Look out you don't slip in the hole.

Look at all the confetti and stuff," he added hurriedly, as the tiny flame of the match illuminated a small area of the little cupola.

"War's over, huh ?" There upon the floor were strewn the gay many-colored little paper particles, plastered against the wood by many a rain, mementos of the night when even West Ketchem arose and poured this festive, fluttering stuff down necks and into windows.

Someone who had thought to throw the search-light on the flag across the street, had spilled some of insinuating stuff in the little cupola.

How old and stale, and a part of the forgotten past, the war seemed! And these once gay memorials of its ending were all washed out and as colorless as the big spiders that claimed the little cupola as their own.