He had long despaired of witnessing a Greeklike struggle. Such
would be no more, he had said. Men were better, or more timid.
Secular and religious education had effaced the throat-grappling
instinct, or else firm finance held in check the passions.

He had burned several times to enlist. Tales of great movements
shook the land. They might not be distinctly Homeric, but there
seemed to be much glory in them. He had read of marches, sieges,
conflicts, and he had longed to see it all. His busy mind had
drawn for him large pictures extravagant in color, lurid with
breathless deeds.

But his mother had discouraged him. She had affected to look
with some contempt upon the quality of his war ardor and patriotism.
She could calmly seat herself and with no apparent difficulty give
him many hundreds of reasons why he was of vastly more importance
on the farm than on the field of battle. She had had certain ways
of expression that told him that her statements on the subject
came from a deep conviction. Moreover, on her side, was his
belief that her ethical motive in the argument was impregnable.

At last, however, he had made firm rebellion against this yellow
light thrown upon the color of his ambitions. The newspapers,
the gossip of the village, his own picturings, had aroused him
to an uncheckable degree. They were in truth fighting finely
down there. Almost every day the newspaper printed accounts of a
decisive victory.

One night, as he lay in bed, the winds had carried to him the
clangoring of the church bell as some enthusiast jerked the