THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
tion. I came very near losing my life on one such occasion. The pole, having been hoisted up the tree, slipped the rope and knocked one of the men from the branch on which he sat. Standing just under the tree, I suddenly heard above me the crash of a branch and the cry “Jesus Maria!” I sprang away to see the body of a man fall exactly upon the spot on which I had stood. The poor fellow broke his spine and died shortly after he had been carried into the village. Usually, however, the raising of the pole passed without accident, and we children marched back with bouquets of blooming broom in our hands, conscious of having helped in accomplishing a great work, and with the anticipation of still greater things to come.
How slow Whitsunday was in passing! But the fun began all the earlier on Monday morning. Already at daybreak the drummer—an old bow-legged little man—had marched through the village, beating the reveille; but it was afternoon before the head men of the San Sebastian society—that was the name of the sharpshooters-corps, to which belonged almost all the grown-up inhabitants of the village, male and female—came to our house, where at that time the flag and the other treasures of the society were kept, to take them from there to the dwelling of the last year's “king.” Finally, the procession started: first the old drummer with a bouquet of flowers and many colored ribbons on his breast and hat; next, bearing the flag, Master Schäfer, a tailor, white-haired and spindle-legged. He was called the “young ensign,” because his father had before him carried the banner, upon which was painted in loud colors St. Sebastianus, the patron-saint, pierced with an incredible number of arrows; then the captains, carrying ancient spears, also decorated with flowers and ribbons, accompanied by all the solemn-visaged directors of the society,
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