Upon a staff, upheld by the hand of one of a little group of four men in uniform, was something which focussed the eyes of all. It was the Flag—the Flag for which the Cumberlands once had fought. “Why, look-a-thar!” exclaimed Granny Williams, hurrying up her mule. “I know them boys, all four of ‘em! It’s Jimmy an’ Willy Sanders, Tom Carswell, an’ Grief Talley—all four of ‘em went out an’ ‘listed more’n eight year ago, an’ been in the Army ever sense. I’d like to know what fer they come in here now.” Marcia Haddon could see posted up in the window a flaming poster whose letters of red spoke loudly enough to all who could understand them: “_Your country needs you!_” Their country! Their country! It had forgotten them all these years—these men who once had saved the principle of freedom for a world—a world now gone mad once more with blood and crying aloud now again for aid in the salvation of that same principle. “What is it, Ma’am?” demanded Granny Williams, as they hurried on down the street. “What’s the paper say?” “It’s the war! They must be a recruiting party from the Army,” said Marcia Haddon. “The paper in the window says, ‘_Your country needs you!_’” “It ‘pears to me I heerd some talk about thar bein’ fightin’ goin’ on Outside somewhar’s,” said Granny Williams. “But what’s that got to do with us down here? Ye don’t reckon the Govern_ment_ needs us, do ye?” That was the message of this flaring placard hung up for these, so few of whom could read; that was the import of archaic drum and fife, and modern flag and uniform—here in the far-off and forgotten Cumberlands. “_Your country needs you!_” Men came from all parts of the little settlement, attracted by the sound of the music. They gazed dumbly and vaguely at the sheet in the window, whose meaning they knew from what these soldier boys told them—a recruiting sergeant, a corporal, and two privates, sent in from the district recruiting station on the railroad, far away. “Whar’s Davy?” asked old Absalom Gannt. “Someone go git Davy. We got to look into this thing.” Before David Joslin could be found, the two women had turned in at Granny Williams’ home. Huddling like fowls, all the women had taken to cover at the alarm. The street was empty save for men and boys. “What’s all this about, Davy?” asked old Absalom, when presently Joslin joined them in the street. “Is our Govern_ment_ in this here?” “Yes,” said David Joslin. “It’s war! Our country’s in it. That’s what it says.” Someone handed him a newspaper, and he read its headlines hurriedly, interpreting for them as he did so. These men well enough knew what war was, or had been—the traditions of their fathers told them. The faces about him were serious now; no light remark was ventured by any. Their eyes shifted from the gaunt, lean face of David Joslin, as he read, to this little fluttering emblem which stood driven in the mountain airs.