IT was a drowsy, peaceful day in early May. War seemed remote, an evil unreality. Lured from my writing by the insistent call of Spring, I left my desk and strolled instinctively toward Boston's breathing space, the Common Of historic memo ries, whose easterly mall, honored in bearing the name Of Lafayette, was now lined with a row of trim green and white cottages dedicated to the com fort Of the boys who wear the khaki or the blue. Before the little stage in front Of one I saw gathered a thronging crowd that, from a distance, gave the impression Of many drones clustered about the open ing Of a hive. Such assemblages had become every-day sights and I moved toward it, impelled by a mild curiosity merely; but, when my eyes fell upon the figure which was leaning over the railing in an attitude Of stirring appeal, my steps quickened.
