New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1917-07-15

He was killed by wandering bullet when
working on a road away behind the lines, and
these are passages from some of his letters.
He wrote a great deal, for though ne had
good comrades in his Labor Battalion there
was none to whom he could talk very much
and so he was always writing for the com
fort and pleasure of his own mind. Il kept
him content in the mohotony OF a labor
that had few Of the interests Of soldiers
life. though it brought him soldiers death
His letters were written in all sorts of odd
places, whenever the fancy took him and he
had moments leisure, by the light OF a
candle stump as he sprawled on the floor OF
his billet or as he lay at the roadside rest
ing; and he spoke OF them always as his raw
stuff" that some day he would use. They are
full Of cheerful talk about all the books that
he would write after the war, but most OF
all about his book on roads. And now that
wandering bullet has brought him and them
to the dust and there remain nothing OF 1t
all but grave in France and box full Of
raw stuff and eager hopes.
81 seem now to have been busy all my life
with roads. There was bit OF road that
used to love when | was boy. 1t was
across the valley from my home. One end
Of it rose out of the woods and the other
went over the edge of the hill. I used to
play with that bit of road: used TO play at
sending people up and down it, Once you
had sent them over you never knew just how
they would come back or what they would
bring. 1t was that made it fine game, a
game OF unending fancies. | often think Of
il as bend over these roads.
And often remember how the news OF
the war first came 10 me. | was in the
North of England tramping along the crest
of the hills that are still called High Street,
after the road that the Romans built there.
In the late twilight came down to an inn
at the head of a lake. had been thinking
OF the Roman legionaries that once upon
time went that way and feeling the utter
freedom and peace of it all. For | was alone
all day with the turf and the wind and the
white signposts that up there on the top
of the hills seemed to point to no places on
earth, but to some distant places of the sky
In the inn picked up paper two days old
and read the declaration of war
There destiny in it when they would
not pass me for combatant service and made
me a roadmaker.
When I am cheerful dream Of writing
the greatest book on roads that was ever
written. For | have done more than tramp
he roads and love them. have worked on
them and ached for them shall go 70
Rome, where all the great roads start; and
shall write of it all in a house that see
though it is still unbuilD just under the
edge of the North Downs, where the oldest
road in England runs. That is how dream
when ] am cheerful; and when | am sad
think that shall die on one of these roads
and drop into a shell-hole.
Have you heard OF that road from Bar-le.
Due TO Verdun! 1t has given us road
makers a new dignity. | was talking of il
TO a Frenchman last night. You should have
seen his manner as he told me that he WAS
one of the men who kept it in repair. I. is
the bit of road that saved France, and the
poilus cross themselves as they step on 10 il.
| wish we had in US touch of that French
maenihesnce. and ! wish that | could have
worked with those lines of French terri