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GIFT OF 
 
And This is War 
 
 BY 
 
 CARL HERMON DUDLEY 
 
 Cochrane Publishing Company 
 
 Tribune Building 
 
 New York 
 
 1910 
 
^7^ V- 
 
 ^-b 
 
 Copyright, 1910, by 
 GxTHRANE Publishing Co. 
 
 •*;. 
 
 u^** 
 
TO HER WHOSE LIFE WITH IMY 
 LIFE RHYMES. 
 
 This little book must not go tremblingly 
 forth voyaging to its unknown destination 
 without grateful acknowledgment being made 
 for the help of One who has ever stood by 
 my side, who has witnessed the birth of these 
 stray waifs one by one in my soul, whose 
 timely suggestions and help have given them 
 first aid when their feeble cries indicated 
 that life in them was at low ebb, and who has 
 furnished all the material for some of their 
 stories. 
 
 This grateful acknowledgment I make to 
 my wife, 
 
 Louise Jenkins Dudley. 
 
 Should the rose on thy cheek ever fade, 
 Bloom fairer will the garden of roses 
 Thy life in my life hath made. 
 
 — C. H. D. 
 
 lltl 
 
 cc 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/andthisiswarOOdudlrich 
 
** Great captains with their guns and drums 
 Disturb our judgments for the hour, 
 But at last silence comes/* 
 
 — Lowell. 
 
 "Truth embodied in a tale 
 Shall enter in at lowly doors, 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Which he may read that binds the sheaf, 
 Or builds the house, or digs the grave.'* 
 
 — In Memoriam. 
 
 "Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war.*' 
 '^ __ — Shakespeare. 
 
 "War is hell.** 
 
 — Gen. Sherman. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PART I. 
 War's Alarums. 
 
 Chapter Page 
 
 I. Only Eighteen 11 
 
 II. Drafted 15 
 
 III. Twenty-two and Nineteen - - - 19 
 
 IV. Their Last Child 22 
 
 PART II. 
 War. 
 
 V. And Still The Sun Shone On - - 27 
 
 VI. Only A Common Soldier - - - 30 
 
 VII. The First Soldier-Funeral - - - 33 
 
 VIII. Crape On The Door - ... 36 
 
 IX. Don't Papa Love Me - - - - 39 
 
 X. The Crimes of Peace Are the Virtues of War 43 
 
 XI. The Virtues of Peace Are the Crimes of War 47 
 
 XII. One Of Thousands . . - - 50 
 
 XIII. A Siege, A Little Child, A Christian Woman 52 
 
 XIV. O God! How Long? .... 54 
 
 XV. Why? Why? Why? ... - 57 
 
 XVI. Home In Two Weeks - - - - 61 
 
 XVII. The Evening Before The Battle - - 63 
 
 XVIII. The Waning Hours Of That Night - 73 
 
 XIX. The Battle 78 
 
 XX. And Night Once More - - - - 81 
 
 XXI. The After Days . - - - - 87 
 
CONTENTS— Continued 
 
 
 PART III. 
 
 
 
 After the Wab. 
 
 
 Chapter 
 
 
 Page 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The Home Coming - - - 
 
 - 95 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 One Who Remembered - - - 
 
 99 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 A Child's Plaything 
 
 - 101 
 
 XXV. 
 
 An Old Soldier 
 
 103 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The Little Cottage By The Wayside 
 
 - 105 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 A Rose-Colored Gown - - - 
 
 108 
 
 PART IV. 
 Tms Picture and That. 
 
 XXVIII. The Beginning And The End - - 115 
 
 XXIX. A Home- And Afterwards - - 119 
 
 XXX. And Both Were Speechless - - - 123 
 
 XXXI. ** My Strength is as the Strength of Ten " 128 
 
 PART V. 
 The Unknowable. . , . 
 
 XXXII. Ten O'clock the Night Before the Battle - 135 
 
 XXXIII. And The Last Trump Sounded - - 140 
 
 XXXIV. The Dogs Of War - - - - 142 
 
 XXXV. An Undiscovered Country - - - 147 
 
Part I. 
 
 WAR'S ALARUMS 
 
And This is War 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ONLY EIGHTEEN. 
 
 He was only eighteen, but his country needed him, 
 and he had answered her call. It was the last day he 
 was to have at home — the home of his childhood. On 
 the morrow he was to leave for the army. He wanted 
 to be alone. He wanted to revisit each dear spot on the 
 old farm, to say good-bye to each, — for when would he 
 see them again? 
 
 After dinner was eaten he silently rose from the 
 table, took down his hat, and passed out of the house. 
 Wistfully two pair of eyes followed his retreating figure 
 — the eyes of the mother who bore him and of the 
 father who begot him. The boy passed from sight. 
 They glanced at each other, eyes moistened, throats sud- 
 denly became dry: the father went out in silence, but 
 the mother sat still in the house, gazing awhile at the 
 empty cup before her. Possibly she saw visions of 
 vanished years. Possibly a curly-headed child figured 
 in those visions. 
 
 The father looked anxiously in every direction, but 
 the boy was not in sight. 
 
 He had climbed a distant hill whereon was an oak 
 with limbs nearly sweeping the ground. In its branches 
 
 11 
 
i2'<<''' AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 sunny hours had fled while he played with brothers 
 who were now bearded men roaming afar. Here he 
 had built his castles in the air. He climbs the oak once 
 more. He gazes long on each familiar spot, and his 
 eyes linger caressingly on some which stirred tender 
 memories. 
 
 Long he sat there, and longer were his thoughts. At 
 last he descends from the tree ; he will press again with 
 his foot every place where his baby feet have wandered. 
 He visits the orchard, he roams through the woods, he 
 sits on the bank by the swimming pool, he tarries by 
 the sunken log where he caught his first trout. He 
 thinks of the yesterdays and of the tomorrows, and 
 something swells in his throat. 
 
 He goes to the barn, caresses the horses, and says 
 good-bye. He enters the house and silently goes up 
 stairs, picks up a few old toys and packs them away. 
 He handles each lovingly, and he remembers. To- 
 morrow he leaves for the war. Ah, he never knew be- 
 fore how many heart-strings bound him to the old place 
 and the old familiar scenes. Familiar ? Yes — but what 
 strange light is this in which each seems to swim this 
 long afternoon? 
 
 It is midnight; the last night has reached its noon. 
 The darkness is thick in the home, but the morning has 
 begun — the morning that for the boy should know no 
 evening under his father's roof; the morning that for 
 the parents ushered in an endless evening, till the 
 boy should come back — if he ever would. 
 
 She was a plain farm wife and mother and the world 
 never heard her name: and yet there were those that 
 loved her, and she loved, too. She could not sleep. 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 13 
 
 Her thoughts were of the boy. Noiselessly she slips 
 from her husband's side, noiselessly she enters the open 
 door of the boy's chamber. It is in total darkness. 
 Slowly she feels her way to a window, pulls back the 
 curtain a little ways, and a dim light falls on the sleep- 
 er's face. 
 
 Long she stands there hushed and awed, not a muscle 
 moving. She is all soul, and her soul is all in her eyes, 
 and her eyes are devouring a sleeping face — her boy's. 
 The sleeper stirs a little. He is dreaming. ** Mother," 
 he softly breathes. A mother's heart stops beating. She 
 has become all ears, but that one word is all. 
 
 And the breakfast hour came. Appetites were small. 
 Silence was king. A book is taken from the center 
 table. Its leather cover is rusty and worn. The bind- 
 ing is falling to pieces. The leaves are tattered and 
 soiled. On the cover are some nearly illegible letters, 
 once guilt; they spell, "Holy Bible." The father opens 
 the book and reads. A prayer follows, and a strange 
 peace finds a tiny entrance into hearts packed with sad- 
 ness. A team is brought to the door. Quivering lips 
 touch quivering lips and filmy eyes look into filmy 
 eyes. Then father and son ride away down the dusty 
 highway — yes, ride away. And a woman stands in the 
 door with a hand shading her eyes. The team passes 
 out of sight, and a woman turns back into the house. 
 
 The father and son slowly ascend a long hill. Reach- 
 ing its summit, before passing down the other side, a 
 boy rises in the wagon, turns round and takes a last 
 look at the valley he is leaving behind. A woman has 
 come to the door once more ; she sees a boy standing in 
 a distant wagon on a hill, and the boy sees a woman 
 
14 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 standing in a farmhouse door down in the valley, and 
 then he passes over the hill. 
 
 Father and son do not talk, but occasionally each 
 takes a hasty sidelong glance at the other, and then 
 quickly turns his eyes to the distant, low-lying, smoky 
 hills. 
 
 They reach the station, the train comes puffing in, 
 the father drives home alone. 
 
 Will the boy come back? 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 DRAFTED. 
 
 He was a stalwart man mentally and physically, 
 God-fearing and true. Eight years before he had mar- 
 ried the lass across the way. They had been sweet- 
 hearts since childhood. A little home was purchased, 
 mainly on hope of future savings ; and to this home the 
 joyous bride was brought. The little white farmhouse 
 became a Garden of Eden. In the six years following 
 the bridal morn, three little faces stole into their en- 
 chanted bower. And great happiness welled up in the 
 husband's heart as he took his rest at eventide under 
 his own vine and fig-tree. 
 
 But as the eighth year of this unmarred happiness 
 was tapering to its close, clouds of war rose dark and 
 portentous and the whole land reeled under the thick 
 shadows. The call for troops came. He was a well-read 
 man. intelligent, courageous, patriotic. But everybody 
 prophesied a short war, so, though he longed to bear 
 a part of his country's burdens, he felt that as single 
 men were plenty and eager to fight, he must not desert 
 those God had given him to protect. 
 
 But the war dragged on. Call for men followed call, 
 until every square mile of his native land was constant- 
 ly atremble with the march of its bravest sons passing 
 from every home to where gory death held high, car- 
 nival. His country's voice rang in his ears. Home ties 
 clutched at his heart. In the night he tossed on a 
 
 15 
 
16 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 wakeful pillow. He looked into the calm face of his 
 sleeping bride-wife; into three little faces on which the 
 moonlight played. No ! he could not, must not, go. The 
 farm was still heavily mortgaged, his oldest child but 
 seven. 
 
 Battle after battle was lost. The Ruler and his cabi- 
 net took counsel late into the nights. The ranks that 
 faced the foe were thinning, the tramp, tramp, tramp 
 from homes about him was growing fainter and fainter ; 
 there were fewer now to go forth — and those few were 
 needed where they were. The claims of home and hu- 
 manity chained them to their uneasy posts. The news- 
 papers began darkly and mysteriously to hint at the 
 possible necessity of drafting men to fill the wasted 
 ranks. Their tone grew more certain and clamorous. 
 It was done: the draft ordered. The father hid the 
 paper containing this announcement. That night he 
 again looked long hours into four peaceful, sleeping 
 faces. Four separate swords passed through his heart 
 and some four-handed monster had hold of the four 
 hilts of those swords and was remorselessly sawing back 
 and forth. 
 
 For three days he hid every paper that came to 
 the house. His wife asked for them, but evasive an- 
 swers satisfied her unsuspecting love. The fourth day 
 when h6 was away in the field at work, a neighbor 
 dropped in to chat and brought the news of the draft. 
 The wife's face paled and her lips tightened, but she 
 said little. When the visitor had at last taken her de- 
 parture, the wife hunted up the missing papers. She 
 read them, and she read her husband's nameless dread. 
 
 That night she spoke to him about the matter — and 
 four eyes in an isolated farm home failed to close in 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 17 
 
 sleep. In two little beds, through an open door, three 
 little children were sleeping calmly on. 
 
 A week passed. The day of the draft came. He 
 could not wait at home. He heard the names read off — 
 his own among them. 
 
 After he had left home that morning a woman who 
 had said good-bye with brave but white and twitching 
 face hurried three little children outdoors to their play ; 
 then she collapsed into a chair and, with arms on the 
 table and face buried on her arms, her form was shaken 
 with convulsive sobs, and salt tears wet her face and 
 dress. In her anguish she called upon God to spare 
 them the impending blow. 
 
 A little child seven years old heard a strange sound 
 and, leaving her play, came to the door. What was the 
 matter with mamma? Scared and wondering, she noise- 
 lessly went away and called her sister next younger; 
 and the two came to the door, and there they stopped. 
 Lens: they gazed with frisrhtened faces upon that 
 shaking, moaning form huddled by the table. Silently 
 they tiptoed to her side, and the little eyes grew larger 
 and larger, while the little bodies are held motionless 
 with terror. A toddler of three, missing the older chil- 
 dren, clambers up the steps, enters the open door, and 
 patters noisily over the bare floor. The mother hbars, 
 raises her streaming eyes, and through their wet bitter- 
 ness looks into three pairs of scared, mystified child- 
 eyes. 
 
 Little lips cry out: ''Mamma c'ying! mamma c'y- 
 ing! Don't c'y, mamma! Don't c'y, mamma!" And 
 three little broken hearts begin to weep. And the 
 mother has to comfort them, yes, comfort them. 
 
 A farmer is slowly driving home. A farmer ? Nay ! 
 
18 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 a husbana and a father. He sees naught about him. 
 He is thinking. A woman goes often to an open door 
 and gazes longingly, dreadingly, up the winding road. 
 A team comes into sight around a turn, comes slowly 
 on toward where the woman waits. A man is in that 
 wagon. His head is bowed, the lines have fallen from 
 his hands, but he hasn't noticed this. 
 
 The team draw near the gate. The bowed head is 
 not lifted. The woman tries to steal out of the house 
 unobserved, but six little eyes see her go, six little ears 
 hear a team approaching, six little feet follow after 
 the woman. They raise their eyes, gleefully they lift 
 up their voices: *'Papa coming! Papa coming!" The 
 man is aroused from his revery. A woman looks into 
 his eyes and he into hers. Strength goes from her 
 limbs, she totters, is falling. The man leaps from the 
 wagcn and catches her with trembling arms. 
 
 Three white little faces look up into father's, and 
 father looks down into three white little faces. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 TWENTY-TWO AND NINETEEN. 
 
 He was twenty-two and she nineteen. They had 
 been engaged only six weeks, and the light of lights 
 still shone in four eyes that knew nothing but the morn- 
 ing. 
 
 War had been declared. He loved as a true man's 
 heart does love. Yet he had a man's head and a man's 
 conscience, and he knew down deep somewhere in his 
 soul that somehow a man's life belongs first to God and 
 country, only afterwards to home and friends and 
 sweethearts; and, lastly, if at all, to self. 
 
 At first the voice of his country seemed to pass him 
 by, or he failed to hear it, absorbed as he was in his 
 new-born happiness. But that call became louder, 
 more urgent, more imperious, more distressful. Yes, 
 his country needed men, must have them, or she die. 
 He knew her cause was the cause of God and all hu- 
 manity. Her voice pierced the joints of the armor of 
 his happiness. Conscience leaped to her feet. Duty 
 shouted in his ears. His country's voice was no longer 
 self-confident, vaunting, unafraid; but the voice of 
 fear, of anguish, of desperate, imperative need. 
 
 Six months ago he would have greeted that call to 
 arms with a shout of martial ardor, but now — there was 
 another. The old conflict broke out in his soul, a con- 
 flict which most men know sooner or later, be there war 
 or be there peace — how meet and satisfy the claims of 
 
 19 
 
20 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 God and men and one^s work in the world, and also the 
 demands and expectations of those to whom the heart 
 is pledged? 
 
 He fought back the hour of decision. He became 
 strangely quiet and pre-occupied in her presence. Her 
 heart grew anxious, and pain nestled down beside her 
 joy and almost crowded it out. Was his love growing 
 cold already? Was he tiring of her? Did he think he 
 had made a mistake? 
 
 At last her breaking heart forced these questions to 
 her lips. Yes, he loved her better than life, he declared 
 — and crushed her to his heart. Ah, yes. he did love 
 her then. But why his silences, why his unhappiness? 
 Wouldn't he share his troubles with her? 
 
 For a time he was evasive, but she pressed him hard. 
 At length, almost without the consent or knowledge of 
 his will, there broke from his lips: ''The war, dearest! 
 this terrible war — you know the need of men — what 
 shall I do?" 
 
 At first she was dumfounded; then she turned upon 
 him in bitter reproaches. Did he love a uniform better 
 than he loved her? Was this all he cared for her after 
 all? Was this all his vows of constancy amounted to? 
 Let others go to the dreadful war if they wanted to. 
 Why should he desert her in the moment of their great 
 happiness? Was this as long as his pledges of life- 
 long devotion were to last? 
 
 They parted that night, her eyes glittering with 
 anger and wounded pride: his with a dumb ache she 
 did not know and could not fathom. He rode home, 
 torn with conflicting emotions, with battling voices 
 shouting in his soul. Oh, God, what should he do? 
 Was not his battle hard enough without the one he 
 worshiped throwing herself into the scales against the 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 21 
 
 call of duty? What should he do? What should he do? 
 
 The days came and went. He toiled up the steep hill, 
 bearing his cross. He crucified himself and his love, 
 as thousands of other brave and silent men had done 
 before him. He enlisted. 
 
 The night he confessed his conflict she did not sleep. 
 She came to see that he was right and she was wrong ; 
 but at first her anger waxed, anger at self, and so re- 
 sentment against him all the more bitter and unyield- 
 ing. But her heart was true and her passion passed. 
 He had not come again. She wrote him that he must 
 do right and she would honor him the more. 
 
 He came to see her the evening he received her let- 
 ter. On the morrow he was to start for the front. The 
 night was warm. Arm in arm they strolled under the 
 trees. They talked of their love, of their dreams, and 
 of the morrow. They looked up at the silent stars and 
 the silent stars looked down — looked down into four 
 young and tear-stained eyes as the stars have looked 
 down into such eyes since that first morning when they 
 sang together, as they will continue to look down into 
 such until the mantle of silence enfolds the dwelling 
 place of man forever. 
 
 The night waned — and still the lovers wandered on 
 arm in arm, unheeding Time's mad rush. Suddenly a 
 shaft of light shot up the sky in the far East. Could 
 it be? — yes, the morning was breaking. Whither had 
 fled the night — whither? 
 
 For a moment hands cling to hands, lips cling to 
 lips — then they parted. And there be ''partings such 
 as press the life from out young hearts.'' He went to 
 the front where flags wave, and cannon roar, and men 
 shout, and dare, and do, and die. And she ? She went 
 into the house and — waited. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THEIR LAST CHILD. 
 
 Both were well past seventy. Age and sorrow had 
 long since bowed their forms and marred their faces. 
 They had known a life of toil and disappointment. Four 
 of their children were sleeping side by side. Only one 
 still remained to them. He was now forty, unmarried, 
 and living at home: and they leaned on him harder 
 and harder from day to day. 
 
 Twenty years earlier this son was in college looking 
 forward to a professional career, as a boy of twenty 
 does look forward. He loved a maiden then as fair as 
 the flowers of spring, loved her as a boy of twenty does 
 love. 
 
 An older brother, the last of the five children save 
 himself, had chosen to keep the homestead and take 
 care of **the old folks at home." This brother died. 
 
 The boy of twenty had not yet told the girl that he 
 loved her; he never told her. He packed up his books, 
 folded away his ambitions and hopes in memory's wind- 
 ing sheet. He went home. He stayed home. His 
 broken-hearted parents were comforted by his presence. 
 He never told them that he had loved; they never 
 guessed it. The girl married, he saw children grow up 
 about her; they called another man father. 
 
 The war came. His parents never dreamed that its 
 gory voice could disturb the peace of their little house- 
 hold. Their son had turned a deaf ear to the call of a 
 profession ; to the call of love, and home, and ambition. 
 He had forsaken all else to cleave unto them — and their 
 
 22 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 23 
 
 hearts were at rest, their feet gently descending to the 
 river *s brink. 
 
 But the nation was crying out in its sore travail : the 
 son heard that piteous cry. A day came when its voice 
 broke through every barrier he had erected between 
 his ear and his soul — he answered that cry, he enlisted. 
 He rode back to a weather-beaten house on a wind- 
 swept hill, where two aged people were sitting by a 
 flickering fire. He went in to tell them what he had 
 done. It was mid-afternoon. He gazed upon the scene 
 before him, then into those aged eyes, then decided he 
 would wait till supper time before telling them. He 
 left the house to do a piece of farm work; but some- 
 way the work didn't go on very fast. 
 
 His mother called him to supper. Now he was to tell 
 them. But again he thought he would wait; it would 
 be easier and they would have more time to discuss it 
 after the chores were done. Someway he didn't eat 
 much nor talk much either. He finished the chores and 
 returned to the house. The father was reading the 
 day's news, the mother serenely knitting, and both were 
 at peace. He would wait until bedtime before telling 
 them. 
 
 The father is reading of the war's red carnage, of 
 the nation's terrible defeat. He reads aloud an occa- 
 sional sentence, commenting as he reads. The son's 
 uphill task grows harder. The mother speaks. She 
 rejoices that no son of hers is in that disastrous, dead- 
 strewn rout. She speaks of the comfort the son is to 
 their declining years. She speaks of the four children 
 at rest. She magnifies the mercy of God in sparing 
 one child to close their eyes at last, and lay them be- 
 side those whom the Reaper had long since garnered. 
 And the son listens. He is thinking. 
 
24 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 Suddenly it comes to the mother that he is saying 
 nothing, that he has been silent all the evening. She 
 raises her eyes and peers searchingly into his face. She 
 discovers it is pinched and drawn. "]My son, what is 
 it?" she cries out, feeling the cold, clammy hand of 
 nameless dread icily clutching her heart to suffocation. 
 ''Mother, I have enlisted!" he blurts out. 
 
 A scream of anguish breaks from those lips which 
 have just been praising God's mercy in sparing their 
 boy to them in their desolate, wintry years. The paper 
 falls from the nerveless hands of the aged father. He 
 wrings those withered hands, rocking back and forth 
 in silence more terrible than any words, his face work- 
 ing contortedly. The son tries to speak, he wants com- 
 fort, but lips and tongue refuse their office. He rises 
 from his chair and stands a moment looking at his 
 parents in a helpless sort of way, his hands nervously 
 twitching at his side. Then he turns about and steals 
 noiselessly from the room and up the stairs. 
 
 Into the far hours of the night the mother was still 
 weeping. *' Mother," the tremulous, shaking tones 
 were those of the aged husband by her side, "you re- 
 member the Good Book says, 'he spared not his only 
 Son.* Shall we keep back ours when our country 
 needs him most?" 
 
 "No, no, father! But my gray hairs will go down 
 to the grave in sorrow." 
 
 "Yes." responded the old man's voice, "but it 
 won't be long now for either of us." 
 
 "No!" was the answer, "and it is well. It is better 
 so — we will see the others." 
 
 "Yes, we'll see the others." , 
 
 And God gave them sleep. 
 
Part II. 
 
 WAR 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 AND STILL THE SUN SHONE ON. 
 
 He was born and bred in Ohio. His parents were 
 New England Puritans, God-fearing, slavery-hating, 
 stalwart and fearless. Their home was one of the main 
 stations on the ''underground railroad." Many a 
 black man had they helped to reach the Canadian bor- 
 der. Never was a slave turned away from their door. 
 Their lives were ever in peril from enraged slavehold- 
 ers, for their sympathy with the runaway was notorious. 
 Twice had their outbuildings been burned to the 
 ground, their death threatened times without number. 
 
