Wausau pilot. [volume] (Wausau, Wis.) 1896-1940, 1915-05-25

of those whom we once loved and
reVered-are gone. On this day we
atir meet our companions in the freez-
ing winter bivouacs and in those
dreadful summer marches where eV
cry faculty of the soul seemed to de-
part one after another, leaving only
a dumb animal power to set the teeth
and to persist-a blind belief that
somewhere and at last there was rest
and water. On this day, at least, we
still meet and rejoice in the closest
tie which is possible between men
a tie which suffering has made indis-
soluble for better, for worse.
When we meet thus, when we do
honor to the dead in terms that must
sometimes embrace the living, we do
not deceive ourselves. We attribute
no special merit to a man for having
served when all were serving. We
know that If the armies of our war
did anything worth remembering, the
credit belongs not mainly to the indi-
viduals who did it, but to average hui
man nature We also know very well
that we cannot live in associations
with the past alone, and We admit that
If we would be worthy of the past, We
must find new fields for action or
thought, and make for ourselves new
careers. But, nevertheless, the gener-
alton that carried on the war has been
set apart by its experience. Through
our great good fortune, in our youth
our hearts were touched with fire. 1t
was given to us to learn at the out
set that life is a profound and passion
ate thing. While we are permitted
to scorn nothing but Indifference, and
do not pretend to undervalue the world
ly rewards of ambition, we have seen
with our own eyes, beyond and
heights of honor, and it is for us to
bear the report to those who come aft
er us. But, above all, we have learned
that whether a man accepts from for
tune her spade, and will look down
ward and dig, or from aspiration her
axe and cord, and will scale the ice,
the one and only success which it is
his to command is to bring to his
work q mighty heart.
Such hearts-ah me, how many
were stilled 20 years ago; and to US
who remain behind is left this day of
memories. Every year-in the full
tide of spring, at the height of the
symphony of flowers and love and life
there comes a pause. and through
the silence we hear the lonely pipe of
death. Year after year lovers wan
Idering under the apple bOughs and
through the clover and deep grass are
surprised with sudden tears as they
see black yelled figures stealing
through the morning to a soldiers
grave. Year after year the comrades
of the dead follow, with public honor
procession and commemorative flags
and funeral march-hOnor and grief
from us who stand almost alone. and
have seen the best and noblest of our
generation pass away.
But grief is not the end of all.
seem to hear the funeral march be-
come a paean. l see beyond the forest
the moving banners of a hidden col
umn. Our dead brothers still live for
US, and bid us think of life, not death
of life to which in their youth they
lent the passion and glory of the
spring. AS l listen. the great chorus
OF life and joy begins again. and amid
the awful orchestra of seen and I'M
seen powers and destinies of good and
evil our trumpets sound once more a
note Of daring, hope, and will.