_By Frank Luther Mott_
Last Sunday afternoon I wandered into Smith Park and sat down on a
bench near the fountain. It was a fine day. The sun shone warmly and I
was one of many men who lounged on those benches and luxuriated in the
grateful warmth of the early spring sunshine.
Men of many kinds were there. There were a few old men, but many were
young, or middle-aged. Unless I am a very poor observer, not a few of
them were drifters.
As I sat there I watched the play of the water falling in the fountain.
I observed the bronze figures of women sitting in the center, musing
over who knows what great world problem; and I saw, surmounting all,
the towering figure of a soldier of the Civil War. There he stood in
his quiet power--apotheosis of the common soldier in the war for the
Union. He wore the great-coat and military cape of the old uniform. He
stood at ease, his left foot advanced, and the butt of his gun resting
on the ground in front of him, while he held the gun-barrel with his
left hand and rested his forearm on the muzzle. He gazed a little past
me, steadfastly, toward a corner of the park. On his face was the look
of the man who is ready--the man undaunted by any emergency--the man
unafraid in the quiet strength of soul and body.
"He it was," I reflected, "who leaped to the colors when Father Abraham
called, and by the might of his loyalty and sacrifice saved his country
in the hour of her greatest need."
Glancing across the park, I saw a poster glaring from the great window
of a salesroom. I could make out three words, printed in giant type: