YELLOW BUTTERFLIES MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS AUTHOR OF "THE PERFECT TRIBUTE" THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA GIFT OF Bogardus Brodt BY MARY R. S. ANDREWS JOY IN THE MORNING THE ETERNAL FEMININE AUGUST FIRST THE ETERNAL MASCULINE THE MILITANTS BOB AND THE GUIDES CROSSES OF WAR (Poem) YELLOW BUTTERFLIES HIS SOUL GOES MARCHING ON HER COUNTRY OLD GLORY THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED THE COURAGE OF THE COMMONPLACE THE LIFTED BANDAGE THE PERFECT TRIBUTE CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS YELLOW BUTTERFLIES YELLOW BUTTERFLIES BY Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews "An Unknown American who gave his life in the World War." NEW YORK Charles Scribner s Sons 1922 COPYRIGHT, 1922, B* CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS COPYRIGHT. 1922. BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING CO. Printed in the United States of America Published December, 1922 LOAN STACK GIFT & i THIS STORY IS DEDICATED TO THOSE AMERICANS WHO GAVE IN THE GREAT WAR EVEN MORE THAN LIFE TO THE BLINDED 934 NOTE Throughout this story there are sen tences and paragraphs quoted, taken bodily from a press account of the com ing of the American Unknown Soldier. If other sentences or phrases occur for which proper credit has not been given, it is because the story-teller s mind was so saturated with the beauty of this ac count that its wording seemed the inevi table form. For such borrowed grace the 1 writer offers grateful acknowledgment to the young reporter who, given what is sure ly the most thrilling episode in all his tory to write about, has made what has been well-called "the finest bit of news paper work ever done." Acknowledg ment and thanks to Mr. Kirk Simpson. MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS. YELLOW BUTTERFLIES YELLOW BUTTERFLIES OUT from the door of the house burst the laughing, shouting little lad. He raced across the grass and halted by the tulip-bed; there, with yet more shouts of full- throated baby laughter, he turned to look back at his young mother, rac ing after him, standing now in the doorway. His head was yellow as a flower, almost as yellow as the tulips, and the spun-silk, glittering hair of five years old curled tight in a man ner of aureole. As the girl gazed at him, glorying in him, suddenly the sun came brilliantly from under a cloud, and, as if at a signal, out of the clover-patch at the edge of the lawn HI YELLOW BUTTERFLIES stormed a myriad of butterflies and floated about the golden head. "Oh, the butterflies take you for a flower, Dicky," cried the girl. The little chap stood quite still, smiling and blinking through the winged sunshine, and then, behold, three or four of the lovely things fluttered down on his head. The young woman flashed out and caught him and hugged him till he squealed lustily. > "Don t, muvver," remonstrated Dicky. "You ll scare my ittle birds. They ike us, muvver." "It s good luck to have a butterfly light on you," she informed him, and then, in a flash of some unplaced memory, with the quick mysticism of her Irish blood: "A butterfly is the symbol of immortality." [2] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES Esh," agreed Dicky gravely. "Esh a sympum " and there he lost himself, and threw back his head and roared rich laughter at the droll long word. "It must have looked pretty," the boy s father agreed that night. "I wonder what sort they were. I used to collect them. There s a book " He went to the shelves and searched. "This is it." There were pages here and there of colored pictures. "No. 2," he read, and pointed to a list. "The Cloudless Sulphur. Were they solid yellow?" He turned a page. " The Cloudless Sulphur/ " he be gan reading aloud. " Large, two and a half inches. Wings uniform bright canary color. Likely to light on yel low flowers; social; it flies in masses and congregates on flowers. Habit of 13] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES migrating in flocks from Southeast to Northwest in the spring and from Northwest to Southeast in the au tumn. Food, cassia, etc. Family, Pieridse. That s the fellow," decided the boy s father, learned in butter flies. "A Pierid. Many butterflies hide under clover, " he read along, " and down in grasses pass the nights there. Some sorts only come out freely in sunshine. Didn t you say the sun came ? " "All at once. They flew up then as if at a command." She nodded. "That s exactly the creature. And where it says about lighting on flow ers of the same color they did take Dicky s head for a flower, didn t they, Tom?" "It certainly seems as if they did." The man smiled. "Kentucky is likely [4] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES on the line of their spring migration Northwesterly. I reckon Dicky s friends are the Cloudless Sulphur." Dicky s father died when the boy was eleven. The years ran on. Life adjusted itself as life must, and the child grew, as that other Child twenty centuries back, in wisdom and stat ure and in favor with God and man. There might have been more boys in America as upstanding in body and character, as loving and clever and strong and merry, as beautiful within and without as her boy, the woman considered, but she had never seen one. His very faults were dear hu man qualities which made him more adorable. With his tenderness and his roughness, his teachableness and his stubbornness, his terror of senti ment and his gusts of heavenly sweet [5] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES love-making, the boy satisfied her to the end of her soul. Buoyancy found her again, and youth, and the joy of an uphill road with this gay, strong comrade keeping step along it. Then the war came. All his life she had missed no chance to make her citizen first of all things an American. And now that carefully fed flame of pa triotism flamed to cover all America. "We must go in, mother. Gosh ! it s only decent. We could bring peace. We must go in," he raged. He was too young to go across and he raged more at his youth. His mother gloried in and shivered at his rage. At last America was in, and the boy, who had trained in his university, could not fling himself fast enough into the service. The woman, as hun dreds of thousands of other American [6] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES women, was no slacker. There was a jingle in the papers: "America, he is my only one, My hope, my pride, and joy; But if I had another He should march beside his brother, America, here s my boy !" The jingle hit straight at armies of women in those days. No officers training-camp for Dick; he would go as an enlisted man with the rank and file of American men. "But you re officer material," com plained his mother. "Aren t you wasting power that the country may need?" "If I can win shoulder-bars, honey, hooray !" said Dick. "Otherwise, me for a dough-boy." So as a dough-boy he went to Camp Meade, but in three months wore the [7] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES stripes of a sergeant. Radiant, he tumbled in at home a week later, such a joyful lad that he sputtered ecstasy and slang. Tremendous he looked in his