 When the boy was only twelve there had come fran- 
 tically pounding on their door late one night, when the 
 household was all wrapped in deepest slumber, a wild- 
 eyed, torn and bleeding slave, exhausted by his race 
 for life and nearly starved. Already the baying of thei 
 remorseless bloodhounds in hot and deadly pursuit 
 could be heard in the distance, and armed men were 
 galloping close behind. To shield the black was to im- 
 peril the life of every member of the home. 
 
 "Come in," said the boy's father, "we cannot die 
 in a holier cause, if die we must." The mother was 
 white with terror. The children heard the oncoming 
 hounds and were screaming in an agony of fear. The 
 echoing hoofbeats of hard-running horses now began 
 to chime in with the frantic clamor of the dogs. Food 
 was set before the ravenous black, who bolted it like a 
 
 27 
 
S8 AND THIS is WAR 
 
 starving beast, despite the horrors of his situation. Con- 
 cealment was impossible. The father alone was calm. 
 What should be done? They were practically defense- 
 less and evidently there were at least half a dozen of 
 the horsemen. But there was no time even to plan. 
 The moon was poised serenely and unconcerned in 
 midheaven, her silvery light making the night bright 
 enough to read in. The aspect of nature was one of 
 infinite peace. 
 
 The father opened the door and looked out. A 
 long, gaunt, gigantic beast with lolling tongue swung 
 in at the gate, and with inhuman roar dashed up the 
 driveway; three others followed a few leaps behind, 
 their hellish clamor stopping the very beating of hu- 
 man hearts. Horsemen followed. A volley of pistol 
 shots rattled against the house, smashing windows and 
 penetrating doors. The father from behind a pillar 
 of the porch hailed the huntsmen of the night and 
 begged the privilege of purchasing the freedom of their 
 prey. A volley of oaths and a volley of lead answered 
 his appeal, and his right arm hung useless at his side. 
 The men leaped from their horses and smashed open 
 the doors. Men and dogs entered together, a motley, 
 indiscriminate mass of pitiless fury. Too stupefied 
 even to try to escape, there sat the cowering black, 
 paralyzed with terror. Screaming children in their 
 nightelothes vainly tried to clamber up the very walls 
 of the room. 
 
 Dogs and men sprang upon the fugitive slave and 
 dragged him with teeth and claws out into the night 
 and en and away to endless doom. And the iron en- 
 tered the soul of a boy twelve years old. 
 
 The years rolled by and found the boy, now a youth 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 29 
 
 of twenty, a private in the regular army of the United 
 States. His regiment was located in the far South- 
 west. James K. Polk ordered the invasion of a^ sister 
 republic with whom we were at peace. Battles were 
 fought and won, and a republic founded upon liberty 
 and the rights of man proceeded to steal half the area 
 of a helpless neighbor in order that the hiss of the 
 slave-driver's lash and the baying of man-hunting 
 dogs might mingle forever with the songs of freedom 
 and the praise of God. 
 
 The boy knew the meaning of war and his soul re- 
 volted. Every victory deepened his anguish. "What 
 could he do? He was a private, so he could not re- 
 sign from the service. There was his oath of loyalty 
 and obedience; should he desert and so commit per- 
 jury? Or should he continue loyal to a country whose 
 cause he believed rested under the curse of Almighty 
 God? 
 
 He recalled that night of his childhood eight years 
 previous. In the silence of the following night he fled 
 from his post. He could war against his conscience 
 no longer. He was now a deserter. Fifteen miles he 
 hurr'ed on ere morning light overtook him. But the 
 hounds were on his trail. He heard their voices, he 
 knew the message they were heralding. 
 
 The trial by court-martial was brief. The sentence 
 pronounced. They stood him forth in the presence of 
 his comrades. A shot rang out, a puff of smoke, a 
 crumpled form, a pool of blood. And still the grass 
 waved, and still the birds twittered in the trees, and 
 still the sun shone on. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ONLY A COMMON SOLDIER. 
 
 He and his wife were driving into towTi that fore- 
 noon as rapidly as their stolid work-team could go. 
 They were in a nervous hurry, for they hoped a letter 
 might be there from their son who was away at the 
 front. A battle had been fought a few days before 
 and no word had they received since. The previous 
 evening after his hard day's w^ork the father had 
 walked the two miles to the office, forbearing to take 
 out again his jaded team. No letter was there and the 
 fears and suspense of the home had become almost un- 
 endurable. 
 
 As soon as the morning's mail was in, too impatient 
 to wait another moment, the father unhitched from the 
 plow and started to town. The wife could not wait 
 his return. She left the preparation of the noon meal, 
 put on hat and shawl, and sprang into the wagon. No 
 word was spoken. . As they approached the railroad 
 crossing, with thoughts far, far away, they were near- 
 ly dashed to death by the fearful rush of a magnificent 
 train running off schedule time. They pulled up their 
 team and swung their heads to one side just in time 
 to save themselves a mangled death. 
 
 That train was the private one of a millionaire mag- 
 nate just returning from the nation's capital with an- 
 other fat contract for supplying the army with meat. 
 As his splendid train shot across half the continent he 
 
 30 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 31 
 
 reveled in the thoughts of the millions he would be able 
 to pile up, if only the war would last long enough. 
 Yes, surely, it would last some months yet. He had 
 a few law-makers down at the capital and he could 
 easily persuade them that peace ought not to be con- 
 cluded until the nation's enemies came begging for it 
 on their knees. Yes, the war would last some time yet, 
 thank God for that; and meantime that contract nes- 
 tled close to his heart. He was happy, why shouldn't 
 he be ? ]\Iore millions, that he did not need and could 
 not spend, were coming his way. 
 
 The boy's parents reached the post-ofBce without 
 mishap, and there, sure enough, was a letter in a hand- 
 writing that they loved so well. The boy had been 
 in the thick of the fight, but came through unharmed. 
 It was a patriotic, tumultuous, exulting boy-letter. 
 They read it through and through. They discussed its ev- 
 ery phrase. They talked of the boy; they recalled little 
 incidents of his childhood; they repoiced in his hero- 
 ism and willingness to die for his country if need be; 
 and they tried to be as brave as he in enduring the ter- 
 rible suspense of separation. But now another battle 
 was past; he was safe, and silently both thanked their 
 Maker. 
 
 That night after the chores were done and these 
 long married lovers were sitting on the porch of 
 their little home silently watching the sunset, but think- 
 ing all the while of their boy, the father spoke: 
 "Mother, have you the boy's letter?" 
 
 **Why, yes, I think so, somewhere," and as though 
 half ashamed to have even her husband discover her 
 great love, she took from the bosom of her dress the al- 
 ready well-thumbed letter. 
 
32 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 ''Read it again, please,** said the father. And the 
 mother read once more a letter which each already 
 knew by heart. 
 
 *'So he is safe and sound still, praise God,** said the 
 father, when the reading was done. 
 
 **Yes,** said the mother, *'he is a brave boy, ready 
 to die for his country, but I believe God will bring him 
 back safe." 
 
 In that same hour in a distant c:ty a mighty con- 
 tractor was reading again his Bible, that is, his con- 
 tract; and he rubbed his podgy hands together as he 
 lovingly caressed that document with his eyes, for he 
 already felt the yellow gold kissing his passionate fin- 
 gers. And he laughed low and long as he thought how 
 he had tapped the government till once more; and he 
 calculated rapidly the number of ''common people" 
 whose paltry taxes would be necessary to swell the 
 golden stream that must flow into his already plethoric 
 vaults as a result of this new deal. Yes, he was sure 
 the war would last some months yet. And as those par- 
 ents looking into the face of the setting sun had thanked 
 their God for the safety of their boy, so he thanked his 
 for the war's bounteous harvest. 
 
 That same night in a far island under an alien sky, a 
 ^oy? joyously willing to bare his breast to the bullet's 
 worst, languished out his life like a poisoned rat in a 
 hole. When the scalding sun rose once more and the 
 call- to 4inna:.. sounded, the boy did not answer.- He 
 never answered again. The magnate had had an earlier 
 contract. 
 
 Quenchless tears flowed in one home, quenchless gold 
 flowed into the other. But, after all, he was only a 
 "common soldier." 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE FIRST SOLDIER-FUNERAL. 
 
 The bells were tolling. The streets were closeted. 
 Business had ceased. Traffic was at a standstill. The 
 silence was more profound than that of a Sabbath day 
 in the country where you used to live when a child. A 
 pall of gloom had fallen like an enshrouding mantle 
 over the entire village. The awe could be felt like a 
 tangible thing. People met with averted faces. If per- 
 chance they spoke, it was in hushed, almost sepulchral 
 tones. 
 
 "What had happened? The first soldier boy from 
 that community had been brought back from the battle- 
 field — dead. The day of his funeral had come. Flags 
 were half-masted. Every store and business place was 
 closed. Every farm and garden were at rest. No 
 sound of toil could be heard. The symbols of mourn- 
 ing were everywhere displayed. 
 
 The sorrow was as though the first-born lay dead in 
 every home. A feeling of appalling tragedy was as 
 pervasive as though the first citizen of the village had 
 been wantonly assassinated in the public square. The 
 solemnity was as though the body of a martyred Presi- 
 dent were lying in state in their -midst. There was, 
 too, an exaltation as though immortal distinction had 
 been conferred upon the entire community; All wept 
 that day with those who wept. All felt, from the oldest 
 
 33 
 
34 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 to the youngest, from the richest to the poorest, from 
 nearest relative to most distant acquaintance, as though 
 they had sustained a personal bereavement. 
 
 Nay, more, each felt, from the most exalted citizen 
 to the humblest, as though he himself had had a per- 
 sonal share in a glorious martyrdom and thereby had 
 been uplifted and consecrated. 
 
 Never in the history of the township had such crowds 
 attended a funeral, not even when the body of the ex- 
 Governor of a distant State had been brought back for 
 burial with his kindred dead in this the village of his 
 childhood. The old church, spacious as it was, could 
 not begin to admit the eager throngs. Every house 
 poured out its every inmate from babe at the breast to 
 tottering age. Farmers came in droves from miles 
 around. 
 
 Never had the old white-haired pastor been so elo- 
 quent. Those who had sat under his preaching for well 
 on toward forty years stared agape this day as they 
 listened to his thrilling eloquence. His diction was su- 
 perb yet perfectly simple, and as limpid and crystal as 
 the waters of a mountain spring. His voice rang out 
 clear and strong. His tones electrified. His face 
 glowed with unwonted beauty and ardor. 
 
 Yes, it was the greatest, the saddest, the most exalted 
 day that village had ever known. 
 
 But the war dragged oa, six months, a year, two 
 years; — and still the end was not yet. All thi&tiine the 
 lines of the contending hosts were scarce a hundred 
 miles away. The stream of dead flowed itom these bat- 
 tlefields to the little berg as steadily as the waters of a 
 river to the sea — summer and winter, winter and 
 summer. 
 
• AND THIS IS WAR 35 
 
 There was a day, it was now long past, when all wept 
 with those who wept. Now no one had a tear for an- 
 other's sorrow. No one had a tear for his own sorrow. 
 The fount of tears was dry. In the village cemetery 
 there was a fresh grave in every family plot; on every 
 heart the crape was hanging, and the hearse was com- 
 moner than the milk-cart. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 CRAPE ON THE DOOR. 
 
 He was marching under a broiling Southern sun. She 
 was in the far Northland. Ten years before, in the 
 flush rf youth find joy and hope, they had stood side 
 by side and hand in hand and repeated with tremulous 
 ecsta-y the solemn words — "in sickness and in health, 
 till d^ath us do part.*' 
 
 For ten swift love-lit years no shadow had fallen 
 across the garden of their joy. Ten arrowy years of 
 honeymoon, ten arrowy years of youth and joy and 
 hope, ten arrowy years of tremulous ecstasy — these 
 they had known. Her face was as youthful and fair 
 to him when those years had flown as when they first 
 stooped at the marriage altar to unfurl their wings for 
 life's flight together. His form was as superb and his 
 honor as bright and his love as unswerving in her sight 
 as on the day when she slowly repeated the words, 
 "From this day forward, for better for worse, for 
 richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, 
 cherish and to obey.** 
 
 She had known one long illness. He never left her 
 side day nor night. He held her hand in the night 
 watches, he looked into her eyes and she into his. lov- 
 ers* eyes both, and she forgot her pain. Slowly she 
 convalesced. He took her to the sunny South, to far 
 islands, to foreign climes. The rose bloomed anew on 
 her cheek. Roses bloomed anew in both their hearts. 
 
 36 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 37 
 
 Ten years came and went, and never a twenty-four 
 hours that eyes did not look love to eyes that spake 
 again. 
 
 Ten years had come and gone, and now he was 
 marching under a broiling Southern sun. She was in 
 the far Northland. He slept on the hard ground, un- 
 der the stars, under the clouds, in the snow, in the rain. 
 And she ? She slept not at all. ' ' Oh, my lonely, lonely, 
 lonely pillow!" Yes, ten years had flown and war's 
 raucous voice had wrenched asunder those whom God 
 had joined together. 
 
 At first her letters had been long and brave, pitifully 
 brave. They grew shorter. The handwriting began to 
 look different someway, feebler as it were. Anxious in- 
 quiry followed anxious inquiry: was she well? Yes, 
 she was well, so she wrote. But was she? Look at her 
 face — the roses have withered. Look at her hands — 
 her white, shrunken hands. How large the veins are. 
 Watch her walk — is there a ball and chain dragging 
 behind? Yes, but no one can see them — and no Samson 
 could drag them long. 
 
 She stops taking her daily walk. That ball is grow- 
 ing larger, that chain longer, heavier, and harder to 
 drag. A letter in a strange hand reaches him. Try- 
 ing to open it, he tore the letter in two as well as the 
 envelope. Ve asks his messmate to read it for him. 
 They bend low by the flickering camp-fire. The letter 
 is brief: ''Sir: I am writing this unbeknown to your 
 wife. In fact, she strictly forbade me writing at all. 
 But she was unable to do so today and it is worrying 
 her. It may be some time before she is able to write 
 again." 
 
 He held the letter before his eyes all niglit long, but 
 
38 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 he did not read it again: he couldn't; something was 
 the matter with his eyes. Could he get a furlough ? He 
 dare not ask, a great battle was only, a week off. Should 
 he desert? No, that would cut off all hope. There had 
 been several desertions of late and so vigilance had 
 been trebled, detection would be almost certain, and 
 detection spelt death. He must wait until after the 
 battle, wait a week, and his wife perhaps even now dy- 
 ing. Wait? Could mortal man wait in such an hour? 
 
 Sixty seconds. in a minute, sixty minutes in an hour, 
 twenty-four hours in a day, seven days in a week, 
 604,800 seconds in seven days, 604,800 separate eterni- 
 ties in seven days. His comrades thought he seemed 
 rather queer after that night the letter came. 
 
 The battle was fought, he was unhurt, secured his 
 furlough, and started North. Reaching the last sta- 
 tion he rushed to the nearest livery. There was not a 
 saddle to be had. He hired the fastest carriage horse, 
 mounted bareback, and spurred into a run before he 
 was through the barndoor. Farmers stopped work in 
 the field as a foam-flecked horse shot past in a storm 
 of dust. He whirled in at the gate, his staggering beast 
 reeling with a broken blood-vessel. The blinds were 
 closed. Crape hung from the door. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ' ■ don't papa love me? 
 
 Among his business associates he was known as a 
 rather hard man. And, in truth, while strictly honest, 
 he was remorselessly exacting. One who knew him only 
 in his relations outside the home would have described 
 him as a cold, passionless, unfeeling man. And this 
 description of him was correct as far as the world had 
 an opportunity to judge. 
 
 But there was another side to his nature and that 
 was tenderness to children. He had begun poor, amassed 
 some property, married, and then labored all the harder 
 to gather a fortune for the children he hoped would 
 bless his home. Ten years he waited. Disappointment 
 followed disappointment year after year. The tender- 
 ness of his heart was turning to gall in the bitterness of 
 his unrealized hopes. Meanwhile his fortune piled up; 
 but the higher it piled the less he cared for it, for 
 whose should it be after him? 
 
 He was beginning to hate his wealth, it seemed like 
 a marble memorial of his dead hopes. He grew mo- 
 rose, and his friends grew fewer. 
 
 Ten years passed, and then a baby voice was heard in 
 his home, that of a little girl, and the man was trans- 
 formed, born anew. She was the pearl of great price to 
 him. Pearl should be her name, and a pearl she was. 
 She was a jewel of indescribable beauty, of artless grace 
 and charm. Her hair was gold, her eyes were dia- 
 
 39 
 
40 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 monds, her teeth were pearls, her lips were rubies — so 
 her father thought. 
 
 In the nursery he was an older brother to his child ; 
 nay more, he was a child her own age. He played all 
 her little games, and it was a question whose laugh was 
 the merriest, whose shout the loudest, whose eyes danced 
 most. 
 
 The war came and he went. Ruthless as he seemed in 
 business, he was yet honest and upright. His veins 
 were full of Puritan blood and he believed in duty; he 
 believed her voice was the voice of God, that her sum- 
 mons must be obeyed. And so he tramped away. 
 
 The child clung to him as he stood in the ranks of his 
 company just before boarding the train. In her sobs 
 she moaned: "Don't papa love me? Why papa leave 
 me? Why leave his little Pearl? Take me, too, papa. 
 Papa need his little Pearl." 
 
 He boarded the train. About a mother's neck clung 
 a sobbing child. "Don't papa love me? Why leave 
 his Pearl when he goes away?" 
 
 I\Ionths passed, two years passed, and papa had not 
 come back. Not a day that the child did not repeat her 
 question a dozen times to a desolate-hearted wife and 
 mother. It was the last question asked and answered 
 each night as little Pearl wept herself to sleep. Two 
 years passed and the flowers were blooming once more, 
 but Pearl was fading. On a summer's day she fell ill. 
 Every hour she besought the distracted mother to write 
 papa to come home. The mother had never written him 
 of Pearl's ceaseless question; she had kept all those dag- 
 gers sticking in her own bosom ; but now, at last, there 
 was no room for another. Pearl begged for a scrap of 
 paper and a pencil. They were given her. And this 
 
AND THIS IS WAH 41 
 
 is the message her shaky little white hand spelled out in 
 sprawling capitals: 
 
 D EAR P APA YOUR PEAR L IS VERY SI CK 
 WHY DONT YOU C OM E TO HER SHE COMB 
 TOPAPA PAPA SICK DONT PAPA 
 L VE ME YOUR L I TTLE P EARL 
 
 She handed the tear-stained paper to her mother. 
 Her mother read it — after awhile. She said to herself 
 she must not send it. The father's load was too heavy 
 already. 
 
 But the child piteously begged and she promised. Her 
 own heart piteously begged too — possibly, possibly he 
 could come for a few days. She hurriedly sealed the 
 letter and then rushed bare-headed to the office to mail 
 it. rushed to do this lest her heart misgive her and she 
 take out the crumpled little note for her husband's 
 sake. The letter reached its destination. The father 
 read it. Long he sat still, stony-eyed and stony-hearted. 
 At last he got up, and, staggering under some invisible 
 weight that seemed to have climbed up onto his bowed 
 shoulders, he sought out his General's tent. With dry 
 eye, dry throat, shaking hand, and silent lip, he handed 
 to the General the letters of his wife and child. 
 
 The General reed the two and tears rolled down his 
 bronzed face. Silently he drew from his own breast a 
 much-thumbed letter in a woman's handwriting. Si- 
 lently he handed it to the waiting private. The latter 
 read it through: that very day was the funeral of the 
 General's only child. The men looked into each oth- 
 er's eyes. ''Our country needs us." It was the Gen- 
 eral who spoke. These were the first words either had 
 uttered, and they were the last. Silently and by a com- 
 mon impulse two hands were extended. For a moment 
 
42 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 those two hands clung together, then fell limp at their 
 owners* sides. They parted. 
 
 Unheedful of this scene, the demon, War, followed 
 along on its slow, bloody trail. Two men turned back 
 to their tasks. 
 
 In a peaceful, sunlit. Northern vale, a woman in 
 black followed a hearse, alone. Alone she stood by a 
 cliild's grave. Alone she went back to an empty house. 
 Alone she lay down at night by a forsaken pillow. 
 
 Didn^t papa love his little Pearl? Yes, but he had 
 more sacred work to do than to hold the hand of his dy- 
 ing qhild — he was away killing other little girls' papas. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE CRIMES OP PEACE ARE THE VIRTUES OP WAR. 
 
 He was proud of his splendid mansion, and well he 
 might be. It was of the purest type of Colonial archi- 
 tecture, large, massive, simple. For two hundred years 
 it had been famous for its hospitality even in that re- 
 gion of unbounded hospitality. 
 
 Colonial Governors, Presidents, great Generals, Ad- 
 mirals, and Judges had shared its welcome and been 
 charmed by its hosts and hostesses for generations past. 
 The names of its owners were inwoven with every great 
 event of national history; they wore the laurels among 
 the mightiest of the living and dead. 
 
 Yes, he was proud of his historic name. But prouder 
 still was he of the mistress who now dispensed its gen- 
 erous hospitality, and of the sun-kissed Southern 
 beauty, his only daughter, who now lent added grace 
 and splendor to its stately halls ; and of the three sons 
 who gave promise of more than keeping good the fam- 
 ily 's proud record of high deeds and stainless honor. 
 
 When the tocsin of fratricidal strife rang chill and 
 menacing up and down that startled valley, he and his 
 three boys, like other loyal sons of the Old Dominion 
 who loved the nation not less but their State more, 
 shouldered their muskets and took their places in the 
 ranks. 
 
 That fertile historic valley now became the scene of 
 hostilities, the battleground of hundreds of thousands 
 
 43 -■■■'•■■•■■ 
 
44 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 of armed men. Its fair fields shuddered neath the 
 tramp of contending hosts day and night, and the roar 
 of cannon was seldom hushed. He pleaded with his 
 wife and daughter to take shelter with relatives in the 
 far South. They refused. They said their honor was 
 sufficient shield against the most ruthless soldiery, and 
 was it not necessary for them to protect the remnant of 
 the family estate, lest the close of the war find them 
 penniless? Husband and sons were bearing their part 
 of war's horrors; should Southern wife and daughter be 
 less brave 1 And so they stayed where war 's red voice 
 was ever gleefully shouting forth the census of his vic- 
 tims. 
 
 The marvelous fertility of the valley and its latent 
 recuperative energy made it the granary of supplies 
 for menacing legions. The order went out from the 
 iron commander of the countless swarms of their foes 
 that the valley should be swept clean by fire and sword 
 and pillage. A force was despatched to execute the or- 
 der. An opposing force was detached to defend the 
 peaceful homes therein. 
 
