Like most Southern communities, The Village had not the habit of
celebrating the Fourth of July. It had its fireworks and jollifications
at Christmas, which was the gala season of its year, a whole week of
holiday and feasting.
But now that the United States was in the World War, Independence Day
acquired a new and deeper meaning. There were flags and addresses
in the Court-house, and they sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” after
“Dixie.” Then there was a picnic dinner, with plenty of fried chicken
and a hooverized amount of ice cream and cake.
The pleasant new patriotic enthusiasm about the Fourth was tremendously
deepened two days later when Black Mayo came to the war gardens and
told the workers about that wonderful American Fourth of July in France.
The American Expeditionary Force had crossed the submarine-infested
ocean and had landed, every man safe, at “a seaport of France.” On the
Fourth, the splendid, brave, eager fellows in khaki and blue jackets
marched along the streets of Paris, hundreds and thousands of them,
forerunners of hundreds of thousands who were coming.
Paris went wild with joy. The streets were strewn with flowers;
the Stars and Stripes waved a welcome; French bands played “The
Star-Spangled Banner” and American bands responded with the
“Marseillaise.”
“_Vive l’Amérique! vive l’Amérique!_”
“Pershing’s boys are here!”
Ah, what a day it was!
The Americans were sorely needed in 1917.
In the west, British and French and Belgians were bravely holding the
entrenched long line from the Alps to the Channel. But alas! for the
east. There was a revolution in Russia, beginning with bread riots in
Petrograd. Patriots echoed anxiously the prayer of the abdicating Czar:
“May God help Russia!” as she dropped from the ranks of fighting Allies
and became the battleground of warring factions.
German submarines continued to take their toll on the seas. And German
air raids grew more frequent. Night after night Zeppelins swept down,
like huge, evil birds of prey; day after day airplanes darted and dived
like swallows. People heard the whir of motors, the explosion of
bombs, the rattle of anti-aircraft guns; in a few minutes it was over,
all but the counting of the wounded and the dead, chiefly women and
children.
The Village listened with interest to all news from overseas as a part
of “our war.” Then it turned to the work at home.
In June men registered in obedience to the Draft Act. One day in July
the Secretary of War, blindfolded, drew one capsule out of a great jar;
it was opened; on a slip of paper in it was a number. Another capsule
was drawn out; and another; and another. All day and until long after
midnight went on that drawing of capsules containing numbers.
And the numbers, when they came to The Village and to all the country
places and little towns and great cities of the whole nation, were no
longer mere numbers, but names; and when they went to the homes of the
community they were neither numbers nor names, but sons, brothers,
sweethearts, friends--men who had to go to fight, perhaps to die, for
the nation.
The end of the summer found nearly a million men under arms and in
training camps scattered over the country. A great brave, efficient
army of soldiers was being formed. And everywhere men and women and
children were enrolled in the nation’s greater army of service, as
patriotic and brave and efficient and as necessary as soldiers.
The Second Liberty Loan was under way, and people who had thought they
had not a dollar beyond their needs found they could “buy a bond to
help Uncle Sam win the war.”
There was Red Cross work to do--feeding the hungry, clothing the naked,
caring for the sick and wounded; millions of people were helping with
money and service, at home and overseas.
Millions, too, were enrolled in the work of food conservation. During
that spring and summer and autumn of 1917, crop reports were watched as
anxiously as news from the war front, for even the children knew that
“armies march on their feet and on their stomachs.”
At family worship, night and morning, in that little old-fashioned
Presbyterian Village, voices prayed God to bless our homes and soldiers
and Allies, and thanked Him for great ideals and wholesome food, for
President Wilson and bounteous crops.
The crops were, indeed, bounteous. There were record-breaking yields
of corn and oats, and an abundant yield of potatoes. The wheat crop
was smaller; we must stint at home, to send supplies to Europe. But
the country, going calmly through its sugar famine, was ready for
“meatless Tuesdays” and “wheatless Wednesdays”--anything, everything to
help win the war.
The members of Camp Fight Foe and Camp Feed Friend went
enthusiastically to Broad Acres, one pleasant day in early autumn, to
harvest their crop of white potatoes.
