king herself in for an hour, then coming out to the wondering
children with a quiet face, but with eyes that showed she had been
weeping. There were gatherings in the town halls and in the churches and
school houses all over the land. The newspapers were read hurriedly and
anxiously.

And when little Robert looked up earnestly into his Grandmamma's face
and asked, "Why does Mamma not eat her breakfast?" Grandmamma replied,
"Your Papa is going away, my dear;" and when little Robert persisted,
by saying, "But Papa goes to New York every year, and Mamma does not sit
and stare out of the window, and forget to eat her breakfast." Then
Mamma would turn solemnly around and say, "Robert, my boy, Papa is going
to the war, and may never come back to us. But you and I must be brave
about it, and help him get ready." And if Robert answered, "Why is he
going to the war? Why does he not stay at home with us? Doesn't he love
us any more?" then Mamma would draw her boy to her and putting her arms
around him, and looking into his eyes, she would say, "Yes, my darling,
he loves us, but he _must_ go. Our country needs him, and you and I must
be proud that he is ready to do his duty." Then Robert would go away to
his play, wondering what it all meant, just as you would have wondered
if you had been there.

Soon the Papas and Uncles, and even some of the Grandfathers, put on
soldiers' uniforms, and drilled in the streets with guns over their
shoulders, and bands of music played military music, and the drums beat,
and crowds of people collected on the street corners, and there were
more speeches, and more flags, and banners, and stir, and excitement.
And nothing else was talked of but the war, the war, the terrible war.

Then came the marching away of the soldiers to the railway stations, and
then the farewells and cheers and waving of handkerchiefs and the
playing of patriotic airs by the bands of music, and much more confusion
and excitement and good-bye kisses and tears than I could tell you of.

* * * * *

Then came the long, long days of waiting and praying in the homes to
which fathers and brothers no longer came, and silent watching for
letters, and anxious opening of the newspapers, and oftentimes the
little children felt their Mamma's tears drop on their faces as she
kissed them good-night,--their dear Mamma who so often had sung them to
sleep with her gay, happy songs,--what did it all mean? They