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at the military college in Northfield and then retired to his old family farm right outside town. He heard our band once and volunteered the next day to take it over. Believe me, he whipped it into shape, and now our band is the pride and envy of the whole county. Someday Pm going to get ahold of a cornet and play in the band, if I can just figure out how to get one. As I was listening to the band, wishing for a cornet, I caught myself hoping all over again that the world wouldn't come to an end. It would wreck all my plans for the future.
    So there's the band, sixteen strong including a big bass drum that makes you jump like a bullfrog if Owen Higgins happens to boom it just as he passes you. But this past July I wasn't standing on the sidelines. Me and Willie decorated his old wagon, and we were marching in the parade. We meant to pull his aunt Millie's cat in the wagon, but every time we practiced, the cat would just jump out and run away.
    "What about your little sister?" Willie asked. "I bet she'd sit there proper. Your ma could dress her in red, white, and blue." I was horrified. Letty was only five years old. I never got to be in the parade when I was five years old. It didn't seem fitting somehow. But the trouble was, Willie mentioned it to Letty before I made
up my mind, and she went running to Ma, and so we were stuck with pulling my baby sister in the wagon.
    You may be surprised to know that it ain't easy pulling a little girl the whole length of a parade in a wagon. No, she didn't try to jump out or anything. She was pleased as punch just to sit there. But Willie thought as soon as he'd pulled a few feet that since she was my sister I should have the honor. I soon saw why. That little scallywag was heavy. I was sweating like a plow horse. And the wheels were funny, so no matter how straight I pulled, the wagon kept moving to the left.
    First thing I knew, I had hit Ned Weston's brand-new bicycle. The Weston boys are very particular about their precious wheels, and Ned claimed right out loud that I was jealous and did it on purpose. Now, you're obliged to belt someone for an insult of that magnitude, parade or no parade. Willie caught my fist in midair. "People is watching!" he muttered, so I had to give up fighting for the time being and endure another of Ned's superior smirks.
    Even including that unfortunate incident, it was a jim-dandy of a parade. The Ladies' Society of the Methodist church (they aren't as dignified as the Congregational ladies) had this farm wagon with streamers on it, and the ladies were standing and sitting around all decked out in flowers. I forget what the banner read—"The Methodist Ladies Are the Flower of Vermont Womanhood" or some such. The Congregational ladies smiled politely from the sidelines, but you could tell they were a little bit miffed.
    The Grange had a wagon, too. July is too early to show off much in the way of the fruit of the land, but
they had a few unhappy lambs and heifers on board to baa and bleat and represent the glory of our agricultural tradition. Rachel Martin and some of the other girls were riding in that one. They were smiling bravely, though you had the feeling that, standing there in the middle of all that livestock, they'd rather be pinching their noses.
    There was a wagon of stonecutters, mostly just the Scotch and French-Canadian ones. The Italian stonecutters stood on the sidelines, looking on and laughing. I think personally that some of their jollity came from a bottle of that homemade wine, which as you know is illegal, unlike cider, which may serve the same effect when it gets a little elderly but is a Vermont product and therefore perfectly legal and not frowned down upon. Pa says judgmentalism is one of my worst failings, next to my temper, and besides, spirits is spirits, and at least the Italians are honest about their drinking habits. Pa always takes up for the Italian stonecutters. He says they're not just stonecutters, they're