MEN WANTED--VOLUNTEERS! The village street, Topped by the slouching store and slim flagpole, Loomed grand as Rome to his expanding soul; Grandly the rhythmic beat Of feet in file and flags and fifes and filing feet, The roar of brass and unremitting roll Of drums and drums bewitched his boyish mood-- Till he hallooed. His strident echo stung the lake’s wild dawn And startled him from dreams. Jock rammed his cap And rubbed a numb ear with the furry flap, Then bolted like a faun, Bounding through shin-deep sleigh-ruts in his shaggy brawn, Blowing white frost-wreaths from red mouth agap Till, in a gabled porch beyond the store, He burst the door; “Mother!” he panted. “Hush! Your pa ain’t up; He’s worser since this storm. What’s struck ye so?” “It’s volunteers!” The old dame stammered “Oh!” And stopped, and stirred her sup Of morning tea, and stared down in the trembling cup. “They’re musterin’ on the common now.” “I know,” She nodded feebly; then with sharp surmise She raised her eyes: She raised her eyes, and poured their light on him Who towered glowing there--bright lips apart, Cap off, and brown hair tousled. With quick smart She felt the room turn dim And seemed she heard, far off, a sound of cherubim Soothing the sudden pain about her heart. How many a lonely hour of after-woe She saw him so! “Jock!” And once more the white lips murmured “Jock!” Her fingers slipped; the spilling teacup fell And shattered, tinkling--but broke not the spell. His heart began to knock, Jangling the hollow rhythm of the ticking clock. “Mother, it’s fight, and men are wanted!” “Well, Ah well, it’s men may kill us women’s joys, It’s men--not boys!” “I’m seventeen! I guess that seventeen--” “My little Jock!” “Little! I’m six-foot-one. (Scorn twitched his lip.) You saw me, how I skun The town last Hallowe’en At wrastlin’.” (Now the mother shifted tack.) “But Jean? You won’t be leavin’ _Jean_?” “I guess a gun Won’t rattle _her_.” He laughed, and turned his head. His face grew red. “But if it doos--a gal don’t understand: It’s fight!” “Jock, boy, your pa can’t last much more, And who’s to mind the stock--to milk and chore?” Jock frowned and gnawed his hand. “Mother, it’s _men_ must mind the stock--our own born land, And lick the invaders.” Slowly in the door Stubbed the old, worn-out man. “Woman, let be! It’s liberty: