The end of the summer found nearly a million men under arms and in training camps scattered over the country. A great brave, efficient army of soldiers was being formed. And everywhere men and women and children were enrolled in the nation’s greater army of service, as patriotic and brave and efficient and as necessary as soldiers.
The Second Liberty Loan was under way, and people who had thought they had not a dollar beyond their needs found they could “buy a bond to help Uncle Sam win the war.�
There was Red Cross work to do—feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, caring for the sick and wounded; millions of people were helping with money and service, at home and overseas.
Millions, too, were enrolled in the work of food conservation. During that spring and summer and autumn of 1917, crop reports were watched as anxiously as news from the war front, for even the children knew that “armies march on their feet and on their stomachs.�
At family worship, night and morning, in that little old-fashioned Presbyterian Village, voices prayed God to bless our homes and soldiers and Allies, and thanked Him for great ideals and wholesome food, for President Wilson and bounteous crops.
The crops were, indeed, bounteous. There were record-breaking yields of corn and oats, and an abundant yield of potatoes. The wheat crop was smaller; we must stint at home, to send supplies to Europe. But the country, going calmly through its sugar famine, was ready for “meatless Tuesdays� and “wheatless Wednesdays�—anything, everything to help win the war.
The members of Camp Fight Foe and Camp Feed Friend went enthusiastically to Broad Acres, one pleasant day in early autumn, to harvest their crop of white potatoes.
Mr. Mallett, who had volunteered to help with his horse and plow, ran a furrow beside each row; potato diggers had never been heard of in The Village. Behind him came the young gardeners—collecting the tubers turned up by the plow, picking them out of the soft soil, or raking out those that were more deeply embedded. Not one must be overlooked and left behind, for close was the contest between the rival gardeners. The bucket- and basketfuls of potatoes were emptied into a half-bushel measure, over which Mrs. Wilson presided, and then put into bags. The gardeners were jubilant over the results of their labors, and with reason. Mrs. Wilson said that Broad Acres had never yielded a better crop than the one they were harvesting.
“Isn’t this a crackerjack?� cried David, holding up a huge tuber.
“Here’s a better one. It’s just as big as yours, and it’s smooth, instead of being all bumpy,� Patsy said critically.