CHAPTER XIX

VERA CRUZ AND THE GREAT WAR

Late in April, 1914, when war between the United States and Mexico

seemed inevitable Richard once more left the peace and content of

Crossroads and started for Vera Cruz, arriving there on April 29. He

had arranged to act as correspondent for a syndicate of newspapers, and

as he had for long been opposed to the administration's policy of

"watchful waiting" was greatly disappointed on his arrival at the

border to learn of the President's plan of mediation. He wrote to his

wife:

CRUZ, April 24, 1914.

DEAREST ONE:

We left today at 5.30. It was a splendid scene, except for the

children crying, and the wives of the officers and enlisted men trying

not to cry. I got a stateroom to myself. With the electric fan on and

the airport open, it is about as cool as a blast furnace. But I was

given a seat on the left of General Funston, who is commanding this

brigade, and the other officers at the table are all good fellows. As

long as I was going, I certainly had luck in getting away as sharply as

I did. One day's delay would have made me miss this transport, which

will be the first to land troops.

April 25th.

A dreadnaught joined us today, the Louisiana. I wirelessed the Admiral

asking permission to send a press despatch via his battleship, and he

was polite in reply, but firm. He said "No." There are four transports

and three torpedo boats and the battleship. We go very slowly, because

we must keep up with one of the troop ships with broken engines. At

night it is very pretty seeing the ships in line, and the torpedo boats

winking their signals at each other. I am writing all the time or

reading up things about the army I forget and getting the new dope.

Also I am brushing up my Spanish. Jack London is on board, and three

other correspondents, two of whom I have met on other trips, and one

"cub" correspondent. He was sitting beside London and me busily

turning out copy, and I asked him what he found to write about. He

said, "Well, maybe I see things you fellows don't see." What he meant

was that what was old to us was new to him, but he got guyed

unmercifully.

April 27, 1914.

The censor reads all I write, and so do some half-dozen Mexican cable

clerks and 60 (sixty) correspondents. So when I cable "love," it MEANS

devotion, adoration, and worship; loyalty, fidelity and truth, wanting

you, needing you, unhappy for you. It means ALL that.

RICHARD.

VERA CRUZ, April 30, 1914.

This heat--humid and moist--would sweat water out of a chilled steel

safe; so imagine what it does to me with all the awful winter's

accumulation of fat. I hate to say it, but I LIKE these Mexicans--much

better than Cubans, or Central Americans. They are human, kindly; it

is only the politicians and bandits like Villa who give them a bad

name. But, though they ought to hate us, whenever I stop to ask my way

they invite me to come in and have "coffee" and say, "My house is

yours, senor," which certainly is kind after people have taken your

town away from you and given you another flag and knocked your head off

if you did not salute it. I now have a fine room. The Navy moved out

today and I got the room of the paymaster. It faces the plaza and the

cathedral. I burned a candle there today for our soon meeting. The

priests all had run away, so I had to hunt up the candle, and pay the

money into the box marked for that purpose, but the Lord does not run

away, and He will see we soon meet.

May 2nd.

Yesterday I went out on the train that brings in refugees and saw the

Mexicans. They had on three thousand cartridges, much hair, hats as

high as church steeples, and lots of dirt. The Selig Moving Picture

folks took many pictures of us and several "stills," in which the war

correspondent was shown giving cigarettes to the brigands. Also, I had

a wonderful bath in the ocean off the aviation camp. I borrowed a suit

from one of the aviators, and splashed and swam around for an hour.

My! it was good. It reminded me of my dear Bessie, because the last

time I was in the ocean was with her.

Maybe you know what is going on, but we do not. So I just hustle

around all day trying to find news as I did when I was a reporter. It

is hot enough here even for me, and I have lost about eight pounds of

that fat I laid in during our North Pole winter!

VERA CRUZ--May 8, 1914.

