dollars a month and found, in place of the seventy-five she was now
lavishing on indolent stragglers.

She said in that happy case she might consent to adorn the cattle
business a few decades longer, but for her part she didn't believe wars
would end. If it wasn't this war it would be another one, because human
beings are undeniably human. As how? Well, I could take it this way. Say
one of these here inventors sets up nights for twenty years inventing a
gun that will shoot through a steel plate sixteen inches thick. All right
so far. But the next day another inventor invents a piece of steel
seventeen inches thick. And it had to begin all over--just a seesaw. From
where she set she couldn't see no end to it. Was she right; or wasn't
she? Of course!

But now, further, about compelling little boys to wear long curls till
maturity, with the idee of blunting their finer instincts and making
hellions of 'em, so's to have some dandy shock troops for the next
war--well, she didn't know. Room for argument there.

This seemed reasonable. I didn't know either. It was an entirely new
idee, come from nowhere. This was the very first moment I had supposed
there could be such an idee. But such is Ma Pettengill. I thought to
inquire as to the origin of this novelty; perhaps to have it more fully
set forth. But I had not to. Already I saw unrelenting continuance in the
woman's quickened eye. There would be, in fact, no stopping her now. So I
might as well leave a one-line space right here to avoid using the double
and single quotation marks, which are a nuisance to all concerned. I will
merely say that Ma Pettengill spoke in part as follows, and at no time
during the interview said modestly that she would prefer not to have her
name mentioned.

Mind you, I don't say war's a good thing, even for them that come out of
it. Of course you can read stories about how good it is in improving the
character. I've read pretty ones in these here sentimental magazines
that get close to the great heart of the people once a month; stories
about how the town tough boy, that robs his gray-haired mother of her
wash money to play pool with, goes into war's purifying flames and comes
out a man, having rescued Marshal Fotch from a shell hole under fire and
got the thanks of the French nation and his home-town paper. Now he don't
hang round the pool parlour any more, running down fifteen balls from the
break, but shuns his low companions, never touches