 Alrepdy the war had long been raging. The three 
 sons had long since ceased to answer the roll-call. The 
 husband and father alone survived. He was now in the 
 div'sion sent to protect the valley. The encounter took 
 place within sight of his own home. All horses ard cat- 
 tle of every description were being seized and driven 
 away by the enemy. Every home in sight wfis in flames 
 — his own among the rest. His wife — his daughter — 
 the pillaging, ravishing soldiery — great God! what 
 wonld become of them? He tried to go to the rescue, to 
 learn the worst; but a wall of steel and sheets of fl^me 
 and maneled bodies and dying horses and seas of blood 
 intervened. 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 45 
 
 Frantically, insanely, demon-like, he fought and 
 raged. What man could do he did. What man could not 
 do he did in that hour of his desperation. But the host 
 of hell itself could not have broken through that cordon 
 of hell's own allies. All that sunbaked afternoon the 
 maddened hosts clutched at each other's throats and 
 felt for each other's hearts with fingers of iron. With 
 the goi'^g down of the sun went down also the smoking 
 ruins of every home in sight, homes which, when the sun 
 rose that fair morning, were rich in associations that 
 make human hearts rich. 
 
 With the oncoming darkness came on also clouds and 
 rain, blinding rain, and reverberating thunder that 
 rolled and rolled among the hills. The lurid flashes 
 would for a moment annihilate the inky pall of night 
 and cloud, while their weird, ghostly light revealed the 
 naked desolation man's handiwork had wrought — smok- 
 ing hulks once homes, once the shrines of purest love, 
 noblest chivalry, most generous courtesy. 
 
 Supperless the exhausted soldiers sank down to 
 dreamless sleep on their gory arms on the sodden field 
 of combat. Under cover of darkness the now sonless 
 father stole like a hunted beast to his ruined halls. But 
 his proud ancestral home — that was nothing. His wife, 
 his child — where were they? 
 
 As he drew near a low moan smote his ears, a moan 
 such as he did not know could break from mortal heart 
 and lips. A flash of lightning — ^his daughter's huddled 
 form was seen on a stone, thinly clad, the drenching 
 rain pouring down her disheveled locks. 
 
 ''My daughter," he shrieked. Startled, she leaped 
 to her feet to flee; another flash of light, another call, 
 and she sprang to his arms. "Are you safe? Are you 
 unharmed?" he cried in frenzied tones. 
 
46 AND THIS IS WAB 
 
 **Yes, but mother!'* was all she could answer. 
 
 When the home was fired the daughter was away. 
 She had later fled to the woods in terror and there re- 
 mained hidden till loving darkness came to caress her 
 cowering form. Then she had stumbled back to the 
 Stone where her father discovered her crouching figure. 
 Mother — where was she ? Father — where was he ? These 
 had been the cries of her soul. The father had come, 
 but the mother? Silently they went near the ruined 
 pile before them, stumbling in the darkness. The 
 mother had long been wasted with heart disease — was 
 she? Gropingly the father picked up a stick. The 
 rain had extinguished the last vestiges of the fire. 
 Blindly he poked about among the ruins. His stick 
 struck something soft and yielding. He stooped in 
 the darkness, fumbled around with his fingers, and 
 picked up a fragment of something. 
 
 A flash of lightning. He was holding a charred hand 
 in his. On one of the fingers was a wedding-ring, a 
 ring he himself had put on that finger in the long ago. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE VIRTUES OF PEACE ARE THE CRIMES OP WAR. 
 
 The white-haired old Quaker and his aged wife had 
 just finished their evening meal. For fifty years they 
 had lived in that home and dwelt at peace with God 
 and man. Far and near they were known as the 
 ** friends of God.*' Not less were they the friends of 
 men. The needy and the sorrowing ever sought their 
 door and none ever left empty-handed or empty-heart- 
 ed. No children had ever blessed their hungering love, 
 and so they became father and mother to all the 
 troubled. 
 
 A few days before this quiet evening meal, a cavalry 
 raid had been made and a railroad cut scarcely twenty 
 miles away. The raiding party had been overtaken and 
 dispersed and many killed. The Colonel who led the 
 force had escaped and was now a hunted fugitive with 
 a price on his head. All the countryside had been 
 warned against giving the enemy aid or comfort. Every 
 home was in a state of tense excitement. There was but 
 one topic of conversation at store or fiireside, 
 . The eveiiing nieal was finished. A great peacefulness 
 of- t^uiet, as of a; • sum'mer's' . evfening in' the 'cbuntry , 
 gently caressed the vi^eclad cottage of these white- 
 haired children of God. ! 
 
 Suddenly pounding hoof beats broke the solemn still- 
 ness of the hour. A jaded horse reeled in at the gate. 
 A foam-spattered youth in a Colonel's uniform rushed 
 
 47 
 
48 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 into the house through on open door. His face wore a 
 hunted, sleep-starved, hunger-bitten look. 
 
 ''Quick!" he cried, "give me a morsel to eat! I*m 
 starving! Then hide me for God's sake or I am a dead 
 man!" 
 
 The old man hesitated for a moment. For the first 
 time in her life his wife suspected him of fear, and she 
 spurned the thought as something that would shake the 
 very pillars of her wifely love and loyalty. 
 
 **Art thou afraid?" she almost hissed. He turned 
 on her with a look of fathomless pathos. 
 
 ' ' Yes, for thee ! " he quietly made answer. * ' It means 
 death!" 
 
 A look of angelic tenderness lit up a saintly face. 
 **Ah," said the wife in low tones, ''I see." How she 
 loathed her momentary doubt. "If thine enemy hunger, 
 feed him," she solemnly quoted. "Shall man's law 
 forbid? I will give thee to eat." And so the enemy 
 was given aid and comfort. 
 
 Hastily devouring the remnants left on the table, the 
 fugitive then begged for a change of clothes and a 
 fresh horse. "Who says thee nay?" spoke the wife. An 
 instant later a youth in strange garb galloped away 
 into the night on a fresh horse, away to life and safety. 
 
 The discarded uniform was forgotten. In the dead of 
 night a squad of cavalry burst in at the gate, broke 
 down the doors of the home, and searched every room. 
 They found that grey uniform, and an aged couple 
 were haled to prison. The husband only was put on 
 trial. Full confession was made. 
 
 "Prisoner at the bar, have you any statement to 
 make?" 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 49 
 
 The accused sat silent. The trembling old wife tot- 
 teringly rose to her feet. 
 
 **It was I who fed him/' she cried; "I who gave him 
 aid and comfort; upon my head rest the penalty — 'if 
 thine enemy hunger, feed him.* '* 
 
 She sat down. Silence sat heavy on every listener. 
 Awe clutched every heart. 
 
 But it was a rnilitary trial. War was raging. An 
 enemy had been aided to escape. The wife was ordered 
 from the room. The death sentence was pronounced. 
 
 A last interview was granted the couple. 
 
 "Be brave/' said the wife. 
 
 "I regret nothing," responded the husband. 
 ** Whether we ought to obey men rather than God, let 
 man judge. But we? We have obeyed," he concluded. 
 *' Thank God," fervently responded the wife. 
 
 "Yes, thank God!" echoed the husband. Not a tear 
 was shed, not a cheek blanched, not a lip quivered. But 
 there was a light not of earth in four eyes that saw 
 across a dark river a shining city. 
 
 The soldiers who witnessed that parting scene said 
 afterwards that they had rather charge the cannon's 
 mouth over a dead-strewn field than go through such 
 an ordeal again. 
 
 And so the bullets sang out, and the old Quaker's soul 
 returned to the God who gave it. 
 
 But who pities him? He deserved his fate. He had 
 been guilty of an unpardonable crime — he had obeyed 
 the second great commandment of the Son of God — 
 "loved his neighbor as himself." 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ONE OP THOUSANDS. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon. The sun was hastening 
 to its rest. But still her body was bent low over the 
 washtub. The sun's rest would bring no rest to her. 
 Far on into the night she must toil. Far on into the 
 years she must toil. The future held out no promises 
 to her. The past was a little better — a little: it was 
 rainbow-tinted blackness. And yet she thanked God 
 for those shadowed tints. 
 
 Her husband — where was he? Yes, where was he? 
 That was the passionate cry of her heart day and night. 
 If only his body could have been identified, if only he 
 could have d^'ed at home, if only she could have the sol- 
 emn joy of knowing that some day she would sleep be- 
 side him. But this could never be. Where was he? 
 Where his dead body resting? Nay, not resting, but 
 where lying? Only the resurrection would make an- 
 swer. How would she find him in that hour? They 
 could not sleep together beneath the flowers, they could 
 not rise together. God, it was too awful ! 
 
 He had been thrown into the trenches among the 
 "unknown dead,*' after that blundering slaughter 
 called a battle — thrown into the trenches like any other 
 carrion. ** Unknown dead'' — her husband unknown, 
 nameless? Her lover, her bridegroom, the father of her 
 children — unknown? Nay, had he not a dear name? 
 Were there not those who knew him, loved and cher- 
 ished him? ''Unknown?" 
 
 50 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 51 
 
 But what cared crimson War for a woman's crimson 
 heart-blood. What, indeed? ** Unknown dead" he 
 was, ** unknown dead'' he would continue to be. And 
 the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war still 
 rolled on to new glories, the glories of filling every un- 
 satisfied trench with nameless husbands, of shadow- 
 ing washtubs with the bowed forms of unknown wives. 
 
 So the sun hastened to its rest that afternoon, and a 
 woman hastened to her toil. Four children played 
 about her cottage door, or tugged at her tattered skirts. 
 She looked into their fatherless faces, she looked away 
 at the dreamy hills, she saw visions of the past dancing 
 in the sunlight : a marriage altar, the fragrance of flow- 
 ers, a delicately reared bride, a stalwart groom, a sun- 
 bathed future, a husband resting under the trees at the 
 footfall of the evening, the gleeful laughter of chil- 
 dren's voices, a peaceful onflow of the years, white hair 
 and grandchildren about their knees — yes, the visions 
 were fair that danced in the sunlight, and her hand 
 slackened its toil. 
 
 A child's cry of pain, a frightened vision, a grimy, 
 steaming washtub ; red hands — hands once so fair. 
 
 Who was she? Merely one of thousands, that is all. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A SIEGE — A LITTLE CHILD — A CHRISTIAN WOMAN. 
 
 For six months the city had been closely besieged. All 
 food supply had been cut off three months earlier. All 
 hope of deliverance was now abandoned. Not well pro- 
 visioned to start with, the inhabitants were face to face 
 with starvation. Already thousands had perished by 
 pestilence, but still the garrison held out. Every par- 
 ticle of food had been confiscated and was under strict- 
 est military guard day and night. 
 
 This was doled out sparingly once a day, chiefly to 
 the famished garrison. Any attempt upon the provi- 
 sions, however slight, was met by instant death. A 
 death meant one less mouth, so a death was a good 
 thing all round, a good thing for those who survived, 
 an infinitely better thing for the one death caressed and 
 carried hence. 
 
 Two men meet in the public cemetery, that is, in a 
 public street — any street, for the dead are everywhere. 
 Once they were millionaires, their lineage was long and 
 honorable, their social standing princely. Both were 
 paupers now. So there they stand, tall, gaunt, ragged, 
 starving. 
 
 They talk of the siege, of the famine, the pestilence, 
 and the dead. 
 
 "And your wife?** 
 
 **We buried her this morning — it is well.** 
 
 **Have you anything to eat?** 
 
 52 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 53 
 
 **Yes, some rats; they seem to be multiplying. Plenty 
 of food for such cannibals.** 
 
 *'Is that all you have?'* 
 
 * * Oh, no ! Soup made of grass roots and occasionally 
 a little mule if we get in at the death before the garri- 
 son find it.'* 
 
 **We will come to eating the dead yet.'* 
 
 A sickening horror spread over the other's face. His 
 starving friend feebly grasped his arm. For a moment 
 it looked as though both would fall. Perhaps they would 
 have, but they clutched the shredded remnant of what 
 used to be a giant oak before cannon and shells had 
 done their work. 
 
 The man whose face had revealed such a spasm of 
 horror finally found his voice ; it was weak now ; in fact, 
 it had long been weak. "I saw a loathsome sight yes- 
 terday," he said, and then he paused as another shud- 
 der shook his emaciated frame. *'It was a child — I 
 know the child — parents both dead — it was — it was — 
 ravenously gnawing a skull. And — good God, man! it 
 made me hungry to see it." 
 
 And still the siege dragged on. 
 
 Three years before this a great city, a public ad- 
 dress, the story of a famine in India, a Christian 
 mother, tears of pity, prayer for relief of the starving, 
 her check for $500. Now the same Christian mother, 
 the same great city, a newspaper account of the prog- 
 ress of the siege, of gaunt famine within, of the cer- 
 tainty of the speedy success of the besiegers — and a 
 woman falls on her knees rejoicing and thanking God 
 for war's triumphs. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 OH god! how long? 
 
 Two boys of the same age. Two boys with high 
 hopes of future usefulness and triumphs. Two boys 
 with pure hearts and clean bodies. Two boys of Godly 
 training in the home and church, believers in the 
 Prince of Peace, believers in right and truth and jus- 
 tice. 
 
 The home of the one in the North, the home of the 
 other in the South. War. A twisting, writhing, gnash- 
 ing, bleeding serpent of hell, two thousand miles long, 
 its gory jaws crunching men to death at the mouth of 
 the Potomac; its gory tail lashing men to death at the 
 mouth of the Mississippi; its gory body crushing men 
 to death all the miles and miles between. Satiated with 
 gore, starving for gore, hissing in every home North 
 and South, ' * Give, give, give ! ' ' And homes North and 
 South, giving, giving, giving. Each morning the mon- 
 ster awaking gaunt and famished, each day gorging 
 himself to unrecognizable distortion, each evening ly- 
 ing down moaning with hunger, each night in his rest- 
 less sleep hissing, "Give, give, give!'* And still was 
 given the fairest and the best. 
 
 And this was the gory monster that writhed and 
 hissed and gorged and starved and stretched his bloody 
 length between the homes of the boy in the Northland 
 and the boy in the Southland. And they were going 
 forth to feed his insatiate appetite, his ravenous blood 
 
 54 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 55 
 
 lust. They were going that very day. Their respective 
 regiments were ready to leave in two hours' time. 
 
 Prayer is offered in the Southern home. At the same 
 time prayer is offered in the Northern home. Two fath- 
 ers, children of the same Father, praying for two sons, 
 consecrating them at the same moment to the holy task 
 of feeding each other's blood to the same dripping jaws. 
 
 The two regiments muster, one in the North, one in 
 the South. The two boys are in their places. It is the 
 same day, the same hour. Two saintly servants of the 
 Prince of Peace step forth garbed in the garments of 
 night and pray to the ''Light of the World" to let His 
 richest blessing rest upon the fell deeds of darkness. 
 
 In eloquent words of passionate thrill they both cry 
 unto Him who lets not a sparrow fall to the ground 
 without his notice, to give glorious success to every 
 effort put forth by their beloved lands to stain the lips 
 of that serpent of hell with the reddest heart-blood of 
 His other children. 
 
 Breathlessly, reverently, every soldier in the two 
 regiments hangs upon the devout outpourings of these 
 proclaimers of "Peace on earth, good will toward 
 men." And each man is sincere, the one in the North, 
 and the one in the South. Each regiment to a man be- 
 lieves it is called of God to a high and holy task. Each 
 starts forth on its sacred crusade* with something of re- 
 ligious elevation and ecstasy. One. faces Northward, 
 one faces Southward. They journey toward each 
 other's hearts — to tear them out: toward each other's 
 breasts — to rend them asunder. 
 
 Above them the same shining sun, the same blue 
 sky, the same God in heaven, the same banner of the 
 Cross. About them the same smiling nature, the same 
 
56 A>TD THIS IS WAR 
 
 waving grass, the same singing of the birds. Behind 
 them the same prattle of children, the same weeping 
 of women, the same praying of fathers. 
 
 They reach the same field. With holy zeal they grap- 
 ple in the name of their God and their firesides. In 
 the name of their wives and their children they deso- 
 late other wives and children. In the name of their 
 God they send each others' souls hurtling into the pres- 
 ence of their God. In the name of liberty they pour 
 blood into that fell monster's dripping jaws, and 
 while he crunches bones and spatters blood he bellows 
 with muffled roar, "More, more, more!" 
 
 And the boy from the Southland and the boy from 
 the Northland, each haloed by a father's consecrating 
 prayer, meet face to face and each does the work to 
 which he was dedicated — and still that muffled snarl, 
 "More, more, more!" 
 
 Sun in heaven, how long must thou look upon such 
 red deeds as these? God of love, how long will men 
 cry unto thee to bless their hatred? O writhing ]\Ion- 
 ster with the dripping jaws, how long wilt thou be 
 able to persuade men they are doing God's service when 
 they feed thee with the blood of their children? 
 
 God ! how long, how long ? 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 WHY? WHY? WHY? 
 
 She was only three years old when her father left 
 for the war. It seemed rather grand to her that day, 
 child that she was. Of war, of course, she had not the 
 slightest conception. Her father had often gone away 
 before, but always came back in a few days; so his go- 
 ing this time had no terrors for her, much as she loved 
 him and would miss him. 
 
 It was a very grand sight, so it seemed to her little 
 heart: great big colored flags fluttering in the wind, 
 showy uniform, and drums. My, what drums ! and how 
 they thrilled her wee soul. And all because her papa 
 was going away to war. War certainly must be a fine 
 thing. And what a great man her papa must be to have 
 all this music and everything just because he was going 
 away a little while. All this she felt, though her tumul- 
 tuous little soul perhaps did not do much distinct 
 thinking. 
 
 "Why didn't they have wars oftener? They certainly 
 would if only they knew how much little girls liked 
 such things. She wished her papa could go to war 
 every day. It would be such lots of fun. Ah, poor 
 little child, your papa can go to war every day — every 
 day till the years have passed over thine unknowing 
 little head. 
 
 **0h, mamma, isn't it grand! And papa is going, 
 too! Oh, I am so glad my papa can go! How sorry 
 poor papa would be if he couldn't go with the rest! Oh, 
 
 57 
 
58 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 mamma, see! He is getting onto the train now. Oh, 
 I hope papa can go to war lots of times, don't you, 
 mamma ? ' ' 
 
 A dry, choking sob. The prattle suddenly ceases. A 
 startled little face is turned up toward a face livid with 
 agony. *'0h, mamma, what is it? What is it, mamma?'* 
 And a child bursts into frightened weeping. "Mamma, 
 mamma, what is it? Why you cry? Won't my papa 
 come back tonight?" 
 
 **No, not tonight, little one." 
 
 More convulsive weeping on the part of the child, for 
 the mother's feelings have seized with icy clutch the 
 very citadel of her little soul. "When papa come back? 
 When papa come back? Mamma, mamma, when papa 
 come back?" 
 
 Finally the mother is able to speak again: 
 
 "There, there, little one. Don't cry. Papa will come 
 back to us as soon as he can. Maybe it won't be long. 
 Mamma will take care of you, darling. And you must 
 take care of mamma." 
 
 **Yes, me take care mamma." And her tears were 
 dried for a time. 
 
 But the days wore on, the weeks wore on, the months 
 dragged slowly past, but papa didn't come back. Papa 
 was her playfellow, the sharer of all her little games, 
 all her little pleasures, all her little troubles ; but papa 
 didn't come back. 
 
 "Where papa now?" 
 
 **Away at the war, little one." 
 
 **I hate war, mamma. When papa come back?" 
 
 **I can't say, dearie. I hope soon." 
 
 *'You always say that, mamma, and now I have wait- 
 ed so long and my heart is just breaking." 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 59 
 
 And there was another broken heart under the same 
 roof, but the little one didn't know it. 
 
 Days that were years followed days that had been 
 years; but no papa came back. 
 
 "Mamma, what papas do in war?'' 
 
 * * Oh, they march and live in tents and such things. ' ' 
 
 *'But why march; why live in tents? Why don't 
 they go home where their little girls are?" 
 
 "They have to do these things, dearest. I can't ex- 
 plain it all to you." 
 
 "Who makes them do these things, mamma?" 
 
 "Oh, rulers; men with lots of power." 
 
 "I hate rulers. Keep papas away from little girls." 
 
 The child grew older, taller, wiser; but no papa saw 
 these changes. One day she was playing with an older 
 child, and suddenly the question fell from her lips: 
 
 "What papas do in war?" 
 
 "Fight. That's what they do. Shoot and stab each 
 other. Let the blood out. Kill everybody they can." 
 
 A child dashed into the house, crying: "Oh, mam- 
 ma, you didn't know it all what they do in war. 
 They kill each other. They let blood out. Oh, mamma, 
 will they kill papa?" And sobs stopped all farther 
 questions for a time. 
 
 That night as a little white figure was being tucked 
 in bed two great glittering eyes looked up into a moth- 
 er's worn and weary face. 
 
 "Mamma?" 
 
 "Yes, dearest." 
 
 "Does God rule?" 
 
 "Yes, little one; why do you ask?" 
 
 "Does He rule all things?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
60 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 * ' Can He stop anything He wants to ? " 
 
 *'Yes, of course, dear. "Why do you ask?*' 
 
 **Does He rule in war?'* 
 
 *'Yes.'' 
 
 **Does He want papas to kill each other?*' 
 
 ''No, I think not." 
 
 ''Then why does He let them do it?" 
 
 "Some men are bad, you know, and want to hurt the 
 good men, so the good men have to fight." 
 
 "Yes, but why don't God take care of the bad men 
 and let papas go home to their little girls?" 
 
 "I don't know, dearest. I think it is all for the best, 
 some way. Now go to sleep, and don't ask mamma 
 any more questions tonight." 
 
 A mother stooped down and kissed two fevered little 
 lips, a tear fell upon a child's face, a woman's figure 
 passed swiftly from the room ; but two little eyes, wide 
 open, stared into the dark for long, long after; and in 
 a little brain was whirling white-hot a great iron wheel, 
 tipped with a score of cutting diamond points, and that 
 white-hot whirling of iron was the one word, "why, 
 why, why?" 
 
 In another room of that same house there was kneel- 
 ing for long hours the shrinking form of a woman, 
 with a widowed heart ; and a pallid face, whose hot eye- 
 balls had burnt to cinders the fount of tears, was up- 
 lifted in the darkness toward unseen heaven; and lips 
 which made no sound were still framing that same, 
 desolate, unanswered cry, "Why, why, why?" 
 
^ 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 HOME IN- TWO WEEKS. 
 
 Four years — and what a story they had written. Its 
 outward facts have been repeated a thousand times. Its 
 meaning for a race told and retold. Its significance to 
 the nation become a twice-told tale. Its larger place 
 in the world's onward march accurately, or, at any 
 rate, often charted and defined. 
 
 But what signifies all this to throbbing human 
 hearts? There are other stories which have never been 
 told, never will be told. There is no language in 
 which to tell them. The dumb ache of invisible souls 
 is the unpublished literature of this woe. And each 
 tale is a separate masterpiece, an edition in one volume, 
 an edition de luxe, bound by the walls of a beating 
 heart, printed in its costliest blood, read by a single 
 pair of eyes; but read over and over till the sight of 
 those eyes fades away forever and the volume itself 
 crumbles back to the dust. 
 
 Four years had passed. The children had grown 
 larger, taller. But the wife, the mother? She had 
 grown smaller, someway. The father was away, far 
 away. His eyes noted not the children's growth, noted 
 not the wife's slendering form. His eyes were on the 
 battle line. 
 
 But the years had passed, not a scratch had he re- 
 ceived. The end of the war was in sight. Victory was 
 in sight, then home, and rest under the shade of the 
 trees. And his eyes grew misty, and the old familiar 
 voices were murmuring in his ears — voices of his little 
 children, and the voice of his wife crooning an even- 
 
 61 
 
62 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 ing sonsr to her babe — h\s babe — at her bosom. Only 
 one battle more, perhaps none; then Northward, then 
 home, wife, children. 
 
