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In April—when the sky is washed keen and blue, and the Atlantic turns from gray to blue again, when ships ride easier on his deep-breathing bosom—"Golden Eyes," "Uncle Same" and "Love" set sail—hearing the call of France, every one's country; hearing the call of mud-painted and weary and homesick (when there isn't a battle to fight) lads her own country to be fed from behind counters, and the call of her heart that says perhaps in the long line of boys in the rough canteen, one tired, brave face looking glad to see a woman from his ain countree—may be HIS!
And then—Love is glad to go—for Love is selfish and has no country. Love thought of "Bill," and had no tears in his eyes when he looked back at the statue of Liberty, growing faint and sinking small in the blue sea haze. "Uncle Sam" never looked back at all. YOU might say he was looking at an amazing gull that dipped and swooped—but "Uncle Sam" was looking straight to France—where, his warm dog-heart felt, was a man walking about at strange business—who belonged to himself and "Golden-Eyes"—and whose voice and hand were soft.
"Golden-Eyes" looked back, where the light of the sinking sun was shaking out bars of crimson and white and blue above New York Town. And there was this strange about her: her face was grave and sad—but her heart was laughing aloud!
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