Iowa state bystander. [volume] (Des Moines, Iowa) 1894-1916, 1913-07-11
REAL LIFE HEROES
True Bravery Found in the Com
monplace, as Well as on
Field of Battle.
BY LUCILLE BROWN.

It seems as though number Of
you. my readers, were possessed Of
an entirely wrong idea OF bravery.
To you, it appears, the hero or hero
Inc must be spectacular In action or
high in position-in other words,
that it is only In the extraordinary
times and places OF life that real
bravery may exist. And now let me
start off by saying something which
you may at first feel inclined to dis
believe
1t Is far easier for a soldier in bat
tie to lay down his life for com.
rade or a superior officer than for
hungry and weak drudge OF woman
Tor MANI to live on cheerily and hope
fully.
Yet that is perfectly true. In the
heat Of battle, the one, with quicken
ing pulse, as all eyes turn towards
him. attains to glory with no time to
think. The blood Is hot, the heart
beats quickly, and there can be no
counting Of cost.
But 1t Is in the cold and deadly
calm Of the battle Of life. when the
odds appear SO overwhelming and the
prize so small, that the truest and
deepest heroism Is displayed. Do not
belittle yourself; for goodness sake
(perhaps | should say for bravery's
sake) do not imagine that humble
ness is bar to glory. that everyday
life allows OF no grand show Of cour-
age and that the finest actions Of a
lowly life are passed by unconsidered.
If there Is any reason In life, II
there is any method and care in your
being put upon earth, then you can
not think that the struggles that cost
so dear and seem so mean are not
taken reckoning Of.
Sometimes l marvel at the courage
of the veriest drudge whose LIES
battle. to my mind. transcends that Of
the acclaimed hero.
Here Is a picture.
or colorous and dull main street
an alley sinks away as though fear
full and ashamed of its mean exist
ence. The way Is Uttered with re-
fuse, and the sidewalks are mere I'M
even pathways where ugly water runs
to pools in winter. and dust flies in
horrible clouds In summer. The way
Is narrow-so narrow that the sun
pales and sickens ere his beams are
lost in the grey. whose semi-gloom
would cow many a brave heart. A
door, cracked. CRAZY, and with only a
dirty suspicion Of red paint upon its
warped surface, swings back and
forth, for there Is no latch left, and
gives way to cupboard-like passage
that Is dark and stiflingly airless.
Up the stairs that creak and strain
as though ready to fall to pieces,
and up and up until you may go no
further.
Then. II you open a door, you will
find room so low that the uneven
ceiling seems to weigh down on your
heart and to burden your spirit.
There is no furniture in this room.
save a deal table and dilapidated
bedstead; no curtain or blind. no
chair or carpet. no lamp or crockery
or clothes.
The occupants are an old woman
and two children. Old, have called
her; but she is only old in misery
and hunger. Her age in years Is but
forty-three. She Is a widow.
That true picture as I saw it:
and through all her own suffering,
and the suffering she endured in
watching the pangs and weakening Of
her two little ones this woman kept a
cheerful face, hoped against hope and
struggled on.
think she Is as brave woman as
ever breathed. can find no worcs
to express my feelings or admiration
and wonder.
Yet she was a drudge, a drab, or
binary insignificant drudge and she
expected none of the great rewards OF
life.
There 1t is, and what l want to i'm
press upon you is that the blaze OF
limelight and the roars of the multi
tude do not make hero, and are
quite unnecessary to heroism. ST.
lently and humbly the record may be
worked out, in the dreariest sur
roundings. and with no one to see or
to applaud.-New York Press