How vain this Socialist symbol of the common red blood that pulses from every human breast! How pitifully tragic their failure in the hour when the war summoned the world to the national colors. The red flag faded from the sky. It was all talk--all wind--all fustian--all bombast--all theory. Men don’t die for academic theories. Men die for what they believe. And yet these American Socialists were as busy with their parrot talk as if nothing had happened in the world since that fatal day in July, 1914, when old things passed away and all things became new. Vassar pressed past the crowd around the Socialist stand and saw beyond the platform from which the woman leader of the new Anti-Enlistment League was haranguing the mob. She too was a suffragette for peace purposes--an aggressive fat female of decisively militant aspect. Her words were pacific in their import. Her manner and spirit spoke battle in every accent and gesture. She was determined to have peace if she had to kill every man, woman and child opposed to it. She waved the pledge of the League above her head and recited its form in rasping, challenging, aggravating notes. “I, being over eighteen years of age, hereby pledge myself against enlistment as a volunteer for any military or naval service in an international war, and against giving my approval to such enlistment on the part of others.” She paused and shouted: “The Anti-Enlistment League does not stand for puny non-resistance! We appeal to the militancy of the spirit--” John Vassar looked at his watch. “We’ve yet time to hear brother Debs. I like his kind. You always know where to find him.” “No-no--Uncy,” Zonia urged, “we must hurry to our stand--” “_Our_ stand, eh?” “Yes--you mustn’t miss a word Miss Holland says. She doesn’t speak long--but every word counts--” “She has one loyal follower anyhow,” Vassar smiled. “I’m going to win her for you, Uncy dear--” “Oh, that’s the scheme?” “Yes--” “I don’t think it can be done, little sweetheart. I never could like a hen that crows--” Zonia waved her arm toward the big platform of the Woman’s Federated Clubs. “There they are now!” she cried--“Marya and Grandpa--they’re sitting on the steps--” “So I see--“ Vassar laughed. Old Andrew Vassar was beaming his good-natured approval on the throng that surged about the stand, his arm encircling his little granddaughter with loving touch.