THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
and the master-tailor, our color-bearer, in the ranks of the marksmen to what my heroic enthusiasm called “the field of honor”; and when, after marching three times around the tree bearing the pole with the wooden bird, we knelt down for prayer I was one of the most devout. Not one of my first shots missed. The bow-legged drummer rewarded me with the customary roll, and I suspect I sometimes looked around with eyes that sought admiration. Only one shot more was mine, but the wooden bird was already much splintered, and with every moment it became more uncertain whether my last chance would yet be reached. My heart beat high; my last turn was really reached, and on the top of the pole there was only a little strip of wood left which a well-aimed bullet would surely bring down. I raised the rifle to my shoulder with the feeling as if this shot would determine the current of my future. With a mighty effort I kept cool, so that my eye should be clear and my hand firm. But when I had pressed the trigger I felt myself as if in a dense fog; I only heard how the drummer furiously belabored his instrument and how the surrounding multitude shouted. The great deed, therefore, was done. I had “shot down the bird.” I was king. Not far from me stood my father; he laughed aloud and evidently was extremely proud. Now the great chain with the silver shields was put upon my shoulder, a tall hat with the old tinsel crown and flowers on top was fixed upon my head. It was a great moment; but I had won the prize merely as a substitute for another person, not for myself. Who was that person? A Sanct Sebastianus sister, an old washerwoman. She was brought forward and also adorned with ribbons and flowers. I was obliged to offer her my arm as my queen, and so we marched solemnly behind drum and flag back into the village. The riflemen made every possible noise with their guns; the chil-
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