Mr. Mallett, who had volunteered to help with his horse and plow, ran a
furrow beside each row; potato diggers had never been heard of in The
Village. Behind him came the young gardeners--collecting the tubers
turned up by the plow, picking them out of the soft soil, or raking out
those that were more deeply embedded. Not one must be overlooked and
left behind, for close was the contest between the rival gardeners.
The bucket- and basketfuls of potatoes were emptied into a half-bushel
measure, over which Mrs. Wilson presided, and then put into bags. The
gardeners were jubilant over the results of their labors, and with
reason. Mrs. Wilson said that Broad Acres had never yielded a better
crop than the one they were harvesting.
“Isn’t this a crackerjack?” cried David, holding up a huge tuber.
“Here’s a better one. It’s just as big as yours, and it’s smooth,
instead of being all bumpy,” Patsy said critically.
“O-oh!” wailed Ruth. “J-just see this lovely one that the plow c-cut in
two. It would have been best of all. Isn’t it a pity?”
“These nice little round ones are loverly,” said Sweet William, who
was making a collection of the tiny, smallest potatoes. “The little
Belgians can play marbles with them first, and then eat them.”
“Alice, empty your basket in the measure and let’s see if we haven’t
another bushel,” called Patsy.
“You girls! Make haste and put your potatoes in a bag, so we can have
the measure,” urged Steve. “We’ll fill it in a hurry.”
When the last measureful was emptied, it was found that the boys had a
half peck more than the girls.
“Yah! yah! Of course we beat you!” cried Steve.
“By measuring all Sweet William’s marbles,” Anne Lewis said scornfully.
“Our potatoes are bigger. And anyway you had four more hills on your
last row.”
“Yes, sirree! And this is the first crop out of our gardens. You wait
till we come to the last,” said Patsy, confidently.
“Our gardens will feed a lot of soldiers,” Sweet William said proudly.
“They’ll take care of our Village boys a year--or a while, anyway.
Jeff’s such a big eater! We’re all working our hardest; and Scalawag’s
helping.”
Sweet William never tired of singing Scalawag’s praises, since by his
aid the destroyer of the war gardens had been discovered and punished.
Kit, closely questioned by Mr. Black Mayo Osborne, confessed that he
had gone into the garden, and had hidden behind the arbor when he heard
some one coming; he had kicked Scalawag, to drive him away; and--he
finally owned--he had driven in the cow from the adjoining pasture.
He gave no reason except “because”; and Mr. Osborne shook his head and
frowned. There was something back of this, he felt sure. What was it?
Were there wanton mischief-makers in The Village? The burning of Broad
Acres--was it an accident, caused by rats and matches, as was generally
believed? He wondered, but he got no clews, and other matters were
disturbing him. For the present, things went on their usual quiet way
in The Village.
When the gardeners started to dig potatoes, Dick shrugged his shoulders
and started off whistling, as if he were having a grand good time.
But, to tell the truth, he was getting tired of these excursions to
the mine. He continued them, at more and more infrequent intervals,
chiefly to plague Anne and Patsy.
Time after time they had left gardening and Red Cross work and
followed him. Sometimes he had turned across a field, and twisted and
doubled--like an old red fox, to which Black Mayo compared him--and
made a successful get-away.
Sometimes, in a teasing humor, he kept just far enough ahead to
encourage them to continue the pursuit and led them over miles of
rough country and back to The Village; then he would ask, with an
exasperating grin, “Haven’t we had a lovely walk?”
Anne looked after him to-day and said, as often before, “Oh! I wish we
could find out Dick’s secret.”
“If just we could!” Patsy replied; “but--well, sometimes I think we
might as well give up. We can’t keep on forever trotting after him,
with the Red Cross and Camp Feed Friend and the Canning Club and Happy
Acres and all the other things there are to do.”
“Oh, no, Pats-pet! We’ll not give up,” Anne said decidedly. “There’s
some way to manage it. But of course we mustn’t take time from the
garden; not now, while there’s so much to do. The main thing is to make
our garden beat those bragging boys’. Oh! I’m so glad I’m going to
stay here this winter and see it through.”
On account of the housing shortage in Washington, Anne’s adoptive
parents had given up their home to war workers, and Anne was to
continue her studies this winter with her cousins in The Village; Mrs.
Wilson was as good as a university for scholarship.
Dick went by Larkland as usual. His Cousin Mayo was silent and seemed
preoccupied as they went to the pigeon cote.
