with the case of ----. It contains excellent advice, and I am carrying
it in my pocket, intending to clip your name and the name of the
college from it and to give it to him. I am deeply grateful, my dear
Father, for your great and characteristic kindness in this matter. I
think we’ll yet see him practicing and teaching philosophy. You see,
in his veins is a dangerous mixture of bloods--like my own--German and
Irish, perhaps that accounts for his troubles. Gaelic impetuosity and
Teutonic romanticism--no, sentimentality--no, self-pity--no, what is it
that makes Germans German? I mean Sturm und Drang, Sorrows of Werther
and that sort of thing. Well, it doesn’t matter what it’s called. But
all people with any German blood have a bit of it. And highly diluted
it’s rather nice. Which reminds me that Father Duffy says I’m half
German and half human.
I wrote a poem called “Rouge Bouquet.” I’ll ask Aline to send you a
copy--it’s long--and you remind her. It will tell you of an incident
which will indicate to you that handling statistics in Regimental
Headquarters isn’t the dry task you imagine it. The statistics aren’t
dry--they’re wet--and red. Also, I’m attached to the Regimental
Intelligence Section, which is exciting. I had a very thrilling week
not long ago--I’m not allowed to write about it yet. I’ll tell you
about it some day. By the way, it was at that time--Feb. 26, that
you wrote to me. I wasn’t in the office then, I was out working as
an observer--finest job in the army! By the way, I’m a Sergeant now.
I’ll never be anything higher. To get a commission I’d have to go away
for three months to a school, and then--whether or not I was made
an officer--I’d be sent to some outfit other than this. And I don’t
want to leave this crowd. I’d rather be a Sergeant in the 69th than a
Lieutenant in any other regiment in the world. Get Aline to send you a
copy of “Holy Ireland”--it will explain, somewhat.
Please give my love to anybody who will accept it. Remember me with
special fervour to Sister Eugene and Sister Stanislaus. I enjoy reading
the Campion, and am glad to see the newspaper has become a reality.
You speak of French anti-clericals in your letter. They all must be in
Paris. I haven’t found any in my rather extensive wanderings around
France. As a common soldier, I have the privilege of intimacy with the
French peasants--and I find them edifyingly good Catholics. Pray for
me, dear Father James.
Affectionately,
JOYCE.
* * * * *
April 8, 1918.
My dear Father James:
I am sending you with this letter some verses that will, I think,
interest you. They are my first attempt at versification in a
dug-out--a dug-out not far from the event of which the verses tell. I
have sent a copy to Aline, but since the trans-Atlantic mails are so
uncertain, will you be so kind as to write to her asking if she has
received it?
Somewhere within a radius of five miles from where I write now slumbers
(for it’s long after bedtime for soldiers who keep regular hours) one
Drury Sheehan. Every day he meets someone from my outfit and asks after
me and says he’s coming to see me. And some days ago I--riding on a
truck--passed and was passed several times by his outfit. And I paged
him, so to speak, unavailingly. Also numerous letters from the States
tell me that young Father Charles O’Donnell is somewhere near. We’ll
have a great reunion one of these days. I wish you’d be in it! But one
of these nights I’ll jump off a freight at Prairie du Chien, break
a pane of glass in a basement window and go to sleep in the Bishop’s
room. The Brother will be aghast next morning at discovering a ragged
mustachioed shaven headed soldier in such a place--I’ll try to explain
to him that I’m an adopted alumnus of Campion--I’ll probably use French
in my excitement--and he will promptly shoot me. Then I’ll spend two
months in the Campion Infirmary, which is, I am told, a very nice place.
I am having a delightful time, but it won’t break my heart for the war
to end. I feel much comforted and strengthened by many prayers--those
of my wife and little children, those of many dear friends, mostly
priests and Sisters. I value highly my share in your Masses. Always
pray hard, my dear Father, for
Your affectionate friend,
JOYCE.
* * * * *
May 15, 1918.
Dear Father James:
I thought you’d like to see how I looked after six months of
soldiering. I’m having a lot of fun (I’m a Sergeant in the Regimental
Intelligence Section now, you remember) but I haven’t been to Mass for
_three weeks_! It so happened that I was away from churches (except the
ruins thereof) and from Fr. Duffy. So you’ll have to be praying doubly
hard for your affectionate friend,
JOYCE.
* * * * *
_To Mrs. Kilburn Kilmer_
TO MY MOTHER, ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1914,
WITH A BOOK OF POEMS
Gentlest of critics, does your memory hold
(I know it does) a record of the days
When I, a schoolboy, earned your generous praise
For halting verse and stories crudely told?
