The Whistling Mother | Page 2

do that--that his mother would never forgive him,
and that he'd have to put on a stiff upper lip and go through with it. And
Hoofy owned that that was the thing he was really afraid of--that his
upper lip wouldn't keep stiff but would wobble, in spite of him. And of
course a breakdown on his own part would be the worst possible thing
that could happen to him. No potential soldier wants to feel his upper
lip unreliable, no matter what happens. It's likely to make him flinch in
a critical moment, when flinching won't do.
I was looking up at a picture of Mother on the wall over my desk as I
advised him to go home, and he asked me suddenly what my mother
wrote back when I told her. I hated to tell him, but he pushed me about
it, so I finally got out her letter and read him the last paragraph--but one.
Of course the last one I wouldn't have read to anybody.
"It's all right, Son, and we're proud as Punch of you, that you want to be

not only in America's '_First Hundred Thousand_,' but in her 'First Ten
Thousand.' We know it will stiffen your spine considerably to hear that
your family are behind you. Well, we are--just ranks and rows of us,
with our heads up and the colours waving. Even Grandfather and
Grandmother are as gallant as veterans about it. So go ahead--but come
home first, if you can. You needn't fear we shall make it hard for
you--not we. We may offer you a good deal of jelly, in our enthusiasm
for you, but you could always stand a good deal of jelly, you know, so
there's no danger of our making a jelly-fish of you--which wouldn't do,
in the circumstances. That's rather a poor joke, but I'll try to make a
better one for you to laugh at when you come. When shall we expect
you? No--we won't have the village band out, and will try not to look as
if we had a hero in our midst, but we shall be awfully glad to see Jack
just the same."
When I looked up after reading this, Hoofy looked like a small boy
who's been staring in a shop-window at a fire-engine he can't have. He
heaved a big sigh, and said: "Well, I wish my mother'd take it that
way," and went out, banging the door after him. And I got up and went
over and took Mother down and looked at her, and said to her: "You
game little sport, you--you'd put the spine into a jelly-fish any time.
And I wouldn't miss going home to hug you for good-bye if I knew the
first round of shot would get me as a result."
So then I packed up, and went around and saw the dean, who assured
me that, even though I didn't stay to finish my Junior year, I'd keep my
place and get my dip, no matter how long the war lasted. Then he
looked over his spectacles at me, and said it was a good thing I was so
tall and slim--it would be a crack marksman who could get me, or even
tell me from a sapling at five hundred yards; and we grinned at each
other and shook hands. Good old Hamerton--I hope he'll be there when
I get back. Then I wired Mother and took the train for home.... I don't
know why I always write and wire Mother instead of Father, for I think
a lot of my dad. But he's pretty busy at the office, and not much of a
letter-writer, except by way of a stenographer. Mother always gives me
his messages in her letters, and when I get home he and I talk up to date,
and then Mother and I go on writing again.
Just Mother met me at the train--the girls were in school, and Dad not
yet home from the office. My kid brother hadn't been told, for fear he'd

cut school altogether. Mother had the roadster--and it was shining like a
brass band. She looked just as she always does--tailored out of sight,
little close hat over her smooth black hair, and black eyes shining
through a trim little veil that keeps all snug. No loose ends about
Mother, I can tell you, from the top of her stunning little hat to the toes
of her jolly little Oxfords over silk stockings that would get anybody.
Even her motoring gloves are "kept up," as we say of a car, The sight of
her, smiling that absolutely gorgeous smile that shows her splendid
white teeth, made me mighty glad I'd come home.
Act as if I'd come to say good-bye, and could