The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1918-10-04
NacTZ<S MNGIyG 5z1HRGHAncZED
H<zE/LER.

Il WAS not place to expect thrills,
the Fall River Line pier at New
port, r. 1. And especially not on
dismal evening. The dingy, low
buildings and sheds were wrapped
in the raw murk swept in from the
sea. The fog almost hid the lights
of the torpedo station across a stretch
of black water from the pier. Up
the ebay red lighthouse. eye winked
dimly through the mist. A cold driz-
zle kept the few early arrivals for
the New York boat in the waiting
room. Outside dozen loungers hug
ged sheltering walls, coat collars
turned up against the wet.
1t was getting along toward $780,
A few more passengers appeared.
growing at the weather. Then, down
Long wharf from the city, came swing
ing long line of blue. They were
new-made sailors from the training
station, 100 of them, bound for New
York and thence to sea; off on their
first service. The men broke ranks
when they reached the wharf, and
scattered about with pea-coat collars
around their ears, laughing, skylarK-
ing, their youthful exuberance proof
for a time against night like this.
School was done-and their work lay
before them.
Here and there a lucky boy had
somebody to tell him good-by-a friend
made in town, perhaps; sometimes "a
mother or father who lived near
enough to be on hand for the parting.
But most of them had, nobody. In
little while the laughter died, though
a few .irrepressibles kept up their
horseplay. They were very young,
these boys. And they were going some
where very far away. 1t was the big
adventure really beginning, and hard
" one failed to be touched a little by
the seriousness Of it.
I, Into the crowd on the wharf there
came khaki-clad figure. He was
dressed like an officer, except that
his cap bore no insignia, nor his sleeve
any braid. From group to group ne
went, with CHEEKY Hello, boys! y
and the men, with shouts and calls
one to another, flocked after him as
If following some new sort of military
Pied Piper. The man in khaki climbed
on baggage truck. He raised his
hand and silence came upon the blue
clad throng gathered before him,
"aThe Long, Long Trail" he called.
s'Ready --"
And then the thrill 80 Out into the
thick night, out over the old harbor,
fiOated the strains of that wistful cho-
rus, borne by those earnest. boyish
voices:
s'There's long, long trail unwinding
Into the land of my dreams;
Where the nightingales are singing
And the white moon beams;
There's long, long night of waiting
Until my dreams all come true,
Till the day when I'll be going down
The long, long trail with you"
And after that, the old, simple melo-
dies of the South and the swinging
tunes Of another, and a different, war
-"Suwanee. RIVER sold Black Joe"
."Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, the Boys Are
Marching" and the stirring, meas
ured:
tMine eyes have seen the glory of the
coming of the Lord,
He is trampling out the vintage where
the grapes Of wrath are
stored"
carried inspiringly by the full vol
ume of those fresh voices.
The man in khaki, beating time
from his truck, under the. dim lights
of the freight shed, sang too. And
the mass of faces, turned up to his
beneath the fiat blue caps, shone with
the fervor he inspired in them.
Through the fog up the bay doomed
the white, lighted bulk of the boat,
~~~~~-~~~-~~~~-~~~-~