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 CHAPTER XII

HE Fourth of July had come and gone. Jim, after remarking that he wished the Light could burn red, white, and blue in thirteen flashes, had gazed regretfully at it and sounded a formal salute on the fog-bell. The rest of the family had striven to show their spirit by adding bows and neckties of scarlet to the blue and white of their usual costume. They had all taken a sail outside,—the Ailouros very festive, with her ensign and pennant flying,—and in the evening Garth had set off a package of "sparklers" on the landing. A few feeble rockets had wriggled up from the dooryard of some patriotic soul in Quimpaug, and Garth stayed up until long past his bedtime, watching them and listening to his elders' reminiscences of sensational fireworks on bygone Fourths.

Of the modest celebration nothing remained next day, except the little flag in Jim's button-hole. He lay basking on the rock in idle 125