CHAPTER XIII

The earliest daylight of July Fourth found Santa Paloma already
astir. Dew was heavy on the ropes of flowers and greens, and the
flags and bunting that made brilliant all the line of the day's
march; and long scarfs of fog lingered on the hills, but for all
that, and despite the delicious fragrant chill of the morning air,
nobody doubted that the day would be hot and cloudless, and the
evening perfect for fireworks. Lawn-sprinklers began to whir busily
in the sweet shaded gardens long before the sunlight reached them;
windows and doors were flung open to the air; women, sweeping
garden-paths and sidewalks with gay energy, called greetings up and
down the street to one another. Chairs were dragged out-of-doors;
limp flags began to stir in the sunny air; other flags squeakily
mounted their poles. At every window bunting showed; the schoolhouse
was half-hidden in red, white, and blue; the women's clubhouse was
festooned with evergreens and Japanese lanterns; and the Mail
office, the grand stand opposite, the shops, and the bank, all
fluttered with gay colors. Children shouted and scampered
everywhere; gathered in fascinated groups about the ice-cream and
candy and popcorn booths that sprang up at every corner; met
arriving cousins and aunts at the train; ran on last-minute errands.
Occasionally a whole package of exploding firecrackers smote the
warm still air.

By half-past ten every window on the line of march, every dooryard
and porch, had its group of watchers. Wagons and motor-cars, from