Over those boyish scrawls the years have rolled,
They might not bear the world’s unfriendly gaze,
But still your smile shines down familiar ways,
Touches my words and turns their dross to gold.
Dearer to-day than in that happy time
Comes your high praise to make me proud and strong.
In my poor notes you hear Love’s splendid chime
So unto you does this, my work, belong.
Take, then, this little book of fragile rhyme;
Your heart will change it to authentic song.
* * * * *
_To A. K. K._
AUGUST THE FOURTH
NINETEEN HUNDRED AND ELEVEN
Now the English larks are singing,
And the English meadows flinging
Scarlet flags of blazing poppies to the fragrant summer air,
And from every tower and steeple
All the wondering English people
Hear a chime of fairy music, though no bell-ringers are there.
What has caused this jubilation?
Days ago the coronation
Went with jewelled pomp and splendour to the country of the past.
Is the land some Saint’s Day hailing?
Or has some tall ship gone sailing
Through the hostile fleet to triumph, with the Union at her mast?
Nay, it is no warlike glory,
Nor pale saint, of ancient story,
That has made the island blossom into beauty rare and new.
We in this sea-severed nation,
Share with England our elation,
As we keep this feast, your birthday, and are glad with love for
you!
* * * * *
“WHITE HORSE” OF KILBURN
TO A. K. K. ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1912
Last night the beat of hoofs was heard upon the shaded street,
It broke the silent brooding of the peaceful countryside;
I looked and saw a horse that stamped its terrible white feet,
A giant horse, as white as flame, long maned and starry-eyed.
“Who is this monstrous visitant?” said I, “Bucephalus?
Or Rosinante, looking for another crazy Knight?
Or (not to be conceited) may it not be Pegasus?
This mighty horse, this glowing horse, so beautiful and white.”
He proudly tossed his noble head, and neighed, “Across the foam
My stable lies, with clouds for roof, and mountainous green walls;
I come to take your message unto Her, who near my home
Will hold her Birthday feast before another evening falls.”
“Go back, O Horse,” I said, “and seek your pleasant dwelling-place,
And here’s a gift for you to take, I trust it to your care;
Support this heavy load of love until you see her face,
Then humbly kneel before her feet and lay my homage there.”
Having English blood in her veins, Mrs. Kilburn Kilmer considers
herself something of a Yorkshire woman. The famous White Horse she
has climbed many times.
* * * * *
VALENTINE WRITTEN FOR MY MOTHER, 1913
I will send my heart to England, and will make it learn to act
Like a vacant minded vicar, or a curate full of tea;
I will make my heart talk Cambridgese, or Yorkshirish, in fact;
I will make it be as British as a human heart can be;
I will dress my heart in roses, roses red and ever gay;
I will steep my heart in scarletest of wine;
I will teach my heart to bow, and smile, and sing, and dance, and
play--
Just to make you take it for a Valentine.
* * * * *
BIRTHDAY POEM--1913
England! England! put your veil of mist away,
Dress in green, with poppies in your hair.
England! England! let your birds sing “Holiday,”
Let your lanes be jubilant and fair.
She is made of singing, therefore hail her with a song;
Strew her path with loveliness, and crown her with delight.
Golden hours of joy and beauty should to her belong.
Everything that lives to-day must own her gentle might.
England! England! now the jocund feast is here.
Now is time for frolicking and mirth.
England! England! now another turning year,
Brings the day that celebrates her birth.
* * * * *
VALENTINE TO MY MOTHER, 1914
The English meadows call her, and the streets of London Town,
And the pleasant little villages under the Yorkshire Hills.
She can see the roads, like ribbons white, that stretch across the
down,
And the great slow turning sails of sleepy mills.
She longs for stately mansions, in whose eaves the pigeons coo,
And she longs for yellow corn fields, where the scarlet poppies
shine,
She loves the folk of England, and, of course, they love her too,
But she lingers in America to be my Valentine.
Set to music by Mrs. Kilburn Kilmer and published in London in the
Spring of 1914.
* * * * *
TO AN ADVENTUROUS INFANT
ON HER BIRTHDAY, AUGUST, 1915
“England,” she said, “is surely England yet;
Therefore it is the place where I should be.
In spite of war, I know that tea is tea,
A cigarette is still a cigarette.
“Why should I worry over Wilhelm’s threat?”
And thereupon she said goodbye to me,
And gaily sailed across the dangerous sea,
To where, among the Zeppelins, tea was set.
What if the sea foam mountainously high
With waves that had in Hell their fiery birth?