uniform, fresh colored from cold barracks and constant ex ercise and in an undreamed pink of condition. "I never considered you a delicate person," the woman spoke up to the six feet two of him, "but now you re overpowering, you re beefy." "Couldn t kill me with an axe," assented Dick cheerfully, and back in her brain a hideous, unformed thought stirred, of things that were not axes, that could kill easily even this magnificent young strength. They were as gay together as if all the training and the uniform and the stir and panoply of war were merely [8] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES a new and rather thrilling game. She saw to it that there were theatres and dances and girls doing, and the lad threw himself into everything with, however, a delicious grumble after each party: "I don t get a chance to see you at all." That was music. And then the short, gay leave was done and Dick back at Meade again. The winter months went, with letters thickly coming and going. And late in May he wrote that he had leave once more for two days, and instant ly he was there. There was no word as to what the sudden leave meant, but they knew. When it was possible our soldiers due to sail were given this short flying visit to their homes. Transports were going all the time now; great ship followed great ship YELLOW BUTTERFLIES till it seemed as if the Atlantic must be brown with khaki. And not the nearest of any must know when his time was, for this was one bit of the national patriotism, to guard the knowledge of sailing ships from the enemy. So the boy told nothing, but his eyes embraced her with a burn ing word unspoken. And her eyes met them with certain knowledge. "Let s cut out the girls and balls this time," he said. And one day, apropos of nothing: "You re a peach." She smiled back cheerfully as wo men were smiling at boys all over the United States at that date. "I could n t bear it if you weren t in the ser vice," she said. In a few minutes it appeared the two days were over. "Run across for [10] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES one second and say good-by to Lyn- nette," she suggested, when the rac ing hours were within three of their end. Lynnette was the girl next door who had grown up in the shadow of Dick s bigness, a little thing two years younger, shy and blunt and not just a pretty girl, but with luminous eyes and a heart of gold. Dick had to be prodded a bit to be nice to Lyn nette. "I don t want to miss one second of you, honey," he objected. "Don t you dare stay over a sec ond. But a glimpse would mean a lot to her, and she s a darling to me." "Oh, all right," agreed Dick. "Be cause she s a darling to you " and he swung off. "Dick " as he sprang from the [ii] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES gallery. He turned. "Kiss her good- by, Dick." "What sort of a mother !" "She ll object, but she ll like it." "You little devil," Dick chuckled, "can t you let a fellow handle his own kissing?" And started again, easy, elastic, made of sliding mus cles. "Oh, Dick !" called his mother once more, and once more the brown fig ure halted. "Now, then, woman?" "Don t peck, Dick; kiss her a thor ough one." Dick s laughter rang across the lit tle place. The echo of that big laugh ter in the woman was not a quick ened pulse of gladness as it had been all his days; a sick aching answered the beloved sound, and the stab of a thought would ever Dick laugh YELLOW BUTTERFLIES across the garden again? With that he was back, grinning. "I did it," stated Dick. "It s not often a chap s commanding office* sends him out with orders for a kiss ing attack, so I put my elbows into it and made a good job. She s kissed to pieces." "Dick!" "Well, now! It ll teach you to go careful how you start a man on them tricks. Lynnette s a worthy child, but I d never have thought of kissing her. Yet it wasn t so bad. Rather subtle." He licked his lips tentatively. "Dicky ! Vulgar, vulgar boy !" You know, I believe she did like it," confided Dick. Then very soon, in the middle of the sunshiny, warm morning he went. In the hall, where they had raced and [13] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES played games long ago, she told him good-by, doing a difficult best to give him cheer and courage to remember, not heart-break. Something helped her unexpectedly, reaction, maybe, of a chord overstrained; likely the good Lord ordered it; His hand reaches into queer brain-twists. She said small, silly things that made the boy laugh, till at last the towering figure was upon her and she was crushed into khaki, with his expert rifleman s badge digging into her forehead. She was glad of the hurt. The small de fenses had gone down and she knew that only high Heaven could get her through the next five seconds with a proper record as a brave man s mother. In five seconds he turned and fled, and with a leap was through the door. Gone ! She tossed out her arms [14] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES as if shot, and fled after him. Al ready he was across the lawn, by the tulip-bed, and suddenly he wheeled at the patch of color and his visored cap was off, and he was kissing his hand with the deep glow in his eyes she had seen often lately. It was as if the soul of him came close to the windows and looked out at her. His blond hair in the sunlight was al most as yellow as on that other day long ago when What was this ? Up from the clover in the ditch, filling all the air with fluttering gold, stormed again a flight of yellow but terflies, the Cloudless Sulphur on their spring migration. The boy as he stood looking back at her shouted young laughter and the winged things glittered about him, and with that two lighted on his head. f 151 YELLOW BUTTERFLIES " Good luck ! It s for good luck, mother," he called. She watched, smiling determinedly, dwelling on details, the uniform, the folds of brown wool puttees, the bronze shine on his shoes, the gold spots of light flickering about his head. He wheeled, stumbling a bit, and then the light feet sprang away; there was no Dick there now, only a glimmering, moving cloud of yellow meaningless. The tulip-bed sun shine butterflies silence. The world was empty. She clutched at her chest as if this sudden, sick, drop ping away of life were physical. His triumphant last word came back to her, "It s for good luck, mother"; then other words followed, words which she had spoken years ago. "And for immortality." [16] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES Immortality ! She beat her hands against the wall. Not Dick not her boy her one thing. Not immortal ity for him, yet. Not for years and years fifty sixty. He had a right to long, sweet mortal life before that terrible immortality. She wanted him mortal, close, the flesh and blood which she knew. It was not to be borne, this sending him away to Oh, God ! The thousands on thou sands of strong young things like Dick who had already passed to that horrible, unknown immortality. The word meant to her then only death, only a frantic terror; the subtle, un derlying, enormous hope of it missed her in the black hour. A letter came next day from camp, and the next, and every day for a week, and