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”
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