"When men shall brothers beAnd form one familyThe wide world o'er!"
"When men shall brothers beAnd form one familyThe wide world o'er!"
"When men shall brothers beAnd form one familyThe wide world o'er!"
"When men shall brothers beAnd form one familyThe wide world o'er!"
It often happens that people dieAt the hand of that they loved the best;One who loves horses all his daysBy a horse's hoof is laid to rest!The swimmer who loves on the waves to lieIs caught in the swell of a passing boat,And the thing he loves breaks over his headAnd chokes the breath from his gasping throat.And the Christ who loved all men so wellThat he came to earth their friend to be,By one was denied, by one betrayed,By others nailed to the cursèd tree!And more and more I seem to seeThat Love is the world's great Tragedy!
It often happens that people dieAt the hand of that they loved the best;One who loves horses all his daysBy a horse's hoof is laid to rest!The swimmer who loves on the waves to lieIs caught in the swell of a passing boat,And the thing he loves breaks over his headAnd chokes the breath from his gasping throat.And the Christ who loved all men so wellThat he came to earth their friend to be,By one was denied, by one betrayed,By others nailed to the cursèd tree!And more and more I seem to seeThat Love is the world's great Tragedy!
It often happens that people dieAt the hand of that they loved the best;One who loves horses all his daysBy a horse's hoof is laid to rest!The swimmer who loves on the waves to lieIs caught in the swell of a passing boat,And the thing he loves breaks over his headAnd chokes the breath from his gasping throat.And the Christ who loved all men so wellThat he came to earth their friend to be,By one was denied, by one betrayed,By others nailed to the cursèd tree!And more and more I seem to seeThat Love is the world's great Tragedy!
It often happens that people dieAt the hand of that they loved the best;One who loves horses all his daysBy a horse's hoof is laid to rest!
The swimmer who loves on the waves to lieIs caught in the swell of a passing boat,And the thing he loves breaks over his headAnd chokes the breath from his gasping throat.
And the Christ who loved all men so wellThat he came to earth their friend to be,By one was denied, by one betrayed,By others nailed to the cursèd tree!
And more and more I seem to seeThat Love is the world's great Tragedy!
Love is a terrible thing—quite different from amiability, which is sometimes confused with it. Amiability will never cause people to do hard things, but love will tear the heart to pieces!
It was because the people of Belgium loved their country that they chose to suffer all things rather than have her good name tarnished among the nations of the earth. It hasbeen for love, love of fair play, love of British traditions, that Canada has sent nearly four hundred thousand men across the sea to fight against the powers of darkness. Canada has nothing to gain in this struggle, in a material way, as a nation, and even less has there been any chance of gain to the individual who answered the call. There are many things that may happen to the soldier after he has put on the uniform, but sudden riches is not among them.
Some of the men, whose love of country made them give up all and follow the gleam, have come back to us now, and on pleasant afternoons may be seen sitting on the balconies of the Convalescent Homes or perhaps being wheeled in chairs by their more fortunate companions. Their neighbors, who had an amiable feeling for the country instead of love, and who therefore stayed at home, are very sorry for these broken men, and sometimes, when the day is fine, they take the "returned men" out in their big cars for a ride!
There are spiritual and moral dead-beats inevery community who get through life easily by following a "safety-first" plan in everything, who keep close to the line of "low visibility," which means, "Keep your head down or you may get hit"; who allow others to do the fighting and bear all the criticism, and then are not even gracious enough to acknowledge the unearned benefits. The most popular man in every community is the one who has never taken a stand on any moral question; who has never loved anything well enough to fight for it; who is broad-minded and tolerant—because he does not care.... Amiability fattens, but love kills!
Amiable patriots at the present time talk quite cheerfully of the conscription of life, but say little of the conscription of wealth, declaring quite truthfully that wealth will never win the war! Neither will men! It will take both, and all we have, too, I am afraid. Surely if the government feels that it can ask one man for his life, it need not be so diffident about asking another man for his wealth. The conscription of wealth might well begin with placing allarticles of food and clothing on the free list and levying a direct tax on all land values. Then, if all profits from war-supplies were turned over to the government, there would be money enough to pay a fair allowance to our soldiers and their dependents. It does not seem fair that the soldier should bear all the sacrifices of hardship and danger, and then have the additional one of poverty for his family and the prospect of it for himself, when he comes back unfit for his former occupation. Hardship and danger for the soldier are inevitable, but poverty is not. The honest conscription of wealth would make it possible for all who serve the Empire to have an assurance of a decent living as long as they live.
