The guardian. [volume] (Boston, Mass.) 1901-1960, 1939-06-17
SHORT
SHORT
STORY

ll6GulSS
but the eyes, be-
meath their frame of snow white
hair gazing steadily ahead, were not
absorbed in the knitting.
She got up with a start from her
rocker when it finally dawned on
her that the house was dark, and
the fire must have died down in the
stove. Marie, the boys mother,
would soon be home, and tea was
not even prepared.
The suddenness with which she
stood up sent to the floor bottle
of red ink that had been standing
in precarious position on the man.
telpiece. She heard the bottle break,
and fastened to switch on the light
to ascertain the damage.
What she saw nearly froze her
blood. The bottle lay, decapitated,
and little streams of the crimson
fluid were flowing in all directions
over her kitchen floor.
Nellie Bird was by nature frugal
person, but this time it was not her
loss that made her fall back into
her chair dazed, transfxed with the
horror of what she beheld.
Incidents, even of a relatively I'M
important character, often conjure
up scenes with which one is closely
associated. These scenes may have
been actual experiences, witnessed
or lived through; or they may be
only memories, but felt inwardly to
be thousand times more potent
than if actually seen. =
The latter was the case of Nellie
Bird. She was the kind of mother
whose love for her only son had
been so great as to have reached al
most the point of selfshness. He
had been her only one. There had
been no other-not even a daughter.
Then the war had come. The
glorious, inspiring music, the
trumpets and bugles. The call of
his country! He had been thrilled.
Her fear and unrest. What a pc
Rod of torture she had gone through
in those days when she feared that
he might go-and would not be
able to endure it without him.
The day. The awful day on which
he had come to her-her son? No,
a different man. A strange, hand
some man in khaki. Straight as
lance. So tall that she felt tiny near
his greatness.
Mother, I'm going to do my
share"
How she wished that she might be
a man-his father-to say to him in
firm, unwavering accents:
"Well said, my son! I am proud
that you are ready to serve your
country"
"You will take care of Marie and
Junior?" He had asked this of her.
There is enough money in my ac-
count, so do not worry. I shall be
back very soon, l hope, and then we
will all be together again"
She had said nothing. Just looked.
But her heart had cried, and when
he had gone, her eyes had cried.
That was why, when the bottle of
red ink fell to the floor, and the bril-
liant liquid spread out in all direc-
tons, her thoughts went back to
scenes which she had never wit
messed but through which she had
lived a thousand times.
The CORY battlefelds stained with
the likelihood of those who had been
taken away from loved ones at
home. Her boy-lying in pool of
bright blood-the blood which she
had given him!
"Oh, my own dear boy!"
A voice-like her boy s-answered
her.
81 can't sleep, granny. I heard
a noise"
She looked up. There, in his little
bare feet, stood the son of the man
who had gone away years ago to
give his all for his country.
The child came to her and nestled
at her feet.
81 had a dream, granny"
what was it, child?"
Il dreamed there was a big war,
and | was a strong man, and daddy
and l both went to the front to
help our country"
The aged figure moved to lift him
into her arms.
The stiff old bones felt suddenly
rejuvenated.
What was this thing called serv-
ice? The will to fight for someone
for righteousness and liberty!
She had found her answer. 1t was
the same will that imbued mother
with the dauntless power to strug-
gle and conquer all for her boy.
The same will that made her
crush to her breast this little boy
who might some day leave her as
another had done, to serve some
worthU caiice