den oak-buds to the brilliant little lime-tree leaves,
the feathery green shoots of larches, and the already darkening bunches
of the sycamores. The earth was dry--no rain for a fortnight--when the
cars containing the brown-clad men and a recruiting band drew up before
the Inn. Here were clustered the farmers, the innkeeper, the grey-haired
postman; by the Church gate and before the schoolyard were knots of
girls and children, schoolmistress, schoolmaster, parson; and down on
the lower green a group of likely youths, an old labourer or two, and
apart from human beings as was his wont, the little cowman in brown
corduroys tied below the knee, and an old waistcoat, the sleeves of his
blue shirt dotted with pink, rolled up to the elbows of his brown arms.
So he stood, his brown neck and shaven-looking head quite bare, with
his bit of stick wedged between his waist and the ground, staring with
all his light-lashed water-blue eyes from under the thatch of his
forelock.

The speeches rolled forth glib; the khaki-clad men drank their second
fill that morning of coffee and cider; the little cowman stood straight
and still, his head drawn back. Two figures--officers, men who had been
at the front--detached themselves and came towards the group of likely
youths. These wavered a little, were silent, sniggered, stood their
ground--the khaki-clad figures passed among them. Hackneyed words,
jests, the touch of flattery, changing swiftly to chaff--all the
customary performance, hollow and pathetic; and then the two figures
re-emerged, their hands clenched, their eyes shifting here and there,
their lips drawn back in fixed smiles. They had failed, and were trying
to hide it. They must not show contempt--the young slackers might yet
come in, when the band played.

The cars were filled again, the band struck up: 'It's a long long way to
Tipperary.'

And at the edge of the green within two yards of the car's dusty passage
the little cowman stood apart and stared. His face was red. Behind him
they were cheering--the parson and farmers, school children, girls, even
the group of youths. He alone did not cheer, but his face grew still
more red. When the dust above the road and the distant blare of
Tipperary had dispersed and died, he walked back to the farm dotting
from one to other of his short feet. All that afternoon and evening he
spoke no word; but the flush seemed to have settled in his face for good
and all. He milked some cows, but