"We are Southerners," the lad had announced decisively; and there the
flavor was again, though this time as from a mere pepper-box in a school
basket. Thus his next remark was addressed to his own thoughts as well
as to the lad:
"And so _you_ are a Southerner!" he reflected audibly, looking down at
the Southern plague in small form.
"Why, yes, Mister, we are Southerners," replied the lad, with a gay and
careless patriotism; and as giving the handy pepper-box a shake, he
began to dust the air with its contents: "I was born on an old Southern
battle-field. When Granny was born there, it had hardly stopped smoking;
it was still piled with wounded and dead Northerners. Why, one of the
worst batteries was planted in our front porch."
This enthusiasm as to the front porch was assumed to be acceptable to
the listener. The battery might have been a Cherokee rose.
The man had listened with a quizzical light in his eyes.
"In what direction did you say that battery was pointed?"
"I didn't say; but it was pointed up this way, of course."
The man laughed outright.
"And so you followed in the direction of the deadly Southern shell and
came north--as a small grape-shot!"
"But, Mister, that was long ago. They had their quarrel out long ago.
That's the way we boys do: fight it out and make friends again.
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