she pulled herself together [17] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES and went about her busy hours min ute by minute cheerfully, as one must. She disregarded the fact that inside of her an odd mental-moral- spiritual-physical arrangement which is called a heart lay quite defenseless, and that shortly a dagger was going to be struck into it. So when the dag ger came, folded in a yellow Western Union envelope, it was exactly as bad as if there had been no preparation at all. Dick had sailed. She spun about and caught at a table. And then went on quietly with the five hundred lit tle cheese-cloth "sponges" which she had promised to have at the Red Cross rooms to-morrow. Ghastly lit tle things. So the boy went, one of two million to go, but yet, as most of the others were, the only one. And two weeks later, it might be, came [18] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES another telegram; a queerly worded thing from the war office: "The ship on which I sailed has ar rived safely in port." What ship? What port? After what adventures ? But the great fact remained; he was, at least, overseas, beyond the first great peril. She flung herself into war work and wrote every day a letter with its vague military address ending in A. E. F. And got back many letters full of en thusiasm, of adventure, of old friends and new, of dear French people who had been good to him but every body was good to this boy. Of hard training, too, and a word of praise from high quarters once or twice, passed on secretly, proudly to the one person to whom a fellow could repeat such things. It was a life crowded [19] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES with happiness and hardship and comradeship and worth-while work. And then, soon, with danger. Through all sordidness and horror it was a life vitalized by enormous incentive, a life whose memory few of those who lived it would give up for everything else that any career might offer. The power of these gay, commonplace, consecrated boys lives reached across oceans and swung nations into conse cration. Dick s mother moved gladly in the huge orbit, for war work meant to her Dick. The days went. He was in action at times now, and wrote that his life was a charmed one, and that he walked safe through dangers; wrote also the pitiful bit of statistics which boys all told to their mothers, about the small percentage of killed and wounded; wrote as well the [20] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES heroic sweet thoughts which came from depths of young souls which had never before known these depths. "If I m killed, darling child, honey, after all it s not much different. It wouldn t be really long before we d be playing together again. And I ve had the joy and the usefulness of fifty years of living in these last months. What more could you ask? The best thing to do with a life is to give it away you taught me that and this certainly is the best way to give it, for our America. And don t worry about my suffering if I m wounded; there s not much to that. Things hurt and you stand it that happens in every life and we wig gle and get through. It hurt like the dickens when I had pneumonia, don t you remember? So, behold the [21] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES straight dope of the wise man Dick, and follow thereby. Nothing can hap pen that s unbearable; keep it in your mind, precious. Live on the surface don t go feeling any more than you can help." Thousands of others found the sense of that sentence a way out of impossibility, as this woman did. She slept nights and worked days and wrote letters and rejoiced in getting them, and shunned like poison thoughts that thronged below the threshold, thoughts she dared not meet. Weeks wore on, months; the Germans were being pushed back; with a shivering joy she heard peo ple say that the war could not last long; he might he might come home safe. She knew as that shaft of golden hope winged across her brain, from [22] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES the reeling rapture of it she knew how little hope she had ever had. But she whispered Dick s wise sentence once in a while, "Nothing can happen that s unbearable," and she held her head high for Dick. Then the one thing which had never entered her mind happened. Dick was reported among the missing. Missing. Let any mother of a boy consider what that means. Anything. Every thing. "Nothing can happen that s unbearable," said Dick. But this was. A woman can t stay sane and face that word "missing" can she? This woman gasped that question of her self. Yet she must stay sane, for Dick might come back. Oh, he might even come back safe and sound. They did come through prison camps some- [23] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES times and get back to health. Pris on camps. She fell to remembering about nights when she had crept into his room to see that he was covered up. Mines. But that thought she could not think. And the difficult days crawled on, and no news came and no more gay letters, with their little half -sentences of love-making, shining like jewels out of the pages, pages each one more valuable than heaps of gold. No letters; no news; swiftly and steadily her fair hair was going gray. The Armistice arrived, and then, after a while, troops were coming home. Because Dick would have wanted it, because she herself must honor these glorious lads who were, each one, somehow partly Dick, she threw herself into the greetings, and many a boy was made happy [24] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES and welcome by the slim, tall, still- young woman with the startling white hair, who knew so well what to say to a chap. Outwardly all her ways stayed the same. No one of her friends noticed a difference except that sometimes one would say: "I wonder what keeps her going ? Does she hope yet that Dick may come back?" Surely she hoped it. She would not wear black. Till certainty came she must hope. Still, little by little, as drop by drop her heart s blood leaked, she was coming to believe him dead; coming nearly to hope it. At the same time in the tortured, un resting brain, the brain that held so large an area of mysticism from Irish forbears, in that cave of weaving thoughts there was still hope of a miracle. The child next door, Lyn- [25] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES nette, not realizing to what a danger ous borderland of sanity she was urg ing desperate footsteps, helped her frame her vague theory of comfort. " Nothing is sure yet. They don t begin to know about all the missing," argued Lynnette, dark eyes shining. "Dick may have been carried to the ends of the earth; he may not know even now that the war is over. He s so strong, nothing could could hurt him," stammered Lynnette, and went scarlet with a stab of knowledge of things, things that even Dick s splen did body could not weather. "Miracles do happen. Do you know, Lynnette, it s as if somebody whis pered that to me over and over. Mir acles do happen miracles do hap pen. My brain aches with that sen tence." She was still a moment. "I [26] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES saw what