If equal pay were given to every man, whether he is a private or a major, equal pensions to every soldier's widow, and if all political preference were eliminated, as it would have to be under this system; when all service is put on the same basis and one man's life counts as much as another's, there would be no need of compulsion to fill the ranks of the Canadianarmy. We know that there never can be equality of service—the soldier will always bear the heavy burden, and no money can ever pay him for what he does; but we must not take refuge behind that statement to let him bear the burdens which belong to the people who stay at home.
Heroism is contagious. It becomes easier when every one is practicing it. What we need now, more than anything, are big, strong, heroic leaders, men of moral passion, who will show us the hard path of sacrifice, not asking us to do what they are not willing to do themselves; not pointing the way, but traveling in it; men of heroic mould who will say, "If my right eye offend me, I will pluck it out"; men who are willing to go down to political death if the country can be saved by that sacrifice. We need men at home who are as brave as the boys in the trenches, who risk their lives every day in a dozen different ways, without a trace of self-applause, who have laid all their equipment on the altar of sacrifice; who "carry on" when all seems hopeless; who stand up to deathunflinchingly, and at the last, ask only, that their faces may be turned to the West!—to Canada!
We have always had plenty of amiability, but in this terrible time it will not do. Our country is calling for love.
Sing a song of the Next of Kin,A weary, wishful, waiting rhyme,That has no tune and has no time,But just a way of wearing in!Sing a song of those who weepWhile slow the weary night hours go;Wondering if God willed it so,That human life should be so cheap!Sing a song of those who wait,Wondering what the post will bring;Saddened when he slights the gate,Trembling at his ring,—The day the British mail comes inIs a day of thrills for the Next of Kin.
Sing a song of the Next of Kin,A weary, wishful, waiting rhyme,That has no tune and has no time,But just a way of wearing in!Sing a song of those who weepWhile slow the weary night hours go;Wondering if God willed it so,That human life should be so cheap!Sing a song of those who wait,Wondering what the post will bring;Saddened when he slights the gate,Trembling at his ring,—The day the British mail comes inIs a day of thrills for the Next of Kin.
Sing a song of the Next of Kin,A weary, wishful, waiting rhyme,That has no tune and has no time,But just a way of wearing in!Sing a song of those who weepWhile slow the weary night hours go;Wondering if God willed it so,That human life should be so cheap!Sing a song of those who wait,Wondering what the post will bring;Saddened when he slights the gate,Trembling at his ring,—The day the British mail comes inIs a day of thrills for the Next of Kin.
Sing a song of the Next of Kin,A weary, wishful, waiting rhyme,That has no tune and has no time,But just a way of wearing in!
Sing a song of those who weepWhile slow the weary night hours go;Wondering if God willed it so,That human life should be so cheap!
Sing a song of those who wait,Wondering what the post will bring;Saddened when he slights the gate,Trembling at his ring,—
The day the British mail comes inIs a day of thrills for the Next of Kin.
When the Alpine climbers make a dangerous ascent, they fasten a rope from one to the other; so that if one slips, the others will be able to hold him until he finds his feet again; and thus many a catastrophe is averted! We have a ring like that here—we whose boys are gone. Somebody is almost sure to get a letter when the British mail comes in; and even a letterfrom another boy read over the 'phone is cheering, especially if he mentions your boy—or even if he doesn't; for we tell each other that the writer of the letter would surely know "if anything had happened."
Even "Posty" does his best to cheer us when the letters are far apart, and when the British mail has brought us nothing tells us it was a very small, and, he is sure, divided mail, and the other part of it will be along to-morrow. He also tells us the U-boats are probably accounting for the scarcity of French mail, anyway, and we must not be worried. He is a good fellow, this "Posty"!
We hold tight to every thread of comfort—we have to. That's why we wear bright-colored clothes: there is a buoyancy, an assurance about them, that we sorely need! We try to economize on our emotions, too, never shedding a useless or idle tear! In the days of peace we could afford to go to see "East Lynne," "Madame X," or "Romeo and Juliet," and cry our eyes red over their sorrows. Now we must go easy on all that! Some of us arerunning on the emergency tank now, and there is still a long way to go!
