The shock of anger at frightful tales from Belgium⁠—little children with their hands cut off (no evidence for that one); women foully outraged; civilians shot in cold blood⁠—sent many men at a quick pace to the recruiting agents. Others were sent there by the taunt of a girl, or the sneer of a comrade in khaki, or the straight, steady look in the eyes of a father who said, “What about it, Dick?⁠ ⁠… The old country is up against it.” It was that last thought which worked in the brain of England’s manhood. That was his real call, which whispered to men at the plow⁠—quiet, ruminating lads, the peasant type, the yeoman⁠—and excited undergraduates in their rooms at Oxford and Cambridge, and the masters of public schools, and all manner of young men, and some, as I know, old in years but young in heart. “The old country is in danger!” The shadow of a menace was creeping over some little patch of England⁠—or of Scotland.

“I’s best be going,” said the village boy.

“ ‘ Dulce et decorum est⁠— ’ ” said the undergraduate.