you were thinking. Of the otherwise. I can t face the other wise." Her voice thinned to a whis per. "It s worse than death, any possible otherwise, now. When all the prisoners are freed and all the sol diers are coming home. Lynnette I hope he s dead." The girl tossed up a hand. "Yes, child. But suffering I can t have him suffering long pain. It can t be. Oh, God, don t let it be that!" Lynnette s brown head dropped on the woman s two hands and she kissed them with passion. "I ve got another thought, honey- child, and I ll try to tell you, but it s complicated." She was silent again, reviewing the waves of the ocean of her theory. The aching, unending [27] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES thoughts had been busy with this theory. Harmlessly, unnoticed, the mind overwrought had been develop ing a mania. Peace. Had her boy, had all the boys, died for nothing ? They went, the marching hundreds of thousands, with an ideal; no one who talked to any number of soldiers of our armies could fail to know that latent in practically all was an una shamed idealism. The roughest speci men would look you in the eye and spitting first likely make amazing statements about saving the world, about showing em if Americans would fight for their flag, about pay ing our debt to France, and, yes in a quiet, matter-of-fact way about dying for his country. "To every man a different meaning, yet Faith to the thing that set him at his best, [28] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES Something above the blood and dirt and sweat, Something apart. May God forget the rest." The woman, appealing and winning, had seen this side of the enlisted man more than most; she had brooded over it, and over what was due to four mil lions of boys giving themselves to save the peace of the world. Shouldn t peace, after such sacrifice, be as sured? Should the great burnt of fering fail? Should the war-to-end- war lead to other wars ? God forbid. By infinite little links she came to tie her boy s coming home to the coming of world peace. What more typical of America could there be than Dick? An enlisted man she rejoiced in that now; of the educated classes, but representing the rank and file as well as the brains and gentle blood of this [29] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES land; not too poor, yet not rich; in his youth and strength and forth- going power the visible spirit of a young, strong, eager country. She put all this into halting yet clear enough words to the girl. "I see," Lynnette picked up the thread. "Dick is America. He s a symbol. Nobody else could combine so many elements as Dick." "I think you understand. It s won derful to be able to tell it to some one who understands. It has eaten my soul." She breathed fast. "Listen this is what, somehow, I believe, and nothing could change my belief. Dick is going to bring peace to his country and to the world. God has chosen him Dick. Alive or dead his coming will mean peace. Peace!" The vi sions of many generations of mystic [30] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES Gaels were in her eyes as they lifted and gazed out at the branches which swayed slowly, hypnotically across a pale sky. The girl s twisting hands holding hers, she went on to unroll the fabric which had woven itself on the unresting loom of her brain, a fabric which was, judged by a med ical standard, madness. The chain of crooked logic was after this fashion: America was the nation to bring at the last peace; Dick was the typical American; with his home-coming peace would come home to the coun try, and so to the world. Till Dick came home there could be no surety, no rest for the flag which he served. Other women died or went mad; this one alone, perhaps, fashioned her sor row into a vigil for the salvation of her land. [31] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES Then one day Lynnette flew across the lawn and stood before her. "You ve seen the paper?" "I went to the Red Cross early. I haven t read it." Her pulse stopped. " Lynnette ! Not Dick?" "Oh, no oh, no!" Lynnette went crimson painfully. Another girl would have had her arms around the wo man, but not this one. To show feel ing was like pulling teeth to Lyn nette. "It s not that," she said. " But there s to be a peace conference. You know. And they want to bring back for us at that time, Armistice Day, an unknown soldier." "The two things." Yes the two things. What could the two things mean but her vision, her hope for the world. Dick was coming. He was to be the unknown soldier. Dick was com- [32] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES ing, carrying peace in his dead hands. Who else could it be? People, mere people, could not see how that was fitting and inevitable; but she saw it; she knew it; God would take care of it. The unknown soldier would be Dick. He would bring, mystically, certainly, success to the gathering in Washington. And the Lord God would give her a sign. Each day she rose hoping the sign might be that day. Each night she lay down sure of its coming, willing to wait. "Lynnette, I ll wear those clothes, now." And when the girl came across the lawn and found her a few days later in new black, with the dramatic gold star on her arm, Lynnette dropped suddenly in a heap. "Oh," the woman cried. "You [33] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES hadn t given up hope." And then: "Lynnette you loved Dicky, too." With that Lynnette was standing before her, her head high, a trembling smile on her face. "I always loved him. And now I may tell you he loved me." The woman stared. "Yes," Lynnette said. "I didn t dream it till that last morning, when he ran across and he kissed me. He d never kissed me before. It it wasn t just a little kiss to an old playmate." The words came diffi cultly. "It would be impossible to tell it except to you. But it was & long kiss. He didn t say anything. I ve thought it over and over and I think he believed he shouldn t. Somehow. But that kiss said it. For me. I know Dick loved me." The woman caught the small figure so that the wet eyes could not see her. [34] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES "My Lynnette!" Never on earth should the child know the true story of Dick s kiss. Then it was November and she went to Washington. It meant saving money for months, but there was no question; the journey was as in evitable as death. Likely the Lord waited in Washington with that sign which she would know when it came. Many American women are tall and slender, with lines of distinction ; this was one of them. In her sombre dress with sheer white at neck and wrists, with the shadowy veil falling and lifting about her shoulders and ac centing her white hair, with her lithe young movement, and with that touch of mysticism, of other-world- ness in eyes that shone jewel-gray from a carved face, she was an ar resting person. In great Washington, [35] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES packed with all human sorts, people turned to look at her. "The gold star! The black the veil ! What a face of tragedy !" Such things they said; more than once a man s hand orept to his hat, and he stood bareheaded as she passed, as