XXXIV
Clara Barton’s name will take its place among the world’s heroines. Denver (Colorado)Times.
Life is like a dream.Dr. S. Johnson.
Our Life is a dream.Charles Wesley.
I have a presentiment that I shall not outlast the rebellion.
A. Lincoln.
A. Lincoln.
A. Lincoln.
A. Lincoln.
Dreams are the bright evidence of poem and legend, who sport on the earth in the night season.Charles Dickens.
Dreams in their development have breath and tears, and torture and a touch of joy.Lord Byron.
I have dreamed of bloody turbulence; and this whole nightHath nothing been but forms of slaughter.Shakespeare.
I have dreamed of bloody turbulence; and this whole nightHath nothing been but forms of slaughter.Shakespeare.
I have dreamed of bloody turbulence; and this whole nightHath nothing been but forms of slaughter.Shakespeare.
I have dreamed of bloody turbulence; and this whole night
Hath nothing been but forms of slaughter.Shakespeare.
It seems to me I have been dreaming a horrid dream for four years; now the nightmare is gone.A. Lincoln.
O Memory! that midway world,’Twixt earth and paradise,Where things decayed and loved ones lostIn dreamy shadows rise.A. Lincoln.
O Memory! that midway world,’Twixt earth and paradise,Where things decayed and loved ones lostIn dreamy shadows rise.A. Lincoln.
O Memory! that midway world,’Twixt earth and paradise,Where things decayed and loved ones lostIn dreamy shadows rise.A. Lincoln.
O Memory! that midway world,
’Twixt earth and paradise,
Where things decayed and loved ones lost
In dreamy shadows rise.
A. Lincoln.
To dream of battle—danger of persecution.
Madame Claire Rougemont, Author.
Madame Claire Rougemont, Author.
Madame Claire Rougemont, Author.
Madame Claire Rougemont, Author.
For a woman to dream that she is in battle is a very lucky omen.
The Queen of the Romanies.
The Queen of the Romanies.
The Queen of the Romanies.
The Queen of the Romanies.
IN HER DREAMS—AGAIN IN BATTLE
“What’s that big barn of a house?”
“It’s the Red Cross house.”
“Who lives there?” “Clara Barton, don’t you know Clara Barton?” “And what does she want to live in a house like that for?”
“It is her headquarters—her home. There is where she does her work; there is where she keeps her supplies. Whenever there is a cry of distress anywhere in the United States she is off at a moment’s notice.”
No paint on the outside of the house, none on the inside—a regular barn—why wouldn’t the stranger ask questions?
The inside of the house is also strangely mysterious, with its great central part open to the ceiling; the balconies protected by railings, reminding one of a steamship, the atmosphere giving the stranger a sort of weird, uncanny feeling.
The visitor when within is still curious, and would ask other questions. “What are all these things on the wall?”
“They are diplomas, resolutions of cities, states and nations—medals won for services rendered in distress—all kinds of souvenirs complimentary to Clara Barton.”
“Interesting, very interesting!”
“Yes, no other place like it in all the world.”
“But what are these small doors for? They look like doors to sleeping berths.”
“No, they are doors to closets. There are thirty-eight rooms in this house and seventy-six closets.”
“What are the closets for?”
“Well, these closets in the walls, on either side ofthe big hall, are where she keeps bandages, linen, clothes, food in large quantities, to be shipped wherever wanted. It is surely no vine-clad cottage; it is a veritable store-house of food for the needy, a ware-house of clothes for the suffering,—anywhere in the world. Clara Barton called it her ‘House of Rough Hemlock Boards’—the boards were from the wreckage of the Johnstown flood.”
Hourly in the presence of such environments as to suggest war and flood and famine, and at times delirious, it is not strange that two nights before her death, on April 10, 1912, in her dreams there flitted before her the tragic past; that she dreamt that she was again in battle; that she saw “her boys” with legs and arms gone; that she gave crackers and gruel to the sick and bound up the wounds of the soldiers; that again she felt the twitching at her dress and heard “You saved my life;” that again she caught the last words of the dying to be sent to the mothers and sisters and sweethearts, and heard from the lips of her dying soldier-brother, “Oh! God, save my country!”