"this thought of yours is absurd. It's preposterous."

"Please don't let's argue Dad. It's war work. I've signed up. So that's an end to it."

Knowing how immovable Anne was once she had decided on a certain course, Mrs. Boroughs was finally able to ask if Anne had joined her classmates at Smiths, who were going as Canteeners. No. She was not.

"Well," demanded Mr. Boroughs, "what is it-ambulance driver?"

"Ha! Ha! Wrong again. As you and Mother have never allowed me to forget the crushing blow my words, as a youngster proved to be as much as it grieves me, I beg your kind indulgence for the little Ballet Dancer-or words to that effect," said Anne, with appropriate gestures.

Needless to say Mrs. Boroughs swooned-lost consciousness completely. While Mr. Boroughs, contrary to custom-wished himself "Damned."

Anne was neither heartless nor headless. She used every known means to restore peace and quiet. She only felt sorry that she could not have brought her parents up-differently. Why the prisms and prunes? If they chose to stir their coffee with a thermometer in order to be very sure the beverage was at the correct temperature then she supposed life would continue for them as it had begun. Although, goodness knows, the tidal waves of "queer notions" to Anne's credit or discredit, whichever the case may be, should have loosened them up a little.

Two months later the little entertainer went overseas with the jolliest bunch of soldiers and soldierettes that our Uncle Sam ever knew. "Quiet Talks on Power" and "How to Win the War Tho' Married," were subjects in the discard. "Who's Who in Bradstreet," the latest quotations from Wall Street held no interest for anyone on ship board.

The first few days out, Anne could seem to think of nothing but her wonderful freedom. She could now actually feel the pulse of the world. Why, though, did it take this awful war of sorrow, sickness, privation, and death to liberate me, just little me, thought Anne. The world

The Y Hut, just back of the front lines was filled to capacity that night. The boom-boom-boom-from Jerry's instruments of war played a steady grinding accompaniment to everything. It might have been a Bach Fugue that was disturbing Jerry's internal economy. However, what it might have been, and what it was, cast no shadow of gloom or depression over the crowd in the Hut. The merry song and patter of the little Entertainer was the only thing that mattered. Her pianologues were ripping. The way she could play Yankee Doodle with one hand and Dixie with the other, all at the same time called for encore after encore. And when she sang “Annie Laurie" and "I Love You, California" the boys went wild in their cheering. There was something besides technique and correct phrasing in that music-something that went home-something that registered in the heart of everyone who heard.

The entertainment over for the evening the boys rushed up to shake hands. One khaki-clad fellow, tall and straight as a young pine, seemed to be holding the hand of the little Entertainer against all comers. Those close by heard a startled little cry, and then-"Why, Paul Dearborn, this is a surprise. When did you come over?"

"Oh, haven't been here long, just came across to help put on the finishing touches, you know. Left my clericals on the other side Came as a regular guy. And believe me, Anne, I've learned a few things a'ready."

"Nuff said, 'You Needa Biscuit' come over this way and have some hot chocolate, or would you rather have coffee," said Anne as she linked her arm in Paul's and led him to the refreshment counter.

"Listen Anne," continued Paul, "why didn't you dance this evening?"

"Ha! Then you did not like my sketch -eh, what?"

"Indeed, I did," Paul hastened to reply, "it sure was the real thing. You were wonderful, I could hardly believe that you were you. But you know, I understood from the folks at home that your stunt over here was dancing."

At this Anne was convulsed with laughter. Finally the large brown eyes, sparkling roguishly, turned to the intent gaze of Paul's luminous blue eyes.

"Oh, isn't it too funny? Isn't it perfectly killing-to think I have so far corrupted the morals of Mother and Dad, and all the folks at home?"

"I'd hardly say that," broke in Paul. "Well, you see, Mr. Preacher-man, I'll have to confess I discovered long ago, merely by accident, of course that there were only three ways of dancing-graceful — ungraceful and disgraceful. Not being able to qualify under any of these heads-solo dancing for me has been a lost art."

"Then you don't dance here at all," said Paul in great astonishment.

"No, no. And I simply told the folks that as a joke, don't you see? They would have been just as much upset over my coming here labeled as an entertainer, as a missionary. So I thought they were not too old to receive a regular jolt-and gave it to them. 'Ballet Dancer' ch! oh! that's good."

Oh!

"Anne, you are splendid. Glad to hear such good news. Could go on talking all night, but duty calls, so must go. See you later. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Paul."

The momentous happenings of the first weeks of November, 1918, the attending rush of stupendous events, brought Anne and Paul another surprise. They met in Paris.

Some of the American boys in Paris were calling it Old Home Week.

Some were already counting the beans they were to have when they reached old Bean Town. Said beans consisting chiefly of porterhouse steak with a side of ham and eggs. Eats regular eats, and then some was the English for parle

vous. The Yanks could be seen marching in the center of the streets serpentine fashion, chanting:

"No more chow-no more shoots,
No more rows-no more coots,
No more mud-no more duds,

Rub de dub-dub-dub."

