O’er ruined road past draggled field,
O’er twisted stones of shaken street,
Marches an army terrible,
The army of the bleeding feet,--
Of skirted feet that now first leave
Immaculate field and kitchen floor,--
Old feet that slept beside the hearth,
Wee feet that twinkled by the door.
To strange world past the parish line
(More strange with sound and sight to-day),
Recruited fast at every hedge,
The gathering army takes its way.
Commanders? Aye, they trudge ahead,--
Not badge but babe on every breast.
The troops? They straggle at her skirt,
From tot to crone, in ranks ill-drest.
And uniformed--in rusty best
From cedarn chests and linen bags;
Ah, rough the roads and chill the winds
To sabots split and sudden rags!
Equipment? Aye, ’tis furnished well,
This army of the old and young,--
On shoulder bent a bundle small,
A doll from little fingers swung!
Almost complete--it only lacks
The battle oath and cheer and song;
Save infant fret and agèd sigh,
Now dumbly marches it along.
Past gaping window, roof and sill
It fares to red horizon’s edge,
Past blackened furrow, hearth and fane,--
And fast it grows at every hedge!
_Boston News Bureau._ _Bartholomew F. Griffin_