He dreamed away his hours in school;He sat with such an absent air,The master reckoned him a fool,And gave him up in dull despair.When other lads were making hayYou'd find him loafing by the stream;He'd take a book and slip away,And just pretend to fish . . . and dream.His brothers passed him in the race;They climbed the hill and clutched the prize.He did not seem to heed, his faceWas tranquil as the evening skies.He lived apart, he spoke with few;Abstractedly through life he went;Oh, what he dreamed of no one knew,And yet he seemed to be content.I see him now, so old and gray,His eyes with inward vision dim;And though he faltered on the way,Somehow I almost envied him.At last beside his bed I stood:"And is Life done so soon?" he sighed;"It's been so rich, so full, so good,I've loved it all . . ."—and so he died.
Another day.
Framed in hedgerows of emerald, the wheat glows with a caloric fervor, as if gorged with summer heat. In the vivid green of pastures old women are herding cows. Calm and patient are their faces as with gentle industry they bend over their knitting. One feels that they are necessary to the landscape.
To gaze at me the field-workers suspend the magnificent lethargy of their labors. The men with the reaping hooks improve the occasion by another pull at the cider bottle under the stook; the women raise apathetic brown faces from the sheaf they are tying; every one is a study in deliberation, though the crop is russet ripe and crying to be cut.
Then on I go again amid high banks overgrown with fern and honeysuckle. Sometimes I come on an old mill that seems to have been constructed by Constable, so charmingly does Nature imitate Art. By the deserted house, half drowned in greenery, the velvety wheel, dipping in the crystal water, seems to protest against this prolongation of its toil.
Then again I come on its brother, the Mill of the Wind, whirling its arms so cheerily, as it turns its great white stones for its master, the floury miller by the door.
These things delight me. I am in a land where Time has lagged, where simple people timorously hug the Past. How far away now seems the welter and swelter of the city, the hectic sophistication of the streets. The sense of wonder is strong in me again, the joy of looking at familiar things as if one were seeing them for the first time.
I wish that I could understandThe moving marvel of my Hand;I watch my fingers turn and twist,The supple bending of my wrist,The dainty touch of finger-tip,The steel intensity of grip;A tool of exquisite design,With pride I think: "It's mine! It's mine!"Then there's the wonder of my Eyes,Where hills and houses, seas and skies,In waves of light converge and pass,And print themselves as on a glass.Line, form and color live in me;I am the Beauty that I see;Ah! I could write a book of sizeAbout the wonder of my Eyes.What of the wonder of my Heart,That plays so faithfully its part?I hear it running sound and sweet;It does not seem to miss a beat;Between the cradle and the graveIt never falters, stanch and brave.Alas! I wish I had the artTo tell the wonder of my Heart.Then oh! but how can I explainThe wondrous wonder of my Brain?That marvelous machine that bringsAll consciousness of wonderings;That lets me from myself leap outAnd watch my body walk about;It's hopeless—all my words are vainTo tell the wonder of my Brain.But do not think, O patient friend,Who reads these stanzas to the end,That I myself would glorify. . . .You're just as wonderful as I,And all Creation in our viewIs quite as marvelous as you.Come, let us on the sea-shore standAnd wonder at a grain of sand;And then into the meadow passAnd marvel at a blade of grass;Or cast our vision high and farAnd thrill with wonder at a star;A host of stars—night's holy tentHuge-glittering with wonderment.If wonder is in great and small,Then what of Him who made it all?In eyes and brain and heart and limbLet's see the wondrous work of Him.In house and hill and sward and sea,In bird and beast and flower and tree,In everything from sun to sod,The wonder and the awe of God.
August 9, 1914.
For some time the way has been growing wilder. Thickset hedges have yielded to dykes of stone, and there is every sign that I am approaching the rugged region of the coast. At each point of vantage I can see a Cross, often a relic of the early Christians, stumpy and corroded. Then I come on a slab of gray stone upstanding about fifteen feet. Like a sentinel on that solitary plain it overwhelms me with a sense of mystery.
But as I go on through this desolate land these stones become more and more familiar. Like soldiers they stand in rank, extending over the moor. The sky is cowled with cloud, save where a sullen sunset shoots blood-red rays across the plain. Bathed in that sinister light stands my army of stone, and a wind swooping down seems to wail amid its ranks. As in a glass darkly I can see the skin-clad men, the women with their tangled hair, the beast-like feast, the cowering terror of the night. Then the sunset is cut off suddenly, and a clammy mist shrouds that silent army. So it is almost with a shudder I take my last look at the Stones of Carnac.