DEAR CHAS.:

Today, when Wilson ordered Huerta not to blockade Tampico which was an

insult to Mediators and the act of a bully and a coward, AND a

declaration of war, we all got on our ponies to "advance." Then came

word Huerta would not blockade. It is like living in a mad house. We

all are hoping mediators refuse to continue negotiations. If they have

self respect that is what they will do. Tonight if Wilson and Huerta

ran for President, Huerta would get all our votes. He may be an

uneducated Indian, but at least he is a man. However, that makes no

never mind so far as to my getting back. The reason I cannot return is

because I have "credentials." It is not that they want ME here, but

they want my credentials here. The administration is using, as I see

it, the privilege of having a correspondent at the front as a club. It

says until war is declared it won't issue any more. So those

syndicates who have no correspondent and the papers forming them, are

afraid to attack or to criticise the administration for fear they will

be blacklisted. And those who have a correspondent with his three

thousand dollar signed and sealed pass in his pocket aren't taking any

chance on losing him. So, I see before me an endless existence in Vera

Cruz.

RICHARD.

On May 7 Richard started for Mexico City where, if possible, he

intended to interview Huerta. At Pasco de Macho he was arrested, but

afterward was allowed to proceed to Mexico City. Here he was again

arrested, and without being allowed to interview Huerta was sent back

the day after his arrival to Vera Cruz.

Of this Vera Cruz experience John N. Wheeler, a friend of Richard's and

the manager of the syndicate which sent him to Mexico, wrote the

following after my brother's death:

"Richard Harding Davis went to Vera Cruz for a newspaper syndicate, and

after the first sharp engagement in the Mexican seaport there was

nothing for the correspondent to do but kill time on that barren, low

lying strip of Gulf coast, hemmed in on all sides by Mexicans and the

sea, and time is hard to kill there. Yet there was a story to be got,

but it required nerve to go after it.

"In Mexico City was Gen. Huerta, the dictator of Mexico. If a

newspaper could get an interview with him it would be a 'scoop,' but

the work was inclined to be dangerous for the interviewer, since

Americans were being murdered rather profusely in Mexico at the time in

spite of the astute assurances of Mr. Bryan, and no matter how

substantial his references the correspondent was likely to meet some

temperamental and touchy soldier with a loaded rifle who would shoot

first and afterward carry his papers to some one who could read them.

"One of the newspapers taking the stories by Mr. Davis from the

syndicate had a staff man at Vera Cruz as well, and thought to 'scoop'

the country by sending this representative to see Huerta, in this way

'beating' even the other subscribers to the Davis service. An

interview in Mexico City was consequently arranged and the staff man

was cabled and asked to make the trip. He promptly cabled his refusal,

this young man preferring to take no such chances. It was then

suggested that Mr. Davis should attempt it. By pulling some wires at

Washington it was arranged, through the Brazilian and English

Ambassadors at the Mexican capital, for Mr. Davis to interview

President Huerta, with safe conduct (this being about as safe as

nonskid tires) to Mexico City. Mr. Davis was asked if he would make

the trip. In less than two hours back came this laconic cable:

"'Leaving Mexico City to-morrow afternoon at 3 o'clock.'

"That was Richard Harding Davis--no hesitancy, no vacillation. He was

always willing to go, to take any chance, to endure discomfort and all

if he had a fighting opportunity to get the news. The public now knows

that Davis was arrested on this trip, that Huerta refused to make good

on the interview, and that it was only through the good efforts of the

British Ambassador at the Mexican capital he was released. But Davis

went.

"There was an echo of this journey to the Mexican capital several

months later after the conflict in Europe had been raging for a few

weeks. Lord Kitchener announced at one stage of the proceedings he

would permit a single correspondent, selected and indorsed by the

United States Government, to accompany the British army to the front.

Of course, all the swarm of American correspondents in London at the

time were eager for the desirable indorsement. Mr. Davis cabled back

the conditions of his acceptance. Immediately Secretary of State Bryan

was called in Washington on the long-distance telephone.

"'Lord Kitchener has announced,' the Secretary of State was told, 'that

he will accept one correspondent with the British troops in the field,

if he is indorsed by the United States Government. Richard Harding

Davis, who is in London, represents a string of the strongest

newspapers in the United States for this syndicate, and we desire the

indorsement of the State Department so he can obtain this appointment.'

"'Mr. Davis made us some trouble when he was in Mexico,' answered Mr.

