The daily Gate City. [volume] (Keokuk, Iowa) 1855-1916, 1914-12-01
mister, Author

4
| sponge-staff ana hammer, lunge, thrust,
cut and crashing blow; men driven
out OF the embrasures and over the
parapets like dogs before lions, turn
ing again with yelp and snarl, and
slashing their way back again like
fighting bulldogs, holding every inch
they gained: hand-to-throat and knife
to-heart, hurrying achievements from
all sides racing to the crater Of smoke
and fame: a long. wild cheer. swell
Ing in fierce exultant cadences, over
and over the reversed guns like the
hounds of Action. baying at the heels
and rending the bodies OF the mast
ers for whom but late they fought; q
I white nag huttered like q frightened
dove amidst smoke and flame, the fury
and anguish, the hate and terror, the
madness and death Of the hell OF pas
sion raging over the sodden earth
the fort Is ours. Lo Triumphe!
Night After Battle.
Night. Count tho dead. Number
the hearthstones wherein the flicker
ing home light, golden with children's
fancy and women's dreams. have been
quenched in agony, heartache and
blood. M
Take census of the widows and
orphans. Measure the yards Of crepe.
Gage the bitter vintage of tears.
Yes. They have more than we have.
! It is our fort.
- Ia Fat ~ YTY~ ~ y,
killers. Man to man. we can kill
more of them than they can OF u.s.
That establishes the righteousness OF
any cause.
The night after the battle isn't so
still as the night before. The soldiers
are 80 weary, mind and body and soul
SO tired, they moan little in their
sleep.
A man bables-in a strange tongue.
He was the first man In the en-
brasure and he is hurt in the head.
He will die before morning. He is
talking to his mother. who died In q
little Italian mountain village when
|; the soldier was a tiny boy-talking to
her in the soft musical tongue she
taught him.
Goes to His Eternal Rest.
| He hasn't spoken word OF It for
many years. But he il going out OF
this world OF misunderstanding and
strife and wars, into the unmeasured
years Of peace.
Going to Colby the way OF the
old homa-up the winding mountain
path, past the cool spring in the shad-
ow Of the great rock, through the door
Of the little home under the trees
such sweet way to heaven.
He is soothing the deadly pain In
his head. Just as he soothed all his
headaches and heartaches twenty
years ago. by nesting in her caress'ng
arms and leaning his tired head
against her tender breast.
I No, he doesn't need the chaplain.
/ His mother is comforting him. When
man gets to his mother It isn't
very far then to God.
| A colonel sits by camp fire with
his face in his hands. The sentinel
hears him say, "Oh. Christi"
| HIS son was killed at his side on the
slope Of the fort.
! The colonel has been trying to
write the boys mother. But that Is
harder, thousand times harder, than
fighting in the death packed embras-
ures.
Fathers Bitter Duty.
The torn sheets Of paper lying like
great snowfiakes about his feet are
the letters he has begun. my Prec-
ious Wife" Heart OF MY Heart"
my Hearts Own Darling"
It's big price to pay for dirt
fort
There is a saying that "All's fair in
war" But the truth is, nothing is
fair in war. The winner has to pay
for his winnings about as much az the
loser pays for his losses And the
trouble is, neither one can pay spot
cash and have the transaction over
and done with. The paying for a fort
goes on as long as winner or loser
I IL left alive-heartaches and loneli-