But now my pilgrimage is drawing to an end. A painter friend who lives by the sea has asked me to stay with him awhile. Well, I have walked a hundred miles, singing on the way. I have dreamed and dawdled, planned, exulted. I have drunk buckets of cider, and eaten many an omelette that seemed like a golden glorification of its egg. It has all been very sweet, but it will also be sweet to loaf awhile.
Oh, it is good to drink and sup,And then beside the kindly fireTo smoke and heap the faggots up,And rest and dream to heart's desire.Oh, it is good to ride and run,To roam the greenwood wild and free;To hunt, to idle in the sun,To leap into the laughing sea.Oh, it is good with hand and brainTo gladly till the chosen soil,And after honest sweat and strainTo see the harvest of one's toil.Oh, it is good afar to roam,And seek adventure in strange lands;Yet oh, so good the coming home,The velvet love of little hands.So much is good. . . . We thank Thee, God,For all the tokens Thou hast given,That here on earth our feet have trodThy little shining trails of Heaven.
August 10, 1914.
I am living in a little house so near the sea that at high tide I can see on my bedroom wall the reflected ripple of the water. At night I waken to the melodious welter of waves; or maybe there is a great stillness, and then I know that the sand and sea-grass are lying naked to the moon. But soon the tide returns, and once more I hear the roistering of the waves.
Calvert, my friend, is a lover as well as a painter of nature. He rises with the dawn to see the morning mist kindle to coral and the sun's edge clear the hill-crest. As he munches his coarse bread and sips his white wine, what dreams are his beneath the magic changes of the sky! He will paint the same scene under a dozen conditions of light. He has looked so long for Beauty that he has come to see it everywhere.
I love this friendly home of his. A peace steals over my spirit, and I feel as if I could stay here always. Some day I hope that I too may have such an one, and that I may write like this:
I have some friends, some worthy friends,And worthy friends are rare:These carpet slippers on my feet,That padded leather chair;This old and shabby dressing-gown,So well the worse of wear.I have some friends, some honest friends,And honest friends are few;My pipe of briar, my open fire,A book that's not too new;My bed so warm, the nights of stormI love to listen to.I have some friends, some good, good friends,Who faithful are to me:My wrestling partner when I rise,The big and burly sea;My little boat that's riding thereSo saucy and so free.I have some friends, some golden friends,Whose worth will not decline:A tawny Irish terrier, a purple shading pine,A little red-roofed cottage thatSo proudly I call mine.All other friends may come and go,All other friendships fail;But these, the friends I've worked to win,Oh, they will never stale;And comfort me till Time shall writeThe finish to my tale.
Calvert tries to paint more than the thing he sees; he tries to paint behind it, to express its spirit. He believes that Beauty is God made manifest, and that when we discover Him in Nature we discover Him in ourselves.
But Calvert did not always see thus. At one time he was a Pagan, content to paint the outward aspect of things. It was after his little child died he gained in vision. Maybe the thought that the dead are lost to us was too unbearable. He had to believe in a coming together again.
I sought Him on the purple seas,I sought Him on the peaks aflame;Amid the gloom of giant treesAnd canyons lone I called His name;The wasted ways of earth I trod:In vain! In vain! I found not God.I sought Him in the hives of men,The cities grand, the hamlets gray,The temples old beyond my ken,The tabernacles of to-day;All life that is, from cloud to clodI sought. . . . Alas! I found not God.Then after roamings far and wide,In streets and seas and deserts wild,I came to stand at last besideThe death-bed of my little child.Lo! as I bent beneath the rodI raised my eyes . . . and there was God.
A golden mile of sand swings hammock-like between two tusks of rock. The sea is sleeping sapphire that wakes to cream and crash upon the beach. There is a majesty in the detachment of its lazy waves, and it is good in the night to hear its friendly roar. Good, too, to leap forth with the first sunshine and fall into its arms, to let it pummel the body to living ecstasy and send one to breakfast glad-eyed and glowing.
Behind the house the greensward slopes to a wheat-field that is like a wall of gold. Here I lie and laze away the time, or dip into a favorite book, Stevenson'sLettersor Belloc'sPath to Rome. Bees drone in the wild thyme; a cuckoo keeps calling, a lark spills jeweled melody. Then there is a seeming silence, but it is the silence of a deeper sound.
