Boston ? History is roaming the aisles at the Democratic National Convention, getting in people’s faces, asking them for buttons, lusting after practically everything that isn’t nailed down, as well as some things that are.

Harry and Larry are a Smithsonian duo intent on preserving for the ages the signs, shirts, hats and any other memorabilia they can talk Democrats into handing over.

Curators Harry Rubenstein and Larry Bird are expert schmoozers as well as scavengers. They charm people on the convention floor. They covetously eye everything from that lady’s pink scarf labeled “Give Bush a Pink Slip” (she happily hands it over) to the tall state standards on the floor (no dice, not yet).

“We know we’re on to the right thing if they don’t want to part with it,” Harry says. And these guys are tenacious.

After all, Harry says somberly, “We’re trying to document and preserve the democratic process.” He lightens up and adds, “Lofty words for an odd button.”

Larry, tall, wry and pokerfaced, carries the satchel, an oversized black one that almost touches the floor, big enough for posters. Harry, shorter, is more likely to wear the thrill of the hunt on his face. He drops things into the bag.

Trinkets are not trite at the convention.

The little flashlights that made up a Sept. 11 commemoration constellation the first night are exactly what the Smithsonian wants to collect: an artifact specific to a certain period, a particular event.

Democrats put a lot of thought into making sure the signs complement the affair. Even the crude handmade signs seen in the sea of professional signs are part of the choreography — drawn not by the delegates holding them, but under the direction of boiler-roomers out back.

Spontaneity is packaged here.

Midway through the convention, Harry and Larry will hit a gold mine.

But first they have to pick up the scent and start sweet-talking people.

They’ve seen it many times before: that look of incredulity at the shakedown, which softens when the target realizes that it’s the Smithsonian Institution that wants to turn his “Teresa Rocks” sign or “Labor is Back” yellow fluorescent vest into historical treasure.

“It’s called dropping the S-word,” Larry says, allowing a little grin.

The Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History has more than 90,000 objects in its political history collection. Only a tiny fraction will be on display at any one time.

No one knows whether the “Kerry Rocks My Socks” sign at this convention will someday rival in popularity the still-ubiquitous “I Like Ike” buttons from the Eisenhower era.

“I don’t want that bag of trash,” Larry says, pointing to garbage. “I don’t want signs so big we can’t carry it. We don’t want 10 of the same sign. Other than that, we probably want it.”

A half-hour into their first expedition, they score. At a counter selling $10 buttons printed with the buyer’s name, the manager donates one.

The woman with the pink scarf gives it to the curators and leans over to say, “You have to come back, I’m going to do my Ohio hat tomorrow.”

Harry sees the scarf as a link in history’s chain. Scarves have been used as political symbols since the suffragettes, he said.