There are some things we try not to think about, especially at night. There is no use—we have thought it all over and over again; and now our brains act like machines which have been used for sewing something too heavy for them, and which don't "feed" just right, and skip stitches. So we try to do the things that we think ought to be done, and take all the enjoyment we can from the day's work.
We have learned to divide our time into day-lengths, following the plan of the water-tight compartments in ships, which are so arranged that, if a leak occurs in one of these, the damaged one may be closed up, and no harm is done to the ship. So it is in life. We can live so completely one day at a time that no mournful yesterday can throw its dull shadow on the sunshine of to-day; neither can any frowning to-morrow reach back and with a black hand slap its smiling face. To-day is a sacred thing if we know how to live it.
I am writing this on the fourth day ofAugust, which is a day when memory grows bitter and reflective if we are not careful. The August sunshine lies rich and yellow on the fields, and almost perceptibly the pale green of the wheat is absorbing the golden hue of the air. The painted cup has faded from rosy pink to a dull, ashy color, and the few wild roses which are still to be seen in the shaded places have paled to a pastel shade. The purple and yellow of goldenrod, wild sage, gallardia, and coxcomb are to be seen everywhere—the strong, bold colors of the harvest.
Everything spoke of peace to-day as we drove through the country. The air had the indescribably sweet smell of ripening grain, clover-blooms, and new hay; for the high stands of wild hay around the ponds and lakes are all being cut this year, and even the timothy along the roads, and there was a mellow undertone of mowing machines everywhere, like the distant hum of a city. Fat cattle stood knee-deep in a stream as we passed, and others lay contentedly on the clover-covered banks. One restless spirit, with a poke on her neck, sniffed at us aswe went by, and tossed her head in grim defiance of public opinion and man-made laws. She had been given a bad name—and was going to live up to it!
Going over a hill, we came upon a woman driving a mower. It was the first reminder of the war. She was a fine-looking woman, with a tanned face, brown, but handsome, and she swung her team around the edge of the meadow with a grace and skill that called forth our admiration.
I went over and spoke to her, for I recognized her as a woman whom I had met at the Farm-Woman's Convention last winter. After we had exchanged greetings, and she had made her kind inquiry, "What news do you get from the Front?" and had heard that my news had been good—she said abruptly:—
"Did you know I've lost my husband?"
I expressed my sorrow.
"Yes," she said, "it was a smashing blow—never believed Alex could be killed: he was so big, and strong, and could do anything.... Ever since I can remember, I thought Alex wasthe most wonderful of all people on earth ... and at first ... when the news came, it seemed I could not go on living ... but I am all right now, and have thought things out.... This isn't the only plane of existence ... there are others; this is merely one phase of life.... I am taking a longer view of things now.... You see that schoolhouse over there,"—she pointed with her whip to a green-and-white school farther down the road,—"Alex and I went to school there.... We began the same day and left the same day. His family and mine settled in this neighborhood twenty years ago—we are all Kincardine people—Bruce, you know. Our road to school lay together on the last mile ... and we had a way of telling whether the other one had passed. We had a red willow stick which we drove into the ground. Then, when I came along in the morning and found it standing, I knew I was there first. I pulled it out and laid it down, so when Alex came he knew I had passed, and hurried along after me. When he came first and found it standing, he always waited for me, if he could,for he would rather be late than go without me. When I got the message I could not think of anything but the loneliness of the world, for a few days; but after a while I realized what it meant ... Alex had passed ... the willow was down ... but he'll wait for me some place ... nothing is surer than that! I am not lonely now.... Alex and I are closer together than plenty of people who are living side by side. Distance is a matter of spirit ... like everything else that counts.
"I am getting on well. The children are at school now, both of them,—they sit in the same seats we sat in,—the crops are in good shape—did you ever see a finer stand of wild hay? I can manage the farm, with one extra hired man in harvest-time. Alex went out on the crest of the wave—he had just been recommended for promotion—the children will always have a proud memory.
"This is a great country, isn't it? Where can you find such abundance, and such a climate, with its sunshine and its cool nights, and such a chance to make good?... I supposefreedom has to be paid for. We thought the people long ago had paid for it, but another installment of the debt fell due. Freedom is like a farm—it has to be kept up. It is worth something to have a chance to work and bring up my children—in peace—so I am living on from day to day ... not grieving ... not moping ... not thinking too much,—it hurts to think too hard,—just living."
