On a grand autumn morning Branton Hills' "Post" boys ran shouting down
Broadway, showing in half-foot wording: "FIGHTING STOPS!! HISTORY'S
MOST DISASTROUS WAR IS HISTORY NOW!!!" and again, Branton Hills stood
stock still. But only for an instant; for soon, it was, in all minds:--
"Thank God!! Oh, _ring_ your loud church clarions! _Blow_ your factory
blasts! Shout! Cry! Sing! _Play_, you bands! Burst your drums! Crack
your cymbals!"
Ah, what a sight on Broadway! Shop girls pouring out! Shop janitors
boarding up big glass windows against a surging mob! And, (sh-h-h-h)
many a church having in its still sanctity a woman or girl at its altar
rail.
Months, months, months! Branton Hills was again at its big railroad
station, its Municipal Band playing our grand National air, as a long
troop train, a solid mass of bunting, was snorting noisily in. And,
amidst that outpouring flood of Branton Hills boys, Lady Gadsby, Nancy,
Kathlyn and His Honor found Bill, Julius, Frank and John. Sarah was
just "going all apart" in Paul's arms, with Virginia swooning in
Harold's.
On old Lady Flanagan's porch sat Mary Antor; for, having had no word
from Norman for months, this grand young Salvation Army lass was in
sad, sad doubt. But soon, as that shouting mob was drifting away, and
happy family groups walking citywards, a khaki-clad lad, hurrying to
old Lady Flanagan's cabin, and jumping that low, ivy-clad wall, had
Mary, sobbing and laughing, in his arms. No. It wasn't Norman.