 His heart is full, full of sweet gladness, full of a 
 great thankfulness. He will write home, weary though 
 he be with the day's march, and though it is not the 
 day he usually writes. 
 
 **My dear Wife and Children: 
 
 **I cannot close my eyes without writing to you 
 aerain. My heart is too full of gladness to keep it all 
 shut up within. Peace is in sight. The war can't pos- 
 sibly last over two weeks more. The enemy is com- 
 pletely exhausted, without resources of any kind, and 
 without the possibility of escape. Probably there will 
 not be any more fighting, at most, only a little skir- 
 mishing. All daneer is now over. I am well and 
 sound. Soon I shall see your dear faces again. Do you 
 suppose you will know father when he comes? And 
 will he know all his big boys and girls? However much 
 you have changed, yet I think father's heart would 
 tell him who you are, even in the blackest night. Two 
 weeks more and then I shall soon be coming to you. 
 With thankful heart and all its love, 
 
 *'YouR Happy Father." 
 
 A home far away. A letter from the front of the 
 army. Tears of joy that sparkle like a casket of rarest 
 gems. Anthems in the heart that angels hear. A night 
 of blessed sleep. Sunlit days acoming. Clouds gone — 
 driven so far hence almost forgotten. 
 
 Thirteen days all glorified. One more day and then 
 the formal surrender of the enemy. An accidental skir- 
 mish. A few empty saddles. A body shipped North- 
 ward to a waiting household. The two weeks were up. 
 
 Father had gone Home. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE EVENING BEFORE THE BATTLE. 
 
 They reached the camping ground at the close of the 
 day, hot, dusty and weary from their long-forced 
 march. Tomorrow the battle would be fought, there 
 could be no doubt of that. The enemy's lines were in 
 plain view, and he was not retreating. For days they 
 had anticipated a fight in the immediate future. That 
 future had become the present. 
 
 As the sun sank below the bleak rim of the distant 
 hills his last rays rested on three hundred thousand 
 men at arms, making ready to grapple in mortal com- 
 bat when once more he should return to shed his morn- 
 ing beams upon the evil and the good. Three hundred 
 thousand men, three hundred thousand homes. Night. 
 What of the morrow? 
 
 Worn out by their long march the men seemed in- 
 different to everything else, indifferent to the morrow, 
 indifferent to eternity. Darkness came on. Campfires 
 gleamed and flickered for miles and miles on either side 
 the valley, a narrow space between. Tomorrow that 
 space would be closed by two writhing monsters, be- 
 come as one in their deadly embrace. 
 
 The spectacle the camps presented was beautiful, 
 sublime, appalling. Gradually quiet settled down every- 
 where — quiet, ominous, creepy, unnerving. Silence 
 was king. His reign undisputed. The men were be- 
 ginning to think, to think of the morrow. Tonight in 
 health and strength, tonight a comrade by their sides, 
 
 63 
 
64 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 tonight full of lusty life, tonight young and the future 
 fair — but tomorrow! Tonight soul and body together, 
 tonight resting in their tent, tomorrow night — where? 
 
 The clouds which had obscured the sky gradually 
 broke away. The stars came out one by one. The moon 
 rose serene and untroubled. Never were the heavens 
 more peaceful, never the light of moon and stars more 
 soft and silvery. How calm and quiet the heavens 
 above; how calm and quiet, unnaturally quiet, the 
 earth below. What resplendent beauty as one looked 
 from the camp toward the sky; what unmanning 
 beauty as one looked from the sky toward the camp. 
 
 Was there ever a fairer landscape ? Woods, open 
 glades, meadowlands, pastures, silvery streams of crys- 
 tal water sparkling and murmuring in the brooklets, 
 the fragrance of flowers and orchard blossoms. Homes 
 everywhere: peaceful, well-kept, beloved homes. Homes 
 where brides had been brought, homes whence brides 
 had gone forth. Homes where little children had 
 laughed and prattled that very day, homes where little 
 children were even now sleeping. Homes where old 
 men sat and dreamed of the days that had fled, where 
 boys dreamed of the days that were to come. Homes, 
 every room of which had been hallowed by some 
 memory sacred to human hearts. 
 
 A village of two hundred homes, four church 
 steeples pointing skyward, evening worship, songs of 
 peace. 
 
 Campfires all about, three hundred thousand men 
 under arms — tomorrow the battle. Night and peace, 
 the peace of nature. Nisrht and long, long thoughts, 
 the thoughts of the waiting hosts, hosts composed of 
 individual men and boys, husbands, sons, lovers. Ah, 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 65 
 
 the thoughts of three hundred thousand men on the 
 eve of battle. Ah, the thoughts of three hundred thou- 
 sand homes on the eve of battle. 
 
 The men had not yet laid down to their rest, not all 
 of them. Some, however, were already in sodden slum- 
 ber. Of those awake and still up, some were drowning 
 thought. Look at that little circle of dark and des- 
 perate faces. You can .iust distinguish the outline of 
 their features by the dull glow of the campfire. What 
 are they doing? Look closer. They are shuffling a 
 greasy pack of cards, gambling, carousing, swearing, 
 till your blood runs cold. And tomorrow the battle. 
 Twenty-fonr hours and where will they be? Who 
 knows? What care they? It may be their last night. 
 They will enjoy it. They will drown thought. Life 
 is a gamble, anyway ; they might as well make the most 
 of the time that is theirs. And so they gamble on, 
 drink on, curse on. And so the evening wanes. 
 
 Farther along another low fire. A beardless boy 
 crouching low by its feeble flicker. There is a little 
 book in his hand. It is worn and tattered. His mother 
 gave it to him the day he said good-bye. He is reading 
 its old familiar pages ere he lays him down to sleep. 
 Tomorrow is the battle. It may be the last time he 
 will ever read in that little book. His face glows as 
 he reads — is it the reflection of the fire? It cheers his 
 heart. He finishes the reading. He sits quiet for a 
 time. He is thinking. Perhaps his thoughts are of a 
 home up among the hills now so far away. Perhaps 
 he is thinking of her who gave him that book — will he 
 ever look into her eyes again; ever touch her hand 
 again? He lies down to sleep. 
 
66 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 Another crouching form by another waning fire. A 
 saddle for a writing-desk. A young man, a pencil, and 
 a scrap of paper. Look at this youth. He is here at 
 the call of God and of duty. But his heart and his 
 love are far away. There is a maiden somewhere whom 
 he left in tears back in a land called home, blessed 
 land called home. Tomorrow is the battle — tomorrow 
 night, what — where? 
 
 It is long before he begins to write. His thoughts are 
 dallying with the past, the sweet enchanting past. He 
 almost forgets the present for a moment, almost for- 
 gets the morrow. Once more they are strolling arm in 
 arm by the water's side. Once more they are seated 
 under the trees. Once more he is pouring forth in low, 
 passionate tones the treasures of his overflowing heart. 
 Again he sees her changing color, hears her low-spoken 
 answer. 
 
 The dreamy days that follow. The future how radi- 
 ant beyond words. War's alarums. His awful con- 
 flict, his decision, a pallid face, a swooning form, the 
 last farewell. And tomorrow the battle,. And the to- 
 morrows that are to follow? A horse stamps uneasily; 
 fear of the unknown has found its way even into the 
 hearts of dumb beasts. The soldier boy is recalled 
 from his musing. He must hasten his letter — it may 
 be his last. 
 
 **Dear Heart: 
 
 "How can I write to you in such a place as this, and 
 yet I must. I know your love and I know your bravery. 
 T shall never forget your courage in letting me go. You 
 were braver than I. It is hard enough down here for 
 me, God knows. And yet T know it is harder for you, 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 67 
 
 for yon can only wait. You know the battle is near, 
 my own. But when you let me go you knew it was to 
 battles with all their dangers. We must not flinch now. 
 Your love has been the fairest thing in my life. It is 
 worth while to have lived just to have known such love 
 as yours. And now if I must needs give my life to my 
 country, it is more your gift than my own, for I am 
 all thine next to my God's. He will take care of you 
 and he will take care of me and nothing can happen 
 that is not for the best, however blind we may be as we 
 look at it now. I have been thinking of every incident, 
 every word, every look, which have been shared by us 
 together. These thoughts have made me brave for the 
 morrow. They must make you brave for all the tomor- 
 rows, my sweetheart, if you ever need such help. Oh, 
 if I could only see you tonight, only hear your voice 
 once more. And yet perhaps it is better that this can- 
 not be. If anything happens tomorrow, remember my 
 last night was spent in thinking of thee, my own, and 
 the last thought of my life will be of thee whether it be 
 tomorrow or in the long distant years. I am sure I shall 
 come through the battle all right. And the future is 
 all fair. I am not afraid and you must not be. I 
 haven't written one-tenth of what is in my heart to say, 
 but I wouldn't for worlds write a word which could 
 in any event make the future harder for you. My last 
 thoughts, all my thoughs and all my love are yours 
 now and shall be to all eternity. 
 
 ** Your Lover." 
 
 And tomorrow was the battle. 
 
 And while the lover was writing a father was think- 
 ing of his home, of his sweetheart, too, and of the little 
 
68 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 ones who were growing and blossoming in their Garden 
 of Eden. A fathomless yearning was tightening his 
 heart-strings. Tomorrow was the battle. The little 
 ones must be in bed by now. he was thinking, peace- 
 fully asleep. Ah, their sweet baby faces. How fair 
 they were nestled among the snowy pillows. Perhaps 
 the mother was standing by their cribs gazing down 
 into the faces of those little ones — standing alone. 
 Would she always stand thus alone in the future? Per- 
 haps, for tomorrow was the battle. How often he had 
 stood there with her, each with arm about the other. 
 And what an ecstasy of light had haloed her face as she 
 looked from his face to the little faces and back from 
 theirs to his. 
 
 How lookpd that face tonight? Was it pale and 
 shadowed? Was it weary and sorrow-laden? He would 
 not have it thus. Was it serene and joyous as in the 
 days that were now a memory? No, he would not 
 have it thus, not quite, and he far away. How would 
 he have it? He could not say. 
 
 Would he ever stand by her side again? Would he 
 ever see that light in her eyes again? Would he ever 
 look down into those sleeping faces again? Who could 
 answer? Tomorrow was the battle. He would go mad 
 if he asked such questions. It would unnerve him for 
 the battle. It would make him a deserter. 
 
 What would become of that little household if father 
 never returned? Ah, he must not ask such questions. 
 He would return home. Yes. he must return. He must 
 be spared. Home needed him as well as country. 
 
 He believed in prayer. So he had been taught. That 
 belief did not desert him now. And so he knelt on that 
 tented field. Weirdly awe-inspiring was his uplifted 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 69 
 
 face as the fitful gleam of the dying embers played over 
 it. In his soul he was as much alone, despite the thou- 
 sands all about him, as was that shepherd boy who, 
 when the world was young, kept watch and ward over 
 his flocks by night and saw God's handiwork in the 
 heavens and talked with the Infinite Father of all the 
 little concerns of his own adoring heart. 
 
 And so on the tented field a father poured forth his 
 soul's broken cry for a home in a far-off land: 
 
 "0 God, who hearest when thy children call, hear a 
 father's prayer for wife and children. Art not thou 
 a Father, and didst not thy heart yearn over thy Sont 
 God, save me in the hour of battle. Spare me for the 
 sake of the children committed unto my care for a sea- 
 son. Thou hast called me into the service of my coun- 
 try. I have answered. Spare me that I may answer 
 the other call, God, if it be thy good pleasure. Deal 
 gently with my lonely wife. May the eye that slum- 
 bers net nor sleeps watch over my little ones with infi- 
 nite tenderness. And if on the morrow my soul is sum- 
 moned into thine Infinite Presence, prepare it for its 
 long journey hence. And, God, if so it must be, 
 prepare her who stood with me at the marriage altar, 
 who is the mother of my children; prepare her for the 
 blow if it must needs fall. Take care of my little ones 
 lest their feet stray. May they find father and home 
 in the after days when they, too, must lay them down 
 to their rest. God, spare me if thou wilt for others* 
 sake. Thy will be done. Be gracious unto the father- 
 less where'er they be. And, oh, may this red carnage 
 scourge soon pass away and return no more forever, 
 through Jesus Christ, Amen.'* 
 
 And tomorrow was the battle. And the profane were 
 
70 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 carousing, and the Godly were reading an ancient mes- 
 sage that is always new, and lovers were writing fare- 
 well letters, and fathers were praying, and nature was 
 smiling all about them, and the stars were looking 
 peacefully down, and the night was waning, and the 
 hour of blood was hastening, and angels were weeping, 
 and demons were exulting — for tomorrow was the 
 battle. 
 
 Three hundred thousand men, three hundred thou- 
 sand homes — and the night before the battle. And 
 three hundred thousand homes knew it was the night 
 before the battle. 
 
 In those homes there were eyes wet with weeping. 
 There were eyes red with weeping. There were eyes 
 that had long forgotten how to weep, tears were a 
 luxury exhausted long ago. There were tongues that 
 were garrulous. There were tongues that were silent. 
 There were tongues that spoke rarely, briefly, and yet 
 said a thousand unspeakable things which they did not 
 
 There were faces in three hundred thousand homes, 
 blanched faces, flushed faces, weary faces, pinched and 
 drawn faces ; faces made sick with hope deferred ; faces 
 scarred with red gashes of grief; there were faces of 
 aged fathers and mothers, faces of deserted brides, 
 faces of desolated wives, faces of forsaken sweethearts, 
 faces of little children. 
 
 There were thoughts in three hundred thousand 
 homes — thoughts of the aged, thoughts of wives, of 
 brides, of sweethearts, of boys and girls — long, long 
 thoughts, for tomorrow was the battle and three hun- 
 dred thousand homes knew that tomorrow was the bat- 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 71 
 
 tie. Three hundred thousand homes, twelve hundred 
 thousand inmates of those homes, twelve hundred thou- 
 sand anguished hearts, twenty-four hundred thousand 
 sorrowing eyes. 
 
 Hark! An aged couple are at prayer: ''0 God, thou 
 who didst give unto us a son; we have loaned him to 
 our country. Bring him back safely we plead with 
 Thee. Oh, spare his life in the battle! Our boy, our 
 boy ! How could we give him up ! O God, thou know- 
 est he is all we have, our one support and comfort for 
 our last days. Let not this last grief fall upon us. We 
 are Thy servants. Shield us and the boy thou hast 
 given us and we have given Thee. Spare him, God, 
 lest we die.'' 
 
 And a wife prays: '*0 God in heaven, spare my 
 husband, the father of these my helpless children. 
 Keep him in the hour of battle. Let him come back to 
 us, lest we perish. The world is so large and so lonely. 
 We cannot live without him. God, be merciful. It 
 is all I ask, just his life. It is so little for Thee to give, 
 but it is our all, our all. God, hear thy child's plea. 
 Save him, O.my God." 
 
 And a little child prays: "Dear Jesus, my papa is 
 way off and left his little girl and mamma alone. 
 Mamma say papa had to go 'cause you wanted him to. 
 But I don't like war and- 1 want you to send my papa 
 back to his little girl. I'm sure you wouldn't like it to 
 have your papa in a war. It is a dreadful thing, war 
 is, for they kill papas. Mamma been crying all day, I 
 know, though she tries to make me think she hasn't, 
 'cause tomorrow is a battle and my papa may get hurt- 
 ed. I don't know as I could love you so much if you 
 let my papa be hurted. Oh, let me have my poor papa 
 once more." 
 
72 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 And so three hundred thousand homes were bom- 
 barding heaven with their cries of anguish. And so 
 fathers in both camps were crying unto God for life 
 for the sake of others. And so all night long the hosts 
 of heaven had to listen to these piteous moanings of the 
 children of the earth. 
 
 But heaven was impotent. War was king. The dark 
 hours marched on. War's red glee was coming on 
 apace. Tomorrow was the battle. Three hundred 
 thousand men were waiting. Three hundred thousand 
 homes were waiting. Two nations were waiting. 
 Heaven and hell were waitinor. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE WANING HOURS OP THAT NIGHT. 
 
 And so sable night marched on at its own imperious 
 stride, unheeding what the morrow might witness, un- 
 heeding the cries of anguish that were going up in the 
 darkness from homes scattered all over two vast na- 
 tions, unheeding the fate of souls that were to be hurled 
 into eternity — some to highest heaven and some to deep- 
 est hell. 
 
 Night, calm, remorseless, imperturable Night! 
 Neither men's fears nor men's prayers, men's tears 
 nor men's ambitions, can alter thine unheeding- on- 
 sweep. Thou refusest to quicken thy march. Thou 
 refusest to slacken thy march. Thou art deaf, Night. 
 Thou art without heart, Night. What carest thou 
 for broken hearts of men? What carest thou for broken 
 homes? What carest thou for fatherless children and 
 husbandless wives? Naught, naught, naught! Since 
 Time began thou hast swept on over man's dwelling 
 place at that same serene and pauseless stride. Thou 
 hast known what the sun trailing after thee would 
 bring. But thou hast not cared. 
 
 Thou refusest to delay at the cry of the condemned. 
 Thou refusest to hasten at the prayer of lovers. Thou 
 keepest thine own counsel. None share thy thoughts, 
 Night. Thy heart is stone. Thine ears are stone. 
 Tomorrow is the battle, but thou marchest on. To- 
 morrow evening a field red with the blood of the chil- 
 dren of human homes will stare naked into thy shroud- 
 
 73 
 
74 AND THIS IS WAK 
 
 ed face. Carest thou not, O Night! Slacken thy 
 dread speed. Tomorrow's eve Rachels will be weeping 
 for their children. Carest thou not, Night? 
 
 And so the Night strode on over the fated field where 
 three hundred thousand men were sleeping — or trying 
 to sleep. Her trailing garments as they dragged across 
 that quiet valley sounded like the rustlings of the cere- 
 ments of the dead. It seemed as though the air was 
 filled with the ghosts of the slain of a thousand battle- 
 fields, as though these were preparing the shrouds for 
 the living beneath them who ere twice twelve hours 
 should have flown would join their own invisible hosts, 
 while the battered bodies, whence they had escaped, 
 would lie as mangled carrion in the darkness. 
 
 Night passed on. The morrow was the battle. Some 
 on that tented field were sleeping. Others were trying 
 to sleep and could not. But it was not fear that kept 
 them awake. What w^as it? It was the visions which 
 danced over their minds — visions of homes far away, of 
 faces they knew and loved, the old days and memories. 
 
 The camp fires died down. Silence deepened. The 
 night deepened. Awe deepened. Men were sleeping. 
 Tomorrow night thousands of them would know a 
 deeper sleep. A restless horse occasionally neighed his 
 uncanny alarm. Weird and sepulchral it smote human 
 ears — a sort of requiem. Men turned uneasily in their 
 blankets. The quiet stars looked down. All nature was 
 at rest. The birds were sleeping in the branches. The 
 flowers were making ready to bloom on the morrow. 
 
 And soldiers dreamed that night. Here is a father 
 lying wrapped in his blanket. Time has rolled back a 
 few months. War's voice has not yet bellowed forth its 
 
AND THIS IS WAB 75 
 
 awful summons. He is in his little home. His wife is 
 by his side. A little toddler is trying to walk to their 
 outstretched hands. Two souls are dancing in two 
 pairs of eyes, a little one looks up into those eyes, 
 heaven has kissed human hearts : a smile plays over the 
 face of the sleeper; the little one makes a last rushing 
 plunge toward his arms, his hand seems to be tighten- 
 ing about a little hand. But that little hand is cold, it 
 is hard; the sleeper suddenly awakes — it is his bayonet 
 he has grasped. About him are three hundred thou- 
 sand men. Tomorrow is the battle. 
 
 Another sleeper — another dreamer. The long-antici- 
 pated night has come. Never had she been so radiantly 
 beautiful. Proudly he is leading her to the marriage 
 altar. Clearly the solemn vows are spoken. A shining 
 pathway slopes upward from that altar to the high 
 stars. Arm in arm, hand in hand, he sees himself and 
 that other now by his side in all the joyous stages of 
 that lofty golden ascent. And birds are ever singing 
 and flowers are ever blooming as they climb. A trem- 
 bling horse paws the earth near by. His eyes fly open. 
 Cannons, rifles, swords — and tomorrow the battle. 
 
 A soldier boy dreams. It is the night he leaves home 
 — perhaps forever. But he is not at home. He is 
 spending the last evening with her whose heart has be- 
 come the home of his heart. Slowly and sadly they 
 walk in the moonlight. Swift and sad are their 
 thoughts. Will it ever be — that home of which they 
 have joyously talked and dreamed these many moons? 
 "Who could tell? Again, in a flood of passionate tears 
 she is beseeching him not to leave her. With ashen 
 face and ashen lips he is trying to cheer her broken 
 heart — his own heart breaking. He speaks of duty, 
 
76 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 high and holy duty. ... A comrade moans in his 
 skep. The boy wakes. The dream has fled. 
 
 And a father dreams. The battle is past. He is 
 bleeding to death beneath a heap of slain — his wife, his 
 children; Gcd, must it be? He thinks he sees his 
 body tossed into a ditch along with other nameless car- 
 rion. He sees a wife going to a little country post- 
 oflSce day after day, day after day. But she gets no 
 letter, no news. IMonths wear on. No news. Years 
 pass. She is alone. No word ever reaches her. Only 
 waiting, waiting — that is all. No, not all — death at 
 last. The whole story. A shudder passes over the 
 sleeper. Angels turn away their faces. Only a com- 
 mon soldier tonight — only common carrion tomorrow 
 night. Only a wa"ting wife somewhere; only twoscore 
 years of widowhood, and then — the grave. 
 
 Never mind. The dogs of war must be fed. 
 
 Three hundred thousand homes. Dreamers in those 
 homes as well as on the battlefield. For tomorrow is 
 the battle. 
 
 A wife, a lonely pillow, a dream. The battle has 
 been fought. Night has fallen once more. The sun has 
 fled in swooning terror from the ghastly spectacle. 
 Darkness holds sway; darkness and storm. A woman, 
 a wife, herself in sable garb, is wandering over the slip- 
 pery field. Pelting rain in her face. Her husband is 
 among the slain. She lifts up each desecrated sanc- 
 tuary of a human soul — deserted sanctuaries now — 
 gazes into those blue and whitened and reddened faces, 
 if perchance the lightning glares. Otherwise her ten- 
 der fingers trace the gory lineaments to discover if it is 
 he. Night as long as eternity, a lone figure of woe, 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 77 
 
 pitiless storm, an endless search, a fruitless search. 
 And so a wife dreams on. 
 
 Another wife dreams. The war is over. A letter 
 comes, the husband, the father, will be home on the 
 morrow. She tells the children — shouts of glee. The 
 long waiting is past. The morrow comes, an approach- 
 ing form a beloved form, a wife and children rushing 
 and shriek'ng their welcome, a fainting embrace. War 
 only a horrible memory. . . . Day breaks in reality. 
 Drowsy wakefulness. Joy! the dream seems true. 
 The awful awakening; it is the day of battle. 
 