After all, Silence is only man's confession of his deafness. Like Death, like Eternity, it is a word that means nothing. So lying there I hear the breathing of the trees, the crepitation of the growing grass, the seething of the sap and the movements of innumerable insects. Strange how I think with distaste of the spurious glitter of Paris, of my garret, even of my poor little book.
I watch the wife of my friend gathering poppies in the wheat. There is a sadness in her face, for it is only a year ago they lost their little one. Often I see her steal away to the village graveyard, sitting silent for long and long.
As I sat by my baby's bedThat's open to the sky,There fluttered round and round my headA radiant butterfly.And as I wept—of hearts that acheThe saddest in the land—It left a lily for my sake,And lighted on my hand.I watched it, oh, so quietly,And though it rose and flew,As if it fain would comfort meIt came and came anew.Now, where my darling lies at rest,I do not dare to sigh,For look! there gleams upon my breastA snow-white butterfly.
My friends will have other children, and if some day they should read this piece of verse, perhaps they will think of the city lad who used to sit under the old fig-tree in the garden and watch the lizards sun themselves on the time-worn wall.
"Gather around me, children dear;The wind is high and the night is cold;Closer, little ones, snuggle near;Let's seek a story of ages old;A magic tale of a bygone day,Of lovely ladies and dragons dread;Come, for you're all so tired of play,We'll read till it's time to go to bed."So they all are glad, and they nestle in,And squat on the rough old nursery rug,And they nudge and hush as I begin,And the fire leaps up and all's so snug;And there I sit in the big arm-chair,And how they are eager and sweet and wise,And they cup their chins in their hands and stareAt the heart of the flame with thoughtful eyes.And then, as I read by the ruddy glowAnd the little ones sit entranced and still . . .He's drawing near, ah! I know, I knowHe's listening too, as he always will.He's there—he's standing beside my knee;I see him so well, my wee, wee son. . . .Oh, children dear, don't look at me—I'm reading now for—the Other One.For the firelight glints in his golden hair,And his wondering eyes are fixed on my face,And he rests on the arm of my easy-chair,And the book's a blur and I lose my place:And I touch my lips to his shining head,And my voice breaks down and—the story's done. . . .Oh, children, kiss me and go to bed:Leave me to think of the Other One.Of the One who will never grow up at all,Who will always be just a child at play,Tender and trusting and sweet and small,Who will never leave me and go away;Who will never hurt me and give me pain;Who will comfort me when I'm all alone;A heart of love that's without a stain,Always and always my own, my own.Yet a thought shines out from the dark of pain,And it gives me hope to be reconciled:That each of us must be born again,And live and die as a little child;So that with souls all shining white,White as snow and without one sin,We may come to the Gates of Eternal Light,Where only children may enter in.So, gentle mothers, don't ever grieveBecause you have lost, but kiss the rod;From the depths of your woe be glad, believeYou've given an angel unto God.Rejoice! You've a child whose youth endures,Who comes to you when the day is done,Wistful for love, oh, yours, just yours,Dearest of all, the Other One.
Brittany, August 14, 1914.
And now I fear I must write in another strain. Up to this time I have been too happy. I have existed in a magic Bohemia, largely of my own making. Hope, faith, enthusiasm have been mine. Each day has had its struggle, its failure, its triumph. However, that is all ended. During the past week we have lived breathlessly. For in spite of the exultant sunshine our spirits have been under a cloud, a deepening shadow of horror and calamity. . . . WAR.
Even as I write, in our little village steeple the bells are ringing madly, and in every little village steeple all over the land. As he hears it the harvester checks his scythe on the swing; the clerk throws down his pen; the shopkeeper puts up his shutters. Only in the cafes there is a clamor of voices and a drowning of care.
For here every man must fight, every home give tribute. There is no question, no appeal. By heredity and discipline all minds are shaped to this great hour. So to-morrow each man will seek his barracks and become a soldier as completely as if he had never been anything else. With the same docility as he dons his baggy red trousers will he let some muddle-headed General hurl him to destruction for some dubious gain. To-day a father, a home-maker; to-morrow fodder for cannon. So they all go without hesitation, without bitterness; and the great military machine that knows not humanity swings them to their fate. I marvel at the sense of duty, the resignation, the sacrifice. It is magnificent, it is FRANCE.