“Here’s a bird for you,” he said, taking one at random.
Dick stood a minute with the caged pigeon in his hand, then said
abruptly: “Cousin Mayo, you told me that you were going in the army.
When?”
“Hey?” Black Mayo gave a start.
Dick repeated his question.
His cousin frowned. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know. There are
things here. I don’t see how I can get away.”
Couldn’t get away! Why, Cousin Mayo had always been footloose; he
picked up, on a day’s notice, and went to Alaska or Mexico or the South
Sea Islands, for a month or two, or a year or two. And now to say he
couldn’t get away! People were saying he stayed at home because he was
a coward and a slacker. It was not true. And why were they saying it
about Cousin Mayo and not about other men who didn’t go to war?
Dick went on toward the mine, feeling mystified and worried. He
proceeded cautiously as usual, varying his route and making cut-offs
and circuits to avoid possible observation and pursuit. The door of
Solomon Gabe’s cabin was open, as it often was, revealing nothing in
the gloomy interior. Dick circled behind the hovel, going rather close
to keep away from a little swamp. The place was usually as silent as
the grave. But now he heard two voices--Solomon Gabe’s old monotone and
another voice that he felt he might have recognized if it had been a
little louder. He scurried along the edge of the swamp, and in a minute
he was out of sight and hearing.
He paused at Mine Creek as usual to set free his bird. It perched on
his shoulder a moment; then it soared up and wheeled and was off.
Dick went on to the mine and stood several minutes on the lookout
before he put his ladder into the hole and descended. He always took
precautions against stray passers-by, although in all these months he
had never seen any one thereabouts.
Down in the mine, he lighted a candle and went to one of the lower
spurs and set to work, following the line between a layer of clay and
rock. After a while he came to a projecting ledge of rock and, using
pick and sledge hammer with difficulty, he broke off a piece. He picked
it up--it was very heavy--and looked at it. On the broken surface there
were bright specks and streaks. How they shone and sparkled in the
candlelight! Silver! Ah, he had found it at last!
He sped to the mine opening to examine his find by daylight, and his
eager confidence was confirmed. How beautifully the specks and streaks
glinted and glittered! He climbed out and hid his ladder, and went
homeward on winged feet. He was too hurried and eager to take his usual
roundabout course; but he saw no one as he sped along the Old Plank
Road except Mr. Smith, whom he passed on the hill beyond Peter Jim’s
cabin.
Dick dropped from a trot to a walk when he came to The Village, and
sauntered up The Street to The Roost, where his father was sitting
on the porch reading a _Congressional Record_. With an elaborate
assumption of carelessness, Dick held out the shining stone.
“See what I’ve found, father,” he said. “What do you reckon it is?”
Mr. Osborne examined the stone deliberately.
“H-m! It is----”
A vagrant breeze caught the _Congressional Record_ and tossed it on the
floor.
“Pick up that paper, son,” said Mr. Osborne, “and smooth out the pages;
gently, so as not to tear them. You know I file----”
“Yes, sir. But my rock, father!” Dick interrupted in uncontrollable
impatience.
“It is quartz,” said his father; “quartz with a little silver in it.
These minute particles and streaks are free silver, such as is found
occasionally in the quartz in this section. This looks like a poor
specimen from the Old Sterling Mine. Where did you get it?”
“Oh! I found it,” Dick said vaguely.
“Somewhere along Mine Creek, I presume, my son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, don’t venture too close to the old mine,” cautioned his father.
“Of course you wouldn’t think of entering it. The timbers are probably
all decayed; there might be a cave-in any time. It is a dangerous
place.”
“Yes, sir,” Dick answered meekly.
And forthwith he went to Mr. Blair’s store and invested his last dime
in two candles. He was very zealous about going to the mine for some
time after that, but he only succeeded in chipping off a few bits
rather worse than better than the one he had first secured.
The glow of that little success died away, and he felt discouraged and
ashamed of himself when his schoolmates held their garden exhibit in
the Tavern parlor.