What if black peril hover in the sky,
And bursting shell wound deep the trembling earth?
All evil things must harmlessly pass by
Her who doth bear the Talisman of Mirth.
* * * * *
BIRTHDAY POEM, 1915
TO MY MOTHER SINGING
Out of the golden valleys of old years,
You have recalled so many a lovely thing.
Forgotten splendours glimmer when you sing,
With their long vanished light of mirth and tears.
Gay lovers flout their love’s delicious fears.
The proud swords clash for Charles, the rightful King,
A woman weeps, and turns her “Silver Ring.”
The “Men of Harlech” charge with level spears.
Yet, I crowned with my crown of vanity,
Have been more happy when you sang and played
The songs wherein your art had succoured me.
As starry note on starry note was laid,
Then my chained rhymes, by your designs set free,
Flew Heavenward on the radiant wings you made.
* * * * *
TO MY MOTHER, OCTOBER, 1915
There fell a flood of devastating flame
On half the world, and all its joy was dead.
The sky was black, the troubled sea was red,
And from all mouths a lamentation came.
But you, in calm and hurricane the same,
Went with gay lips, brave heart and unbowed head.
What was the charm, from which all danger fled?
What did you say, what cabalistic name?
It was my love that sent its quickening breath
On all the waves that bore your ship along.
My love held out, against the flying death,
That clove the sea, a shield than steel more strong,
Bringing you back, where no war harrieth,
Stars in your eyes, and in your heart a song.
* * * * *
AUGUST FOURTH, NINETEEN SIXTEEN
The Berkshire Hills are gay
With a gladder tint to-day,
And Mount Graylock rears his mighty head in pride.
For the lady that they knew
Long ago, to them is true,
And has come within their shadow to reside.
And across the troubled sea,
Yorkshire hill and Cambridge lea,
Send their love to you by every wind that blows.
And a greater love than these
Hurries Northward on the breeze
From the little hills they call the Ramapos.
* * * * *
VALENTINE FOR MY MOTHER, 1917
If some day, as you idly turn the pages,
Whereon my verses are,
You find a flower where angry winter rages,
On the black earth a star;
If in dead words you come on something living,
Some fair and vibrant line--
It is the message that my heart is giving,
It is your Valentine.
* * * * *
March, 1918.
Dear Mother:
The sweater arrived, and it certainly is a magnificent specimen of
knitting, and the wristlets are wonderfully purled--whatever purling
may be. Probably I shall need both sweater and wristlets for many
weeks, for although it is Spring now, it often is cold.
Under separate cover I am sending you my warrant as Sergeant. I thought
you might like to have it framed to hang in the Old-Fashioned Room.
The “drafted” in the corner means that the regiment was drafted into
Federal Service; that is, made a part of the United States Army instead
of a part of the New York State National Guard.
I suppose that you have read in the newspapers of the Regiment’s
recent activities. Now we are taking it easy in a very pleasant little
town. I hope we may stay here at least a month, as it is hard to work
when the Regiment is moving about the country. I had a week’s respite
from office work some time ago and spent it doing what is called
“observation” work for the Regimental Intelligence Section. It was most
interesting.
Did Aline tell you of Kenton’s success in school? It seems that he won
a gold medal for being the best pupil in the school. I was delighted
to learn it. So nearly as I can remember, I was not an especially keen
student when I was his age, although I became one later.
There is practically no chance of my rising any higher in the Regiment
than Sergeant, and I am perfectly content. To become an officer I would
have to go to school away from the Regiment for several months, then if
I failed to pass my examinations and win a commission, I would be sent
to some other Regiment than this, and if I succeeded I would be sent as
an officer, not back to the 69th, but to some other outfit, and I want
very much to stay with the Regiment. I have many good friends here, and
I would feel lost in any other military organization.
I am looking forward to receiving the photographs you have had taken.
By this time you must have received the one I sent you. I hope you like
it.
Your letters are very gratefully received, and I am looking forward
specially to receiving the cake and the candy you sent me. Everything
else you have written of in your letters has arrived in good condition,
and a day or two ago I got five big jars of excellent tobacco from the
Dickens Fellowship ... a most intelligent gift.
Affectionately yours,
JOYCE.
* * * * *
May 15th, 1918.
Dear Mother:
As to your “War Mother” poem, I hesitate to tell you how much I like
it, because I am afraid you may think I am trying to flatter you. It
certainly is the best poem you ever wrote--beautiful, original and well
sustained. I have seen no recent war verse I like so well. There is no
question but what you will sell it to some good magazine. I certainly
congratulate you, and congratulate the magazine fortunate enough to
print your poem.
