I folded my arms, but remained calm.
“Father,” I said, in a low and gentle
tone, “need I remind you that it is at present
almost seven P. M. and that the Stars and Stripes,
although supposed to be lowered at sunset, are still
hanging out this window?”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” he said
in a releived tone. “You’re nothing
if you’re not thorough, Bab! Well, as they
have hung an hour and fifteen minutes to long as it
is, I guess the Country won’t go to the dogs
if you shut that window until I get a shirt on.
Go away and send Williarm up in ten minutes.”
“Father,” I demanded, intencely, “do
you consider yourself a Patriot?”
“Well,” he said, “I’m not
the shouting tipe, but I guess I’ll be around
if I’m needed. Unless I die of the chill
I’m getting just now, owing to one shouting
Patriot in the Familey.”
“Is this your Country or William’s?”
I insisted, in an inflexable voice.
“Oh, come now,” he said, “we can
divide it, William and I. There’s enough for
both. I’m not selfish.”
It is always thus in my Familey. They joke about
the most serious things, and then get terrably serious
about nothing at all, such as overshoes on wet days,
or not passing in French grammer, or having a friend
of the Other Sex, etcetera.
“There are to many houses in this country, father,”
I said, folding my arms, “where the Patriotism
of the Inhabatants is shown by having a paid employee
hang out and take in the Emblem between Cocktails and
salid, so to speak.”
“Oh damm!” said my father, in a feirce
voice. “Here, get away and let me take
it in. And as I’m in my undershirt I only
hope the neighbors aren’t looking out.”
He then sneazed twice and drew in the Emblem, while
I stood at the Salute. How far, how very far
from the Plattsburg Manual, which decrees that our
flag be lowered to the inspiring music of the Star-Spangled
Banner, or to the bugel call, “To the Colors.”
Such, indeed, is life.
Later: Carter Brooks dropped in this evening.
I was very cold to him and said:
“Please pardon me if I do not talk much, as
I am in low spirits.”
“Low spirits on a holaday!” he exclaimed.
“Well, we’ll have to fix that. How
about a motor Picnic?”
It is always like that in our house. They regard
a Party or a Picnic as a cure for everything, even
a heartache, or being worried about Spies, etcetera.
“No, thank you,” I said. “I
am worried about those of my friends who have enlisted.”
I then gave him a scornful glance and left the room.
He said “Bab!” in a strange voice and
I heard him coming after me. So I ran as fast
as I could to my Chamber and locked the door.
We are now in Camp, although not in Unaform, owing
to the delivery waggon not coming yet with our clothes.
I am writing on a pad on my knee, while my Orderley,
Betty Anderson, holds the ink bottle.
