Washington State journal and Adams County news. [volume] (Ritzville, Wash.) 1906-1907, 1907-05-29
A VISION 70 THE WAR


sream. Again we are in the great
dtruggle for national life. We hear
the sounds of preparation -the music
of boisterous drums the silver notes
of heroic bugles. We see thousands
of assemblages and hear the appeal
of orators; we see the pale cheeks
of women, ,and the flushed faces of
men; and in those assemmblages
we see ali the dead whose dust we
have covered with flowers. We lose
sight of them no more. We are with
them when they enlist in the great
army of freedom. We see them part
with those they love. Some are walk
ing for the last time in quiet, woody
places, with the maidens they adore.
We hear the whisperings and the
sweet vows of eternal love as they
lingeringly part forever. Others are
bending over cradles, kissing babies
that are asleep. Some are receiving
the blessings of old men. Some are
parting with mothers who hold them
and press them to their hearts again
and again, and say nothing.
Kisses and tears, tears and kisses
divine mingling of agony. And some
are talking with wives, and endeavor-
ing with brave words, spoken in the
old tones, to drive from their hearts
the awful fear. We see them part.
We see the wife standing in tie door
with the baby in her standing
in the sunlight sobbing at the turn
of the road hand waves-she answeres
by holding high in her towing arms the
baby. He is gone, and forever
We see them as they march proudly
away under the Haunting flags, keep
ing time to the grand, wild music of
war-~marching down the streets of the
great cities through the towns and
across the prairies to the fields
of glory, to do and die for the eternal
right. We go with them, one and all.
We are by their side on all the glory
fields in all the hospitals of pain-on
all the weary marches. We stand
guard over them in the wild storm
and under the quiet stars. We are
with them in ravines running with
blood-in the burrows of old fields.
We are with them between contending
hosts, unable to move, wild with
thirst, the life slowly ebbing away
among the witherel leaves. We see
them pierced by balls and torn with
shells, in the trenches by forts, and in
the whirlwind of the charge, where
men become iron, with nerves of steel.
We are with them in the prisons of
hatred and famine; but human speech
can not tell what they endured. We
are at home when the news comes that
they are dead. We see the maiden
in the shadow of her first sorrow. We
see the silvered head of the old man
bowed with his last grief.
The past arises before us, and we
see four millions Of human beings
governed by the lash--we see them
bound hand and foot - we hear the
strokes of cruel whips-we see the
hounds tracking women through tangl
ed swamps. We see babies sold from
the breasts of mothers Cruelty I'M
speakable! Outrage infinite!
Four million bodies in chains -four
million souls in letters. All the
sacred relations of wife, mother,
father and child tramped beneath the
brutal feet of might. And all this
was done under our own beautiful
banner Of the free.
The past rises before us. We hear
the roar and shrek of the bursting
shell. The broken letters fall.
These heroes died. We look. In
stead Of slaves we see men and women
and children, The wand of progress
touches the auctionblock, the slave pen,
the whipping post, and we see homes
and fresides and school houses and
books, and where all was want and
crime and cruelty and fear we see the
faces of the free.
These heroes are dead. They died
for iberty--they.died for us. They are
at rest. They sleep in the land they
made free, under the flag they rendered
stainless, under the solemn pines, the
sad hemlocks, the fearful willows, and
the embracing vines. They sleep be-
meath the shadow of the clouds, careless
alike of sunshine, or of storm, each in
the windowless palace of Rest. Earth
may run red with other wars--they are
at peace. In the midst of battle, in
the roar of conflict, they found the
serenity of death.
have one sentiment for soldiers
living and dead: cheer for the living :;
tears for the dead Robert G.
Ingersoll.
EhDEHE TIMgnNE