Captain June

								

mother said there never could be but one Robert for her, and father did
not like the Rogers for a Christian name, so they called him Junior, and
Junior soon got bobbed off into June. The name suited him too, for a
sunshinier little chap you never saw. He never seemed to know that he
was not as strong as other boys, and when his throat was very bad and
his voice would not come, why he sat up in bed and whistled, just the
keenest, cheeriest, healthiest whistle you ever heard.
It was on the indoor days that Seki San used to tell him about her
wonderful country across the sea, of the little brown houses with the
flower gardens on the roofs, of the constant clatter, clatter of the
wooden shoes, and the beautiful blossoms that rained down on you like
snow.
"Where are the blossoms?" he demanded, suddenly turning in his chair.
"You said they came down thick and white and that I could let them fall
over my face."
Seki San did not answer, she was kneeling beside a very disconsolate
figure that lay on the bed with face buried in the pillows. When June
spoke, his mother sat up and pushed back her tumbled hair. She was a
very little mother with round eyes and lips as red as June's, only now
her eyes were red and her lips trembling.
"You may go in the other room, Seki San," she said, "I want to talk to
June by himself."
June sidled up cautiously and took a seat near her on the bed. The one
unbearable catastrophe to him was for his mother to cry. It was like an
earthquake, it shook the very foundations on which all his joys were
built. Sometimes when the postman forgot to leave a letter, and
occasionally when he was sick longer than usual, mother cried. But those
were dark, dreadful times that he tried not to think about. Why the
tears should come on this day of all days he could not understand.
She put her arm around him and held him close for a long time before she
spoke. He could feel the thump, thump of her heart as he leaned against
her.
"June," she said at last, "you are going to be a soldier like father,
aren't you?"
June's eyes brightened. "Yes, and carry a sword!" he said.
"There is something more than a sword that a soldier has to have."
"A gun?"
Mother shook her head. "It's courage, June! It's something I haven't got
a scrap of. You'll have to be brave for us both!"
"I'm not afraid," declared June. "I go to bed in the dark and go places
by myself or anything."
"I don't mean that way," said his mother. "I mean doing hard things just
because they are right, staying behind for instance when--when somebody
you love very much has to go away and leave you."
June sat up and looked at her. "Who's going away?" he demanded.
Mother's voice faltered. "Father's terribly ill with a fever, June. The
letter was waiting here, it is from our old doctor in Manila, he says,
'Come on first steamer, but don't bring the boy.'" The earth seemed
suddenly to be slipping from under June's feet, he clutched at his