he was in the creek, spluttering his staunch denial:

I didn’t fall, I jumped! Sitting on his backside,

laughing. Tonight I’m remembering that jolly

scene. Muriel, Ollie, Frank, me—us four.

Should We? / Ollie

Should We?

Ollie

Sit down and play a tune, Pa suggests.

Should we? In wartime, is it right for us to

make music? Almost half the senior boys, like

Frank and his friends last year, are planning to enlist.

I’d go with them if I could—heck, I’d join up tomorrow

if I thought they’d accept a sixteen-year-old. Could I gain

enough weight, go down to the recruiting office, and try to

bluff my way in by claiming to be eighteen? I bet I’d get a

different reaction from Pa than Ma. Ma would take it in

stride, or try to act like she did. Pa would be furious:

(Blankety-blank) President Wilson thinks he can just

take away our sons to use for his cannon fodder!

Would he actually try to stop me, though?

It’s likely—so I wouldn’t tell him.

Moral Compass / Muriel

Moral Compass

Muriel

Have you raised this girl with no moral compass?

Mr. Sander questions my parents, then turns

to me: If you continue to question our president

and the decisions he has made, other students

may wonder if their classmates are risking

their lives for nothing. You should be ashamed.

Mama does hang her head in shame, but I don’t, so

Mr. Sander pushes on: If we can’t stand together

as a free country, what are our boys fighting for? At that,

Papa looks straight into Mr. Sander’s eyes. He doesn’t say

what he sees (the eyes of a coward?), because Papa is kind,

thoughtful about others’ feelings. I know my daughter

is opinionated, he says, but there is no law

against that. (So far, he mutters under his breath.)

Muriel has every right to speak her mind.

Mr. Sander withers under Papa’s steady gaze, and we

go home. Papa drives the horses gently; we ride in silence

for a mile or so, and then he says, You’re graduating soon;

don’t worry too much about what Mr. Sander thinks—

but there are others like him in this world.

Be a little careful of such people, Muriel.

“A little careful”—maybe—but then Mama adds,

You may need to learn to bite your tongue.

Is that what women—“ladies”—are supposed to do?

Bite off little pieces of ourselves,

our very thoughts? Chew on them

until they don’t seem so worthwhile—

and then what? Swallow them? Or spit them out

and crush them underfoot, until we can

be absolutely sure no one will know

they ever crossed our minds!

Fragrance of Lilacs, Sweet Scent of Skunk / May 1917

Fragrance of Lilacs, Sweet Scent of Skunk

May 1917

Deep Quiet / Emma

Deep Quiet

Emma

Such good solid stuff

Ollie is made of—these words