Bryan. 'He proceeded to the Mexican capital without our consent and I

will have to consider the matter very carefully before indorsing him.

His Mexican escapade caused us some diplomatic efforts and

embarrassment.' (What the Secretary of State did to bring about Mr.

Davis's release on the occasion of his Mexican arrest is still a secret

of the Department.)

"Mr. Bryan did not indorse Mr. Davis finally, which was well, since

Lord Kitchener of Khartum kept the selected list of correspondents

loafing around London on one pretext or another so long they all became

disgusted and went without an official pass from 'K. of K.' As soon as

Mr. Davis was told he would not be appointed he proceeded to Belgium

and returned some of the most thrilling stories written on this

conflict at great personal risk."

May 13, 1914.

MY DEAREST ONE:

DO NOT BLAME me for this long delay in writing. God knows I wanted

every day to "talk" to you. But we were on the "suspect" list, and to

make even a note was risky. The way I did it was to exclaim over the

beauty of some flower or tree, and then ask the Mexican nearest me to

write the name of it HIMSELF in MY notebook. Then I would say, "In

English that would be----" and I would pretend to write beside it the

English equivalent, but really would write the word that was the key to

what I wished to remember. So, you see, a letter at that rate of

progress was impossible. It was a case of "Can't get away to cable you

today; police won't let me!" However, we are all safe at home again.

As a matter of fact, I had a most exciting time, and am dying to tell

you the "insie" story. But the one I sent the papers must serve. I

promised myself I would give the FIRST soldier, marine and sailor I met

on returning a cigar, and the first sailor was the CHAPLAIN OF THE

FLEET, Father Reany. But he took the cigar and gave me his blessing.

I am now burning candles to St. Rita. What worried me the MOST was how

worried YOU would be; and I begged Palmer not to send the story of our

first arrest. But other people told of it, and he had to forward it.

You certainly made the wires BURN! and had the army guessing. One

officer said to me, "I'm awfully sorry to see you back. If you'd only

have stayed in jail another day your wife would have had us all on our

way to Mexico." And the censor said, "My God! I'm glad you're safe!

Your wife has MADE OUR LIVES HELL!" And quite right, too, bless you!

None of us knows anything, but it looks to me that NOTHING will induce

Wilson to go to war. But the Mexicans think we ARE at war, and act

accordingly. They may bring on a conflict. That is why I am making

ready in case we advance and that is why I cabled today for the rest of

my kit. I have a fine little pony, and a little messenger boy who

speaks Spanish, to look after the horse, and me.

And now, as to your LETTERS, they came to-day, five of them, COUNT 'EM,

and the pictures did make me laugh. I showed those of the soldier

commandeering the vegetables to Funston and he laughed. And, I did

love the flowers you sent no matter HOW homesick they made me! (Oh).

I do not want a camera.

I have one, and those fancy cameras I don't understand.

The letters you forwarded were wonderfully well selected. I mean,

those from other people. One of them was from Senator Root telling me

Bryan is going to reward our three heroic officers who jumped into the

ocean. I know you will be glad. There are NO mosquitoes! Haven't met

up with but three and THEY are not COMING BACK.

I send you a picture of my room from the outside. From the inside the

view is so "pretty." Across the square is the cathedral and the trees

are filled with birds that sing all night, and statues, and pretty

globes. The band plays every night and when it plays "Hello, Winter

Time," I CRY for you. I paid the band-master $20 to play it, and it is

WORTH IT. I sit on the balcony and think of you and know just what you

are doing, for there is only an hour and a half difference. That is,

when with you it is ten o'clock with me it is eight-thirty. So when

you and Louise are at dinner you can know I am just coming in from my

horseback ride to bathe and "nap." And when at eight-thirty you are

playing the Victor, I am drinking a cocktail to you, and shooing away

the Colonels and Admirals who interfere with my ceremony of drinking to

my dear wife.

VERA CRUZ, May 20th, 1914.

