Atlanta semi-weekly journal. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1898-1920, 1919-10-21
CHAPTER II

NARAS6 - As&S A.
Then, there is the girl telephone
operator. She's an orphan, alone
in the world, and her name is Josie
Stark. A little wisp of a thing,
with brown hair and blue eyes, but
in her head is stored the secrets OF
this town as told by telephone. She
looks capable of keeping a towns
secret. Square chin, and firm lips.
Mr. Gordon and Mr.. Seeley, rural
mail carriers. Bachelors. Seem very
merry of heart over this fact, even
though they're too old for the draft.
I'm sure they might go anyway, but
nobody here seems to want to go.
They like RutIands too well, no
doubt. and anyway, they claim they
have a government job, so why wor-
ry? There is Clarke Warren, the
young doctor. He is never regular
for meals. In and out all times of
Gay and night. He isn't so very
sociable, and appears to attend
strictly to his own business. l sup
pose he is too busy to know Amer
lea is in a war, or even care, since
it is across the seas, and that he
never heard the call for doctors
Oh, no, he goes his way securely
and isn't answering any calls save
those at his own doorway. Why, I'm
sure these hill-country folk could as
well do without him! ! ct them get
the old doctors. In fact, old-faSh-
toned doctors are good enough for
such old fashioned folks, such as I've
been seeing come in from the coun-
try round about. | can't conceive of
any such people taking up new
tangled ideas, even in doctoring.
And, of course, they hate this war.
And, SO do l down deep in my heart
Of hearts, hate war, but it had to
be! And I'd rather be there than
here any day, but I'm here.
Why am / here?
God knows. l don't.
If I hadn't broken down I'd now
be in France where 1 wanted to be.
1t was an bsession-France. And,
1 tried so hard to go. 1 studied, l
toiled, L worked like a man, SOL
der. and then-near to death from
illness.
The doctor said excitement, and
too great a plunge into Red Cross
work, driving car fifty miles a
day, canteen work, and my never
having been accustomed to such
"strenuosities" was enough TO kill
any woman except me. The will to
l!ve--he said it was that-though
God knows why L ever wanted to
| live. l don't.
I'd worked like a mad thing In
order to forget. And, then, with
forgetfulness and peace with them
so near. 1 fought my way back to
life-and the doctor said 1 must get
away from all my old friends. From
olI
the cost, no matter anything-I must
get away!
Id been so dead tired. I never
! knew what tired meant before!
1t was pretty bad. Wanting to go
| across-and I'd be there now, this
minute, but for that collapse.
When Phil went, he'd made me
promise not to joint the Red Cross
for regular service. He said I'd
come in contact with all sorts of
people; sorts Of folks. He didn't
fancy his wife know just any and
everybody, and mixing with the
common herd" Though Philip
Swami was my husband and well
educated, We never could agree on
some points. He was too much like
his rich mother. He said for me to
give all the money / wanted to give
for war; purposes, but not to give
myself.
|" I pleaded until he relented II little
and agreed that I should work at
local headquarters, making band
ages. etc. He didn't want me nurs-
ing men, 1 think he wanted to save
me every hardship. His money would
stand between me and work, just as
Il had always stood between him and
real work. His mother. too, had
ideas. Aristocratic ideas. She'd be
shocked now to know where am,
and to read what I'm writing She
knows I'm in the south, but takes
it for granted I'm in a sanitarium,
or resort, recuperating.
1t was after Phil was wounded
the first time and lay in the hospital
for weeks that he changed. Red
Cross nurses, Red Cross bandages
changed Phil. And mixing with the
| common herd" helped him to coma
to a different understanding with