Bisbee daily review., 1918-11-10
From the Literary Digest.l ]

NtrOm the Literary DlBeSl-J
 It was at a little hospital in France. One of the workers-YOung Mems Christian association, Knights of Col umbUs-what does it matter, they are all the same-was one day passing by and Suddenly thought of a Scotch boy with whom he had been talking before that same afternoon. He entered the tent expecting to find the boy mark ed that night for transfer home. But when he approached he saw that something had happened, something had intervened between all hopes and plans. The wounded lads eyes were bright with fever and he Deckoned to the man of mercy. Come here, mummy he said; put your arm un- der my head and l think l will sleep tonight"
 And then" says the worker, T saw that he had become a child again Hear me say my prayers now, mum my he said, and beginning Our Fath- CT which art in Heaven, he felt his way through it like blind man in a narrow alley, till he got tangled in forgetfulness and stumbled for d mo- ment into silence. Then, looking at me, he said, Kiss me, mummy and I kissed him and tucked him in as his mother used to do when he was a boy at home, and by way of sleep that night he found a dawn beyond our daybreak."
 Your son, perhaps, is there-that boy you love so well. He may be wound ed God forbidl But if he is, an arm will pillow his head tonight and fath- erly hands will be on 'his and kindly lips will speak those words that you would speak if you were by his side. It will be the hands and lips of one of that band of consecrated men, one of those .big-hearted brothers, swho wei comed your boy that home-sick day he came to camp, who sailed with him on the transport, who went, perhaps, through the hellfire of shot and burst ing shell to save him when he was wounded, who brought food and com fort and friendliness and home to him on the very fire-step of the front line trench.
 These big brothers are calling to you from France for help. Nay, they are calling to you from every canton ment, from every camp, here and abroad, where our soldier lads are gathered together Fathers and Motl- CTS of Americai" they say. your boys are in our hands. We want to send them back to you clean, strong, brave. victorious. God willing, these shall not be wasted months 7or years. We are working and praying so that even while he fights your son will grow in stature-bOdy, mind, and soul, Money is needed-a veritable tide of gold-to make this possible. Fathers and Mothers of America, give to your own soulsI"
 Shall we add our poor word 10 the passionate appeal for S170,500, 900 that is being made by these seven so- cieties. these great brotherhoods that stand behind our armies-the Young Mems Christian association, the Young Women's Christian association, the National Catholic War Council, the Jewish Welfare Board, the Salva- tion Army, the American library as sociation, for War Camp Community Service? No, there is no need for us to tell you why you should give. Your own heart is crying out to you now to give Give money? Why, you would give your right hand, you would give your beating heart itseH if it would bring your boy comfort and happiness in his life or peace in his death.
 Little enough do we know what these lads of ours are enduring with out complaint; little enough do we know how they die without bitterness, thinking never of self, but of suffer ing chums and loved ones at home, humble in their self-sacrifice. Little can we hope to imagine what "" or TX. of C." men and huts mean to them, we who are safe and warm and with friends.
 Sometimes, says "Y" worker, T sit all day beside a man, feeling my heart just break listening to him as he speaks words of love and messages of deepest tenderness in his dying fever to those far off across the seas whom he thinks to be right up near his stretcher-bed. And then man who has been blinded wants me to hold one of his hands; another poor lad sobs out his life, his head in my arms, cry ing for his mother as yob and l cried for CUTS when we were lonely; and l guide the hands of anotlfer-a big boy, torn and shattered by shell, as he writes goodbye to his sweetheart and tells her God will bring them together again
 What do we know of such things as these-we in America? What do we know of the horror of the rain-soaked trench at night, with the shells flying overhead like bats out Of hell? What do We know of the gnawing cramp of hunger or the hideous wrench of agon- izing wounds? Our eyes have not seen the human wreckage of the battle field, our ears have not heard it's aw- | ful cries Our lips have not yet touch ed the cup. Our meatless days, our wheatless meals, our good ladies knit ting-would we dare look on one poor crumpled form in Flanders field and call these things giving" Not if we are men. If our fields had been blow | ed by murderous guns, II our ciues | had been footed, razed, and ruined, II
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