Clinch Valley news. [volume] (Jeffersonville, Va.) 18??-2019, 1915-08-13
Mother! oh, Motherr
lRv Nirrinn Ynrkl

Wy - SAttt AOAh NJ
In far away Servia, one year ago
last week, shot rang out that was
heard around the world. Unlike any
other noise, il increased in sound vol
ume as it travelled, swelled in porten-
tcuS results. renewed its own i'm
petus and conceived and perpetuated
fear, hate, madness, and death as it
echoed and re-echoed.
There is no sign yet that it has
spent itself or will spend itselw i'll
months, or years, to come. From that
one fateful bullet Europe is plunged
into intolerable gloom, wild despair
and grief that time will not assuage
or console. Human bloodhounds. with
baying guns and snarling swish OF
nated sabrcs, tear grecdily at one
another's throats. Human vampires
suck and feed on human blood. Forth
from racing, evermounting flames,
which rise from burning cities, ca
thedrals, homes and hearts, the War
Phoenix smiles in lurid derisiveness
Reveillc sounds but to wakcn Eu-
rope. each morning, to fresh tears.
fresh bloodshcd. Taps sound "lights
out on more blood, more tears. adtl
tional broken hearts and infinite des-
pair. The trenches are choked with
men calmly waiting death; on the
b2ttlciiclGS lie loathsome. fearsomc.
fragments of what were once men
magnificent in vigor, attainment, love.
hone and happiness of home.
The Servian shot passed through
the heart of Il princcling, through the
bodies of six million men to imbed IL
sell III the hearts of Il million mil
lion weeping women and wailing chill
dren, of waiting women and waiting
children. And, o, the intolerablc wait
ing, the agonized suspense of mothers.
q million mothersi
Not to know, not to know! Not to
see! Not to minister to or kiss the
Beloved Son! Not to pillow the Be
loved head! Not to gather up the |
limp body and let the last signing
breath escape on mothers breast. Not |
to lay the mother-fac flushed and |
warm with love and longing. upon the |
white. cold, upturned face of the Be |
loved! To know that he suffered and |
died alone; that the last words were
Mother, oh, Mother!" the call of the |
world at peace, the anguishcd cry of
the world mt war. If the cries of |
on the fields who have died calling,
Mother, Oh, Motherw could be as
sembied IN one mighty sound, where
would be the noise and threat of ten
pN'ioNi iic, uelClliUR guns |
"A British officers said:
at is not the shrieks of the wound
ed as they fall; it is not the sight of
the dead us they lie there, but il is
he cry of the wounded boys calling for
their mothers, and there is no one TO
do anything for them. They are the
boys of sixteen and seventeen and
even younger. They may say, Moth
err or 'Mutter' but in their all those
boys call for the one who has given
them the greatest care all their lives.
"Mother!' "Mutter!" "Mere!"
'Madrc!" In all languages, in ten
thousand varying tones of cndcar-
ment, in sobbing entrcaty, in agony.
too great to be borne, rich and poor,
The son of II bcggar, the son of n
king, calls for "Mothcrv,; calls for a
mother who canot hear in spite of
ears strained to catch across the wat
ers, across the miles, the paintcst plea.
"Forwardw "tirei" Cease frinrw
Slowly, slowly the smoke wrcathes
upward and away. Those misshapen
bundles carmine stained? They move
slightly. Can you catch the last word?
Mother, Oh, MOther!"