 A bride dreams. Her wedding day only a month 
 back. They have just returned from their short honey- 
 moon to begin their long honeymoon. A home of their 
 very own all paid for: small but their very own, their 
 home, his and hers. Their first meal together just fin- 
 ished, all prepared by her own hand. It has been a 
 splendid success. How her husband praises every dish. 
 What an appetite he has. What love shines in his eyes 
 as he looks across the table into her eyes. How hers 
 answer back. ... A baby cries out in its sleep. The 
 bride-mother springs from her lone bed in nameless 
 fright. Ah, no, he is not just across the table with his 
 lovelit eyes. He is away tenting on the battlefield. To- 
 morrow — the clock strikes four — today, God, today 
 the battle. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE BATTLE. 
 
 The boy had been a lover of history since earliest 
 childhood. Anything by that name he literally de- 
 voured, ancient or modern, no matter what the nation, 
 no matter how dry the subject-matter, how juiceless 
 the style. The history of his own nation he knew by 
 heart. Her great men were more familiar to him than 
 the men whom he met daily on the street. How he ex- 
 ulted in every high deed of patriotic devotion and 
 valor. How he gloried in his country's glory. 
 
 "What joy to die in a holy cause, to shed one's blood 
 for the right and for one 's native land. How the story 
 of his country's wars stirred his young blood and fired 
 his youthful imagination. Why hadn't he lived in the 
 heroic days of old? Why were wars a thing of the 
 past? Why couldn't he have an opportunity to prove 
 his courage and devotion, to die if need be for the land 
 he loved? 
 
 War unexpectedly came. How he openly rejoiced. 
 He enlisted the first day. He marched away. What 
 holy zeal was his: to die for his country — what glory 
 to be compared with this. 
 
 The battle was on. He was in the forefront of the 
 thickest fight. Valiantly he fought and unafraid. 
 Come wounds, come death, what cared he. The foe 
 were being hard pressed. They were pushed back 
 through the streets of the city. He was in the column 
 that led the attack. The enemy were forced across a 
 
 78 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 79 
 
 narrow bridge. A little way back they had a powerful 
 concealed battery which commanded the approaches. 
 It commanded the bridge. Heedless of the storm of 
 lead, the advancing column pressed on to that narrow 
 bridge. The head of the column melted away. Dead 
 and wounded piled high. And he was among the 
 wounded, a leg shattered. But the battery must be 
 taken. The order rang out : ' ' Clear the bridge ! ' ' The 
 hands of comrades seized dead and wounded alike and 
 hurled them into the river below. 
 
 They seized him. He cried* out in his pain and ter- 
 ror, begging to be borne to a place of safety; he was 
 only wounded, couldn't they see? He was not dead; 
 they must see, they must hear, they must spare his life ! 
 Over the bridge they toss him. Down beneath its tur- 
 gid waters he sinks. He rises to the surface. He is an 
 expert swimmer, but there is his broken leg. Even so, 
 still he can swim ashore. He sets out for the shore, for 
 life, for safety. Life is sweet, after all. 
 
 Dead men floating all about him. The river choked 
 with the dead. Livid, terrified faces of the wounded 
 all about him. They see he has some strength. They 
 clutch his arms, his body, his legs. Together they sink, 
 sink to rise no more. 
 
 So this was dying for one's country. 
 
 He had been in the thick of the bayonet charge 
 on the enemy's breastworks. Nine-tenths of his com- 
 rades had fallen, killed or wounded. He was among 
 the fallen beneath a heap of the slain, not yet dead. 
 
 The charge was successful. An opening had been 
 made, but it must at once be supported and followed 
 up by a cavalry charge. There was but one way to 
 
80 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 reach the foe, the one the infantry had taken, the one 
 now paved with human bodies — some dead, some alive. 
 
 The charge was ordered. On came the galloping cav- 
 alry. Spongy was their footing. The horsemen trem- 
 bled in their seats. It was not terror; the wounded 
 were writhing beneath iron hoofs, merely that. Horses 
 slipped and staggered. 
 
 The boy would have lived; his wounds were not at 
 all dangerous. He might have gone back home, years 
 of usefulness might have been his — might have been. 
 
 Four hoofs on his chest — a shudder, then all was still. 
 He had gone Home. 
 
 And so men went Home that day. On distant hills 
 dumb cattle huddled together; they saw strange sights, 
 heard strange sounds. And dumb terror held them in 
 thrall. Birds forsook their nests and flew about in 
 aimless fright above the smoke of battle. The sun 
 locked down. The world rolled on through space in 
 its appointed orbit. Watches slowly ticked. Clocks 
 tolled off the hours. Women were wringing their 
 hands in three hundred thousand homes — and some of 
 these would wring their hands on through the years 
 till they should fold them for the last time. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 AND NIGHT ONCE MORE. 
 
 The day's work was done. The battle was over. The 
 sun had fled, reeling, swooning, falling to his rest. 
 Night came on. What cared Night! How often she 
 had looked upon the deeds the children of earth had 
 done. Unblinking, unsurprised, unafraid Night. 
 
 Angels had wept because the day was so long. De- 
 mons had wept because the day was so short. 
 
 In the morning how fair the white homes glistening 
 in the sun's soft caresses! How peaceful the cattle 
 grazing on a thousand hills ! How green the grass, how 
 golden the grain, how crystal the brooks! Night. Man's 
 work done. "Where now are those white cottages? 
 "Where the singing birds? Where the cattle on a thou- 
 sand hills? How red the grass, how red the trampled 
 grain, how red the flowing brooks! 
 
 He was among the defeated. Broken, shattered, dis- 
 persed was the proud and mighty host of which he had 
 been a part in the morning. Their wounded were now 
 at the mercy of the night and the foe. Supperless he 
 was skulking alone in the^ corner of a brush-tangled 
 fence. All night long he heard the onrush of the vic- 
 tor's pursuing cavalry, as they swept forward in their 
 remorseless chase. The battle was lost, the cause was 
 lost. Ah, the terrors of that night. Suppose he were 
 discovered, perhaps instant death. If not, then prison, 
 worse than death. 
 
 81 
 
82 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 Another squad of cavalry; he crouches lower still; 
 they pass on ; he is safe once more. And so the fright- 
 ened hours drag by. 
 
 When her husband kissed her sobbing face good-bye 
 he told her he knew he would come back safe and 
 sound. He was needed now at the front, he must go. 
 He was needed, too, at home; he would return when 
 the war was over and the other duty done. She must 
 be brave, and she was brave — brave for his sake, brave 
 for the children's sake. She believed his promises to 
 return because she wanted to believe them. An empty, 
 lonely, starving heart must feed itself upon something, 
 on memory or on hope, and she chose hope. But the 
 waiting time — yes, she must wait. 
 
 When he took leave of home the children had hov- 
 ered near. But they understood not its tragic signifi- 
 cance. They were too young for that. Yet something 
 unknown, mysterious, uncanny, had clutched at their 
 little heart-strings, and they wept in terror. What 
 meant this strange sorrow of papa and mamma? Where 
 papa going? When papa come back? Why mamma 
 cry? What papa going to do? Papa bad make mam- 
 ma cry. . . . Hush, little ones; dear papa has to go 
 away. Eass papa good-bye. There, there, little ones, 
 don't cry; papa come back. . . . And so he had left his 
 home, his face almost blistered by burning kisses, a 
 woman and three little children at the gate watching 
 him out of sight. 
 
 And night once more. Night after the day's work 
 was done ; night after the battle. Uncounted thousands 
 of dead husbands and sons all about him. Uncounted 
 thousands of wounded husbands and sons all about 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 83 
 
 him. Uncounted thousands of dying husbands and sons 
 all about him — ^he in their number. 
 
 Slowly his blood ebbs away, slowly his life ebbs away. 
 Night. Darkness. Memory. A home — a woman at 
 the gate with quivering face — children with frightened 
 faces — farewell embraces — promises to come back to 
 them. And now he is dying. Oh, what will she do, 
 what will she do when the news comes? He will not be 
 there to comfort her. No, he will never be there to 
 comfort her again. God, must it be? Is this thy 
 will, Father of all? 
 
 *'0 God — help — my — poor wife — comfort her if thou 
 — canst. My — children — my — children — what will be- 
 come — of — my — children. ' ' 
 
 And so a father was gone. And so a wife and chil- 
 dren were left behind. War does that sort of thing, 
 you know. 
 
 Every night, every day; yes, every hour, she com- 
 mitted her soldier-lover unto the Eternal keeping. She 
 believed in prayer. It was her one only resource all 
 the dark days which had passed. She believed that all 
 things were possible to one who believed sufficiently. 
 She believed that if she prayed earnestly enough her 
 lover could never be harmed. And so she prayed with 
 all her soul and strength, day and night. 
 
 He, too, lay on the field of death. He, too, was dy- 
 ing. And while he was dying she was glorying in the 
 assurance that her prayers were all heard and an- 
 swered. A battle had been fought, she knew. But had 
 he not been through many a battle and come out un- 
 harmed ? Were not her prayers an armor no bullet or 
 sword could pierce? 
 
84 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 And so she lay down to pleasant dreams. And so he 
 lay down to that sleep which knows no waking. 
 
 His mind wanders; it wanders back to the maiden 
 he loves. *'Yes, darling, the war is over. I am come 
 back to you, back to your love. We will part no more 
 forever. Ah, how- sweet it is to be with you, just to be 
 with you once again.'* 
 
 And the maiden dreams: *'0h, my lover, my lover! 
 I knew God would keep you safe. I knew my prayers 
 would shield you from all harm. Oh, God has been so 
 good to us.*' 
 
 And he answers her: "Yes, I am here, sweetheart. 
 We must be married at once; our little home is all 
 ready, just as we left it when I went away." 
 
 And she murmurs: ''Yes, married, and then our 
 little home. Oh, life is so fair!" 
 
 "Home," she echoes again. 
 
 In the morning he awoke not. 
 
 In the morning she awoke, and there was a telegram 
 from his comrade. 
 
 A youth had fallen in the fight, but his wound not 
 being mortal he had managed to stanch the flow of 
 blood. He was lying near a piece of timber, so during 
 a lull in the conflict in his part of the field he crawled 
 to the edge of the woods and concealed himself behind 
 a huge log. He knew enough about surgery to feel 
 certain his wound would not leave him maimed in any 
 way. Life was lusty in his veins, and a few weeks 
 would see him in the ranks again. 
 
 The combat deepened. The wooded knoll whereon 
 he lay became a strategic point. Again and again the 
 tide of battle rolled back and forth over him and all 
 about him. But he was securely protected and re- 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 85 
 
 mained uninjured by cannon shot or trampling horse. 
 The hill was piled high with the wounded and the 
 slain. 
 
 Not until long after dark did the firing cease; then 
 completely exhausted, and neither side having won the 
 fight, the soldiers sank to sleep on their arms without 
 daring or being able to remove the wounded to the rear. 
 
 The night was murky. All was still save the moan- 
 ings of dying men and horses. Nothing was visible, 
 not even the uplifted, contorted limbs of dead men and 
 dead horses. In the late hours, when campfires had all 
 burned to ashes and even sentinels were sleeping at 
 their posts, there crept forth from the denser shadows 
 of the woods some shapes like those of human beings, 
 but their motion is as that of the sinuous serpent writh- 
 ing along, body to earth. 
 
 These nameless shapes have hands. They crawl over 
 the dead. They wriggle through pools of blood. Their 
 hands find the pockets of the slain — those pockets are 
 left empty. The shapes writhe on. 
 
 One of them wriggles up to the wounded youth be- 
 hind the log. lie is in a gentle doze. A feeler gropes 
 out from the wriggling form and clutches the youth's 
 watch. He wakes with a start and seizes watch and 
 unseen arm. But that shape in the darkness thrusts 
 out another feeler — there is a knife in it — a gurgle — 
 something wet and warm — the watch is gone — the 
 shape crawls on. 
 
 The boy never went back to the service. 
 
 The last gun had at last been fired. All day long the 
 lines of battle had swayed backward and forward. And 
 as they thus swayed they grew ever thinner and the 
 heaps of those who swayed no more grew ever higher. 
 
56 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 But the day was past now. The soldiers were re- 
 turning to their tents — some of them were returning. 
 A boy had reached his. In the confusion of the fight 
 he had somehow been separated from every face he 
 knew. But as he groped his -^ay back to the spot 
 whence he started in the morning, it was with a sense 
 of the pleasure it would be to see his comrades again; 
 to see the familiar faces; to hear the familiar voices; 
 to talk over the events of the day as they drank to- 
 gether their steaming coffee by the campfire. 
 
 He reached his tent. No voices sounded in his ear. 
 Profound silence. No fire. That was strange. Surely 
 they couldn't have eaten and fallen asleep so soon. He 
 looked about. No, they hadn't got back yet. How late 
 was it? Why, it was ten o'clock already. Surely some 
 of them ought to be here by this time. Perhaps they 
 had got lost in the darkness on the way back. He 
 would start a fire and make the coffee, then wait. 
 They would soon be there, and how they would rejoice 
 to find supper ready and waiting. 
 
 He kindled a fire, he prepared the coffee, he sat 
 down, he waited. Strange they didn't come in. Some 
 of the boys ought to be able to find the camp. He 
 waited longer. He was becoming impatient. Why 
 didn't they hurry? He wouldn't wait another minute. 
 He lifted a cup to his lips, then his hand paused, it 
 shook as though palsied, his face went white. It hadn't 
 occurred to him before — suppose — suppose they never 
 came back. And they never did. 
 
 Three hundred thousand homes. The night after the 
 battle. Which aged parents were childless? Which 
 wives were husbandless? Which children were father- 
 less? Which maidens robbed forever? Three hundred 
 thousand homes — ^and the night after the battle. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE AFTER DAYS. 
 
 The day after the battle the post-offices all over the 
 country, in city, village and wayside hamlet, were 
 thronged with multitudes from every rank in life, but 
 all had this in common — blanched faces, haunted, 
 sleep-starved eyes, drawn and quivering lips. There 
 was tottering age leaning on well-worn cane; there was 
 the little child with dumb terror; there was the wife 
 and mother; there was the maiden with the far-away 
 look in her eyes. There was every kind of raiment to 
 be seen — women in their silks, women in their rags — 
 but one great common fear was the chain that fettered 
 them to every spot where news of the battle could pos- 
 sibly be had. Invisible ties bound every heart to that 
 fated field. Oh, when would they know? When, when? 
 So day after day they came — any letter yet? Yes, 
 there was a letter today — trembling hands, blazing eyes, 
 relief that left one faint. Any letter yet? No. none. 
 A heart sinks deeper, steps become slower, more un- 
 certain. 
 
 Day after day a maiden hurried to the office after 
 mail, though her home was more than a mile away. Day 
 after day the postmaster sadly shook his head when she 
 inquired at the window. Her coming got on his nerves 
 — the nerves of his sympathy, of his soul. He shud- 
 dered with dread whenever he saw her hastening figure 
 coming up the dusty road; he turned away his eyes 
 
 87 r -.,:•■.,■ 
 
88 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 whenever he saw the tense, eager face mutely ask: 
 "Any letter yet?'* Tears came to his eyes when he saw 
 the dumb, quivering hope die out into ashen silence. 
 
 Day after day she came. Day after day she went 
 away, empty-handed, empty-hearted. 
 
 Her lover was in the battle. The postmaster under- 
 stood. She was a favorite in the village, so was her 
 lover. Finally a letter came. How the postmaster's 
 heart bounded with gladness. He wouldn't have to 
 shake his head that day. He wouldn't have to see again 
 that quivering lip, that ashen face. He glances out of 
 the window, he can hardly wait her coming. He is 
 sharing her delight, her relief. Why doesn't she hurry 
 this day of all days? He picks up the letter again. He 
 scans the address. Why, it is in a strange handwriting. 
 
 What can that mean? Does it mean the letter falls 
 
 from his nerveless hand. How can he give it to her? 
 Mechanically he stoops down, picks it up, and lays it 
 aside. 
 
 He looks out of the window, a maiden's hastening 
 figure, a tense face, an eager step on the threshhold. 
 He thrusts out the letter as a thing of death, then turns 
 around and sits down weakly. 
 
 A little cry of joy, a great cry of anguish, the death 
 of a dream. He was among the slain. And she? She 
 was among the living. 
 
 An aged couple sitting by the evening fire. They 
 have waited many a day — are waiting still. How the 
 wind moans. How desolately the rain beats against the 
 uncurtained windows. How black it is without. 
 
 "Perhaps there will be a letter tonight." It was the 
 gray-haired old man who spoke. "Of course he has 
 been on the march ever since the battle; but he knows 
 we will be anxious to hear." 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 89 
 
 **Yes, there might be one/' the sad-faced wife gently 
 made reply. 
 
 "I guess I will go to the office and see/' And stiffly 
 the old man rose. 
 
 ''Don't you think you better wait till morning, 
 father? It is a mile and a half there and the storm is 
 growing worse. It might be bad for your rheumatism 
 to venture out in the rain." 
 
 ''I don't mind the rain." 
 
 ''Well, as you think best." 
 
 And so the old man tottered away into the night, for 
 his boy had been in the great fight, and he hadn't 
 heard since. 
 
 "Any mail tonight?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well, I didn't expect any; just thought I would 
 drop in and see." Out into the night and storm again. 
 
 An aged face — a woman's face — pressed against a 
 curtainless window — rain beating against the glass, 
 cold, pitiless rain, rain and darkness. A stumbling 
 step off there in the night somewhere. Out into the 
 darkness bareheaded, without a wrap. 
 
 "Any mail?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 They sat in silence about the dying fire awhile, then 
 to bed. And the storm moaned. 
 
 Day after day a bowed figure that seemed to be 
 growing shorter and shorter went to a little country 
 post-office, and then it tottered back. Day after day 
 a silent shake of the head, then feeble steps — four of 
 them — back to a little house. Weeks wore past — the 
 same silent tragedy each day. At last the old man re- 
 ceived a paper. He tore off the wrapper at the office, 
 borrowed some ill-fitting glasses and scanned a 
 
90 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 marked column. There was a list of the killed in a 
 certain regiment. He read on till he came to a name 
 to which a fair-haired child used to answer up in that 
 little home on the hill. 
 
 He got back home, he never knew just how. A wom- 
 an at the gate. Once she was a bride — his own — how 
 fair she was then. She was a mother; how radiant she 
 was with the babe on her bosom. The child was rac- 
 ing about the home; how her eyes devoured its every 
 motion. Now she was old, and feeble, and gray, and 
 the little boy — where was he? 
 
 **Any letter r' 
 
 The old man lifted his eyes to hers. And then she 
 turned and went into the house. 
 
 The father was not to blame. Little he dreamed of 
 war when he led her to the marriage altar. But the 
 war came and he had to go. And she was left behind ; 
 it is always that way for the woman; alone and yet 
 not alone. He was in that awful fight. And he stayed 
 there — that is, his body did. 
 
 A few days later she received word. A few hours 
 later a child was born. The child never looked into a 
 father's face. The father never looked into the child's 
 face. 
 
 The wife journeyed on alone. 
 
 His body was recovered by his comrade and sent back 
 to his wife and children for burial. The wife was no- 
 tified in advance. The children were too young to re- 
 alize what death meant. When the wife saw the wagon 
 approaching the house bringing her dead to her, she 
 hurried the children from the room that they might not 
 witness her first paroxysms of grief. 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 91 
 
 In cold, quiet tones she directed the neighbors where 
 to deposit the casket, and then silently dismissed them. 
 The moment they were out of the house she shut and 
 locked the doors, uncovered the sheeted face, and fell 
 on her knees before God, with only her dead husband 
 to bear witness. 
 
 An hour passed. In the room above shouts of child- 
 ish glee. In the room below a father and a mother — 
 the father dead. They were too young to know; she 
 bore it alone. How peaceful the dead face — doesn't he 
 know? Doesn't he care? Silently he sleeps on. The 
 shouts of his chillren bring no smile to his impassive 
 lips ; the anguish of his wife no tears to his eyes ; those 
 days are gone — gone forever. And so she kept vigil 
 with her unresponsive dead. 
 
 At last she glances at the clock; it is long past the 
 hour for the evening meal. Soon the children will be 
 clamoring for their supper. And must they eat? Can 
 they eat? Can one eat with that lying in the house? 
 Yes, for they did not know. Well, it was better that 
 they didn't. The mother finally rouses herself and 
 goes absently to the kitchen. 
 
 The little ones are tiring of their play. They are get- 
 ting hungry. They descend the stairs and search for 
 mamma. They see an open door; mamma must be in 
 there. They rush in. Mamma is not there but papa 
 is. They were not expecting to see him, and so for a 
 moment they pause. Then with incoherent shouts of 
 welcoming gladness they rush forward and leap upon 
 his breast and cover his face with kisses. For a mo- 
 ment in their ecstasy of delight they discover nothing 
 amiss. 
 
 Then they begin to wonder why his arms do not 
 tighten about them; why he doesn't speak; why he 
 
92 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 doesn't kiss their little lips. They draw back and 
 silently survey him. 
 
 "Papa asleep. Don't know we here." 
 
 **Yes, papa sleep. Papa tired — poor papa." 
 
 "Let's s 'prise papa. Me tickle papa's nose," and a 
 little head brushes curly hair across his face as in the 
 dear days that are gone. 
 
 "Me t'ink papa just 'tending to be s'eep. Me tickle 
 papa," and little fingers bore into the unheeding bos- 
 om of the sleeper. 
 
 * * Papa, papa ! Wake up ! Here we are. Papa, papa ! 
 Don 't sleep any more ! Don 't you hear us ? Don 't you 
 love your little girls any more? Papa, papa!" And 
 tears well up and overflow four shining little eyes. 
 
 IMeehanically the mother has prepared the evening 
 meal. She goes to the stairs and calls. No answer. 
 She calls again. No answer. She goes out into the 
 yard and looks about the house, no golden little heads 
 in sight. She re-enters the house and passes that open 
 door — she must take one more look. She comes to the 
 threshold and stops. Before her stand two little girls 
 transfixed with grief and wordless fear, gazing upon a 
 dead face — their papa's. They have not heard the 
 mother call. They have not heard the mother's step. 
 For a moment she can find no voice; at last a strange 
 voi .« is heard — somebody's voice — could it be hers? — 
 has cried out, "Children!" 
 
 The little ones wheel about and rush to the mother 
 hysterically sobbing: "0, mamma; papa is asleep! We 
 can't wake him up. O, mamma, mamma! wake papa 
 up; please do. We want to love him. We have been 
 kissing him and he don't kiss us at all. Don't papa 
 love us now? Why papa won't wake up?" 
 
 And what answer could she make ? 
 
Part III. 
 
 AFTER THE WAR 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE HOME-COMING. 
 
 He had been in the army four long years. Not once 
 had he taken a furlough. He had not received a sin- 
 gle wound though he had been in over fifty pitched bat- 
 tles, and under fire more than three times that num- 
 ber. But the war was at last over. He had received 
 his honorable discharge. He was already on the way 
 home. Home — how his heart grew soft when his lips 
 pronounced the word; and his lips did pronounce the 
 word over and over again. He had received but few 
 letters from home during his absence; still this had 
 not worried him any, for none of the home folks were 
 any hands to write. The last letter was several months 
 back now. 
 
