw other men that 

 went to our church, reeling and shouting and clapping 

 their hands. I did not know then what " drunk " meant, 

 and I could not understand why my father should be 

 crying and laughing at the same time. He told me it was 

 because the war was over. As I grew older I understood 

 why these godly, pious men, who are now in heaven if any- 

 body gets to that place, whose lips had never before been 

 wetted with .any drink more potent than the cup of 

 remembrance of their dying Lord, should on this night 

 have become drunken how much with strong liquors, 

 and how much with the delirium of joy, I know not. The 

 war was over ! The cruel,, terrible war that charmed 

 away fathers and husbands and sons with enticing rattle 

 of drums and the shrill whistle of fifes ; that lured them 

 with waving flags and splendid uniforms and rows of 

 men stepping together, only, when it got them away from 

 home, to murder them and maim them and poison them 

 with fever had made an end of her enchantments and 

 was to be from henceforth only a horrid memory, and 

 that a memory to be blotted out, if possible. What does 

 a battlefield look like?' 1 once asked a man that knew. 

 " My boy," he answered, " for thirty years I have been 

 trying to forget." 



And then right after that, it seemed the next day or so, 

 the bright April sunshine was mocked at by long black 

 streamers of crape that hung from every store and house 

 in the little town. It \vas not Sunday, but all the shops 

 were shut and men stood talking on the corners. They 