I am very glad to hear of the deserved success your songs made at
Lakewood, and in general of your triumphs at the Dickens Fellowship,
and elsewhere. I wish I could have witnessed them, but I will be seeing
more of the same sort next winter. That is what we like to hear about
over here--triumphs and celebrations, and in general the pleasant and
prosperous course of civilian life.
Of course we soldiers are undergoing hardships and privations--we
expect to, but we don’t spend our time advertising them. But in the
States when you find they must do without quite as much wheat, or meat,
or something of the sort, instead of just going without and keeping
their mouths shut, they advertise their remarkable abstention by having
“wheatless days” and “meatless days,” and all that sort of hysterical
rubbish, and fill the papers with the news, thereby disgusting us
soldiers and undoubtedly comforting the enemy. I think I will start a
“strawberryless, ice creamless, sodaless day” for the army. It would
be as sensible as what the people at home have been doing. If you (I
don’t mean you personally, of course) have to eat hardtack instead of
butter-raised biscuits, why eat the hardtack and shut up about it, but
don’t be such an ass as to have a “butter-raised biscuitless Monday,”
and don’t shut down on theatres and amusements; and don’t deprive
people of their honest drink. Merely making stay-at-homes dismal does
not help the soldiers a bit. England’s early “Business as Usual” scheme
was more practicable, and this is something of a concession for me to
make. There is quite a sermon on economics for you! Kindly read it to
my father, whom it will edify and instruct. A recent letter from him
shows that he utterly misunderstands my point of view on this subject,
the result of lamentably careless reading by him of one of my letters
in which I contrasted the gaiety and common-sense of the French,
through years of starvation and ruin, with the wail which a little
self-denial brought from the States.
Send your picture soon.
Affectionately yours,
JOYCE.
* * * * *
May 27th, 1918.
Dear Mother,
I presume by this time you have received the humorous photographs of
myself I sent you.
I am delighted to know of the Kilburn Hall project. By all means buy
the Hall; it will be an excellent investment. Property is now very
cheap in England, and prices will rise as soon as the war is over. I
hope to be able to spend my summers in France after the war, and I have
the place in mind--only about a day’s run from London. I am absolutely
in love with France, its people, its villages, its mountains,
everything about it. America would do well to copy its attitude in
the war. It has suffered tremendous hardships with dignity and humour
and kept its sanity and faith. America, to judge by the papers, grows
hysterical over a little self-denial; can’t do without an extra lump of
sugar in its tea without a band and speeches and “sugarless” Sundays.
It is funny and rather pathetic to us soldiers. But I honestly think,
although it may seem conceited to say so, that when we soldiers get
back from the war we will do the spiritual and intellectual life of the
States a lot of good. France has taught us lessons of infinite value.
I am having an absolutely Heavenly time since I joined the Intelligence
Section. I wouldn’t change places with any soldier of any rank in any
outfit. This suits me better than any job I ever had in civil life.
The cake is not yet here. I will soak it in wine all right, don’t worry
about that. Speaking of wine, enclosed find some flowers given me by a
very nice wine-shop girl in a city near here. “Madelon” is a perfectly
respectable song, but “Madelon” is not a gun or anything else of the
sort; it is the name of the girl who serves wine to the soldiers, as
the song clearly states.
Yours affectionately,
JOYCE.
* * * * *
June 14th, 1918.
Dear Mother:
There is a chance that I will be able to get to England on a seven
days’ leave in a few weeks. In that case I shall probably spend most
of my time in London, with a possible visit to Oxfordshire, where my
friend Mrs. Denis Eden lives. I wish there was something I could do for
you to expedite the purchase of Kilburn Hall, but since the Archbishop
of Yorkshire is in the States you should, yourself, be able to make a
deal with him. English real estate is a wise investment these days; it
will go up fifty per cent in a year’s time. I wish I could afford to
buy some property in this country. I certainly would like to live here.
If the States go “dry” I honestly think I will move my family over
here. I can write for American papers without living in America. Then
if you move to Kilburn Hall I will be only a day’s trip away from you,
and you will love rural France almost as much as you love rural England.
Learn to sing “Madelon.”
Affectionately yours,
JOYCE.
* * * * *
June 28, 1918.
Dear Mother:
I received three letters from you yesterday and to-day, the first I
have had from you in a long time. Your letters always come in bunches
like that. And this morning I received two admirable boxes of Mirror
Candy, in perfect condition. I certainly was delighted to get it, as
it is a long time since I have had any candy. My gratitude is so great
that I even will refer to it as “Sweets.”