And the Women. Those who wait and weep. Ah! to-day I have not seen one who did not weep. Yes, one. She was very old, and she stood by her garden gate with her hand on the uplifted latch. As I passed she looked at me with eyes that did not see. She had no doubt sons and grandsons who must fight, and she had good reason, perhaps, to remember the war ofsoixante-dix. When I passed an hour later she was still there, her hand on the uplifted latch.
August 30th.
The men have gone. Only remain graybeards, women and children. Calvert and I have been helping our neighbors to get in the harvest. No doubt we aid; but there with the old men and children a sense of uneasiness and even shame comes over me. I would like to return to Paris, but the railway is mobilized. Each day I grow more discontented. Up there in the red North great things are doing and I am out of it. I am thoroughly unhappy.
Then Calvert comes to me with a plan. He has a Ford car. We will all three go to Paris. He intends to offer himself and his car to the Red Cross. His wife will nurse. So we are very happy at the solution, and to-morrow we are off.
Paris.
Back again. Closed shutters, deserted streets. How glum everything is! Those who are not mobilized seem uncertain how to turn. Every one buys the papers and reads grimly of disaster. No news is bad news.
I go to my garret as to a beloved friend. Everything is just as I left it, so that it seems I have never been away. I sigh with relief and joy. I will take up my work again. Serene above the storm I will watch and wait. Although I have been brought up in England I am American born. My country is not concerned.
So, going to the Dôme Cafe, I seek some of my comrades. Strange! They have gone. MacBean, I am told, is in England. By dyeing his hair and lying about his age he has managed to enlist in the Seaforth Highlanders. Saxon Dane too. He has joined the Foreign Legion, and even now may be fighting.
Well, let them go. I will keep out of the mess. But why did they go? I wish I knew. War is murder. Criminal folly. Against Humanity. Imperialism is at the root of it. We are fools and dupes. Yes, I will think and write of other things. . . .
MacBean has enlisted.
I hate violence. I would not willingly cause pain to anything breathing. I would rather be killed than kill. I will stand above the Battle and watch it from afar.
Dane is in the Foreign Legion.
How disturbing it all is! One cannot settle down to anything. Every day I meet men who tell the most wonderful stories in the most casual way. I envy them. I too want to have experiences, to live where life's beat is most intense. But that's a poor reason for going to war.
And yet, though I shrink from the idea of fighting, I might in some way help those who are. MacBean and Dane, for example. Sitting lonely in the Dôme, I seem to see their ghosts in the corner. MacBean listening with his keen, sarcastic smile, Saxon Dane banging his great hairy fist on the table till the glasses jump. Where are they now? Living a life that I will never know. When they come back, if they ever do, shall I not feel shamed in their presence? Oh, this filthy war! Things were going on so beautifully. We were all so happy, so full of ambition, of hope; laughing and talking over pipe and bowl, and in our garrets seeking to realize our dreams. Ah, these days will never come again!
Then, as I sit there, Calvert seeks me out. He has joined an ambulance corps that is going to the Front. Will I come in?
"Yes," I say; "I'll do anything."
So it is all settled. To-morrow I give up my freedom.
The Somme Front, January 1915.
There is an avenue of noble beeches leading to the Chateau, and in the shadow of each glimmers the pale oblong of an ambulance. We have to keep them thus concealed, for only yesterday morning a Taube flew over. The beggars are rather partial to Red Cross cars. One of our chaps, taking in a load of wounded, was chased and pelted the other day.
The Chateau seems all spires and towers, the glorified dream of a Parisian pastrycook. On its terrace figures in khaki are lounging. They are the volunteers, the owner-drivers of the Corps, many of them men of wealth and title. Curious to see one who owns all the coal in two counties proudly signing for hissoua day; or another, who lives in a Fifth Avenue palace, contentedly sleeping on the straw-strewn floor of a hovel.
