The Denison review. [volume] (Denison, Iowa) 1867-current, 1917-10-24
MOTHER.

il MI ITEM.
(From the notebook of French
nurse, who spent year in a hospital
near the front and finally died of an
| infectious grippe, the result of eX.
posture on duty
Red Cross Magazine: You see,
miss, I've only got my family" said
a young soldier, sadly letting his head
fall back upon the pillow.
His family could not come to see
him. For they were poor. And they
lived at the other end of France. He
never before realized what his family
meant to him.
! When he and his fellOws-in-arms left
home there had been a trying hour Of
farewell; one short minute when they
had looked for the last time on the
beloved faces, suddenly conscious that
perhaps they would never see them
again. At, the bend of the road, or
the corner of the street, they had
looked back. Hungrily. they had
gazed at the figures Of the family, at
their homes, the outlines of the trees,
the familiar windows, as they wished
to seize them and carry them off. And
then their attention had been diverted
! by their travels, their comrades, and
that new. astonishing adventure which
they had never eXpected-war! Dan.
gers, battles, the bursting of shells,
their intention of holding their posi-.
ton, hopes of advancing-all these
occupied their thoughts. And then
mere living was often hard.
So the picture of home appears for
it is below, deep within, always. And
,oor ~, oI}oto Hnfioc moEo
way, it rises once more to the surface.
In the hours and the minutes before
an attack, it pushes itself to the fore,
obstinate, sharp like a pain. Later,
as he dashes forward under fire, with
his comrades falling round him. there
comes to him that anticipated thing
which, nevertheless, up to that time,
he could not believe would come: the
whip lash in his flesh, his run sud
denly cut short; and as he falls in
the midst Of his blood, absolutely
weak and Reconsideration it surges
up within-the thought Of the dear,
familiar past His first cry, his last
appeal, wrung from the forgotten
depths of his being, where the little
child still lives which he was once,
the unanimous supplication which
rises from the fields Of battle, breath
ed forth from the PROSTATE bodies, is
always the same, the same as that
cry which he gave in his childish trou-
bles, when he was face to face with
imaginary dangers; the Cry OF his last
stand, his prayer to the one person
who has never failed him:
"Mother!'
- From hard. laccnic men, who spurr
all display of tenderness; from brave
men who joke up to the last moment,
the same cry:
Help! Mother!"
And doubtless it is the first time
that they have called upon her in their
hour OF need. when she can do moth
ing.
At least so they believe, those wOm-
EN- who are bowed down with anguish
in their saddeaed homes, far from the
front.
In reality. they never leave their
sons The battleticids, wiIere all the
wounded cannot be picked up, and
where so many men must die alone,
belong to the mothers. They are
there. The features which have been
conjured up out of the air grow clear |
er little by little. 1t does not take
them long to find their children. And
they kneel, each beside her own. by. |
ing eyes look up and see their smiles. |
Eyes already closed. feel them near. |
They whisper words Ineligible only |
to their own sons. The dear inflec.
lions of their voices caress those ears, |
which. soon to hear no more. now hear |
only their mothers words. The pains !
of suffering are dimmed. and resigna.
ton OF peace enters into their hearts. !
Mother, | have done my duty"
MY child, l am proud Of you.
gave you to your country. Now you
belong to me alone. You shall never |
cave me again."
Mother, stay with me-"
Still holding him close, she an
swers:
Il am here, my child-with you-
always"
And he falls to sleep, rocked in her
owe, just as long ago he was rocked
n her arms.
You, mother and wives who in your
weeping cry out: IF only could have
been there, at the last moment, to
rear his last words!" rest in peace! |
You were there.