Then we shook hands, and I told her that she had found something far greater than happiness, for she had achieved power!
There is a fine rainbow in the sky this evening, so bright and strong that it shows again in a reflected bow on the clouds behind it. A rainbow is a heartsome thing, for it reminds us of a promise made long ago, and faithfully kept.
There is shadow and shine, sorrow and joy, all the way along. This is inevitable, and so we must take them as they come, and rejoice over every sunny hour of every day, or, if the day is all dark, we must go hopefully forward through the gloom.
To-day has been fine. There was one spattering shower, which pebbled the dusty roads, and a few crashes of rolling thunder. But the western sky is red now, giving promise of a good day to-morrow.
O Thou, who once Thine own Son gaveTo save the world from sin,Draw near in pity now we craveTo all the Next of Kin.To Thee we make our humble prayerTo save us from despair!Send sleep to all the hearts that wake;Send tears into the eyes that burn;Steady the trembling hands that shake;Comfort all hearts that mourn.But most of all, dear Lord, we prayFor strength to see us through this day.As in the wilderness of old,When Thou Thy children safely led,They gathered, as we have been told,One day's supply of heavenly bread,And if they gathered more than that,At evening it was stale and flat,—So, Lord, may this our faith increase—To leave, untouched, to-morrow's load,To take of grace a one-day leaseUpon life's winding road.Though round the bend we may not see,Still let us travel hopefully!Or, if our faith is still so small—Our hearts so void of heavenly grace,That we may still affrighted beIn passing some dark place—Then in Thy mercy let us runBlindfolded in the race.
O Thou, who once Thine own Son gaveTo save the world from sin,Draw near in pity now we craveTo all the Next of Kin.To Thee we make our humble prayerTo save us from despair!Send sleep to all the hearts that wake;Send tears into the eyes that burn;Steady the trembling hands that shake;Comfort all hearts that mourn.But most of all, dear Lord, we prayFor strength to see us through this day.As in the wilderness of old,When Thou Thy children safely led,They gathered, as we have been told,One day's supply of heavenly bread,And if they gathered more than that,At evening it was stale and flat,—So, Lord, may this our faith increase—To leave, untouched, to-morrow's load,To take of grace a one-day leaseUpon life's winding road.Though round the bend we may not see,Still let us travel hopefully!Or, if our faith is still so small—Our hearts so void of heavenly grace,That we may still affrighted beIn passing some dark place—Then in Thy mercy let us runBlindfolded in the race.
O Thou, who once Thine own Son gaveTo save the world from sin,Draw near in pity now we craveTo all the Next of Kin.To Thee we make our humble prayerTo save us from despair!Send sleep to all the hearts that wake;Send tears into the eyes that burn;Steady the trembling hands that shake;Comfort all hearts that mourn.But most of all, dear Lord, we prayFor strength to see us through this day.As in the wilderness of old,When Thou Thy children safely led,They gathered, as we have been told,One day's supply of heavenly bread,And if they gathered more than that,At evening it was stale and flat,—So, Lord, may this our faith increase—To leave, untouched, to-morrow's load,To take of grace a one-day leaseUpon life's winding road.Though round the bend we may not see,Still let us travel hopefully!Or, if our faith is still so small—Our hearts so void of heavenly grace,That we may still affrighted beIn passing some dark place—Then in Thy mercy let us runBlindfolded in the race.
O Thou, who once Thine own Son gaveTo save the world from sin,Draw near in pity now we craveTo all the Next of Kin.To Thee we make our humble prayerTo save us from despair!
Send sleep to all the hearts that wake;Send tears into the eyes that burn;Steady the trembling hands that shake;Comfort all hearts that mourn.But most of all, dear Lord, we prayFor strength to see us through this day.
As in the wilderness of old,When Thou Thy children safely led,They gathered, as we have been told,One day's supply of heavenly bread,And if they gathered more than that,At evening it was stale and flat,—
So, Lord, may this our faith increase—To leave, untouched, to-morrow's load,To take of grace a one-day leaseUpon life's winding road.Though round the bend we may not see,Still let us travel hopefully!
Or, if our faith is still so small—Our hearts so void of heavenly grace,That we may still affrighted beIn passing some dark place—Then in Thy mercy let us runBlindfolded in the race.