Here is a rhyme I have made of such an one:
Jerry MacMullen, the millionaire,Driving a red-meat bus out there—How did he win hisCroix de Guerre?Bless you, that's all old stuff:Beast of a night on the Verdun road,Jerry stuck with a woeful load,Stalled in the mud where the red lights glowed,Prospect devilish tough."Little Priscilla" he called his car,Best of our battered bunch by far,Branded with many a bullet scar,Yet running so sweet and true.Jerry he loved her, knew her tricks;Swore: "She's the beat of the best big six,And if ever I get in a deuce of a fixPriscilla will pull me through.""Looks pretty rotten right now," says he;"Hanged if the devil himself could see.Priscilla, it's up to you and meTo show 'em what we can do."Seemed that Priscilla just took the word;Up with a leap like a horse that's spurred,On with the joy of a homing bird,Swift as the wind she flew.Shell-holes shoot at them out of the night;A lurch to the left, a wrench to the right,Hands grim-gripping and teeth clenched tight,Eyes that glare through the dark."Priscilla, you're doing me proud this day;Hospital's only a league away,And, honey, I'm longing to hit the hay,So hurry, old girl. . . . But hark!"Howl of a shell, harsh, sudden, dread;Another . . . another. . . . "Strike me deadIf the Huns ain't strafing the road aheadSo the convoy can't get through!A barrage of shrap, and us alone;Four rush-cases—you hear 'em moan?Fierce old messes of blood and bone. . . .Priscilla, what shall we do?"Again it seems that Priscilla hears.With a rush and a roar her way she clears,Straight at the hell of flame she steers,Full at its heart of wrath.Fury of death and dust and din!Havoc and horror! She's in, she's in;She's almost over, she'll win, she'll win!Woof! Crump!right in the path.Little Priscilla skids and stops,Jerry MacMullen sways and flops;Bang in his map the crash he cops;Shriek from the car: "Mon Dieu!"One of theblesséshears him say,Just at the moment he faints away:"Reckon this isn't my lucky day,Priscilla, it's up to you."Sergeant raps on the doctor's door;"Car in the court withcouchésfour;Driver dead on the dashboard floor;Strange how the bunch got here.""No," says the Doc, "this chap's alive;But tell me, how could a man contriveWith both arms broken, a car to drive?Thunder of God! it's queer."Same littleblessémakes a spiel;Says he: "When I saw our driver reel,A Strange Shape leapt to the driving wheelAnd sped us safe through the night."But Jerry, he says in his drawling tone:"Rats! Why, Priscilla came in on her own.Bless her, she did it alone, alone. . . ."Hanged if I know who's right.
As I am sitting down to my midday meal an orderly gives me a telegram:
Hill 71. Two couchés. Send car at once.
The uptilted country-side is a checker-board of green and gray, and, except where groves of trees rise like islands, cultivated to the last acre. But as we near the firing-line all efforts to till the land cease, and the ungathered beets of last year have grown to seed. Amid rank unkempt fields I race over a road that is pitted with obus-holes; I pass a line of guns painted like snakes, and drawn by horses dyed khaki- color; then soldiers coming from the trenches, mud-caked and ineffably weary; then a race over a bit of road that is exposed; then, buried in the hill-side, the dressing station.
The two wounded are put into my car. From hip to heel one is swathed in bandages; the other has a great white turban on his head, with a red patch on it that spreads and spreads. They stare dully, but make no sound. As I crank the car there is a shrill screaming noise. . . . About thirty yards away I hear an explosion like a mine-blast, followed by a sudden belch of coal-black smoke. I stare at it in a dazed way. Then the doctor says: "Don't trouble to analyze your sensations. Better get off. You're only drawing their fire."
Here is one of my experiences:
That boy I took in the car last night,With the body that awfully sagged away,And the lips blood-crisped, and the eyes flame-bright,And the poor hands folded and cold as clay—Oh, I've thought and I've thought of him all the day.For the weary old doctor says to me:"He'll only last for an hour or so.Both of his legs below the kneeBlown off by a bomb. . . . So, lad, go slow,And please remember, he doesn't know."So I tried to drive with never a jar;And there was I cursing the road like mad,When I hears a ghost of a voice from the car:"Tell me, old chap, have I 'copped it' bad?"So I answers "No," and he says, "I'm glad.""Glad," says he, "for at twenty-twoLife's so splendid, I hate to go.There's so much good that a chap might do,And I've fought from the start and I've suffered so.'Twould be hard to get knocked out now, you know.""Forget it," says I; then I drove awhile,And I passed him a cheery word or two;But he didn't answer for many a mile,So just as the hospital hove in view,Says I: "Is there nothing that I can do?"Then he opens his eyes and he smiles at me;And he takes my hand in his trembling hold;"Thank you—you're far too kind," says he:"I'm awfully comfy—stay . . . let's see:I fancy my blanket's come unrolled—Myfeet, please wrap 'em—they're cold . . . they're cold."
