THE LITTLE TOWN OF THE GRAPE VINES 



flare, backed by the red, white, and green of 

 Old Mexico, and play fervently such music 

 as you will not hear otherwhere. 



At midnight the flag comes down. Count 

 yourself at a loss if you are not moved by 

 that performance. Pine Mountain watches 

 whitely overhead, shepherd fires glow 

 strongly on the glooming hills. The plaza, 

 the bare glistening pole, the dark folk, the 

 bright dresses, are lit ruddily by a bonfire. 

 It leaps up to the eagle flag, dies down, the 

 music begins softly and aside. They play 

 airs of old longing and exile ; slowly out of 

 the dark the flag drops down, bellying and 

 falling with the midnight draught. Some- 

 times a hymn is sung, always there are 

 tears. The flag is down ; Tony Sevadra 

 has received it in his arms. The music 

 strikes a barbaric swelling tune, another 

 flag begins a slow ascent, — it takes a 

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