 Within twenty-four hours he would reach that loved 
 spot — the home where he was born and reared, where 
 he had played as a child, where the holiest memories 
 life knows were linked with things visible and material 
 — a house — a home, barns, trees, creeks, hills, a well, 
 gardens, fields, woods. 
 
 His discharge had come three days earlier than he 
 expected, but he had not written home about this. He 
 would take them by surprise. By walking crosslots 
 over the hills and through the woods— ^ distance of 
 some three miles^ — ^he could so time his arrival as to 
 reach the house just as they were sitting down to sup- 
 per. He saw the picture, every detail of it. The old 
 clock on the mantel shelf ; the kitchen stove ; the cheap, 
 
 95 
 
96 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 dear pictures on the walls, the faded carpet, the rusty 
 sofa — home, a king's palace, royal splendor and beauty. 
 
 He counts the faces — all there. Father, mother, 
 younger brother, two little sisters — how they must have 
 grown since he went away. He would approach the 
 house from behind the bam. He would burst in upon 
 them just as father finished asking a blessing upon the 
 evening meal. What a noble face father has! He 
 hadn't seen one like it in four long years. 
 
 Never a youth loved home more than this one. It 
 was his whole world. He had never been fifty miles 
 away from it nor forty-eight hours absent until he 
 heard his country's piteous cry for his help, and he 
 had gone forth with leaden steps yet unafraid heart. 
 For four years the dull, homesick ache had lain in his 
 bosom. Plome was his last thought every night as he 
 rolled himself in his blankets under the stars; home 
 was his first thought every morning as he awoke to the 
 days that might have no night — rather an endless night 
 — for him; home, he thought of it in the smoke of 
 battle; he thought of it in the midst of the bayonet 
 charge; he thought of it when the dead lay in wind- 
 rows like the mown grass on his father's farm. 
 
 Would the war never be over? It was over now, 
 and every turn of the mighty wheels, every throb of 
 that iron heart were bringing him nearer home. 
 
 Home? What was home? Dear faces? Yes, they 
 were home, in part. In part? Yes, in part, for home 
 included even more than these. It included the plain 
 little white, house, the plain furniture, the weather- 
 beaten barns, the pear trees and apple orchard, the old 
 beech with the thick, low branches just made for boys 
 to climb. 
 
J\ND THIS IS WAR 97 
 
 He had to change cars at one station. The next train, 
 the one he was to take, was three hours late. How 
 could he ever stand it! And he would be late for 
 supper! Hurry as he would over the hills, it would 
 be nine o'clock before he could reach the door of that 
 little house. 
 
 The time passed some way. It always does. He has 
 just reached the summit of the hill that overlooks the 
 home valley. It is quarter to nine. Darkness has Ion? 
 since fallen. With what rapture of expectancy he lifts 
 his eyes to see a little light flickering down in that val- 
 ley at a spot his heart knows so well. Why. in densest 
 night without any light in the window at all, his eyes 
 would unerringly rest upon the precise spot where home 
 is — home. He looks — no light. That's strange. Per- 
 haps the night is too bright for a lamp to show so far. 
 No, that can't be it. The night is rather dark. Alight 
 in the window would show afar. 
 
 He looks up and down the valley — not a glimmer any- 
 where. Well, it is rather late. Farmers are abed. He 
 hurries on, but a strange premonitory uneasiness is 
 creeping into his bosom and it grows chill. But soon 
 he will be pounding on the door and then what a sur- 
 prise for all — what a welcome! And a little ecstasy 
 shakes his whole being. He jumps a little stream — ^he 
 had waded in that stream when a boy. In its sparkling 
 waters he had caught his first fish. What a home feel- 
 ing comes over him. 
 
 But where is the orchard? That's strange! It was 
 just the other side of the brook. Why doesn't he come 
 to the barn? He must have crossed the creek at a dif- 
 ferent place from what he had thought. A little vexa- 
 tion stirs him; he didn't suppose he could be fooled 
 
98 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 about a single square foot on the whole farm even at 
 night. But why doesn't the house show up? Sure- 
 ly it isn't dark enough to conceal that, near as he now 
 is. Strange he doesn't find house or barn or orchard. 
 Can it be he got twisted coming through the dense 
 woods on the hill, and is in another locality altogether? 
 Perish the thought. Such an idea is treason to his 
 heart. 
 
 But what is wrong? Something, surely? The creek 
 seemed the same, the lay of the land the same; but 
 that is all. The barn — it is gone. Gone the old beech 
 tree! Gone the orchard! Gone the pear trees! Gone 
 the garden fence ! Gone the shade trees. Where are the 
 home-folks? Gone, too, but wherip? 
 
 What means this, his benumbed brain asks itself. 
 
 A quivering flash of thought shoots athwart his 
 mind's murky night — there has been a war. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ONE WHO REMEMBERED. 
 
 It was a bleak November day. The sky was cold and 
 leaden. Gusts of wind tossed the dead leaves in home- 
 less, restless heaps, only to scatter them again and 
 again. The branches of the trees were bare and cold. 
 
 An occasional flake of snow fell, mute herald of Win- 
 ter's oncoming kingship and white desolation. A stran- 
 ger was riding along the highway wrapped up to his ears 
 to ward off the pitiless assault of the cutting wind. As 
 he rides along busy with his own thoughts his attention 
 is suddenly arrested by the sight of the swaying tops 
 of some tall spruces by the wayside — a glance at the 
 ground — cold, white shafts of marble chill his blood 
 still more. God's acre in the country! How many 
 stones are there ! How sparsely the community is popu- 
 lated, but how thick the sleepers lie here — and how 
 quiet. 
 
 And by each stone there has once stood a little group 
 of country folk in sable garb of sorrow, and each foot 
 of the soil of this sacred resting place of the dead has 
 been bedewed many a time by what salt tears. And 
 here heads have reverently bowed down, and here 
 prayers have gone upward — was there One who heard? 
 
 But what is that object by yonder stone? Why, it 
 is a woman's form. Yes, a woman's — aged, wrinkled, 
 white-haired, and feeble. There is a shawl, a faded 
 shawl, thrown over head and shoulders. What can 
 that bowed form be doing in this bleak place this bleak 
 
 99 
 
*- 
 
 ^ 
 
 100 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 day? The woman has a pail. She seems to be scrub- 
 bing that stone by her side. Yes, that is what she is 
 doing — scrubbing that stone. 
 
 The stranger stops his horse some distance away. 
 Evidently he has not been noticed. The trembling 
 woman, trembling with age and shivering with cold, 
 completes her task. She straightens up — that is, 
 straightens up as much as she can. She will never 
 be quite straight again; those days are past. They 
 don't return. She silently surveys the stone before 
 her. Her fingers touch it caressingly. She wipes her 
 eyes, then slowly passes out of that God's acre and 
 away across the fields out of sight. 
 
 The stranger drives on a few rods, stops and hitches 
 his horse, then reverently approaches that glistening 
 stone. It was the year 1895, thirty years after the 
 close of the war. With misty eyes he reads the chiseled 
 letters. A boy 's name is there ; then the words : * ' Killed 
 at Cold Harbor, 1865." 
 
 The mother had once more cleaned the moss from the 
 marble and so there was one who remembered. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 A child's plaything. 
 
 Their home was in the valley where the battle had 
 been fought, but that was fifty years ago, so all traces 
 of its devastations were long since obliterated. They 
 were happy in their little home, and little they thought 
 of the blood which had been shed on the acres that were 
 now their own. Men had died there, hundreds of them. 
 Blcod had flowed in crimson streams as large as the 
 little brook which sang by their cottage door all of a 
 summer's day. 
 
 Time and nature had done their work. The ugly 
 gashes are all healed. Men's memor'es are short. Homes 
 are fair where war was red, and pasture lands lie smil- 
 ing languidly in the golden sunlight. 
 
 Two children are at play in a thick clump of cedars 
 — a very paradise for little folks. Those cedars were 
 there fifty years ago — or others like them on the same 
 spot. Men in uniforms had crouched here where the 
 children were now so carelessly, so joyously, at play. 
 Cannons had been trained on this very spot. A bayonet 
 charge had been made on the sharpshooters hidden 
 aTong the cedars. Death had held high carnival here. 
 But this was a twice-told tale. 
 
 One day when poking around an old stump one of 
 the children unearthed something grayish-white, with 
 greenish patches. What a fnd! It would make a new 
 pl-^y+hin^i'. It was hcllow; there f re, it would be 
 fine for holding things. They could dig with it, too. 
 
 101 
 
1(^ AU^- THIS IS WAR 
 
 Why, it would be useful in a hundred different ways. 
 And they laughed in their glee as they played with the 
 new toy. In what seemed to be the front there were 
 two round holes, and the children stuck their fingers 
 in the holes and laughed a merry laugh. 
 
 Forty years before this an aged mother in a distant 
 State had gone down to her grave in sorrow. Where, 
 where, where, was lying her noble boy, the boy that 
 once a babe used to sleep on her breast, the boy that as 
 a little child flooded the whole house with the sunshine 
 of his smile and the melody of his laughter! 
 
 And even while the children are playingwith their new 
 toy and the cedars are a-tremble with their hysterical 
 shrieks of laugher, a lone woman, past three score years 
 and ten, in garments of grief that she has never laid 
 aside, is sitting by her desolate hearthstone, desolate 
 now as fifty years ago — aye, ever more desolate as the 
 lone years have come and gone. 
 
 And as she sits there and the children play there, she 
 repeats over and over again these words: **0h, if I 
 could only be laid by his dear side, how gentle the 
 grave would be. God, where is he, the husband of 
 my youth, my bridegroom, my lover? Must we sleep 
 apart till the resurrection? God, must it be? 
 
 And while she calls upon her God, this desolate, bro- 
 ken-hearted, forsaken bride — bride fifty years ago — the 
 children thrust their fingers through those round holes 
 in their new toy and shout again with laughter. A fair- 
 faced young mother comes to the door of a near-by 
 house, listens, smiles, and goes back to her household 
 task. 
 
 I wonder if other children as merry as these will be 
 playing with their skulls on some distant battlefield 
 fifty years hence — and some woman sitting alone. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 AN OLD SOLDIER. 
 
 The other day I saw an old soldier, perhaps seventy- 
 five years of age, slowly tottering toward what he called 
 home. His step was feeble and uncertain; his hair 
 long, thin, white, and unkempt; his beard yellow and 
 seraggly; his hat old, rusty, battered, and sagging to 
 one side; his coat dirty and ragged; his trousers 
 patched and baggy ; his face bleared, his nose red, his 
 eye faded and watery. 
 
 I entered his home ; the floors were bare, the windows 
 curtainless, the walls dingy, the furniture scanty and 
 broken. It was chill there. The fire was low and 
 feeble, the larder empty. 
 
 I looked over the years he had traveled — forty un- 
 broken years of intemperance, poverty, loss of position 
 after position, ever sinking lower and lower, until at 
 last this pitiable wreck of manhood before me — old, 
 feeble, friendless, besotted — a pensioner on the nation's 
 bounty, that pension all going to the rumseller's till. 
 
 I saw back of these past forty years a young man, 
 one of the bravest of the brave, the color-bearer of his 
 regiment. I saw him carrying the old flag unflinchingly 
 in- storm of lead and iron where hundreds were going 
 down like mown grass all about him. I saw him the 
 first to scale the ramparts of the enemy. I saw him 
 the uncrowned hero of a hundred fights. I saw him a 
 youth of flashing eye and flaming patriotism — tall, ath- 
 letic, of heroic mold physically and morally. I saw him 
 
 103 
 
104 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 taking his first glass of liquor — a government ration — 
 after a weary day's march. And then I looked at the 
 old man before me. Was this that youth? Is this the 
 same person? Yes, the same — and yet not the same. 
 And this was war — glorious war. 
 
 I saw back of the soldier a boy stepping across the 
 invisible line which separates youth from manhood — 
 clear-eyed, proud, ambitious, all-conquering youth. 
 There was no ordinary prize of life that was not easily 
 within the reach of his industry and integrity. And 
 then I looked at the old man before me. 
 
 I saw back of the youth and boy a babe on a young 
 mother's breast, a laughing, blue-eyed babe. I saw the 
 mother look into the eyes of that babe, and I caught 
 a fleeting glimpse of heaven in four eyes on earth. 
 And then I looked at the old man before me. Could it 
 be that this old man was once a babe on a young moth- 
 er's breast? And here he was at seventy-five — here he 
 was what he was. And this was war — glorious war. 
 
 I wonder if his mother ever sees him now. I wonder 
 if he will ever see his mother again. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE LITTLE COTTAGE BY THE WAYSIDE. 
 
 She was now well past seventy — a maiden still. She 
 lived alone in a little cottage by the wayside. For 
 years she had lived alone. An aged mother had died 
 long ago; an older sister a few years later followed the 
 mother to her rest; brothers were married and away 
 with families and cares of their own. They were old 
 men now with children and grandchildren gild'ng and 
 empurpling and haloing the years of their setting 
 sun. And she was alone in her little cottage by the 
 wayside, alone with her memories and her fancies. 
 
 It was not the kind of life she had dreamed for her- 
 self fifty years ago, when the dew of youth was on her 
 cheek. She had a lover then. The war came, he went 
 away; he never came back; and so she lived on in the 
 little cottage by the wayside. 
 
 She had always been shy, even as a school-girl and 
 maiden. As the years came and went she became ever 
 more retiring and reserved. Only children could fully 
 draw her out and open her heart. Friends dropped 
 away one by one. They were taken and she was left. 
 
 Of late she had been growing feebler, and the neigh- 
 bors who dropped in from time to time saw that her 
 last illness had come. Under various pretexts, and 
 against her protests, they managed so that some one 
 of them was with her most of the time. 
 
 As the end drew near her mind would wander from 
 105 
 
106 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 time to time; and she would talk to her soldier-lover, 
 at one time as though it were the evening of their be- 
 trothal; at another time they would be planning their 
 future home; again it was their last evening together 
 and they were saying farewell just before he left her 
 forever; still again she would talk to him as though he 
 were present, an old man — as though all their dreams 
 of wedded life had come true. How her face lighted 
 up with happiness as she prattled on. The neighbors 
 had never seen her look like that before. 
 
 All this, however, they could understand; they had 
 known, every one had known, that her lover had gone 
 away. They knew that other lovers had come to woo 
 in the after years, but that none had ever been permit- 
 ted to tell his tale. Yet there was something in her 
 talk that none did understand. She often spoke the 
 names of others — names of persons who had never been 
 known in the community. These seemed to be the 
 constant topic of conversation between her and the 
 husband she imagined by her side. She always called 
 these others by their first names, or by pet names, and 
 so no clue to their identity could be discovered. And 
 so those about her did not understand. 
 
 But after she was dead, then they understood. They 
 found her wedding-dress — the dress she never wore — 
 carefully packed away. But this was not all they 
 found. With it they found complete suits of baby 
 clothes which she had made from time to time during 
 the years since the war. These she had made, these she 
 could not help but make, to deaden the ache in her 
 yearning, empty, mother-hands. 
 
 And so while the world saw only a shy, lonely, rath- 
 er prosaic single woman of sweet, sad face, going si- 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 107 
 
 lently about among them, her heart was living in a 
 dream-world of her own creation. And thus on the 
 husks of fancy she strove to nourish as best she could 
 her starving mother-heart, and thus she busied her 
 starving mother-hands. 
 
 I wonder if there have been many women in the 
 world like that. 
 
 I wonder if these childless mothers will be childless 
 over There. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 A ROSE-COLORED GOWN. 
 
 She was in her room hastily dressing. She put on 
 her rose-colored gown because he had requested it the 
 night before — the night of their betrothal. She was 
 adorning herself now to see him off — off to war. Her 
 hands were trembling, her heart wildly fluttering. She 
 glances at her mirror, her face is pale, tears are in her 
 eyes. That will never do. She must be brave for his 
 sake — she must be brave lest she betray their secret, 
 their secret which is not to be known until he comes 
 back from the war. She dashes the tears from her eyes, 
 puts a rose in her hair, rubs her pale cheeks a moment, 
 and then descends the stairs. 
 
 There is a tumult of .ioyous greetings rollinsj up the 
 street. She glances in the direction of the noi'e. ani 
 then she understands; nnd the light grows brighter in 
 her eyes, and her heart beats high in its happiness, sni 
 her pale face flushes with love and pride. She might 
 have known, it is her lover aDproachinsr. All the b^'ys 
 of the town are about him, followiner him, and shout- 
 ing their greetings and good wishes ; for he is their hero 
 — their ideal — a handsome youth, brave, clean, true, 
 athletic, jovial, a leader in every sport. 
 
 Aged women love to catch his sunny smile; and he 
 has one for all, the lowliest as well as the richest. Men 
 speak enthusiastically of him and prophesy a brilliant 
 future. Mothers hold him up as a modol for th^ir 
 sons. He is without a single enemy or ill-wisher. His 
 
 108 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 109 
 
 friends are all who know him, from the oldest man to 
 the youngest child. 
 
 No youth like him in all the village. And so a 
 maiden in a rose-colored gown — of her betrothal of the 
 evening before — with a rose in her hair, watches the 
 royal progress of this regal youth as his steps are 
 turned toward her gate. What a kingly form and car- 
 riage; what a noble face; what a character and mind 
 to match face and form — so she muses, and such was 
 truth. 
 
 He tarries a moment at her gate, she comes blushing 
 forth to join the throng of old and young about him; 
 his journey to the depot is a triumphal progress. 
 
 Other young men, his comrades, are going, too, 
 moved by his example. With each is a little group of 
 relatives, and friends greet them kindly, pleasantly, 
 but turn from them unconsciously to smile again at 
 him, the leader, the pride of the whole village. 
 
 At the last moment he turns once more to speak to 
 her, to hold her hand, to murmur her name; but a 
 surge of admirers catches him from her side, a chorus 
 of cheers drowns his voice. A pang of jealousy and a 
 thrill of pride strive for mastery in her wildly flutter- 
 ing heart. 
 
 The train rolls in, he struggles free, mounts the step 
 of the car, searches the crowd about him with piercing 
 eyes, they catch hers, soften, and then he disappears^ 
 and the train rolls away. She goes back to her home ; 
 and waits. 
 
 Four years pass— pass some way. Other youths who 
 went out from that same village had already been back 
 several weeks. Why doesn't he return? Why, oh why, 
 
110 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 does he tarry? He has not once been wounded; he 
 has not seen a sick day; why doesn't he hurry to her 
 side? Ah, if he only knew how she loves him. If he 
 only knew how hard it is to wait. 
 
 And there was another strange thing. At first his 
 letters came regularly and surprisingly frequent. But 
 as the war drew toward a close they became rarer and 
 rarer, and were ever more brief. What little he did 
 write had completely lost its old ring. What could be 
 the matter? 
 
 During these years his mother had died and he had 
 now no home to come back to, so others did not wonder 
 particularly at his not returning — they had never 
 guessed her secret. So there was one — only one — ^who 
 wondered at his tarrying. 
 
 At last he came, unexpectedly to her, for he had not 
 written. Her first knowledge of his arrival was the 
 eager shouts of the boys in the streets calling to one 
 another that he was in town, had just got off at the 
 station. In five minutes the entire village knew it, she 
 among the last. 
 
 It was strange. She thinks — tries to think — it was to 
 give her a glad surprise. She llies to her room and 
 again hastily and with trembling hands, puts on the 
 rose-colored gown, he so 'praised four years before, the 
 gown that ha.wanted-her to wear the day he went away. 
 It shall be .th^ gawn:«he first sees her in as he comes 
 back — perhaps he will remember. So, out of style 
 though it was, she dons it once more. It has not been 
 worn in four years, it has been kept sacred against this 
 day, the day of the home-coming of her lover. Will 
 he understand? Will he care? 
 
 She tarries at her glass — she is twenty-four now. 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 111 
 
 Does she look as young, is she as fair, as four years 
 earlier? Fairer! For the long wait is past now in- 
 stead of just beginning. Her eyes never sparkled be- 
 fore as they do this minute; her color was never so 
 brilliant; her face never so radiant. 
 
 She goes to a vine-covered piazza at the side of the 
 house to wait his coming. And he is coming her way. 
 A throng of boys is following him now as then, the 
 same boys, but youths now. But who is that who is 
 singing that coarse drinking song? She peers through 
 the vines — some one in the approaching crowd is sing- 
 ing it. Why doesn't her lover stop it? Drive the 
 singer away? 
 
 They pass her hiding-place; she clutches the vines, 
 breaking them in her shaking hands; it is he who is 
 the singer. They pass, and he does not stop, barely 
 glances her way. 
 
 An hour later he comes back to her home. She is a 
 limp and shrunken form, lost in a large chair in the 
 darkened parlor. She hears a step on the gravel walk, 
 a strange, heavy, uncertain step. She does not rise. 
 A loud knock. Aged ten years in an hour, she un- 
 steadily goes to the door. No word of greeting from 
 either. He enters unbidden. He offers no caress. The 
 day for that is past forever. 
 
 He talks constrainedly of coming back to see his 
 mother's grave. She appears to listen, but says not a. 
 word. He makes no reference to the past. She makes^ 
 no reference to the past. He says he has enlisted in 
 the Regulars and leaves for the far West next day. List- 
 lessly she hears his words, but offers no comment. 
 
 At last he leaves her — leaves ; that is all — ^no farewell. 
 Before night the whole town had seen him, eagerly they 
 had sought him out. They found him, or one who bore 
 
112 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 his name, the boy who went away they found not; the 
 stranger who had stolen the boy's name they did not 
 know. 
 
 That night she lay awake all the long, weary hours, 
 alone, weeping, heart-broken now forever. Long past 
 midnight she heard him pass her home once more. Once 
 more she heard uncertain steps, ribald song and laugh- 
 ter, boon companions were with him. And thus ended 
 her four years' dream. 
 
 Next morning she cannot stay in the house. She 
 knows it is all over ; he will not come to her again — and 
 yet — 
 
 Her fingers busy themselves with the roses near her 
 gate, her eyes, unbidden, search the street. At last she 
 sees him; he is leaving now; she will speak once more; 
 any memory must be better than the one of yesterday. 
 
 Yes, it is better. The step is steady now, the flush is 
 gone from the face. 
 
 He takes her hand and speaks haltingly, but his 
 shifting glances will not meet her steady eyes, and 
 words are few. ' ' He has treasured — will always treas- 
 ure the memory of her friendship, and — will she care 
 for his mother's grave? He will probably never be 
 back again. And" a far, faint whistle. "He be- 
 lieves he can catch that freight when it stops for 
 water. ' ' 
 
 So he goes. Alone now. Even the boys have shrunk 
 away from him. 
 
 In her room she snatches from the floor her rose- 
 colored go-\vn — it is all she has left — and crushes it 
 against her heart, forcing back her sobs, straining her 
 ears almost against her will to catch the last faint 
 whistle of the departing freight train, after which — 
 silence. 
 
Part IV. 
 
 THIS PICTURE AND THAT 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE BEGINNING AND THE END. 
 
 She had a mother's heart from her earliest years. In 
 childhood no little girl ever so loved and cared for her 
 dollies. She would sacrifice her play any moment un- 
 der the pretense that one of her dollies was sick and 
 needed her. 
 