There is a city that glitters on the plain. Afar off we can seeits tall cathedral spire, and there we often take our woundedfrom the little village hospitals to the rail-head. Tragic little buildings,these emergency hospitals—town-halls, churches, schools;their cots are never empty, their surgeons never still.So every day we get our list of cases and off we go, a long line of carsswishing through the mud. Then one by one we branch offto our village hospital, puzzling out the road on our maps.Arrived there, we load up quickly.The wounded make no moan. They lie, limp, heavily bandaged,with bare legs and arms protruding from their blankets.They do not know where they are going; they do not care.Like live stock, they are labeled and numbered. An orderly brings alongtheir battle-scarred equipment, throwing open their riflesto see that no charge remains. Sometimes they shake our handsand thank us for the drive.In the streets of the city I see French soldiers wearing theFourragère.It is a cord of green, yellow or red, and corresponds totheCroix de Guerre, theMédaille militaireand the Legion of Honor.The red is the highest of all, and has been granted only toone or two regiments. This incident was told to me by a man who saw it:
What was the blackest sight to meOf all that campaign?A naked woman tied to a treeWith jagged holes where her breasts should be,Rotting there in the rain.On we pressed to the battle fray,Dogged and dour and spent.Sudden I heard my Captain say:"Voilà!Kultur has passed this way,And left us a monument."So I looked and I saw our Colonel there,And his grand head, snowed with the years,Unto the beat of the rain was bare;And, oh, there was grief in his frozen stare,And his cheeks were stung with tears!Then at last he turned from the woeful tree,And his face like stone was set;"Go, march the Regiment past," said he,"That every father and son may see,And none may ever forget."Oh, the crimson strands of her hair downpouredOver her breasts of woe;And our grim old Colonel leaned on his sword,And the men filed past with their rifles lowered,Solemn and sad and slow.But I'll never forget till the day I die,As I stood in the driving rain,And the jaded columns of men slouched by,How amazement leapt into every eye,Then fury and grief and pain.And some would like madmen stand aghast,With their hands upclenched to the sky;And some would cross themselves as they passed,And some would curse in a scalding blast,And some like children cry.Yea, some would be sobbing, and some would pray,And some hurl hateful names;But the best had never a word to say;They turned their twitching faces away,And their eyes were like hot flames.They passed; then down on his bended kneeThe Colonel dropped to the Dead:"Poor martyred daughter of France!" said he,"O dearly, dearly avenged you'll beOr ever a day be sped!"Now they hold that we are the best of the best,And each of our men may wear,Like a gash of crimson across his chest,As one fierce-proved in the battle-test,The blood-redFourragère.For each as he leaps to the top can see,Like an etching of blood on his brain,A wife or a mother lashed to a tree,With two black holes where her breasts should be,Left to rot in the rain.So we fight like fiends, and of us they sayThat we neither yield nor spare.Oh, we have the bitterest debt to pay. . . .Have we paid it?— Look—how we wear to-dayLike a trophy, gallant and proud and gay,Our blood-redFourragère.
It is often weary waiting at the littleposte de secours. Some of us play solitaire, some read a "sixpenny", some doze or try to talk in bad French to thepoilus. Around us is discomfort, dirt and drama.
For my part, I pass the time only too quickly, trying to put into verse the incidents and ideas that come my way. In this way I hope to collect quite a lot of stuff which may some day see itself in print.
Here is one of my efforts:
Never knew Jim, did you? Our boy Jim?Bless you, there was the likely lad;Supple and straight and long of limb,Clean as a whistle, and just as glad.Always laughing, wasn't he, dad?Joy, pure joy to the heart of him,And, oh, but the soothering ways he had,Jim, our Jim!But I see him best as a tiny tot,A bonny babe, though it's me that speaks;Laughing there in his little cot,With his sunny hair and his apple cheeks.And my! but the blue, blue eyes he'd got,And just where his wee mouth dimpled dimSuch a fairy mark like a beauty spot—That was Jim.Oh, the war, the war! How my eyes were wet!But he says: "Don't be sorrowing, mother dear;You never knew me to fail you yet,And I'll be back in a year, a year."'Twas at Mons he fell, in the first attack;For so they said, and their eyes were dim;But I laughed in their faces: "He'll come back,Will my Jim."Now, we'd been wedded for twenty year,And Jim was the only one we'd had;So when I whispered in father's ear,He wouldn't believe me—would you, dad?There! I must hurry . . . hear him cry?My new little baby. . . . See! that's him.What are we going to call him? Why,Jim, just Jim.Jim! For look at him laughing thereIn the same old way in his tiny cot,With his rosy cheeks and his sunny hair,And look, just look . . . his beauty spotIn the selfsame place. . . . Oh, I can't explain,And of course you think it's a mother's whim,But I know, I know it's my boy again,Same wee Jim.Just come back as he said he would;Come with his love and his heart of glee.Oh, I cried and I cried, but the Lord was good;From the shadow of Death he set Jim free.So I'll have him all over again, you see.Can you wonder my mother-heart's a-brim?Oh, how happy we're going to be!Aren't we, Jim?
