The Madison daily leader. [volume] (Madison, S.D.) 1890-current, 1917-09-07
Busy London Strand Halls
When AmbuIanCeS Arrive.
ENGLAND GRIM, DETERMINED
Twice Each Day In the Bright Sum-
light and In the Gloom of Night, When
Millions Fit Through Darkened Lon
don, Comes a Picture More Tragic
Than Any Dramatist Can Write.

tthfs lOE tHOse VINO are ehNlllE, tears
for those who will never return, tears
for those who are home again. Scared
and MANNED by the fires of death.
England weeps unashamed as she
fights unafraid. Tenderness for the
manhood she is sacrificing brings bit
terness for the foe that Is destroying
II. Tears hat come from gentle hearts
leave a void filled by the iron of hate.
A nation once laughing and care free
now Is fearful and determined, says
Junius Il. Wood. writing In the Chica-
60 Daily News.
All London Now Changed.
Il wonder whether London will ever
be the same happy, thoughtless city 1t
was In the old days." said IA British
army captain one day as our train roll
ed through the parklike country with
the tiny green fields. winding lanes
and matched stone houses.
His name was famous wherever the
union jack waves, just as are those OF
Mathewson, Wagner and Cobb under the
Stars and Stripes. for he was one OF
England's famous cricketers and had
played In every part Of the globe where
the British game has followers. Just
as he had played for the national hon
or on the field of sport. he was lighting
for II on the field of battle.
ITS the same buckle up and face
the ball. for British spirit never dies,
but the smiles. the laughter and the
music are gone" was the way he
phrased Ii.
Tears well from the eyes of gray
haired mothers In black, from the
stern faced soldiers back for a breath
OF home after the months Of lighting.
from pale young eyes of British blue.
Along the Strand. favorite OF topical
song, the stream Of humanity never
eases Twice each day. afternoon
and evening. II halts as the ambu-
lances slowly make their way TO his
toric Charing Cross station. just of
Trafalgar square. One ambulance at
the station draws the curious. This is
not one. but a hundred or more, som.
Der gray vans marked with red Nal,
tese crosses. filling the long. billy road
way at the station side.
A train Is coming from the coast
bringing the wounded, and only a few,
from the fields of France. On a train
shed platform, side by side and end to
end. the stretchers are spread. cover
Ing II with a mantle of tan canvas
The h%urrying station crowd stops.
Some were elbowing to gates for coun-
tryside homes, some arriving from
lands beyond the seas, others bidding
fearful farewell to loved mes, healthy
and strong. leaving for the front on
long trains from opposite platforms
to the grim symbols of the future
homecoming, If there be a homecom-
Ing. The train glides silently to a
stop. a white clad nurse In each door
along Its side, the ambulance orderlies
pick up their stretchers. Wrecked hui
manity Is to be carried away. 1t Is
part of every days routine In London,
as regular as the twice daily mail I'm
any of the 10000 small towns In our
home country. The first ambulance Is
loaded and rolls out OF the station.
When the Vans Arrive.
1t was only a narrow lane through
the crowded station courtyard and
down the bustling Strand, hushed for
the time save for the stifled sobs for
those who will not return, those who
have gone or others who I'm their young
manhood are to 10. Another follows,
then another, each one brings a thou
sand heartaches.
Under the first archway stood a chit
OF a girl. A cheap ribbon was the only
ornament on her little hat, the lace on
her waist of frayed lavender silk was
torn, her spindly shanks were set In
soiled white boots with heels OF ludic-
rous height. The little purse she open
ed held a big English penny and only
one. "a rose for n penny aid the
uower woman, and the last penny went
for a red rose. Some had bought
dozens, others had armfuls.
She ran behind one OF the gray am
balances slowly picking its way
through the human lane. A skinny
arm flashed In lace and lavender and
the rose fell inside. Tears streaked
the little rouged cheeks as she faded
into the crowd. Others threw their
armfuls. For every ambulance there
were roses. Sometimes In the shadowy
interior a hand would wave. Occa-
sionally one would feebly try to rise.
1t was home again in England after
the hell Of war. Usually only a nurse
would gratefully nod In appreciation
for those too weak to answer.
Twice each day. In the bright sun
light Of afternoon and in the gloom Of
night. when millions fit like shadows
through darkened London, m the
same human reel, a picture more tragic
than any dramatist can write. For
every tear, . memory; for every rose. a
life.