"Maybe, doctor dear--maybe! But that makes me think of the old story of
the girl who told her grandmother she was going to be married. 'It is a
solemn thing to be married,' said the old lady. 'Yes, but it is a
solemner thing not to be,' said the girl. And I can testify to that out
of my own experience, doctor dear. And I think it is a solemner thing
for the Yankees that they have kept out of the war than it would have
been if they had gone into it. However, though I do not know much about
them, I am of the opinion that we will see them starting something yet,
Woodrow Wilson or no Woodrow Wilson, when they get it into their heads
that this war is not a correspondence school. They will not," said
Susan, energetically waving a saucepan with one hand and a soup ladle
with the other, "be too proud to fight then."
On a pale-yellow, windy evening in October Carl Meredith went away. He
had enlisted on his eighteenth birthday. John Meredith saw him off with
a set face. His two boys were gone--there was only little Bruce left
now. He loved Bruce and Bruce's mother dearly; but Jerry and Carl were
the sons of the bride of his youth and Carl was the only one of all his
children who had Cecilia's very eyes. As they looked lovingly out at him
above Carl's uniform the pale minister suddenly remembered the day when
for the first and last time he had tried to whip Carl for his prank with
the eel.
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