In Picardy,
January 1915.
The road lies amid a malevolent heath. It seems to lead us right into the clutch of the enemy; for the star-shells, that at first were bursting overhead, gradually encircle us. The fields are strangely sinister; the splintered trees are like giant toothpicks. There is a lisping and a twanging overhead.
As we wait at the door of the dugout that serves as a first-aid dressing station, I gaze up into that mysterious dark, so alive with musical vibrations. Then a small shadow detaches itself from the greater shadow, and a gray-bearded sentry says to me: "You'd better come in out of the bullets."
So I keep under cover, and presently they bring my load. Two men drip with sweat as they carry their comrade. I can see that they all three belong to the Foreign Legion. I think for a moment of Saxon Dane. How strange if some day I should carry him! Half fearfully I look at my passenger, but he is a black man. Such things only happen in fiction.
This is what I have written of the finest troops in the Army of France:
Now Kelly was no fighter;He loved his pipe and glass;An easygoing blighter,Who lived in Montparnasse.But 'mid the tavern tattleHe heard some guinney say:"When France goes forth to battle,The Legion leads the way."The scourings of creation,Of every sin and station,The men who've known damnation,Are picked to lead the way."Well, Kelly joined the Legion;They marched him day and night;They rushed him to the regionWhere largest loomed the fight."Behold your mighty mission,Your destiny," said they;"By glorious traditionThe Legion leads the way."With tattered banners flyingWith trail of dead and dying,On! On! All hell defying,The Legion sweeps the way."With grim, hard-bitten faces,With jests of savage mirth,They swept into their places,The men of iron worth;Their blooded steel was flashing;They swung to face the fray;Then rushing, roaring, crashing,The Legion cleared the way.The trail they blazed was gory;Few lived to tell the story;Through death they plunged to glory;But, oh, they cleared the way!Now Kelly lay a-dying,And dimly saw advance,With split new banners flying,Thefantassinsof France.Then up amid themeleeHe rose from where he lay;"Come on, me boys," says Kelly,"The Layjun lades the way!"Aye, while they faltered, doubting(Such flames of doom were spouting),He caught them, thrilled them, shouting:"The Layjun lades the way!"They saw him slip and stumble,Then stagger on once more;They marked him trip and tumble,A mass of grime and gore;They watched him blindly crawlingAmid hell's own affray,And calling, calling, calling:"The Layjun lades the way!"And even while they wondered,The battle-wrack was sundered;To Victory they thundered,But . . . Kelly led the way.Still Kelly kept agoing;Berserker-like he ran;His eyes with fury glowing,A lion of a man;His rifle madly swinging,His soul athirst to slay,His slogan ringing, ringing,"The Layjun lades the way!"Till in a pit death-baited,Where Huns with Maxims waited,He plunged . . . and there, blood-sated,To death he stabbed his way.Now Kelly was a fellowWho simply loathed a fight:He loved a tavern mellow,Grog hot and pipe alight;I'm sure the Show appalled him,And yet without dismay,When Death and Duty called him,He up and led the way.So in Valhalla drinking(If heroes meek and shrinkingAre suffered there), I'm thinking'Tis Kelly leads the way.
We have just had one of our men killed, a young sculptor of immense promise.
When one thinks of all the fine work he might have accomplished, it seems a shame. But, after all, to-morrow it may be the turn of any of us. If it should be mine, my chief regret will be for work undone.
Ah! I often think of how I will go back to the Quarter and take up the old life again. How sweet it will all seem. But first I must earn the right. And if ever I do go back, how I will find Bohemia changed! Missing how many a face!
It was in thinking of our lost comrade I wrote the following: