Awful tidings in our Branton Hills' "Post," had so wrought up our
ordinarily happy, laughing Sarah, who, with Paul abroad, was back,
living again with old Tom Young, that Sarah, sitting on a low stool
by old Tom's rocking chair was so still that Tom put down his "Post,"
saying:--
"Gift of gab all run out, kid?"
But Sarah had an odd, thoughtful look. Sarah's bosom was rising and
falling abnormally; but, finally, looking quickly up at old Tom, Sarah
said:--
"Daddy, I want to go to war."
"_Do what?_" If Sarah had said anything about jumping out of a balloon,
or of buying a gorilla to play with, Tom Young wouldn't know any such
astounding doubt as brought his rocking chair to a quick standstill.
"_War?_ What kind of talk is this? A girl going to war? What for? How?
_Say!!_ Who _put_ this crazy stunt into your brain, anyway?"
As you know, Sarah was not only charming in ways, but also in build;
and, with that glorious crown of brownish-gold hair, that always
smiling mouth and that soft, plump girlishly-girlish form, no man, Tom
Young nor anybody, could think of Sarah and war in a solitary thought.
So Sarah said, softly:--
"Last night, our Night School trio thought that our boys, so far away,
must miss us, and Branton Hills sights; and Doris said, 'Branton Hills
sounds.' And so, why couldn't our trio join that big group of musicians
which is sailing soon? And, Daddy, you know Paul is in that army. I
don't know that I could find him, but--but--but I want to try. And
Kathlyn is talking of going as biologist with a big hospital unit; so
possibly I could stay with it."
Tom Young was _dumb!_ His "Post" actually _had_ told of such a musical
outfit about to sail; but it was a man's organization. So, now it has
got around to _this!_ Our girls, our dainty, loving girls, brimful of
both sympathy and patriotism, wanting to go into that tough, laborious
work of singing in army camps; in huts; in hospitals; singing from
trucks rolling along country roads along which sat platoons and
battalions of troops, waiting for word which might bring to this or
that boy his last long gun-toting tramp. Singing in--
"Aw, darling! Your trio was fooling, wasn't it? Now, girls don't----"
"Daddy, girls _do!_ So, if our folks don't put up too much of a--"
"_Aha!!_ _Now_ you said a mouthful; _if_ your folks _don't!_ Darling,
I'll say just two words as my part in this crazy stunt: '_Nothing
doing!!_' Kathlyn's work is mighty important; singing isn't."
Sarah had not grown up from infancy in kindly Tom's cabin without
knowing that his "no" was a "_no!!_" and not a flimsy, hollow word
which a whining, or a sniffling, or a bawling child could switch around
into: "Oh, all right, if you want to." So Sarah still sat on that low
stool; or, to turn it around almost backwards,--Sarah sat on that
stool,--still. _So_ still that Tom's old tin clock on its wall hooks
was soon dominating that small room with its rhythmic ticking, as a
conductor's baton controls a brass band's pianissimos. Finally Sarah
said softly, slowly, sadly and with a big, big sigh:--
"I _did_ so want to go." And that small clock was ticking, ticking,
ticking ...
For a full hour Sarah and old Tom sat talking and rocking, until Sarah,
phoning to Doris, said:--
"My Dad says no."