DEAREST WIFE:

I got SUCH a bully letter yesterday from you, written long ago from the

Webster. It said you missed me, and it said you loved me, and there

were funny pictures of you reading the war and peace news each with a

different expression, and you told me about Padrigh and how he runs

down the road. It made me very sad and homesick, but very glad to feel

I was so missed. Also you told me cheerful falsehoods about my Tribune

stories. I know they are no good, and as they are no good, the shorter

the better, but I like to be told they are good. Anyway, I sat down at

once and wrote a long screed on Vera Cruz and the sleepy people that

five here.

We all live on the sidewalk under the stone porch. Every night a table

is reserved and by my orders ALL chairs, except mine, are removed. So

no one can sit down and bore me while I am dining. Another trick I

have to be left alone is to carry a big roll of cable blanks, and I

pretend to write out cables if anyone tries to talk. Then I beckon the

messenger (he always sits in the plaza) and say "File that!" and he

goes once around the block and reports back that it is "filed." If the

bore renews the attack I write another cable, and the unhappy messenger

makes another tour. The band plays from seven to eight every night.

There are five bands, and I saw no reason why there should not be music

every evening. After a day in this dirty hotel or dirty city a lively

band helps. Funston agreed, but forgot, until after three nights with

no band, I wrote him a letter. It was signed by fake names, asking if

he couldn't get nineteen German musicians into a bandstand how could he

hope to get ten thousand soldiers into Mexico City. So now we have a

band each night. That is all my day. After dinner I sit at table and

the men bring up chairs, or else I go to some other table. There are

some damn fool women here who are a nuisance, and they now have dancing

in the hotel adjoining, but I don't know them, except to bow, and I

approve of the tango parties because it keeps them away from the

sidewalk. They ire "refugees," the sort of folks you meet at Ocean

Grove, or rather DON'T meet! All love to you, and give Patrigh a pat

from his Uncle Richard for looking after you and looking for me, and

remember me to Louise and Shu and everything at home. I love you so.

RICHARD.

VERA CRUZ, May 28, 1914.

I want to be home to see the daisy field with you. That knee you

nearly busted tobogganing when the daisy field was an iceberg is now

recovered.

The one and all came this morning and as I expected it was all full of

love from you. I DID get happiness out of the thought you put in it.

And all done in an hour. The underclothes made me weep. I could get

none here. Not because Mexicans are not as large as I am, but because

no Mexican of any size would wear 'em. So I've had to wash the few

that the washer-woman didn't destroy myself. And when I saw the lot

you sent! It was like a white sale! Also the quinine which I tasted

just for luck, and the soap in the little violet wrapper made me quite

homesick. Especially was I glad to get socks and pongee suits, and

shirts. I really was getting desperate. God knows what I would have

done without them.

I want to see you so much, and I want to see you in the same setting of

other days, I want to walk with you in the daisy field, and in the

laurel blossoms, and clip roses. But to be with you I'd be willing to

walk on broken glass. Not you, too. Just me.

RICHARD.

VERA CRUZ--June 4, 1914.

DEAR OLD MAN:

I am awfully sorry for your sake, you could not get away. Of course

for myself I am glad that I am to see you and Dai. At least, I hope I

am. God alone knows when we will get out of here. I am sick of it.

Next time I go to war both armies must fight for two months before I

will believe they mean it, and BEFORE I WILL BUDGE.

It is true I am getting good money, but also there is absolutely

NOTHING to write about. Bryan doesn't know that unless he talks by

code every radio on sixteen ships can read every message he sends to

these waters. And the State Department saying it could not understand

the Hyranga giving up her cargo is a damn silly lie. No one is so

foolish as to think the Chester and Tacomah let her land those arms

under their guns unless they had been told to submit to it. And yet

today, we get papers of the 29th in which Bryan says he has twice

cabled Badger for information, when for a week Badger has been reading

Bryan's orders to consuls to let the arms be landed. Can you beat

that? This is an awful place, and if I don't write it is because I

hate to harrow your feelings. It is a town of flies, filth and heat.

