The Washington herald., 1916-07-10

Sheila, but most people called her sum
shine. for she radiated smiles and
sweetness everywhere. She was en-
gagged TO be married to handsome
debonair young Irish guardsman,
veritable broth of a boy, as all the
other envious maidens termed him.
'Shure it's the happiest girl in the wide
world that am," said Sheila.
Her happiness is over now. buried for
ever Somewhere in Flanders" lin a GER
tain muddy traverse that the German
guns destroyed. Her pretty cheeks are
paler than they used to be, but those
wonderful Irish eyes OF hers. put in with
| an inky finger still are bravely trying
| to smile There are darker shadows
round them as the days go by, shadows
| from sleepless nights that yet but give
! an added touch of loveliness.
She has "a letter" too-a queer, tat
| tered stained fragment of paper that she
carries with her everywhere and values
| more than anything on earth. One day
| she showed it to me. with a strangled
little sob she tried in vain TO suppress
Twas sent me by the French priest
| that was with him when he died" she
whispered "'Tis hard to read the writ
| ing for the markings on it,
| The message was in pencil, scrawled in
| a shaky hand and splashed with blood
It was very short and nearly illegible
| 'Mavourneen. till We meet again." was
! all 1t said.
| In a certain Highland glen far in the
| north of Scotland where a tumbling river
| flows down TO the sea and the leaves
| droop to the water of a summers after
noon. there's small community who are
| waiting, waiting. The silver birch and
rowan trees shelter the little hamlet as it
nestles on the green hillside, and the
| heather and the bracken and the bog
| myrtle fill the air with a wonderful per-
| fume. But inside every little cottage
| and under every little thatched roof there
is tragedy. From every house men have
| gone out TO fight, and to every house
| have come heartbreaking messages
There are those who never will come
back again. the brave Donalds and Ron
aids and Dugalds and Duncans and Gil
!ans whose graves are scattered over
Europe and whose photographs and rec
ords fill the papers daily.
J No fighters can eclipse the Highland
! regiments for bravery. There's the raI-
lant Gordons and the Seaforths, the
Biack Watch and the Cameron High
Ianders headed by LochieL 1t is to men
ike these that Britain owes her victories,
! men who account it a high privilege To
lay down their lives in her service. Rut
It's hard for thoseswho are left behind
| IN the deserted hamlets who have 10
carry on" alone and know that life can
never be quite the same again now he
is gone
In the Highland glen OF which I smoke
| there's a queer little hillock capped bv
the famous Wishing Stone from whose
summit one can see the sea for miles
around. Early each morning a woman
climbs the rock and gazes through a
pair OF old-fashioned fieldglasses far out
| across the waters. She sits there nv the
hour' her shabby shawl fluttering in the
winds and her hair blowing disheveled
round about her head. wondered what
the trouble was
Then one OF the crofters told me.
She will be looking for the boat that
brings the papers with news of the fight
Ing" he said. in his hesitating English,
and it's to the Wishing Stone she
climbs because she says It's the only
place she can pray. l will be thinking
! her mind is not just what it was before
the war. Her man was killed at Mons
and her youngest son at Ypres There
! was another, too-they made an officer
of him. But they're telling me that he is
/ missing"
She is waiting, waiting intermina bly,
! for the news, this Highland mother. Her
/ little house stands empty most of the
day, for she is always wandering on the
! hills that overlook the sea Perhaps
! now she has heard good tidings-who
| knows?
Over in France the music of the
! "Marseillaise" brings comfort to the
waiting hearts, just as the plaintive
tones OF the Scottish pipes bring
hope to Scotland The band has
played the Marseillaise.' says a
writer, mot once but many times; the
! Marseillaise' is the music of France,
which no other people can hope to
initiate. 1t is France; ii speaks her
splendid and troubled spirit. it reveals
her JOY and her long, long sorrow.
France is the child spirit of the ma
tions; all things have come to her; all
! things have been known or her: the
cups OF Joy and sorrow. of defeat and
victory, of shame and triumpn-all OF
| these she has drained to the dregs
And she lives still a child, fervenr,
generous, beautiful"
| Yes. behind the trenches there are
many shadowed hearts and many
broken lives. Yet a day will break ir-
radiated with the light of a glorious
dawn, when war is over and happi-