 Before her marriage she mothered every child that 
 came near her, and none was so unattractive in looks 
 or disposition but that she found a charm about it 
 somewhere. And children loved her. None was ever 
 afraid of her approaches even for a second, no matter 
 how timid or how terror-stricken at the caress of other 
 strangers. Few mothers but were jealous of the affec- 
 tion their children lavished upon her if they were with 
 her for long. 
 
 From the day of her marriage she dreamed of a 
 child, a boy who should be like her noble husband in 
 every respect. No queen ever so anticipated her crown- 
 ing day as she the day she should clasp to her famished 
 heart a little one of her own. The day came when she 
 did clasp such a little one, and much as she had an- 
 ticipated that hour the realization eclipsed the antici- 
 pation beyond all imaginings. She was intoxicated 
 with joy. She was delirious with ecstasy unspeakable. 
 Her eyes shone like blazing diamonds. Her whole face 
 was a transfiguration of delight. It dazzled with its 
 brilliancy of light. It almost blinded the eyes with its 
 effulgence of glory. 
 
 115 
 
116 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 To be in the room with her for a few seconds only 
 was a revelation of the beauty of maternity. It was 
 heaven come down to earth. It was earth exalted to 
 high heaven. In the presence of such love there was a 
 divine emanation of purity that seemed to burn away 
 the dross in human thought and character. One felt 
 like ]\Ioses in the presence of the burning bush, as 
 though the shoe must be loosed from off one's foot, for 
 the ground whereon they stood was holy. 
 
 Every second of the twenty-four hours, whether wak- 
 ing or sleeping, was for the mother a joy which was 
 almost as poignant as a pain. As she gazed upon her 
 child she would often catch her breath and clutch at 
 her bosom as though a spasm of pain caught her heart, 
 the pain of a joy that was too large for the place it 
 filled. 
 
 The passing present was more than she ever dreamed 
 heaven could be. And yet, rich as it was, like all other 
 mothers, she constantly dreamed of the happiness yet 
 to be — how glorious beyond words to see him begin to 
 toddle about, to hear him first say "mamma" and 
 **papa." To see him a laughing schoolboy; to look 
 into his eyes when they should be on a level with her 
 own; to read there purity and honor and truth and 
 love. 
 
 And then his youth and young manhood — ^how holy, 
 how divine, to be a mother, to have such a son as hers 
 would be. How his life would bless others. "What a 
 career of usefulness was before him. What laurels he 
 would win. Ah, God, it was almost too much, such 
 happiness as this. And her whole being, physical and 
 mental, was shaken with an ever-present thrill of ex- 
 pectancy. The vision of the Holy City vouchsafed to 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 117 
 
 the aged exile of Patmos was not more resplendent or 
 indescribably glorious than the vision this mother had 
 of the future of her boy. 
 
 If you could have seen her the evening the little one 
 took his first few steps alone from his father's out- 
 stretched hands to hers, if you could have seen him 
 throw his little body forward with an abandon of lov- 
 ing trustfulness as he came near those yearning hands 
 of hers and at the same moment look up into her face 
 and say "mamma'' for the first time — if you could 
 have witnessed that scene, if you could have looked 
 into the father's face, then into the child's face, and 
 then last of all into the mother's face — well, heaven 
 would have no surprises for you as a revelation of what 
 love means. 
 
 If you could have seen her face when she and a boy 
 her own height talked and dreamed of his future life 
 and work, you would have seen what eye hath not seen 
 nor ear heard nor hath it entered into the heart of man. 
 A glimpse of those two faces in such an hour of holy 
 communion would have transformed a man of unclean 
 life and thoughts into an apostle of purity forever- 
 more. 
 
 He was the only child that ever came to bless the 
 shoreless ocean of her love. 
 
 He reached his twentieth birthday. War reached out 
 his red, omnivorous clutches and drew her boy to his 
 reeking breast. For forty-eight sleepless hours his 
 father stumbled over the slippery field where for forty- 
 eight hours men had been hewing and hacking each 
 other to pieces. 
 
 At last at the bottom of a heap of mangled carrion 
 — dead horses and dead men — he found what was left 
 
118 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 of his boy. He identified him by a ring, his watch, 
 and a locket on his chain. The father took home that 
 which he found. Yes, took it back to the mother who 
 bore it. But war had done well his work — she knew 
 not the face or the form of her dead. 
 
 Twenty years ago and now; a child taking his first 
 steps; a youth of twenty; a distorted something had 
 taken its last step ; a babe in its mother's bosom — car- 
 rion from a battlefield that a mother did not know. The 
 beginning and the end — the beginning and the end of a 
 life made in the image of God; the beginning and the 
 end of a mother's dream. 
 
 And this was war — glorious war. Oh, for some new 
 poet to arise to sing thy praises, War, with voice of 
 angel and harp of gold. Oh, for a dramatist who 
 could lure the dead from the cemeteries where lie the 
 buried dreams of human hearts! 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A HOME — AND AFTERWARDS. 
 
 A MAN was hurrying along the street just as the dusk 
 was settling down. It was late in the autumn of the 
 year and the wind was cold and piercing. Added to 
 all the bleakness of season and hour a raw and chilling 
 sleet was falling. The man hurrying past was a stran- 
 ger in the town. A terrible loneliness was dogging his 
 steps. He was homesick and heartsick. Between thirty 
 and forty years of age, he had, some six months pre- 
 viously, passed through a great crisis of grief which 
 had left his life completely desolate — his wife and only 
 child had been taken from him the same week. 
 
 At the moment we catch a glimpse of him everything 
 seemed to be conspiring to make his burden unbearable 
 — a strange town ; not an acquaintance in it, night, au- 
 tumn winds, a driving sleet, memory. There was but 
 one more touch lacking to the picture, and that touch 
 was not to be left out. 
 
 He was just turning a corner when his eye was 
 caught by the sight of a cozy little house almost the 
 exact duplicate of his own. He paused a moment in 
 the storm, for a vision of the past rose in his mind with 
 such overmastering vividness that his feet forgot to 
 move. The curtains of the little home had not been 
 drawn down, though it was already dark without. 
 While he stood there in the storm gazing at the house 
 before him and at the vision within, a man brushed 
 past him and turned in at the gate. Just then a woman 
 
 119 
 
120 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 followed by a little girl some two years old — the age 
 of his own lost child — appeared in the room into which 
 he was looking. 
 
 They came to the window and pressed their faces 
 against the sleet-battered panes — they are watching for 
 papa. They hear a step on the walk, they fly into the 
 hall and open the door, they fairly seize a muffled fig- 
 ure from the clutch of the storm — and the stranger in 
 the street sees the rest, and he remembers. 
 
 Fascinated by the little drama of purest happiness 
 within the home, the man in the storm stands unmov- 
 ing, heedless of the driving sleet which beats in his face, 
 feeling not the freezing wind which whips his coat 
 about like the limbs of a tree in a tempest. The im- 
 propriety of his action never occurs to him. 
 
 Supper is waiting, the three — father and mother and 
 child — sit down to the daintiest and yet most abundant 
 of suppers. The storm roars without but warmth and 
 good cheer and love reign within — what matters the 
 night and the storm! 
 
 They had been married about four years. The days 
 had been cloudless from that moment to this. Many a 
 rich suitor had she turned away in order to marry the 
 man of her choice, and he was worthy of her favor. 
 Without influence of any kind or a dollar to back him, 
 he had put himself through college and then through a 
 professional school. Their engagement had been long. 
 They had had to wait four years after his studies were 
 finished before the income from his profession warrant- 
 ed him in establishing a home of his own. 
 
 But at last their dreams came true, and they were 
 married. The long wait but enhanced the joy of that 
 hour. In radiant beauty, the reflex of their hearts' 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 121 
 
 joy, they began their journey together. Never were 
 four years fuller of every noble satisfaction of the hu- 
 man heart. Home, perfect love and sympathy, a beau- 
 tiful child, extending fame and rapidly increasing in- 
 come — what more could the heart of man or woman 
 ask? 
 
 They were too happy in the present to think much 
 about the future; but when they did, the upward-slop- 
 ing pathway of their life was speedily lost in a glory 
 of light that was too dazzling to gaze upon for long. 
 
 The stranger in the street read all this and his heart- 
 hunger made him feel his own loss with a hundredfold 
 greater intensity. Before this household only years of 
 happiness — before himself, only years — ^that was all. 
 
 Another year passed. He who stood in the storm that 
 night was in the hospital corps of the advance army. 
 The first battle had been fought, a long and gory fight 
 lasting all day and far into the night. The army to 
 which he was attached remained masters of the field. It 
 fell to him along with many others to search for the 
 wounded all the hours of darkness that followed. 
 
 Down by a log that was fallen across a little stream 
 where the wounded had crowded to drink and die, he 
 discovered one whose life was fast ebbing away. The 
 wounded man was still able to gasp a few words when 
 found. 
 
 ** Please — send — my — ^body — ^back — to — ^her,'* and the 
 dying man's voice failed. 
 
 The stranger bent low his ear till it almost touched 
 those pallid lips. ''Who is she? Where shall I find 
 her ? Speak quick or it will be too late ! ' * 
 
 No answer. He poured a little liquor between the 
 
122 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 silent lips. The dying man's eyes opened blankly. 
 "Quick, quick! her address!'* 
 
 *'Yes — the — address — it is, it is — what is it** 
 
 more stimulants were given. Again the stranger bent 
 low his head. The white lips moved, the address was 
 faintly articulated. Merciful God! It was the city, 
 the street, the number of that home of the wild night 
 when he had stood in the storm without. 
 
 And another Eden was no more. 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 AND BOTH WERE SPEECHLESS. 
 
 I KNEW the old Doctor well, had always known him. 
 He had been a surgeon in the Civil War and I loved to 
 hear him recount his experiences in that memorable 
 struggle. He was a graphic and picturesque story-teller. 
 Few were gifted with an equal power of making pass 
 before your very eyes in all their vividness and detail 
 the scenes of which they had been witnesses. 
 
 When he was in the mood for it, it was not difficult 
 to induce the Doctor to narrate some of the stirring 
 events which had filled his life for four years when 
 with the army in the field. But almost invariably his 
 stories were of some deed of exceptional valor and hero- 
 ism, and were usually enlivened with a touch of humor 
 here and there. The deeper pathos and tragedy of the 
 battlefield he always passed over lightly, and could 
 never be induced to dwell in any fulness upon the more 
 sanguinary and revolting or distressing aspects of a 
 scene of human slaughter. 
 
 But it chanced one day, when I was driving with him 
 several miles into the country, where he had been called 
 in consultation, that he seemed to be in a more remin- 
 iscent mood than usual, and there was a note of pensive 
 melancholy in his words and tones that was exceedingly 
 rare with him. Our conversation drifted to the ever- 
 recurring topic of the Civil War, for the fascination of 
 its events was ever strong with me, especially when 
 with the Doctor. 
 
 On this occasion he touched again and again that 
 123 
 
124 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 deep note of tragedy which I had never before known 
 him to strike. 
 
 At length I was emboldened to ask him what was the 
 most memorable sight he witnessed during the entire 
 four years of the war. 
 
 I expected, if he was willing to answer my question 
 at all, that he would speak of some terrible carnage, or 
 state the number of dead and wounded he had counted 
 on a given area; or, perhaps, portray some isolated 
 deed of heroism, or suffering; or, maybe, describe a 
 cavalry charge as only he could describe such a charge. 
 
 "When I asked the question the Doctor's brow imme- 
 diately clouded and an expression of deepest pain was 
 depicted on his face. I at once knew that he would not 
 have to cast about in his mind to consider which scene 
 was the most memorable he had ever witnessed. The 
 scene was before him that moment — perhaps had never 
 left him. I knew also that it was one that he had never 
 even alluded to in all our years of intimacy. 
 
 At first I was all expectancy ; but he was silent so 
 long that I began to regret my question, for I saw he 
 was suffering even yet by the memories I had thought- 
 lessly called up. 
 
 Finally I said : * ' I beg your pardon, Doctor, for my 
 question. You need not answer it. I see I have awak- 
 ened painful memories. I never thought of doing so. I 
 supposed it would be something you had perhaps al- 
 ready told me. Or, at any rate, something thrillingly 
 dramatic. ' ' 
 
 Upon this he replied: "No, I have never told you 
 the most memorable scene of all. In fact, I have never 
 told anybody. But I know but too well what it was. 
 There is no other to dispute its pre-eminence." And 
 here he paused. 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 125 
 
 Again I spoke up and said: '*I beg you will forgive 
 me, Doctor. I wouldn't have pained you for anything. 
 It was thoughtless for me to ask. Try to forget the 
 question. I don't want you to answer it." 
 
 "Yes, I will answer it. You shall hear what im- 
 pressed me most of all the sights and sounds of death 
 in a thousand forms. 
 
 "I was going over the field the next day after the 
 battle. The wounded had already been removed by our 
 very efficient hospital corps ; but I never could feel sat- 
 isfied unless I went myself over as much of the scene 
 of conflict as I possibly could, as soon as there was the 
 slightest let-up in my duties at the operating-table. 
 
 ' ' I don 't recall that I ever found a wounded man who 
 had been overlooked, still I could not give up my habit 
 and I clung to it to the close of the war. 
 
 **0n the occasion I have just referred to, I saw what 
 was to me the most memorable scene of the entire war. ' ' 
 Here the Doctor paused for some time, and there was a 
 look of horror in his face and eyes as though the scene 
 were still before him. Consumed as I was with breath- 
 less curiosity to know what the scene was, I again forced 
 myself to beg him not to continue a narrative so pain- 
 ful to himself. Without making any reply to what I 
 said, he resumed his story, but it was evidently a strug- 
 gle for him to go on, 
 
 "It was two dead men — only two. Each had fallen 
 with the bayonet of the other thrust clean through his 
 body; a hand of each was clutching and tearing the 
 hair of the other. And so they had fallen, and so they 
 remained. But it was not the physical aspects of the 
 case so much, not that; I had seen many similar sights 
 on previous battlefields. 
 
 **It was their faces, their eyes, the expression that 
 
126 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 both men wore. That I had never seen anything like. 
 Such hatred, such fury, such murderous blood-lust — 
 why, I never dreamed the human features could be dis- 
 torted in hell to depict such a frenzy of murderous fury 
 as I read on those two faces." The Doctor stopped 
 asrain. fairly shaken by the memory of the horror of 
 that spectacle, so vivid was it even yet, thirty-five years 
 after the close of the conflict. 
 
 Ae^ain he went on after a heroic effort at self-ma«!tpry. 
 
 * 'Accustomed as I was to death in every form of dis- 
 fisrurement and physical asrony and distortion, I had 
 never seen anything like that. I turned away from the 
 sis'ht with a sickening horror such as I have never felt 
 before nor since. I was faint, yes. faint, and I a sur- 
 geon in an army that waded in blood all the time. But 
 it was a moral faintness more than a physical one. Those 
 faces, how they haunt me still. Why, man," he ex- 
 claimed, turninsr and seizing my arm with a convulsive, 
 vise-like grip, "I have seen them in my dreams for 
 thirty-five years. I saw them again last night, just as 
 they were that day, just the same, just the same. 
 
 **0h, it is awful, awful ! A weaker man would have 
 been driven insane by such dreams years ago." 
 
 Asra^'n the old Doctor stopped in his narration, and 
 seldom have I seen a man so agitated even by a present 
 distress or fear. I thought he had reached the end of 
 his story, or, at any rate, would be unable to proceed 
 farther. For a few minutes of painful silence I, too, 
 was completely dumb; and, I will confess, also some- 
 what shaken by the powerful emotions which were rack- 
 ing both mind and body of the elder man by my side. 
 
 After a time, however, my companion began speaking 
 once more and this time finished what he had to say. 
 
 **I was slightly acquainted with the Union soldier, 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 127 
 
 and from a wounded Confederate who was picked up 
 amono: our men and brought into our hospital, I learned 
 some facts about the other party to that horrible death- 
 grapple. 
 
 **Two little white country churches, one in a secluded 
 valley of northern New York, the other in a remote re- 
 gion of Georgia. These two men were the most hon- 
 ored deacons in those churches, stanch, noble, Godly 
 men; models in the home, tender and sympathetic — the 
 finest men in their respective communities, honest and 
 upright. They were leaders in every sense of the word, 
 both in church work and in everything that was for the 
 good of the towns in which they dwelt. 
 
 *'Such were the men in their homes; such they might 
 have died, with friends about them and the peace of 
 God in their hearts. But war came — and their dvinpf 
 thoughts, their dead faces, oh ! it was dreadful, dreadful ! 
 
 "And there is always a sequel to my dream of those 
 distorted faces. I see them rising together to the gate 
 of heaven; and each, without perceiving the other, 
 knocks at the same time for admission. An angel opens 
 the gate and asks each what he wishes. The instant an- 
 swer of both is that they seek admission to the city of 
 the redeemed. 
 
 "The angel gazes, sad-eyed, upon the two naked 
 souls before him ; and then asks them in low, pain-riven 
 tones: 'What was your last deed on earth, and what 
 your last thought?* 
 
 "Each now for the first time perceives that another 
 soul is waiting at the gate. Slowly each lifts his eye till 
 he gazes full into the other's. Recognition is instanta- 
 neous — and both are speechless.*' 
 
 The old Doctor's story was done. We rode on in si- 
 lence. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 I WAS visiting a friend of mine in June, 1896. It 
 happened that I was there over Sunday. Toward eve- 
 ning my friend asked me if I wouldn't like to go with 
 him to the young people 's prayer-meeting which preced- 
 ed the preaching service. He said he did not ordinarily 
 attend, but that evening there was a young man to lead 
 who had been recently converted and in whom the en- 
 tire church was particularly interested. This was the 
 first meeting the young man had ever led. 
 
 So we went together to the service. I noticed my 
 friend spoke with enthusiasm of the youth, and yet evi- 
 dently thought he was understating his high qualities, 
 desirous that my impression should be at first hand, 
 confident that I would be as enthusiastic as he after I 
 had once seen and heard. I will confess I was but mild- 
 ly interested. 
 
 It was a hot night, so I was not prepared to see many 
 at the service. We ourselves were early but the room 
 was already packed when we arrived and we had to 
 wait standing a few minutes for more chairs to be 
 brought in. The moment we entered the room my 
 friend exclaimed with ill suppressed excitement, "There 
 he is!*' 
 
 I glanced at the leader, more in curiosity than any- 
 thing else, wondering what could so enthuse my com- 
 panion at the mere sight of him or mention of his name. 
 But one glance was enough. My attention was riveted 
 
 128 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 11» 
 
 to his face at once. I did not notice when our chairs 
 were brought until my friend spoke to me a second 
 time, and even after that was obliged to tap me on the 
 arm. 
 
 The youth in the leader's chair was only sixteen 
 years old, but there was a manly fascination about his 
 face that I have never seen equaled. He was fully six 
 feet tall, dark, slender, and of athletic build. His coun- 
 tenance was the finest blending of beauty and intellec- 
 tuality I have ever beheld. He was rather pale, despite 
 the intense heat. This was probably due to excitement 
 or nervousness in his unaccustomed position. 
 
 That he was intensely popular, the very leader of the 
 young people in everything clean and worthy, was un- 
 mistakable. One need only look into the admiring eyes 
 of the throng in that hot room, to be convinced of this 
 fact. 
 
 Two or three opening hymns were sung, and I no- 
 ticed the leader of the meeting was also the leader of 
 the singing as well. And what a splendid voice he had. 
 He was still somewhat nervous, though this was grad- 
 ually wearing away. I admired him all the more for 
 the fact that he was not too self-assured. 
 
 The first singing done, he opened a little Bible which 
 I fancied was a present from his mother when he was 
 a child. He read the evening lesson in a clear, manly 
 voice, though a voice which slightly trembled. He was 
 not yet entirely free from self -consciousness and trepi- 
 dation. But the trembling tones gave an added thrill to 
 his ringing enunciation. 
 
 I wondered if he would say a few words on the topic. 
 I hoped that he would, however brief he might be. My 
 interest in him was deepening all the time. I had not 
 
130 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 long to wait in suspense. The reading was short. When 
 finished, he announced the topic: *'My strength is as 
 the strength of ten because my heart is pure. ' * As these 
 words rang out I was thrilled by a new power that 
 seemed to be poured into them, familiar as they were. 
 Each word fell from his mobile lips like a new-coined 
 gold piece. 
 
 His first few sentences were a little broken, but al- 
 most immediately thereafter he seemed to lose all fear 
 and all consciousness of self. He swept us all off our 
 feet by his eager, boyish, yet manly portrayal of the 
 masterly, all-conquering strength of a pure heart and 
 clean life. It was partly what he said and more what 
 he felt and the passionate earnestness with which he 
 spoke, that made our feelings vibrant with every high 
 purpose and resolution. 
 
 But thralled as I was by the speaker, yet my atten- 
 tion was diverted from him after a few moments to an- 
 other face, the face of a woman in a distant corner of 
 the room. I can't conceive how I ever came to notice 
 her in the first place, but notice her I did. After that 
 I could scarcely take my eyes from her face, even to 
 glance at the speaker. 
 
 Much as the boy's face shone with his high thoughts 
 and eager speech, the woman's face shone still more. 
 She was leaning far forward in her seat, though what 
 the boy was saying could easily have been heard double 
 her distance away. Her eyes were so glued to his face 
 that her lids scarce seemed to move once during the 
 time he was speaking. Her soul was in her eyes, and I 
 almost fancied that it was leaning a little out of and 
 farther forward than her eyes themselves. 
 
 She was his mother. No one told me so, I had never 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 131 
 
 seen or heard of either before that day, but no one could 
 have been so blind or dull as not to have guessed. 
 
 The meeting over, my friend's enthusiasm knew no 
 bounds as we were on our way home. He could talk of 
 nothing but of that youthful leader: his noble charac- 
 ter, his splendid promise, his leadership in the past in 
 the social life and school life and athletic interests of 
 the young people; and now, of his equal interest and 
 enthusiasm in Christian work, and what a power he al- 
 ready was among not only the young but among all 
 
 I was equally interested in the woman in the far cor- 
 ner and asked about her. *'Yes, she is his mother,'' my 
 friend replied, "and a proud and happy woman she is. 
 When the boy was a baby, she dedicated him to the For- 
 eign Mission field. But she never told him about that 
 until recently, not until he made the decision independ- 
 ently and uninfluenced by any one. After he had made 
 his decision he told her of it with fear and hesitation, 
 dreading her opposition to his going away so far, as he 
 is her only child. Then it was she told him of his con- 
 secration to that work in his infancy. What a scene that 
 hour must have witnessed in that home!" 
 
 The rest of his story was told me a few years later by 
 another friend of mine, who was for a time in the com- 
 missary department of an army in the tropical islands 
 of the far East. 
 
 It was sometime along in the fall of '99. My friend 
 was going through a hospital with a young doctor with 
 whom he was on intimate terms. In one cot he caught a 
 glimpse of the most pitiable human wreck he ever saw, 
 even in that land of vice: hair nearly all dropped out, 
 
132 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 the rest entirely white; teeth falling from his mouth; 
 skin a livid yellow, throat ulcerous, voice a mere husky 
 whisper. My friend said he turned from that revolting 
 spectacle with a dizzy, sickening weakness. 
 
 It was the same youth who had led that prayer-meet- 
 ing three short years before. Companions had lured 
 him to an institution regularly inspected by the army 
 physicians, and here he was rotting away under a broil- 
 ing sun in the land of the East. 
 