before the dead. But she who had lived for three years facing an un thinkable word drifted through the crowd unconscious, uncaring. A newspaper had printed a com posite photograph of twenty-nine young soldiers, one from each of the combat divisions in France, and at breakfast in the hotel a woman whom she had never seen stepped across and laid it, the picture folded out, by her plate. "It s your boy, too," the woman spoke gently, and was gone. [36] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES Dick s mother stared at the vague, lovely face of an uncommonly hand some lad, dreamy, deep-eyed, steady- mouthed, a face rather short from brow to chin, with a wide facial arch between the cheek-bones such as was Dick s face. The sweet extreme of youth was like Dick, but a certain haunting, ethereal quality was not like him; yet, even so might her boy look at her through the veil of an other world. There was in fact a manner of likeness, and to the woman whose soul was at white heat the likeness was the voice of Heaven say ing "Amen to her possessing thought. Yet this was not the sign. She would know that when it came. This was but an incident, making sure faith surer. All the steps of his journey home [371 YELLOW BUTTERFLIES she had watched Dick the Un known. When the papers had told how Sergeant Younger, over there in France at Chalons-sur-Marne, on October 24th, would be sent into a room of the city hall alone, to choose one of four nameless dead boys lying, each so helpless to plead his cause, in four earth-stained coffins, she had known well, even then, which one. Over Dick s quiet heart the Sergeant would lay the white roses. The French town decked with the colors of the Allies; troops about the city hall; an American flag at half-mast; an unseen band playing on muffled trumpets all this while the Sergeant walked slowly through the still room where the dead boys waited, and walked slowly back and turned and went to the farthest on the right. [38] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES Dick. He bent and laid down the white French roses over Dick. She was sorry about the other boys, yet Dick meant all of them. It was or dered. Dick was the Peace Bringer. She read how the inscription carried the words: "An Unknown Ameri can who gave his life in the World War." She smiled a little to think how she alone in the world knew the Unknown; how among more than two thousand unidenti fied soldiers buried on the battle fields where they fell, chosen by chance so that even the field where he had fallen might never be placed she smiled to think how through this mist of circumstance she knew Dick. The woman was mad, it might have been said, had any one known her full thought; who among us, with [39] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES imagination, but hides a small corner of madness from the world ? Flower-heaped, carrying the cross of the Legion of Honor, moving like the mightiest king through weeping throngs, Dick came to the gray old cruiser Olympia, where Dewey had once said: "You may fire now, Grid- ley, if you are ready." And they car ried him on board, and a General was his escort home, and a guard of his comrades stood about him day and night as he slept among the flags, his faded French roses above his breast. The cruiser had steamed out from Havre through dipped flags and firing guns, and all the way across the Atlantic she was saluted by all ships large and small which sailed within vision. Because she carried Dick. With that it was November 9th and [40] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES a raw, foggy, rainy day, but the woman went out from city noises, in the wet, where it was quiet, to listen for something. After a while she heard it a far boom of guns sa lutes to the Olympia as she came slowly up the Potomac. The fog hid her, but fort after fort, post after post, took up the tale and thundered its solemn welcome to the nation s dead boy. The boy s mother was at the Navy Yard when the ship swung into dock. She saw the crew, standing high up, in dark-blue lines, stiff, at attention; astern, under the muzzle of a gun that had rung into history that May morning in Manila Bay, was an awning; beneath it something flag-draped Dick. The woman shook in a tearless sob. Dick. What was it all all the glory that the nations, [41] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES that America could heap on him, when ah, Dick ! She seemed to see his eyes and the deep look in them as he turned by the tulip-bed and kissed his hands to her as the Cloudless Sulphurs stormed up from the clover around his blond head. Dick ! Her little, laughing Dick her big, lov ing Dick. Then she was aware of a gun crashing, a band playing a dirge the gun crashing again into the music; it was the "minute-guns of sorrow" they were firing. And then suddenly a shrill sound and a heart- stirring as they lifted the coffin to the gangway, the boatswain, in the old ceremony of the sea, "piped his comrade over the side." Step by slow step they carried the lad down and the boatswain s whistle called piercingly again as Dick, high on the [42] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES shoulders of eight uniformed men, reached shore. Dick was home. The coffin wound between the lines of troops and marines, toward the gun- carriage, and the rigid young blue jackets far above watched still at at tention, and with that a bugler blew flourishes and the band broke into the " Star-Spangled Banner," the na tion s hymn. And still the minute- guns crashed through. And packed thousands of plain American citizens waited bareheaded for hours in the cold rain to see this beloved boy of America carried by. Many people remarked the slender, tall woman in her billowy black veil with the gold star on her arm. Some spoke of her. "A wonderful face," they said, and: "Her eyes are burn ing her up." And more than one [43] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES thought: "Who knows? It may be her boy." After that she stood hour after hour in a shadowy doorway of a large chamber and watched a marvellous procession file past, four abreast. Hour after hour. Without ceasing they came; it was as if the country poured itself out in one draft of love. Sometimes a group halted and there was a short ceremony. She saw the President place the silver shield with its forty-eight gold stars; she saw the Boy Scouts, fresh-faced, sturdy lads such as Dick had been five or six years ago, form and recite their oath by Dick s coffin; she saw the embassies of England, of France, and Italy bring wreaths for Dick; she saw the ancient Indian fighters, led by General Miles, and the Bel- [44] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES gians with their palm, and the old man of ninety -one who wore his old Victoria Cross, and Pershing, laying down his wreath and stepping back to salute his soldier, and the Chinese and the Japanese with their antique bowing, and the white-turbaned Hin dus, and ever and ever the plain Americans in their thousands, "his own people from every nook of the nation, who gave him his reward." The short gray day faded and night came and still the crowds poured, and Dick s mother