On the day of the great festival, Ernest, with all the other people of
the valley, left their work, and proceeded to the spot where the
sylvan banquet was prepared. As he approached, the loud voice of the
Rev. Dr. Battleblast was heard, beseeching a blessing on the good
things set before them, and on the distinguished friend of peace in
whose honour they were assembled. The tables were arranged in a
cleared space of the woods, shut in by the surrounding trees, except
where a vista opened eastward, and afforded a distant view of the
Great Stone Face. Over the general's chair, which was a relic from the
home of Washington, there was an arch of verdant boughs, with the
laurel profusely intermixed, and surmounted by his country's banner,
beneath which he had won his victories. Our friend Ernest raised
himself on his tiptoes, in hopes to get a glimpse of the celebrated
guest; but there was a mighty crowd about the tables anxious to hear
the toasts and speeches, and to catch any word that might fall from
the general in reply; and a volunteer company, doing duty as a guard,
pricked ruthlessly with their bayonets at any particularly quiet
person among the throng. So Ernest, being of an unobtrusive character
was thrust quite into the background, where he could see no more of
Old Blood-and-Thunder's physiognomy than if it had been still blazing
on the battle-field. To console himself, he turned towards the Great
Stone Face, which, like a faithful and long-remembered friend, looked
back and smiled upon him through the vista of the forest.
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