I was also glad to get your picture, taken on shipboard. You must send
to Larchmont another copy of the picture of yourself looking at my
photograph, which you sent me some weeks ago, as I had to remove it
from its mount and cut it down to make it fit into my wallet. All the
rest of the fellows in the Intelligence Section (there are nine of
us, nearly all college graduates, and men of some standing--editors,
brokers, etc.), have pictures of their mothers, but none of them so
good looking as mine.
You would be amused at some of the scenes when your picture is
exhibited. Tired from a long hike from a stay in the trenches, I
am having an omelet, and some fried potatoes, and some vin rouge,
beau coup, le vin rouge in some French peasant’s little kitchen.
It is a cottage such as you and I often visited in Derbyshire and
Cambridgeshire; a low grey stone building with rose trees against
the wall, a tiny garden, and a geometrically neat path. The kitchen
floor is of stone, the table without a cloth, but shining from much
polishing. The only thing to distinguish it from the typical English
rural cottage is the crucifix on the wall, and the wooden shoes at
the door. (People wear sabots out of doors, cloth slippers in the
house, leather shoes on Sunday). Well, after such a repast as I have
described, I take out my wallet to pay my bill, and the sharp eyes of
little Marie, or little Pierre, intently watching this strange soldat
Americaine espy the picture. At once an inquisitive, but delighted,
infant is on my knee demanding a closer inspection of the picture;
the Maman must see it, and Grandpere, and Veuve Vatre from across the
street (the man of the house can’t see it; he is away from home on the
errand that brought me across the sea). Well, they all say “Elle est
jolie, ma foi, et jeune aussi.” These comments have been made on your
picture many times in many towns, which I will one day show you on a
map of France.
I have not much anxiety for my father, for I look on his condition as
a state of rest really necessary to a mind so constantly busy. But I
am glad that from you I have inherited the power of readily escaping
from worry and work; of entering with enthusiasm into whatever mirth I
find around me; in finding good and true and merry friends everywhere.
I think that some of this quality would have helped my father very
much, and increased his bodily and mental health. I worried grievously
about you for a while, and wished I could have been with you when my
father was taken ill, but I don’t worry now--you are too spirited and
courageous for anybody to worry about. I certainly admire you more
than ever, and look forward eagerly to regular banquets at Henri’s and
Rector’s with you.
I want you to meet all the Regimental Intelligence Section--a fine
bunch of brave men, and good comrades. We have taken big chances
together, and it has made us the best of friends. You will like them
all and they will like you.
Affectionately yours,
JOYCE.
* * * * *
_To Kenton Kilmer_
Headquarters Co.,
165th Infantry,
A. E. F.
Nov. 28, 1917.
My dear Kenton:
I hope that by this time you have entirely recovered from your illness.
I remember that I had whooping-cough when I was about your age. If you
are back in school, send me some of your monthly reports. The address
you must put on letters to me is just what you see at the top of this
sheet, except that you must put before it “Private Joyce Kilmer.”
There is a school in the building where I work, much like the school
you attend, except that there are no nuns here for teachers. When the
weather is wet, the children wear wooden shoes instead of rubbers. They
go to school at eight in the morning and don’t leave until five. You
wouldn’t like that, would you?
This letter ought to reach you about Christmas time. I am not sending
you anything at once, but I will later. And I know that your mother and
all your grandparents will give you things, and so will Saint Nicholas.
Be a good boy, and pray to St. Francis and Our Lady to help you. You
ought to go to Mass every morning, since you live so near the church.
Take care of Deborah and Christopher and Michael, and do all you can to
make things easy for your Mother.
From Your affectionate Dad.
* * * * *
_To Kenton Kilmer_
January 10, 1918.
My dear Kenton:
Your plan for ending the war is very good. I showed your letter to
Sergeant Russell, who fought in the Spanish-American war, long before
you were born, and he said that your plan was the one that the American
Army would adopt.
I am glad to see that you can write and typewrite so well. I hope that
you will get Fr. Morris to teach you how to serve Mass, we live so near
the church that you can easily serve his Mass and get your breakfast
and get to school on time, and if you are a priest when you grow up
you will be glad you had such practice when you were young.
Take care of Deborah and Michael and Christopher and your mother and
don’t forget to pray for
Your affectionate Dad.
* * * * *
_To Deborah Kilmer_
Headquarters Co.,
165th Inf.,
A. E. F., France.
May 27th, 1918.
My dear Deborah:
About a month ago, I sent you a rubber doll. If you didn’t get it, let
me know and I’ll send you another one.