old lady who leaned lovingly toward her chubby-faced grandson, and said:

"Frankie, you must look in a few minutes and you will see the President
of the United States."

"That is good news, anyhow," spoke forth a rough-looking, good-natured
man near by, and the listeners, who were in that excited state of
weariness and waiting that they were ready to laugh or cry as the
slightest occasion offered, burst forth into roars of laughter, which
rang back among the crowds behind and enticed them to join, though I
suppose not twenty of the laughers knew what the joke was, if indeed
there _was_ one.

A sudden rush. Some one occupied the stand. A notice.

"A telegram!" said a ringing voice. "For Mrs. C.G. Hammond.
Marked--'Death!'"

A sympathetic murmur ran through the great company, as they moved and
wedged and fell back, and did almost impossible things, to make a road
out of that dense throng of humanity for the one to whom the president
had suddenly become an insignificance.

Just then came the "Wyoming Trio." Blessings on them, whoever they are.
Nothing ever could have fitted in more splendidly than they did just
there and then. And the singing rested and helped them all.

Now a sensation came in the shape of a poem that had been written for
the occasion, and was to be learned to sing in greeting to the
president. How they rang those jubilant words through those old trees!