: The Whistling Mother by Richmond Grace S Grace Smith - World War 1914-1918 United States; Mothers and sons

@FreeBooksTue 06 Jun, 2023

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THE WHISTLING MOTHER

GRACE S. RICHMOND

I have the greatest mother on earth. I can't call her a "little mother," for she's five feet six inches tall, and weighs just exactly what she ought to according to the table of weights. If she were a trifle less active she might put on too much flesh, but she'll never keep still long enough for that. I always enjoy having her along on any kind of an outing, for she's game for just anything, and awfully good company, too. In fact, she seems more like a vigorous girl than anything I can compare her with. And I think her sons are mighty lucky chaps--especially just now that the war game's on.

Yes, that's a picture of Mother; neat little holder for it, isn't it? Yes, I know; she does look interesting, doesn't she? She's an awfully good shot, and drives her own car, and rides like a Cossack, and does a lot of other things--not to mention making home--well--what it is. I suppose I'm rather braggy about her, but I tell you I feel that way just now, and I'm going to tell you why.... She's pretty, too, don't you think so? I thought you would.

The thing that started me off was Hoofy Gilbert coming across the dorm hall with a letter in his hand. We called him Hoofy because he hated walking so, and always drove his big yellow roadster from one class to another, even if it was only a thousand feet straight across the campus to the next lecture. Well, Hoofy came in that day--it was just before the Easter vacation--looking as if he were down and out for fair. It turned out he'd written home about enlisting, and he'd got back a letter from his mother, all sobs. He didn't know what to do about it. You see the fellows were all writing home, and trying to break it gently that when they got there they'd have to put it up to the family to say "Go, and God bless you!" But it was looking pretty dubious for some of my special friends. Their mothers were all right, an awfully nice sort, of course, but when it came to telling Bob and Sam and Hector to enlist--they just simply couldn't do it.

Hoofy said he'd got to enlist, in spite of his mother. He knew it was his duty, but he'd rather be shot than go home and go through the farewells. He knew his mother would be sick in bed about it, and she'd cling round his neck and cry on his shoulder, and he'd have to loosen her arms and go off leaving her feeling like that. And his father would look grave and tell him not to mind, that his mother wasn't well, and that she couldn't help it--and Hoofy really didn't think she could, being made that way. Just the same, he dreaded going home to say good-bye--dreaded it so much he felt like flunking it and wiring he couldn't come.

I told him he mustn't do that--that his mother would never forgive him, and that he'd have to put on a stiff upper lip and go through with it. And Hoofy owned that that was the thing he was really afraid of--that his upper lip wouldn't keep stiff but would wobble, in spite of him. And of course a breakdown on his own part would be the worst possible thing that could happen to him. No potential soldier wants to feel his upper lip unreliable, no matter what happens. It's likely to make him flinch in a critical moment, when flinching won't do.

When I looked up after reading this, Hoofy looked like a small boy who's been staring in a shop-window at a fire-engine he can't have. He heaved a big sigh, and said: "Well, I wish my mother'd take it that way," and went out, banging the door after him. And I got up and went over and took Mother down and looked at her, and said to her: "You game little sport, you--you'd put the spine into a jelly-fish any time. And I wouldn't miss going home to hug you for good-bye if I knew the first round of shot would get me as a result."

So then I packed up, and went around and saw the dean, who assured me that, even though I didn't stay to finish my Junior year, I'd keep my place and get my dip, no matter how long the war lasted. Then he looked over his spectacles at me, and said it was a good thing I was so tall and slim--it would be a crack marksman who could get me, or even tell me from a sapling at five hundred yards; and we grinned at each other and shook hands. Good old Hamerton--I hope he'll be there when I get back. Then I wired Mother and took the train for home.... I don't know why I always write and wire Mother instead of Father, for I think a lot of my dad. But he's pretty busy at the office, and not much of a letter-writer, except by way of a stenographer. Mother always gives me his messages in her letters, and when I get home he and I talk up to date, and then Mother and I go on writing again.

Just Mother met me at the train--the girls were in school, and Dad not yet home from the office. My kid brother hadn't been told, for fear he'd cut school altogether. Mother had the roadster--and it was shining like a brass band. She looked just as she always does--tailored out of sight, little close hat over her smooth black hair, and black eyes shining through a trim little veil that keeps all snug. No loose ends about Mother, I can tell you, from the top of her stunning little hat to the toes of her jolly little Oxfords over silk stockings that would get anybody. Even her motoring gloves are "kept up," as we say of a car, The sight of her, smiling that absolutely gorgeous smile that shows her splendid white teeth, made me mighty glad I'd come home.

"Sure," I said, grinning at the car. We're not rich, and I don't sport a car to go to lectures with, like Hoofy and a lot of other fellows, so ours always looks darned good to me when I get home. Mother understands how I'm crazy to drive the minute I can get my hands on the wheel, so without an invitation I put her into the seat beside me and took the driver's place myself. She settled down, same as she always does, and remarked:

"It's always so good to have you drive. I never shall get quite the form you have."

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