stood, still, uncon scious of fatigue, and saw, as in a dream, the pageant, till the last ones allowed to come in had passed out and the swaying woman in black went also, and the boy was alone with his guard of five comrades, "his head eastward toward France and at his [45] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES feet the twinkling lights of Washing ton." Far above him on the great dome of the Capitol the brooding figure of Freedom, his comrade also, watched. Shortly after daylight next morning the tramp of marching men and clat ter of hoofs and grinding of wheels before the Capitol told that the great est parade of American history was forming, and the khaki tide rolled into ordered ranks. The woman saw this beginning, very early in the morning. She was there before the bugle sounded attention across the plaza and the cavalrymen snapped out their sabres and the infantrymen came to present and the officers to salute and the colors were dipped and the sun sent a beam to Freedom on the dome and another to a casket [46] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES moving through the doorway. She saw it carried down the long steps by the bravest of the brave, all deco rated men, and placed on the black- draped caisson with its black horses, and its soldiers sat on their scarlet saddle-cloths. She saw that, and she saw the President and "Black Jack" [Pershing, Commander-in-Chief of the A. E. F., following as chief mourners Pershing wearing, of all his deco rations, only the Victory Medal to which every American soldier has a right the caisson where lay Dick. She saw the crowds dense up Penn sylvania Avenue, the historic road "where the tramping ghosts of Grant s legions marked a course." She saw the silent, attentive thou sands who packed the sidewalks, standing there to take their part in [47] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES what was theirs, the glory of the American people. "Out in the broad avenue was a simple soldier, dead for the honor of the flag. In France he had died as Americans have always been ready to die, for the flag and what it meant." The woman saw the massed, reverent faces, and read this in them. "It s Dick," she said. Later, not remembering very much how she had come, she found herself at Arlington, at the Amphitheatre, with yet more thousands. There were bright colors of foreign dress uni forms and masses of khaki and light and shadow and the snowy gleam of columns against a background of trees. Later there was distant, solemn music through the trees. From the direction of the fort the dim color of troops came nearer and nearer, [48] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES clearer and clearer; the marine band, half-step to the throb of drums, swung out and circled the colonnade. The caisson rolled up where a white- surpliced choir waited, and men in uniform with medals on their breasts lifted Dick, and the choir sang "The Son of God Goes Forth to War." They carried him past the troops with rifles at "present," past the bare headed people, through the pillared colonnade, with the white choir and the clergy leading them, the great of many lands awaiting him. They placed him on a catafalque, flower- covered, and the great audience, all the thousands, rose and stood as he passed in Dick with Pershing still following, Pershing who had trudged seven miles from the Capitol behind his soldier. The coffin rested on its base as if [49] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES held up by a mound of blossoms and suddenly the woman felt stabbed with a knife, a frantic, unbearable feeling. Her boy lay there with no sign of her near him. The nation had heaped him with honor, but Dick would not be satisfied with the na tion, missing his mother. In her hand was a bunch of roses; she wondered where she had gotten them, and vaguely recalled a florist s shop on the way out. She sprang toward a guard, a soldier, and the man stared at her as people did. "Put these put these right close to him," she begged in sliding South ern speech. "He s he s my boy." The soldier little guessed how literal the words were to her, but they went direct to his heart. A boy of hers lay in France; this one stood for him; so [50] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES he understood it. "Yes, ina ain," he said gently. He took the flowers and went away with them and in a moment she saw them laid on the coffin, their white heads against a gorgeous wreath of red roses. The President s red roses but the woman did not know that. The man came back then and found her a place in one of the first rows of the curving line of seats where were only men and women in black. The mighty service went on. The woman going through it with the others seemed aware of it through another s senses, as if she were re moved where her consciousness could not make contact with anything earthly. This was Dick s funeral, but she was not sad. Only fused to a hazy exaltation. Maybe Dick s light- [51] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES hearted spirit was there, hovering over all this and lifting her spirit with him. In any case her flowers lay close to him, clinging whitely against that blood-red wreath. They must be, she was guessing, just above where the withered little French roses rested still on Dick s dear cold heart. To see them there brought a manner of comfort to her. And the service went on. As Bishop Brent s voice ended, the bells over in Washington were ringing noon, and sharply the clear, high notes of a trumpeter blew atten tion. She stood up with the thou sands, the millions, the nation. For the nation paused during two min utes then to honor Dick. All over America, in churches, in market places, on railway lines, the rushing life of the country stopped and the [52] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES populace stood silent with bowed heads for that tremendous moment, honoring the men who had died. Then it was over; a minute-gun boomed across the river at the base of the Washington Monument; led by the band the stirred multitude swung into "America." "My country, tis of thee," the peo ple sang. And the woman sang with them. She could; she was dry -eyed and calm; this was Dick s funeral, her little boy Dick, her splendid, big son. Yet she seemed to feel nothing. The Lord God was going to give her a sign that it was Dick. She was anxious about that. Certain, yes, of course; but a sign was to come. Nervousness caught her as the Presi dent began to speak; she wished the Lord God would hurry; it would do [53] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES at any time, surely, yet this strain of waiting was difficult. It was hard to listen to the President while one was watching every moment for the sign. And with that his voice had slipped into words as familiar as her own name, words which she had taught to Dick. "Our Father which art in Heav en " There was a soft, many-rustling sound of thousands rising, and all the voices took up the age-old words: "Hallowed be Thy Name Thy will be done." Yes, indeed. The Lord God knew that she had bowed to His will, even as to that word "missing." She sup posed it was His will. She had borne