[Illustration: YOUR BOY, IF HE IS THE RIGHT KIND OF A BOY, HAS WORKTO DO THROUGH A LONG LIFE NOTHING WILL HAPPEN TO HIM "A MAN ISIMMORTAL TILL HIS WORK IS DONE" THERE ARE EXCEPTIONS TO THIS RULE, ASTO ALL OTHERS, BUT THIS IS STILL THE RULE]
BY
GRACE S. RICHMOND
[Illustration: musical notation.]
I have the greatest mother on earth. I can't call her a "littlemother," for she's five feet six inches tall, and weighs just exactlywhat she ought to according to the table of weights. If she were atrifle less active she might put on too much flesh, but she'll neverkeep still long enough for that. I always enjoy having her along onany kind of an outing, for she's game for just anything, and awfullygood company, too. In fact, she seems more like a vigorous girl thananything I can compare her with. And I think her sons are mighty luckychaps—especially just now that the war game's on.
Yes, that's a picture of Mother; neat little holder for it, isn't it?Yes, I know; she does look interesting, doesn't she? She's an awfullygood shot, and drives her own car, and rides like a Cossack, and doesa lot of other things—not to mention making home—well—what it is. Isuppose I'm rather braggy about her, but I tell you I feel that wayjust now, and I'm going to tell you why.... She's pretty, too, don'tyou think so? I thought you would.
The thing that started me off was Hoofy Gilbert coming across the dormhall with a letter in his hand. We called him Hoofy because he hatedwalking so, and always drove his big yellow roadster from one class toanother, even if it was only a thousand feet straight across thecampus to the next lecture. Well, Hoofy came in that day—it was justbefore the Easter vacation—looking as if he were down and out forfair. It turned out he'd written home about enlisting, and he'd gotback a letter from his mother, all sobs. He didn't know what to doabout it. You see the fellows were all writing home, and trying tobreak it gently that when they got there they'd have to put it up tothe family to say "Go, and God bless you!" But it was looking prettydubious for some of my special friends. Their mothers were all right,an awfully nice sort, of course, but when it came to telling Bob andSam and Hector to enlist—they just simply couldn't do it.
Hoofy said he'd got to enlist, in spite of his mother. He knew it washis duty, but he'd rather be shot than go home and go through thefarewells. He knew his mother would be sick in bed about it, and she'dcling round his neck and cry on his shoulder, and he'd have to loosenher arms and go off leaving her feeling like that. And his fatherwould look grave and tell him not to mind, that his mother wasn'twell, and that she couldn't help it—and Hoofy really didn't think shecould, being made that way. Just the same, he dreaded going home tosay good-bye—dreaded it so much he felt like flunking it and wiringhe couldn't come.
I told him he mustn't do that—that his mother would never forgivehim, and that he'd have to put on a stiff upper lip and go throughwith it. And Hoofy owned that that was the thing he was really afraidof—that his upper lip wouldn't keep stiff but would wobble, in spiteof him. And of course a breakdown on his own part would be the worstpossible thing that could happen to him. No potential soldier wants tofeel his upper lip unreliable, no matter what happens. It's likely tomake him flinch in a critical moment, when flinching won't do.
I was looking up at a picture of Mother on the wall over my desk as Iadvised him to go home, and he asked me suddenly what my motherwrote back when I told her. I hated to tell him, but he pushed meabout it, so I final