WAITING!
Sing a song of the Next of Kin,
A weary, wishful, waiting rhyme,
That has no tune and has no time,
But just a way of wearing in!
Sing a song of those who weep
While slow the weary night hours go;
Wondering if God willed it so,
That human life should be so cheap!
Sing a song of those who wait,
Wondering what the post will bring;
Saddened when he slights the gate,
Trembling at his ring,--
The day the British mail comes in
Is a day of thrills for the Next of Kin.
When the Alpine climbers make a dangerous ascent, they fasten a rope
from one to the other; so that if one slips, the others will be able
to hold him until he finds his feet again; and thus many a catastrophe
is averted! We have a ring like that here--we whose boys are gone.
Somebody is almost sure to get a letter when the British mail comes
in; and even a letter from another boy read over the 'phone is
cheering, especially if he mentions your boy--or even if he doesn't;
for we tell each other that the writer of the letter would surely know
"if anything had happened."
Even "Posty" does his best to cheer us when the letters are far apart,
and when the British mail has brought us nothing tells us it was a
very small, and, he is sure, divided mail, and the other part of it
will be along to-morrow. He also tells us the U-boats are probably
accounting for the scarcity of French mail, anyway, and we must not be
worried. He is a good fellow, this "Posty"!
We hold tight to every thread of comfort--we have to. That's why we
wear bright-colored clothes: there is a buoyancy, an assurance about
them, that we sorely need! We try to economize on our emotions, too,
never shedding a useless or idle tear! In the days of peace we could
afford to go to see "East Lynne," "Madame X," or "Romeo and Juliet,"
and cry our eyes red over their sorrows. Now we must go easy on all
that! Some of us are running on the emergency tank now, and there is
still a long way to go!
There are some things we try not to think about, especially at night.
There is no use--we have thought it all over and over again; and now
our brains act like machines which have been used for sewing something
too heavy for them, and which don't "feed" just right, and skip
stitches. So we try to do the things that we think ought to be done,
and take all the enjoyment we can from the day's work.
We have learned to divide our time into day-lengths, following the
plan of the water-tight compartments in ships, which are so arranged
that, if a leak occurs in one of these, the damaged one may be closed
up, and no harm is done to the ship. So it is in life. We can live so
completely one day at a time that no mournful yesterday can throw its
dull shadow on the sunshine of to-day; neither can any frowning
to-morrow reach back and with a black hand slap its smiling face.
To-day is a sacred thing if we know how to live it.
I am writing this on the fourth day of August, which is a day when
memory grows bitter and reflective if we are not careful. The August
sunshine lies rich and yellow on the fields, and almost perceptibly
the pale green of the wheat is absorbing the golden hue of the air.
The painted cup has faded from rosy pink to a dull, ashy color, and
the few wild roses which are still to be seen in the shaded places
have paled to a pastel shade. The purple and yellow of goldenrod, wild
sage, gallardia, and coxcomb are to be seen everywhere--the strong,
bold colors of the harvest.
Everything spoke of peace to-day as we drove through the country. The
air had the indescribably sweet smell of ripening grain,
clover-blooms, and new hay; for the high stands of wild hay around the
ponds and lakes are all being cut this year, and even the timothy
along the roads, and there was a mellow undertone of mowing machines
everywhere, like the distant hum of a city. Fat cattle stood knee-deep
in a stream as we passed, and others lay contentedly on the
clover-covered banks. One restless spirit, with a poke on her neck,
sniffed at us as we went by, and tossed her head in grim defiance of
public opinion and man-made laws. She had been given a bad name--and
was going to live up to it!
Going over a hill, we came upon a woman driving a mower. It was the
first reminder of the war. She was a fine-looking woman, with a tanned
face, brown, but handsome, and she swung her team around the edge of
the meadow with a grace and skill that called forth our admiration.
I went over and spoke to her, for I recognized her as a woman whom I
had met at the Farm-Woman's Convention last winter. After we had
exchanged greetings, and she had made her kind inquiry, "What news do
you get from the Front?" and had heard that my news had been good--she
said abruptly:--
"Did you know I've lost my husband?"