Paris was alive again, the cafes were ablaze with lights and music. In one of the smaller street cafes where there was soft music and no dancing at a small table near the wall, Anne Boroughs and Paul Dearborn could be seen holding hands in a scandalous fashion. By looking carefully you could see there was something mutual about it. Neither of them seemed conscious of these digitory members.

"Look here, Anne," Paul was saying, "the signing of the armistice means peace, peace means home, and home means everything that's best. Isn't that the truth? But, why so downheartedsurrounded with all this cheer? What's on your mind?"

"Oh, I have been thinking," roused Anne, "ha! it's a fatiguing process sometimes. Yes, the terrible bloodshed is over, but won't the world still be at war with itself as personalities, I mean?"

"Fiddlesticks-time enough later to think of that. Haven't seen you in a month of Sundays, and here you are talking deep stuff. Ah, I have it, you've got another notion brewing as of old, eh? Out with it. Fess up to an old pal, for I've got something serious on my own mind."

"I think I can tell you something of the way I feel. You see I have been so absolutely happy in my work here. I have known hardships. I have realized, at least to some extent, what this awful war has done, I have really found myself. At home I never could understand just why I was not happy or satisfied. But I know now. I feel transformed. Nothing can ever happen to make me really unhappy again."

"Oh, I say," interrupted Paul, "aren't you getting in pretty deep-'never to be unhappy again'-wow-that's putting it pretty strong."

"Well, there are never going to be any

more boundaries for me. At last I'm going to be a missionary. Not the 'holier than thou' sort-you know. There will be no creed or sect, understand. I shall just go on continuing to loose myself in others. Really it is a most illuminating experience."

"Registering a hundred per cent. Is that the big idea?"

"Yes, if you want to put it that way. I'm going to start an international, individual peace-propaganda. Behold the chairman of the I. I. P. P. Committee."

"Sounds mighty fine, Anne, and you speak as an authority on this peace business. A personal peace-brotherly love, and a working knowledge of right living should crystallize our energies."

"Ah, now you can see why I shall never be really unhappy again. If the folks at home have not been through enough fire to melt them and mold their lives differently hereafter-well then our boys-and girls going home from here are the logical missionaries."

"Now you're talking. I agree with you. And now let's close that argument for a while. I, too, have had something on my mind the past few weeks. Correctly speaking, the matter has not been troubling my mind as much as my heart. The truth is I have had this same heart trouble ever since you wore pig-tails and I wore short pants. Anne, dear, do you know I have always thought of you as my future wife."

"Oh, Paul," said Anne, blushing beautifully.

"I have grown up loving you, and shall grow old loving just you. Anne, dear, will you be my wife?"

Oblivious to the crowd which now filled the cafe, the two sat there at the table looking so intently at each other one might have thought most anything from shell shock to an apparition.

Anne, even though she stared wideeyed at Paul, was not greatly surprised at this declaration. It all seemed so natural. As if they had always talked of love and marriage. When in truth, this was Anne's very first proposal.

"Paul, you aren't a preachie-preacher any more, are you? That was the only thing-the only thing-"

"Then you do love me, sweetheart?" "Yes," said Anne nodding her head seriously.

There was another long feasting of the eyes when Paul wanted to hold more than her hands. His desire, in this crowded cafe, to feel his arms about her could only be appeased by a firmer grasp of the pretty hands, he already held.

Presently Anne's sweet face revealed a new light. Another notion was born. "Oh, Paul, dear, I can-er-ah-we can now have a-large-committee."

"A large committee, now? I guess I don't quite understand. What notion is it now, dearest?"

"Oh, you know-," said Anne, as she reached over the table to whisper in Paul's ear, and then aloud, she added, "mostly boys."

D

AD EVANS told me this tale. He was an old cavalryman, Dad was, born with a saddle between his thighs, if troop reports were to be believed - a soldier by temperament and every inch a man. Old Dad was like a weathered troop horse, he withered like the rose when severed from the service. He had been in the troop thirty years when I met him, but he was so miserable after he got back to San Anton' that Colonel Bradshaw took him back in spite of his dimmed eyes and chalky joints.

Memories of rebellion and bolo-massacres were rampart in Dad's old mind. He was a little bow-legged cavalryman · tough as a hickory limb and about the same color, with more than a dozen Indian fights marked on his discharge papers. Besides that he was one of the old guard who had left their horses in the States in '98 and pushed up the sand. soaked hills to Santiago, the once coveted.

There was one scene which Old Dad's eyes had looked upon when they were not dim-a scene and a story which he does not tell except at the Canteen Bar of an evening when his month's pay flowed with his words.

Then he would tell us about Rain-inthe-Face, the ugliest of the Sioux, and craftiest of red men, and about the deserter from the ranks of Uncle Sam's horsemen who was chained to him. He would tell us how Indians fought, how devilish was the fury of their squaws, how terrible their numbers. All the troopers would forget their glasses in their hands when Dad Evans told of how the field looked when he helped bury the dead of Custer's band way out in Montana that hot June day.

It has been committed to memory by school children what kind of a fellow was

that Michigan man whom the Sioux called Yellow Hair. He was a soldier, first and last, not an indulgent officer, but one who feared nothing living or dead. It was Custer who declared:

"Give me my old regiment and I will wipe out the whole Sioux nation."

a cam

Custer was tingling with the true soldier spirit when he uttered those words. He was confident, experienced paigner born. He did not think then that his picked regiment of horsemen would ever be called the "Unlucky Seventh." But all this is too well known. Here is the story of Red Begle, deserter, once in "I" troop of Custer's command-the story which Dad Evans told. It is a true story, for Dad Evans saw it enacted.

Begle was a bad man-a mixture of the lawless West and the old bad East. His worst enemies were whiskey and himself. His bunk was found deserted one morning at reveille call and his troop was sent out to hunt him up. The boys found him in a cave, to which they were led by an Indian scout. Begle was helplessly obfuscated, probably through the medium of unmellowed corn-juice. The Indian scout shuffled about the cave feeling and smelling things. There were some puz zling circumstances about. Someone had been in the cave with Begle, but the identity of this party was an opaque mystery. Nothing but a can of bear's grease was found. The Mandan scout grunted.

Now it was well known that Sioux squaws made their braids shiny with bear's grease. Also Red Begle was a black sheep and a discard, one who would not draw the color line. One of the troopers laid a wager that Kate Poison Water had taken Begle for her paramour. The boys were not long in finding the truth of the trooper's deduction.

When Begle awoke from his stupor he found himself chained to Rain-in-the-Face of the sleepy eyes, sub-chief of the Sioux. He had dropped too low to feel the ignominy of his position, but the hard-boiled ejaculations he used would have put an army mule to flight

Kate Poison Water was a sort of De Stael among the Sioux. She was a serpent in cunning, a tigress in strength and agility-a Sioux squaw in general devilty. Between her and Rain-in-theFace there was a standing pact.

Custer was in a land ridden with redskins. He had no near reserve. It was not a time for court-martials. So Red Begle ate and slept, but did not become chummy with the rising young war chief. The two were together until that momentous day when Reno took a third of the regiment and branched off to the south. Rain-in-the-Face was taken from Reno, while Begle rejoined his old troop in Custer's division. It is needless to say in whose command Dad Evans was, for had he not been with Reno he would not have sipped canteen beer or told tales, or climbed the Cuban hills two years later under Mauser fire.

That night the guard in charge of the Sioux prisoner was found neatly and quietly murdered. It was done so quietly in fact that the sentry walking fifty yards away, heard no sound and saw nothing. There was wanton devilishness in the cutting-up. When Dad told us the details-we turned away shuddering.

"Only a squaw does the trick," Evans explained. Immediately we thought of Kate Poison Water because of the manner of the deed. Meanwhile that day of history dawned.

Custer's command was four miles from Reno's camp. Every trooper felt that there were hordes of redmen in the surrounding foothills. But not a white guessed their real number. The Indian scouts were puzzled by cross-trails. They hugged the vanguard and could not be pushed ahead. The troops fell quiet, not a jest was exchanged that morning.

The sun rose hot and high and still no hostile sign was made. No steady or rapid fire could be heard from any direction. It was nearly noon before Reno's divis

ion formed skirmish lines and circled back. Number four in each set stayed back with the horses, as ragged volleys began to pour down upon them from the rocks and woody places. Few of the fours lived when the sun's rays were slanting that afternoon. Camp was struck at sundown. No bacon sputtered in the mess tins that night, and the weary soldiers rolled themselves in their blankets without a smoke. The Red Cross men did not sleep.

No one believed the courier who rode into the camp before midnight, with the word that Custer and all his band had been slain that day by the Sioux and that their bodies lay scattered in the moonlight four miles away.

Before daybreak Reno's men were in the saddle. The silence in front was deathly and ominous. The weird crooning monotone of the Sioux death-song was not heard this day, nor were any cross-trails encountered. The turf simply bore evidence of a massed flight. As they neared the great hollow between the hills the scouts began hugging the forward fours. The silence was frightening, and there was an odor in the air which they alone distinguished.

The body of a trooper, gashed, perforated and dismembered, was strewn across the line of march. Hard and unsmiling were the faces of Reno's men now. Signals from high points brought back no answer from Custer's corps. The words of the courier were beginning to be believed. Great and awful thoughts crawled into the trooper's minds. Where was Yellow Hair, the intrepid, the invincible? Where were the friends of yesterday?

They stopped oftener now to cover up the red stains upon the earth. The men's faces had become white and the air they breathed more ghastly.

Ahead of them rose a hill. The pitiless heat shimmered upon its summit; flies buzzed about the sweating horses. Great black birds made circling shadows beyond the rise ahead.

The men tried not to breathe in the tainted air, but still they pushed onward. Horror and fascination gripped them. Countless red devils might have