 They buried him over there. On a little white stone 
 they chiseled these words: 
 
 **Died for his country." 
 
 Died for his country? Good God! who will answer 
 for that boy 's soul in the day of judgment ? 
 
 And so he, like thousands of others of the bravest and 
 the best, went on a * * foreign mission. ' ' 
 
Part V. 
 
 THE UNKNOWABLE 
 
CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 TEN o'clock the NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. 
 
 It is ten o'clock in camp the night before the battle. 
 The sky is without a cloud : the light of moon and stars 
 brilliant in the extreme. The heavens never wore a 
 more peaceful aspect ; nature never wore a more peace- 
 ful aspect. The murmuring of running water can be 
 heard. The fragrance of orchard blossoms is in the air. 
 Spring is supreme everywhere, and summer acoming. 
 Fields are greening, cattle are on a thousand hills, now 
 taking their rest. Birds have folded their wings in the 
 branches, their songs are hushed. Nature is at peace. 
 But on every hill and in every valley for miles and 
 miles are the glowing embers of dying fires. Rolled in 
 blankets about these dying fires are two hundred thou- 
 sand sleeping soldiers — sleeping and dreaming, dream- 
 ing of the past, dreaming of the morrow. They oft stir 
 uneasily, their sleep is troubled. On the hills are six 
 hundred cannon waiting for the morrow. Generals are 
 consulting in their tents. Spies are crawling about un- 
 der cover of bush and shadow. Sentries are pacing 
 their weary rounds, with ever and anon the cry, ''Who 
 goes there?'* Horses are restless and occasionally 
 break the stillness with a plaintive neigh. Tonight na- 
 ture so fair; men in the prime of their years; silence 
 profound, menacing, ominous. 
 
 It is ten o'clock in two hundred thousand homes the 
 night before the battle. These homes all have their 
 empty chairs, their vacant beds, their aching hearts, 
 their sleepless eyes. Sons, husbands, brothers, lovers, 
 
 135 
 
136 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 fathers, are in that far camp waiting the morrow. Sons, 
 husbands, brothers, lovers, fathers, will camp there till 
 the resurrection. Tears, prayers, moaning grief, dumb 
 agony; waiting, waiting, waiting — what else for homes 
 to do but wait? 
 
 It is ten o'clock in heaven the night before the battle. 
 Eyes are straining over heaven's battlements down to- 
 ward a speck of dust floating in far-off space. Those 
 eyes are fixed on a part of that speck of dust which is 
 now curtained in a shroud which men name darkness, 
 and a darker shroud named sorrow, and a darker still 
 named death. Those heavenly eyes are fixed upon two 
 hundred thousand men now wrapped in their blankets, 
 a third of whom in less than twice twelve hours will be 
 wrapped in eternal silence. Those eyes are fixed upon 
 two hundred thousand homes scattered all over two 
 mighty nations. There is a mingled roar of never-ceas- 
 ing cries for pity and protection battering the ears of 
 all the heavenly hosts — the prayers of two hundred 
 thousand homes, and prayers from the battlefield itself. 
 All space is atremble with the upward rush of those 
 salt and bitter cries. There is a moan which fills all 
 space, the cumulated heart-sobs of the children of 
 Time: that moan penetrates the remotest frontiers of 
 that ''better country." The faces in the heavenly 
 city are unutterably sad; there are tears in the eyes 
 of angels. Heaven itself is helpless. Heaven itself 
 can only listen and wait. Angels pace its high ram- 
 parts. They are gazing upon that sleeping host be- 
 low. The ears of angels are agonized by the far-carry- 
 ing sound of oaths and revelry in parts of that fated 
 field. Shaking fingers are pointing downward — angels 
 are counting the sleepers who will sleep in hell ere two 
 Buns more shall rise. 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 137 
 
 It is ten o'clock in hell the night before the battle. A 
 holiday has been proclaimed throughout all that sul- 
 phurous realm. Even the stokers are given a night off. 
 It is an hour of demoniac glee. Tomorrow hell's har- 
 vest will be garnered. Bulletins are constantly being 
 received and read aloud to those bedlam myriads. 
 
 Bulletin No. 1: ''Men in camp drinking and carous- 
 ing" — howls of glee. 
 
 Bulletin No. 2: "National hatreds deepening and 
 darkening" — more howls of glee. 
 
 Bulletin No. 3: ''Preparation for slaughter and 
 death complete" — demoniacal, maniacal laughter that 
 shakes the foundations of deepest hell and echoes to far 
 heaven. 
 
 Bulletin No. 4: "Less than half the men in either 
 army prepared for eternity" — the damned wallowing 
 on the floor of hell, drunk with ecstasy. 
 
 Bulletin No. 5: "The slaughter will be beyond all 
 precedent, new machine guns arriving, mines to be 
 sprung, dynamite to be dropped from balloons" — and 
 here the laughter of the lost completely drowns the 
 reading. 
 
 Bulletin No. 6 : " More room needed in hell than first 
 deemed necessary" — shrieking salvos of applause. And 
 then the countless hordes scatter, each vying with other 
 to make swift preparation for the great reception to be 
 held on the morrow. 
 
 It is ten 'clock on the battlefield the day of the bat- 
 tle. The sun's face is darkened by the smoke of can- 
 non. Birds and beasts have fled in terror. All the 
 green of nature is now dyed one red. Men are charg- 
 ing everywhere, men shouting everywhere, men falling, 
 
138 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 dying everywhere. The ground is piling high with writh- 
 ing heaps of the wounded and thfi dead. Red War is 
 glutting his insatiable blood-lust. Cannibal War is 
 feeding him fat on the flower of a nation's youth. 
 Swords are feasting and gorging, and still crying, 
 **More, more!" Armies are melting away; men are 
 going down into silence ; the unlived years and the un- 
 realized hopes will remain unlived years and unrealized 
 hopes to all eternity. 
 
 It is ten o'clock in two hundred thousand homes the 
 day of the battle. And two hundred thousand homes 
 are — waiting. 
 
 It is ten 'clock in heaven the day of the battle. And 
 all heaven is in commotion. Some in the throngs of 
 dead who, fresh from the battlefield, crowd the gates of 
 the celestial city, are pointed by angels with flaming 
 swords and veiled faces to another eternal abiding 
 place. Look into the faces of that procession turned 
 thitherward — no, don't look! An eternity of heaven 
 could never blot out the memory. Watch those admit- 
 ted to heaven — foes on earth, a moment before, feeling 
 for each other's heart, now face to face. What are 
 their thoughts now? So all heaven is in commotion 
 this hour; friends long there, waiting to greet friends 
 just arriving; enemies on earth clasping hands here in 
 love. And at the gates of the city some going away 
 into 
 
 It is ten o'clock in hell tbe day of the battle. All its 
 gates swing wide. High carnival reigns; the reception 
 committee is overworked; the hospitality of the lost is 
 overtaxed. An endless procession is arriving, those un- 
 able to enter where all is pure and of good report. 
 Loud and long laugh the damned, and loud and long 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 139 
 
 laugh they. Oh, that war would last forever! **War, 
 war, glorious war!*' . 
 
 TEN o'clock the NIGHT AFTER THE BATTLE. 
 
 It is ten o'clock on the battlefield the night after the 
 battle. Sixty thousand men dead and wounded — fath- 
 ers, husbands, sons, brothers, lovers. Hospital corps 
 searching for the wounded, thieves searching for gold, 
 brooks choked with those who have crawled there to 
 slake their battle-thirst, earth soaked with blood, the air 
 aquiver with the agonized moanings of men and horses. 
 Death, mutilation, distortion, disfigurement — man's 
 handiwork, war's handiwork, civilization's masterpiece. 
 
 It is ten o'clock in two hundred thousand homes the 
 night after the battle. The day's work is done. Eter- 
 nity cannot undo it. Who is living? Who dead? Who 
 will return? What homes are broken forever? Which 
 wives husbandless? Which parents sonless? Who, 
 what, which — oh, when will they know? But they must 
 wait, all must wait : waiting, that is their share in red, 
 in glorious war. And some must wait forever. 
 
 It is ten o'clock in heaven the night after the battle. 
 There are joyful reunions in that realm of day; wives 
 have received their husbands and parents their children. 
 The battle has done this for some. But there are others 
 there : they, too, have been waiting at the gates all day. 
 They have been waiting years for the arrival of loved 
 faces; they have seen those loved faces today — caught 
 a glimpse of them; they were in the procession that 
 passed hence. Their waiting is now over — nay, rather, 
 will never end. 
 
 It is ten o'clock in hell the night after the battle. New 
 faces are there, thousands of them. They awake, they 
 look about them, they understand. 
 
 Cover thine eyes; let the curtain fall. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 AND THE LAST TRUMP SOUNDED. 
 
 It was the resurrection morn. The Lord himself had 
 descended from heaven with a shout, with the voice of 
 the archangel, and the last trump had sounded. 
 
 The dead were everywhere rising. Whole families 
 were rising together, hand in hand, where they had 
 been sleeping together for hundreds and thousands of 
 years. There were reunions in little country cemeteries, 
 in vast city cemeteries, reunions everywhere. The air 
 was vibrant, vocal, athrill, with songs of joy and tri- 
 umph. 
 
 There was one very noticeable feature of the scene. 
 Those killed in battle were raised last as a final manifes- 
 tation of heaven *s disapproval of fratricidal strife — and 
 all war is fratricidal strife. 
 
 There were joyful scenes to be witnessed that day, 
 there were pathetic scenes to be witnessed that day. But 
 the most pathetic of all were not those in the world's 
 cemeteries, whether of city or countryside. The most 
 pathetic of all was the sight of women who had been 
 sleeping alone in the cold ground for uncounted cen- 
 turies, mothers leadng little children by the hand, 
 searching among the dead on the world's thousands of 
 battlefields. Wherever a battle had been fought in all 
 the ages of time, there on that battlefield you could see 
 the same sight on this resurrection morn when the last 
 trump sound(d: women in black, with sad, pale faces, 
 leading their little ch'ldren, hunting amcng the un- 
 known dead for husband and father buried in the 
 
 140 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 141 
 
 trenches like slaughtered curs. Yes, hunting among 
 the unknown dead for husbands and fathers. "Un- 
 known dead'*? Husbands and fathers ** unknown"? 
 God save the mark! Whose handiwork has so defaced 
 God's handiwork that husband and father is *' un- 
 known ' ' ? 
 
 Man's handiwork, War's handiwork, glorious War's! 
 And so the resurrection morn itself was shadowed and 
 shrouded by War's black pall. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 THE DOGS OF WAR. 
 
 I SEEMED to be taking a long, solitary walk. I had 
 entered a narrow valley, lying between two lofty hill 
 ranges. Communing with my own thoughts, I was lit- 
 tle heeding any outward sights or sounds, when sud- 
 denly the fierce baying of distant dogs smote my ears. 
 The dissonant uproar jarred me out of my musings and 
 I looked about somewhat startled as does a man who 
 hears the pursuing howl of timber wolves which may be 
 on his own trail. A half mile up the valley I perceived 
 a group of men who were considerably excited, and 
 thence proceeded the barking of the dogs which I now 
 heard continuously. 
 
 I couldn^t make out who the men were nor what the 
 commotion was about, so I turned my steps in that di- 
 rection and hastened rapidly toward the scene. I sus- 
 pected there was a dog fight on back here in the hills 
 where officers of the law would not be likely to inter- 
 fere. And say what you will about the cruelty of it, 
 few men will look the other way when a fight is taking 
 place right under their noses. 
 
 As I drew nearer the deafening uproar grew louder, 
 men shouting to each other, and to the dogs which were 
 baying ever more fiercely. Soon I began to recognize 
 familiar forms and faces — those of world-renowned 
 statesmen. 
 
 A Prime Minister was holding in leash a monstrous 
 Great Dane, which was bloodthirstily howling as he 
 
 142 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 143 
 
 stood on his hind legs frantically pawing the air, eyes 
 bulging and tongue protruding. He was a horrible 
 specimen of power and ferocity. Opposite was another 
 famous statesman holding in leash a slavering Mastiff, 
 which was in much the same attitude as the Great 
 Dane. I loitered about determined to see what would 
 come of it all. 
 
 The master of the Great Dane was holding back 
 somewhat and his antagonist seemed desirous of avoid- 
 ing a fight altogether, though he showed no particular 
 signs of fear and his dog showed none whatever. But a 
 noble rabble of statesmen kept whispering in the ears 
 of those who held the dogs, "Let 'em go, let 'em go!" 
 And back of these and all about was a swarm of buzzing 
 men whom I did not know, but I learned by inquiry that 
 they were editors and reporters ; and most of these were 
 shouting till red in the face — * * Sick 'em ! Sick 'em ! Sick 
 'em!" 
 
 A little distance away in another group stood some 
 interested spectators of the scene — ^the rulers and states- 
 men of the great Christian nations of the earth. These 
 kept whispering and snickering and nudging each other 
 as the game went on. Finally a leash was slipped and 
 with a "crimson roar" the Great Dane hurled himself 
 at the Mastiff's throat. At the same moment the latter 
 was unchained and rose to meet the murderous on- 
 slaught. 
 
 Then a wondrous transformation took place in that 
 scene, which I could in no wise account for. The dogs 
 had vanished and in their places were two long lines of 
 men rushing at each other with deadly intent, yelling 
 like demons, flourishing swords and firing guns. 
 
 I looked into the faces of these men — were they in- 
 
144 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 deed men or were they demons incarnate? Yes, they 
 were men: they were members of homes; they were 
 sons, brothers, husbands, fathers, levers. How do I 
 Imow? Because I saw marks on the faces of each — the 
 marks of the burn^'ng farewell kisses of women and lit- 
 tle children. I saw drops of water on their warrior 
 garb — tears of women, not yet dry. 
 
 Spellbound, horrified, I watched to see what would 
 happen. Guns crashed, men yelled in a^ony, blood 
 spurted. Arousinsj myself from my dazed horror I 
 grabbed a soldier near me and cried out: **For God*s 
 sake. stoD, man! Don't you know what you are doing? 
 YouVe killed a man, killed a man, I say!** 
 
 ** That's my business,'* he grimly replied. 
 
 **Put whv did you do it? Did you hate him? Has 
 he wronged you?" 
 
 **Fate him? Wronged me? Why, man I don't have 
 any idea who he is nor what he has done. Probably he 
 hasn't done anj^hing. But didn't you see those valor- 
 ous politicians whisperinor together? And didn't you 
 hear the crowds yelling, *'Sick 'em, sick 'em?" 
 
 **Yes, I did!" 
 
 '*Well, that's what we're here for! That's what 
 we've got to do — Sick 'em." 
 
 Another crash of snins. I turned from the sickening 
 sight. Then, lo! behind each line of soldiers, only a 
 few feet away. I saw a long row of women of all ages, 
 and little children, all chained fast to stakes driven 
 deep in the srround. These women were praying, weep- 
 ine and wringine their hands. The children, pale with 
 terror, were crying out in mortal anguish and clinging 
 to the skirts of the women. 
 
 At the second discharge of guns I saw that every 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 145 
 
 bullet which went through a soldier's heart likewise 
 went through the hearts of three women. I saw that 
 these same bullets were mutilating the children, and 
 again I saw blood spurt. I heard screams, yes, screams. 
 Say, you never heard a scream, my friend. I never did 
 before. 
 
 Again I turned to the soldiers near me and fairly 
 yelled: ** For God's sake, stop! Can't you see? You 
 are shooting women and children!'' 
 
 ** Can't help it if we are. Don't you hear those voices 
 still shouting, 'Sick 'em, sick 'em'? " 
 
 I was powerless. I turned to flee and escape from 
 the heart-breaking spectacle. 
 
 I soon passed beyond the line of shrieking women and 
 children, and at once came upon a line of farmers and 
 small tradesmen at their toil and business. Among 
 these I saw a lot of mounted men, ruthless freebooters, 
 riding up and down and robbing the laborers of the 
 fruits of their toil. Infuriated I sprang to the defense 
 of one poor old farmer and his wife who were being 
 held up and robbed by one of the horsemen. No sooner 
 did I begin to interfere than the robber smote me over 
 the head with the flat of his sword and I was felled to 
 earth. While writhing there in my pain he shouted 
 down at me, fairly choked with fury: **I will teach 
 you to interfere with the majesty of the law! Our 
 fighting dogs must be fed." 
 
 I then rose and rushed frantically about on the wet 
 and slippery ground, trying to find those noble Chris- 
 tian statesmen who had started the fight, and see if I 
 couldn't induce them to call off their dogs. But I 
 couldn't discover one of them on that blood-soaked 
 field. Finally above the roar and snarl of the fight I 
 
146 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 heard in thundering tones those never-ceasing words, 
 **Sick *em, sick *em!*' I lifted up my eyes and on the 
 highest ridge of a far-distant hill I descried a few men. 
 I hastened thither and found on that pinnacle, far out 
 of range of rifle and cannon shot, the very men I was 
 seeking, and each had an enormous megaphone, and 
 into these they were bawling with red faces: **Sick 
 *em, sick 'em, sick 'em!" 
 
 So up on the mountain top, safe and secure, re- 
 nowned statesmen were bellowing, **Sick *em, sick 
 'em!'* while down in the valley sons and fathers and 
 brothers were killing each other; and tethered behind 
 these were defenseless women and children, while bul- 
 lets were boring through their hearts and red blood 
 flowing out. 
 
 "Sick 'em! Sick 'em!" 
 
CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 AN UNDISCOVERED COUNTRT. 
 
 As I ponder the glories of war, I often have a vision 
 of an undiscovered country, a realm of gloom in a cor- 
 ner of space so remote that God has forgotten it. And 
 no eye in all heaven is keen enough of sight to discern it. 
 
 Its oceans are the blood of those wounded and slain 
 in war since time began. Its rivers are the tears shed 
 since time began because of the miseries of war. On 
 its rivers of tears and oceans of blood float all the naval 
 craft used in war since time began. There are moun- 
 tains in that realm of woe — mountains made out of the 
 heaped-up instruments of death used in war, mountains 
 of the piled-up property destroyed in war, mountains of 
 the money wasted in preparing for war and in carrying 
 it on. 
 
 There are clouds in that land, clouds that never leave 
 nor pass away. All the smoke of burning homes and 
 burning cities set on fire by War's red hand, all this 
 smoke has found its way thither, and there it remains 
 forever, unchanged and undiminished. 
 
 No sun ever shines there, no moon and no stars. The 
 only light which gleams in that murky gloom is the red 
 light of war. The flash of every gun has found its way 
 thither; the flame of every cannon has found its way 
 thither; the blaze of every dwelling and the conflagra- 
 tion of every city have found their way thither; and 
 there all these remain forever, unchanged and undi- 
 minished. 
 
 147 
 
148 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 Every sound of every battlefield since time began has 
 found its way thither, and there these sounds go on for- 
 ever, unchanged and undiminished. All the shouting, 
 all the clash of ancient armor, all the roar of cannon, 
 all the shrieks of the wounded, all the groanings of dy- 
 ing men and dying horses, all the cursing and swearing, 
 all these sounds have found their way thither, and 
 there they go on forever, unchanged and undiminished. 
 So also have aU the sounds of grief and lamentations of 
 all the homes made wretched by war in all time found 
 their way thither, and there they go on forever, un- 
 changed and undiminished. 
 
 And who are the inhabitants of this undiscovered 
 country, this realm of gloom in a corner of space so re- 
 mote that God has forgotten it? The inhabitants of 
 that land are all those who have been guilty in any way 
 of the crime of bringing on war, and all those guilty 
 of any of the crimes that attend the carrying on of 
 war — all these are there, and none others ; and there all 
 these will remain forever. 
 
 The robber of the wounded and the slain the night 
 after the battle is there. He is condemned to crawl 
 over the rotting bodies of the dead forever, dragging 
 his plunder behind him by a rope about his neck. 
 
 All dishonest contractors who have furnished armies 
 with supplies of any kind since time began are there: 
 and there they will remain forever. They are seated 
 at a table in the banqueting hall of that realm of 
 shadows. All the plate on that groaning table is solid 
 gold. The table is piled high with costliest viands. But 
 adown the middle of that table, from end to end, is a 
 continuous row of corpses, feet to head — corpses of 
 those who in war died the victims of dishonest con- 
 
AND THIS IS WAR 149 
 
 tracts ; and the open, glassy, unseeing eyes of the dead 
 are staring into the eyes of the would-be feasters. These 
 latter have a look of frozen horror on their faces ; they 
 try to fly from that banqueting hall, but they do not do 
 so — they cannot. They are chained there, and there 
 they remain forever. 
 
 All kings, emperors, rulers, statesmen, politicians who 
 have unjustly brought on war are there ; and there they 
 remain forever. 
 
 These men have delighted in military parades and re- 
 views when on earth. They have them there, four a 
 week. Every Sunday they stand in line — stand, not sit, 
 not ride. They stand in line, and there pass before 
 them all the women made widows by war since time be- 
 gan, all the orphans made fatherless by war, all the 
 maidens made maidens forever by war. All these pass 
 by that reviewing host and taunt them as they will, and 
 then they pass thence. On the following Sunday the 
 same review is held and so on forever. 
 
 On Monday that same line of reviewers must take 
 their weary positions again, and there pass before them 
 all those wounded and mutilated and diseased by war 
 since time began; and these taunt them as they will, 
 and then return whence they came, to heaven or hell as 
 the case may be, and there remain till the next Monday ; 
 and so on forever. 
 
 On Tuesday that reviewing host must be in line again, 
 and there passes before them the procession of all those 
 who have gone to hell from battlefields since time be- 
 gan; and these taunt them as they will, and then go 
 back to their abiding place till the following Tuesday; 
 and so on forever. 
 
 On Wednesday that reviewing host is once more in 
 
150 AND THIS IS WAR 
 
 line, and there passes before them the procession of all 
 those killed in war since time began; and these taunt 
 them as they will. And beside each dead man in this 
 endless procession there stalks the ghost of his unlived 
 years — the ghost of his untasted pleasures, the ghost of 
 his unachieved successes, of his unrealized hopes, of his 
 unrendered services to man and his Maker. And if it 
 be a dead boy that passes by those reviewers, there 
 stalks by his side other ghosts — the ghost of his unbuilt 
 home, the ghost of his unwedded bride, and of his un- 
 born children. And these dead men and their ghosts 
 taunt those reviewers as they will; and then the dead 
 pass back to their abiding places, to heaven or hell as 
 the case may be, till the following Wednesday; and so 
 on forever. . . . Yes, the dead pass — ^but the ghosts re- 
 main behind in that realm of doom, remain behind to 
 keep the reviewers perpetual company. 
 
 On Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, those review- 
 ers have another task to perform; they must crawl over 
 the world *s battlefields which have all found their way 
 thither, and take the census of the slain. And the last 
 three days of the following week they have to perform 
 their labor all over again ; and so on forever. 
 
 There is no sleep in that undiscovered country, in 
 that realm of gloom in a comer of space so remote that 
 God has forgotten it. The homeless and wandering 
 ghosts of the unlived years of the slain are chanting a 
 dirge day and night, a dirge of such unrelieved pathos 
 that frightened, sad-eyed sleep has fled those shades 
 forever. 
 
 Yes, it is a strange land — a strange, strange land. 
 
 The Ein). 
 

 
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