A. M. Chisholm

“ Joe, buried in his chosen chair, listened to the queer tunes she lilted—tunes which had stirred the hearts of by-gone generations in other lands—and by turns stared at the bright out-of-doors and slept. And Jack, on her part, felt a strange happiness, as if the room held all that was best and most to be desired. She did not analyze the feeling; she was content that it was hers. Bending over her sewing one bright afternoon during the last days of Joe's convalescence she crooned:
Is it far away ye're goin', Danny, dear? ”

“ Joe interrupted. “I am still far from strong.”
Jack laughed. “You smoked yesterday. Doctor Eberts says that a man who can enjoy a smoke is well enough to work.”
“Good for the doc!” cried Joe. “Me for the office and then back to the woods. Hooray!”
“Not for a day or two,” said Jack. “Things are going all right. You keep quiet.”
Joe sank back in his chair. “I suppose so, but—well, I want to look after them myself.” Far off against the blue sky a wedge of black specks bored through space, swinging off beyond the limits of the town. “Look, Jack! The first geese going north. ”

“ And now tell me you are shocked.”
“I might be if I saw you do it,” said Joe. “I've felt the same way myself—like breaking loose from everything. If you were a man you wouldn't, though. Only the shanty boys tear off these stunts. We can't.”
“All very well for you to talk—you could if you wanted to,” said Jack disconsolately. “I'm a girl. I can't even go up to the camps unless dad takes me.” ”