it, somehow. But now that Dick was dead, and carried home all these [54] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES miles, bringing peace in his quiet hands, now the Lord God ought to give her the sign. He ought, really. With that a quartet was singing something about how "Splendid they passed, the great sur render made Into the light that nevermore shall fade." Oh, yes. But one doesn t care so much about splendor and unfading light when one misses Dick. The comforting thing was that Dick was to bring peace peace forever. He would care about that; that would make him glad. And there was going to be a sign that this boy, this Un known Soldier coming from his grave in France at the very moment of the Peace Conference that this boy was [55] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES Dick. How could she be otherwise than restless till the sign came? Back of the carved, calm face in which the gray Irish eyes glowed such thoughts were seething. Law yers weighing evidence would hardly have found her argument valid. The desperate brain which made them more than half knew the sophistry. But the brain was desperate. One cannot face the word "missing" for many months and keep coolly logical. This was the last straw to hold her to sanity-H:hat Dick was the Peace Bringer; that this boy was Dick. These things she must believe. Must. Quietly she gazed as minute by splendid minute passed, each crowd ed with such things as America has never seen before. She watched an officer in uniform, a "Sam Browne" [56] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES belt across his breast, step forward. What were they going to do now? The officer shifted the flowers toward the foot, and she gasped as the Presi dent s great red wreath was moved; her roses were next; it was too bad to take her roses away from Dick. But see they were left. The officer touched them, and left them; the little sheaf was not in the way. But what was going to happen ? He rolled back the flag with its heavy gold fringe, and with that the President stood there and was reading some thing citations reverently, in his incisive voice; then he bent and pinned two precious things to the black cloth of the coffin the Dis tinguished Service Cross and that which Americans believe the highest decoration in the world, the Con- [57] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES gressional Medal of Honor. How pleased Dick would have been ! "Won in mortality to be worn in immortality," spoke the President. Was Dick s gay spirit maybe even now hovering, watching it all, smil ing the sweet, half-shy, one-sided smile she knew, laughing at himself a bit for being the centre of this stu pendous ceremony ? In quick succes sion one brilliant uniform succeeded another by the narrow box, each fast ening to the black cloth an honor which men have died to win. Some thing contracted her throat with a short sob when General Jacques, the Belgian, unpinned from his own coat the Cross of War which his King had put there and placed it on Dick s coffin. And was not that Foch who swept off his white-plumed Marshal s [58] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES hat before the presence of Dick? How Dick would have taken in the scarlet baldric, the gold sash, and red trousers ! Dick had an enormous enthusiasm for Foch; once he had seen him a solemn old fellow in a faded horizon-blue uniform and very muddy boots, the letter said. Smok ing a pipe. Medal after medal; such an array as the greatest soldier on earth had never worn. They rolled back the flag over it all till the judgment day, and Sergeant Woodfill and the seven other heroes lifted Dick again and carried him down the marble steps. The band was playing "Our Hon ored Dead"; she raised her eyes and saw the city across the river; the dome of the Capitol under which Dick had slept last night; where [59] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES only dead Presidents had ever slept before; nearer was the yellow of ploughed Virginia fields and the green of winter wheat; about them the snowy white of the great Amphithea tre, and directly beneath the boy as they carried him around was "a great splash of black thousands of Amer icans with hats held in their hands." Between these and the Amphitheatre was a white place with a hole in it. Dick s grave. She moved dreamily toward that place, and people stood back for the black, lonely figure with its gold star. Unconscious of them, she passed till she was close enough to see everything. "It will be now, I think," she was saying. "The Lord God will send His sign when they put Dick " The rest of the words couldn t be [60] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES framed. Of course Dick s soul wasn t there; it was somewhere about, above, close much interested and a good deal amused as well as thrilled; she felt that. This was only Dick s body they were putting away covered with medals and flowers, laid on that price less earth brought from France, scat tered down for him to rest on. It was only his body. But such a precious, dear body ; it had been so warm and strong Oh, God ! She alone out of the thousands knew that it was Dick, and even she The Lord God cer tainly was slow about sending His sign. The beautiful church service was read; Dick s soul was committed to God and his body to the grave. Some one touched a silver bar and the coffin sank slowly; a man in uni- [61] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES form placed a final wreath from all the men of all our fighting armies. Then an old Indian in magnificence of chief s feathers hobbled up and took off his sweeping war-bonnet, whose white feathers trailed to his moccasins, and laid it with a sort of stick across the open tomb. It was the last tribute. The warrior of an cient America saluted America s war rior of to-day. A salvo of artillery. Another salvo and another. The woman stared about. Dick would bivouac to-night in great company. All around him were monuments cut with names that were echoes of thunder of guns. There lay Porter and Crook; yonder lay Dewey. The slope carries along innumerable head stones; over the ridge are the grass ramparts of old Fort Myer, graves [62] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES thick about them; she sensed these things as the guns rang the salvoes. The guns had stopped; a bugler, standing out, was playing "Taps" the soldier s good night. With the final silver note the artillery broke into the roar of the national salute of twenty-one guns. The crowds moved, shifted, thinned. The bright uniforms scattered and disappeared. But the tall, black figure stood there, con scious of the people only as a swim mer in deep water is conscious of the waves. She was in them, of them, but they had no personality for her. Slowly the huge audience spread away through the trees. The pageant was over. The pageant what matter was that? Dick; Dick was dead and buried, and she stood by the grave of an Unknown Soldier and re- [63] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES preached God. He had sent her no sign that this boy was hers. Down among the new white crosses in the cemetery below moved figures; there are always figures