Peace had been over the land for thirty years,—and then suddenly there was no peace. Spanish-American controversies, which had been piling up like so many logs on a pyre, were touched off by a match of news which flashed across the land. The Maine had been sunk in Havana’s harbor. And in the wing-and-ell farmhouse behind the cedars, Abbie Deal was reading a letter from John:

“And so we arrived here in camp Des Moines, Tuesday. It was the most impressive and magnificent sight I ever saw yesterday morning when we left. The G.A.R. and band and drum corps escorted us to the depot, and thousands of people on every side waved flags and cheered and cried as we marched along. At the station friends were bidding good-bys, and mothers, sisters and sweethearts were weeping and saying their farewells. . . . We arrived in Des Moines and our regiment was quartered in the speed stables. . . . We have ten box stalls to each company. . . . I didn’t come home first for I didn’t want to say good-by to you. I know how you will feel, Mother. But if you saw a bully licking a little youngster, you would think I was cowardly, if I didn’t jump in and . . .”

Yes, yes, how the words came back! A boy she knew long ago had said that same thing.

War! War again! How terrible! O God, stop war!

“Our John’s going to war, Will!” Abbie’s stiff lips could hardly frame the words.

I would have wanted him to do his duty.

And then Abbie could think of almost nothing but her boy; could do almost nothing but fix things to send him,—cookies, a cake, a needle-book, a Testament. Always the Abbie Deals must be doing something for their children.

The letters came frequently. John was willing enough now to pour out his thoughts to his mother.

“Our regiments commence where the numbers of the regiments of the Civil War ceased,—that is, the First National Guard (the regiment our company belongs to) is now the Forty-Ninth.”

Why, how terrible! Abbie looked up from her letter. How terrible that the numbers should go right on. Would they always go on? Mack’s little boy, Stanley,—little Fred Baker, Jr.—four and six now,—In twenty or thirty years—The idea was unthinkable. O God, don’t let the numbers of the regiments go right on!

“We found that we all had to submit to another physical examination by a regular army physician. This was bad news for me and I feared it on account of the scar on my ankle. A number were rejected and I was one. . . .” Abbie’s heart gave a bound of relief. John’s near-tragedy, then, had been a blessing in disguise . . . “but another examination before a board of regimental surgeons passed me. . . .”

And so there was no relief and no blessing,—nothing but war.

There were other boys of the neighborhood going, too. Fritz Reinmueller for one. “Ach! Wid plantin’ time come,” Christine said in her half-English. “Such a schlechte zeit . . . bad time.”