All The Village and the surrounding country gathered there on the
evening of that crisp autumn day, the last Saturday in October. The
big parlor that had been a gathering place since stagecoach days had a
gala air. It was decorated with American flags, and the vegetables were
piled in pyramids on tables covered with red, white, and blue tissue
paper. Every withered leaf had been cut from the cabbages. Each potato
and onion and tomato had been washed as carefully as a baby’s face. The
ears of corn had the husks turned back and tied, and were fastened in
great bunches on the wall with tri-colored streamers. By the side of
each pile of vegetables was a card saying how many bushels or gallons
or quarts the garden had yielded. The girls had jars and jars of
tomatoes, peas, beans, corn, berries--canned, pickled, preserved.
On a neatly lettered card above the door were the President’s words:
“Every bushel of potatoes properly stored, every pound of vegetables
properly put by for future use, every jar of fruit preserved, adds
that much to our insurance of victory, adds that much to hasten the end
of this conflict.”
“I tell you, dears,” quavered Mrs. Spencer’s gentle old voice, as she
looked around, “this exhibition would be a credit to grown-up farmers
anywhere. I don’t believe,” she added thoughtfully, “that people worked
during The--that other war, like they are working now. Of course that
was at home, and all our men were in it and our women all felt it as a
personal thing. But people--well, they weren’t organized. Did you ever
know children do anything like this, all this gardening and Red Cross
work? Oh, it’s wonderful, wonderful! And they’ve all worked--even that
dear little dove, Sweet William.”
“Oh, Sweet William! I always knew you’re a bird,” laughed Anne Lewis,
who was standing near. “Now I know the kind. You are a dove; oh, you
are a dove of war, like Cousin Mayo’s birds!”
“Good, Anne!” said Black Mayo. “Sweet William is a dove of war, and so
are all you dear children and all you good and lovely people here and
everywhere. Doves of war, harbingers of real peace that can only come
from winning this war and securing freedom and human rights.”
“Come, come, Mr. Osborne!” called Mr. Martin, who was in charge of the
County Corn Clubs: “Mr. Jones and I are waiting for you. We judges must
get to work. And we’ve got no easy job,” he said, looking around at the
exhibits.
The garden produce was arranged in two groups. No one except the
contestants knew which was the girls’ and which was the boys’. The
judges went from one to the other--looking, admiring, considering,
reconsidering. At last they announced their decision: Both exhibits
were highly creditable, but this was the better.
There was a shout of joy from the girls. They had won, they had won!
After a little pause, the boys--for they were generous rivals--joined
in the applause and congratulations.
Anne Lewis, who had suggested the war gardening, was deputed by the
girls to receive the silver cup presented by Black Mayo Osborne, and
the blue ribbon; and David received the red ribbon for the boys.
Dick Osborne looked so forlorn that David said: “Cheer up, old boy! If
you hadn’t been busy about something else when we started the garden,
you’d have been in it with us.”
“I’m not much forwarder about that than I was in April,” Dick
confessed. “I’m going to keep on trying, though. But if there’s a war
garden next year I’ll be in it.”
“There isn’t any ‘if’ about it,” declared David. “We are going to keep
on gardening, to help win the war. And we’ll get that cup back from the
girls next year; see if we don’t.”
“We’ll see--you don’t,” said Patsy.
Just then there was a little stir at the door. Mr. Mallett, who had
been to Redville on business, came in and said something in an excited
undertone to Black Mayo Osborne. Mr. Osborne asked a quick question or
two, and then jumped on a table and caught the big flag draped over the
mantelpiece and waved it above his head.
“Hurrah! hurrah!” he said. “News, great news!”
“The Liberty Loan has gone over the top,” guessed Red Mayo.
“Of course, of course! But something else is going over the top. Our
American boys! They are facing the Germans in ‘No Man’s Land.’ To-day,
to-day for the first time, our American boys were in the first-line
trenches on the French front. Hurrah! hurrah! We are in The War!”
Every voice joined in a cheer that rang and rang again. Mr. Tavis and
the other old Confederates raised the “rebel yell,” their old valiant
battle cry. The children clapped their hands and shouted: “We are in
it! We are in it! We are in The War!”
Sweet William clapped and cheered with the best. Then he turned to his
mother. “What does it mean, mother, our men ‘in the trenches’?” he
asked. “Does it mean we’ve beat the war?”
“It means our soldiers are over there, fighting side by side with
our Allies against the Germans,” explained his mother. “I don’t know
whether it’s defeat or victory to-day; but we Americans will stay there
till we win The War--if you and I have to go to help, little son--to
conquer the world for peace and freedom.”