I expressed my sorrow.
"Yes," she said, "it was a smashing blow--never believed Alex could be
killed: he was so big, and strong, and could do anything.... Ever
since I can remember, I thought Alex was the most wonderful of all
people on earth ... and at first ... when the news came, it seemed I
could not go on living ... but I am all right now, and have thought
things out.... This isn't the only plane of existence ... there are
others; this is merely one phase of life.... I am taking a longer view
of things now.... You see that schoolhouse over there,"--she pointed
with her whip to a green-and-white school farther down the
road,--"Alex and I went to school there.... We began the same day and
left the same day. His family and mine settled in this neighborhood
twenty years ago--we are all Kincardine people--Bruce, you know. Our
road to school lay together on the last mile ... and we had a way of
telling whether the other one had passed. We had a red willow stick
which we drove into the ground. Then, when I came along in the morning
and found it standing, I knew I was there first. I pulled it out and
laid it down, so when Alex came he knew I had passed, and hurried
along after me. When he came first and found it standing, he always
waited for me, if he could, for he would rather be late than go
without me. When I got the message I could not think of anything but
the loneliness of the world, for a few days; but after a while I
realized what it meant ... Alex had passed ... the willow was down ...
but he'll wait for me some place ... nothing is surer than that! I am
not lonely now.... Alex and I are closer together than plenty of
people who are living side by side. Distance is a matter of spirit ...
like everything else that counts.
"I am getting on well. The children are at school now, both of
them,--they sit in the same seats we sat in,--the crops are in good
shape--did you ever see a finer stand of wild hay? I can manage the
farm, with one extra hired man in harvest-time. Alex went out on the
crest of the wave--he had just been recommended for promotion--the
children will always have a proud memory.
"This is a great country, isn't it? Where can you find such abundance,
and such a climate, with its sunshine and its cool nights, and such a
chance to make good?... I suppose freedom has to be paid for. We
thought the people long ago had paid for it, but another installment
of the debt fell due. Freedom is like a farm--it has to be kept up. It
is worth something to have a chance to work and bring up my
children--in peace--so I am living on from day to day ... not grieving
... not moping ... not thinking too much,--it hurts to think too
hard,--just living."
Then we shook hands, and I told her that she had found something far
greater than happiness, for she had achieved power!
* * * * *
There is a fine rainbow in the sky this evening, so bright and strong
that it shows again in a reflected bow on the clouds behind it. A
rainbow is a heartsome thing, for it reminds us of a promise made long
ago, and faithfully kept.
There is shadow and shine, sorrow and joy, all the way along. This is
inevitable, and so we must take them as they come, and rejoice over
every sunny hour of every day, or, if the day is all dark, we must go
hopefully forward through the gloom.
To-day has been fine. There was one spattering shower, which pebbled
the dusty roads, and a few crashes of rolling thunder. But the western
sky is red now, giving promise of a good day to-morrow.
A PRAYER FOR THE NEXT OF KIN
O Thou, who once Thine own Son gave
To save the world from sin,
Draw near in pity now we crave
To all the Next of Kin.
To Thee we make our humble prayer
To save us from despair!
Send sleep to all the hearts that wake;
Send tears into the eyes that burn;
Steady the trembling hands that shake;
Comfort all hearts that mourn.
But most of all, dear Lord, we pray
For strength to see us through this day.
As in the wilderness of old,
When Thou Thy children safely led,
They gathered, as we have been told,
One day's supply of heavenly bread,
And if they gathered more than that,
At evening it was stale and flat,--
So, Lord, may this our faith increase--
To leave, untouched, to-morrow's load,
To take of grace a one-day lease
Upon life's winding road.
Though round the bend we may not see,
Still let us travel hopefully!
Or, if our faith is still so small--
Our hearts so void of heavenly grace,
That we may still affrighted be
In passing some dark place--
Then in Thy mercy let us run
Blindfolded in the race.
THE END
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS
U.S.A.
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