moving among those crosses but the woman felt herself alone. All the pomp and cere mony being finished, she was alone with her boy. She knelt near the new grave; the black veil blew about her, covering and uncovering the gold star on her sleeve. "God," she whispered, "bless the men to-morrow who are trying to bring peace. I don t know whether they know that it s Dick who s bring ing it or not. I don t care. I know, God, and You know. Only let Dick be the Peace Bringer, and let an American speak the master word. I thought the sign would be to-day, but [64] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES I ll be patient if it isn t to be to-day. But, mighty God, don t fail me in the end. You know how I couldn t bear that. It means having Dick again ever somehow I can t say it well, but you re God and You know how those things are tied together. Peace and Dick s immortality and the sign. Be merciful; give it to me." A week later in Kentucky blunt lit tle Lynnette was reasoning with her. "You can t expect to set a date with the Almighty," reasoned Lynnette, "I think it will come I do think so, though I don t know why I think it. Only that such a longing as yours focussed on one thing must be a psychological force. And, whatever God is, He does answer prayer some how." "Yes, He does," said the woman. [65] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES "Wasn t Hughes word sent straight as lightning from heaven? It came the day after the funeral Dick s fu neral. It came out of Dick s tomb. I can t help believing the good Lord did plan, along with the salvation of the nations, to make Dick His Peace Bringer." She waited a moment, eyes glowing with deep light. Then: " Whatsoever ye ask in My name, believing, ye shall receive it. ri A thousand times she had repeated that. Lynnette nodded practically. "Uh- huh, that says it. God certainly did stir up Hughes when he got off that proposition. Why shouldn t we be lieve it was partly, anyhow, the huge emotion of the Unknown Soldier that pushed him? The sign may come in some shape you re not dreaming. [66] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES Likely it will but it ll come. I m sure." "I can t imagine in what shape that terrifies me at times. It seems so impossible. And if it shouldn t come!" "You mustn t think that/ re buked Lynnette. "It depends so much on psychology, and your will may be a big part. You don t have to imagine what it will be. Yet I do imagine things." "You do? What?" "Oh, well," Lynnette answered slow ly, "nothing definite. Sometimes I fancy that the identity wasn t lost to everybody, over in France. That maybe the soldiers who who brought the four boys from the cemeteries found something to mark them, or one of them, and just said nothing [67] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES about it. Maybe one of those sol diers might come to you. Why," ex ploded Lynnette, "two or three times when I ve seen a young, military- looking chap coming down this street my heart has been in my mouth. I ve said: He s the sign. " "You have?" cried the woman. And then, with her arms reaching: "You little Lynnette! You loved Dick." Lynnette nodded. "And Dick loved me," she whispered. She sprang up, and was gone. Out side she stopped a moment, staring at the sodden, round spot, half filled with snow, which had been a bed of dancing tulips. "I wonder if it s a crime," she re flected. "The engine skips. There s no logic anywhere. But she d go raving [68] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES mad. And I love her." Little, aggres sive Lynnette flushed all by herself. "Dick left me, in a sort of way, to his mother. He said: Be sweet to her, Lynnette. Well," Lynnette ended defiantly, "I reckon I can lie a good while longer, if it helps her." It is queer, considering what a small accident and what a second of time may end a life, that so many lives weather appalling shocks and years of heart-break. The woman, going softly with an ear alert always to catch a message, found that winter was past and spring coming in over night jumps to her Southern land. With it the restlessness of spring crystallized into an overwhelming ne cessity to see the white tomb at Ar lington. It was imperative, that de sire. There was no money for travel- YELLOW BUTTERFLIES ling expenses, but some old mahogany went to a dealer, and on an April day she started. Spring comes easily in the South. It is much as if the lover you doubted turned all at once his face toward you lighted with the fire unmistakable, and you wondered in the warm flood of happiness if ever you did doubt. So in the turn of a hand in that God s country there are vivid colors of tulips and jonquils and hyacinths gold and purple and pink and the hedges are dim with mists of juicy color, and the lawns have sprung to emerald, and the sunlight stipples the ground with gold laugh ter through the lace of boughs. And one wonders if ever there was melting snow and cold wind. Out at Arling ton the sunlight played gaily on the headstones among the trees, dancing [70] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES about the solemn things as if to say that, after all, life is only a moment; that it is sweet and fitting to die for one s country, and that these light- hearted dead should be kept in bright memory. Till it came to the snow of the Amphitheatre and the white tomb on the terrace, and there the sunlight seemed to pour itself out in full-hearted golden tide. Dreamily, mystically, smilingly it wrapped in its arms the grave of America s boy. All about the tomb the grass seemed greener, and the air of a richer sweet ness. Fold on fold the calm hills dropped away to the Virginia hori zon; the mast of the Maine brought from Havana shot its slender spire beyond the Amphitheatre; the old house of history, the pillared, por- ticoed house of the Lees, peered out [71] YELLOW BUTTERFLIES from the woods like a big, gentle, dumb creature, watching in its old age its family who had fought and come through to Peace. The woman scattered a quantity of yellow tulips on the grave till it was all golden with them. "God," she prayed, kneeling close closer than she could be in November "God, I ve come such a long way. I ve waited such a long time. Only You can give what I ve come for. I want it so. Give me Your sign." A long time the black figure knelt amidst the whiteness and greenness and spring gaiety. Many things she prayed, and at the last for power to give up hope. For there was yet no sign. Perhaps there never would be. Sobbing a lit tle, she bent and kissed the yellow tulips, and turned to go. YELLOW BUTTERFLIES As she drifted away step by step suddenly the bells over in Washing ton were ringing the noon-hour, and she faced about, remembering. As she turned, up from the grass below, over the white edge of the terrace, stormed a fluttering mass of bright wings, and filled all the air with beck oning gold. A moment they hung, twinkling over the tomb, and then fell, brilliant, incredible, and lighted on the gold cups of the tulips, and flickering, dancing, gathered the sun light into their myriad wings. The Cloudless Sulphurs; Dick s but terflies; the symbol of immortality. The sign. [73] YB 59623