WAR
We had it all arranged that Dave and the hireland, with a little help from Betsy, could keep the farm on top of the earth for the little time Jon and I would be away.
We had an idea that when we got to fighting the war would be a matter of months.
And so came the last day before we moved. Dave was as gay as ever, and still thought of it as a picnic. He made a kind of farewell address to Jon and me—from him and Evelyn. There was both poetry and Scripture in it. Then he talked in a funny way about the red roses Evelyn wore in her cheeks—called them Lancaster roses—and gave Jon and me a bunch of white ones out of the ones that Evelyn wore—which he called York roses. I didn't know much about that business of York and Lancaster roses, except that it had nothing to do with those towns over in Pennsylvania, but some old-time business off in England. Yet, under it all, I saw that Dave was sorry for us, and was just trying to keep up and keep us all up—on account of Evelyn, I expect. We
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