This seemed reasonable.  I didn’t know either.  It was an entirely new idee, come from nowhere.  This was the very first moment I had supposed there could be such an idee.  But such is Ma Pettengill.  I thought to inquire as to the origin of this novelty; perhaps to have it more fully set forth.  But I had not to.  Already I saw unrelenting continuance in the woman’s quickened eye.  There would be, in fact, no stopping her now.  So I might as well leave a one-line space right here to avoid using the double and single quotation marks, which are a nuisance to all concerned.  I will merely say that Ma Pettengill spoke in part as follows, and at no time during the interview said modestly that she would prefer not to have her name mentioned.

Mind you, I don’t say war’s a good thing, even for them that come out of it.  Of course you can read stories about how good it is in improving the character.  I’ve read pretty ones in these here sentimental magazines that get close to the great heart of the people once a month; stories about how the town tough boy, that robs his gray-haired mother of her wash money to play pool with, goes into war’s purifying flames and comes out a man, having rescued Marshal Fotch from a shell hole under fire and got the thanks of the French nation and his home-town paper.  Now he don’t hang round the pool parlour any more, running down fifteen balls from the break, but shuns his low companions, never touches a cue again, marries the mayor’s daughter and becomes the regular Democratic candidate for county recorder.

These stories may be true.  I don’t know.  Only these same magazines print stories that have a brave fireman in the picture carrying a fainted girl down his ladder through the flames, and if you believed them you’d also believe they had to set a tenement house on fire every time a fireman wants to get married.  And that don’t stand to reason.  Mebbe the other stories don’t either.

But what about the other side of these same stories?  What about the village good boy that goes through war’s purifying flame and comes back home to be the town tough?  Ain’t it time someone showed up the moral ravages war commits on our best young men?

Me?  I just had a talk lately with a widowed mother down to Red Gap and what this beastly war has done to her oldest boy—­well, if she could of looked ahead she would of let the world go right on being unsafe even for Republicans.  She poured her heart out to me.  She is Mrs. Arline Plunkett, one of the sweetest, gentlest mothers that ever guarded a son from every evil influence.  And then to see it all go whoosh!  The son’s name was Shelley Plunkett, or it was until he went out into the world to make a name for himself.  He is now largely known as Bugs Plunkett.  I leave it to you if a nice mother would relish having her boy make that name for himself.  And after all the pains she’d took with his moral development from the cradle up—­till he run away from home on account of his curls!