John McCutcheon is the only friend I have seen, and he sensibly lives

on a warship. I can't do that, as cables come all the time suggesting

specials, and I am not paid to loaf. John is here on a vacation, and

can do as he pleases. But I ride around like any cub reporter. And

there is no news. Since I left home I have not talked five minutes to

a woman "or mean to!" The Mexican women are a cross between apes and

squaws. Of all I have seen here nothing has impressed me so as the

hideousness of the women, girls, children, widows, grandmothers. And

the refugees, as Collier would say it, are "terrible!" I live a very

lonely existence. I find it works out that way best. And at the same

time all the correspondents are good friends, and I don't find that

there is one of them who does not go out of his way to SHOW he is

friendly. What I CAN'T understand is why no one at home never guesses

I might like to read some of my own stories. . . .

DICK.

Of these days in Vera Cruz John T. McCutcheon wrote the following

shortly after Richard's death:

"Davis was a conspicuous figure in Vera Cruz, as he inevitably had been

in all such situations. Wherever he went, he was pointed out. His

distinction of appearance, together with a distinction in dress, which,

whether from habit or policy, was a valuable asset in his work, made

him a marked man. He dressed and looked the 'war correspondent,' such

a one as he would describe in one of his stories. He fulfilled the

popular ideal of what a member of that fascinating profession should

look like. His code of life and habits was as fixed as that of the

Briton who takes his habits and customs and games and tea wherever he

goes, no matter how benighted or remote the spot may be.

"He was just as loyal to his code as is the Briton. He carried his

bath-tub, his immaculate linen, his evening clothes, his war

equipment--in which he had the pride of a connoisseur--wherever he

went, and, what is more, he had the courage to use the evening clothes

at times when their use was conspicuous. He was the only man who wore

a dinner coat in Vera Cruz, and each night, at his particular table in

the crowded 'Portales,' at the Hotel Diligencia, he was to be seen, as

fresh and clean as though he were in a New York or London restaurant.

Each day he was up early to take the train out to the 'gap,' across

which came arrivals from Mexico City. Sometimes a good 'story' would

come down, as when the long-heralded and long-expected arrival of

Consul Silliman gave a first-page 'feature' to all the American papers.

"In the afternoon he would play water polo over at the navy aviation

camp, and always at a certain time of the day his 'striker' would bring

him his horse and for an hour or more he would ride out along the beach

roads within the American lines."

. . . . . . . . .

On June 15 Richard sailed on the Utah for New York, arriving there on

the 22d. For a few weeks after his return he remained at Mount Kisco

completing his articles on the Mexican situation but at the outbreak of

the Great War he at once started for Europe, sailing with his wife on

August 4, the day war was declared between England and Germany.

On Lusitania--August 8, 1914.

DEAR CHAS:

We got off in a great rush, as the Cunard people received orders to

sail so soon after the Government had told them to cancel all

passengers, that no one expected to leave by her, and had secured

passage on the Lorraine and St. Paul.

They gave me a "regal" suite which at other times costs $1,000 and it

is so darned regal that I hate to leave it. I get sleepy walking from

one end of it to the other; and we have open fires in each of the three

rooms. Generally when one goes to war it is in a transport or a troop

train and the person of the least importance is the correspondent. So,

this way of going to war I like. We now are a cruiser and are slowly

being painted grey, and as soon as they got word England was at war all

lights were put out and to find your way you light matches. You can

imagine the effect of this Ritz Carlton idea of a ship wrapped in

darkness. Gerald Morgan is on board, he is also accredited to The

Tribune, and Frederick Palmer. I do not expect to be allowed to see

anything but will try to join a French army. I will leave Bessie near

London with Louise at some quiet place like Oxford or a village on the

Thames. We can "take" wireless, but not send it, so as no one is

sending and as we don't care to expose our position, we get no news.

We are running far North and it is bitterly cold. I think Peary will

sue us for infringing his copyrights.

I will try to get in touch with Nora. I am worried lest she cannot get

at her money. As British subjects no other thing should upset them.

Address me American Embassy, London. I send such love to you both.

God bless you.

DICK.

Richard arrived in Liverpool August 13, and made arrangements for his

wife to remain in London. Unable to obtain credentials from the

English authorities, he started for Brussels and arrived there in time

to see the entry of the German troops, which he afterward described so

graphically. Indeed this article is considered by many to be one of

the finest pieces of descriptive writing the Great War has produced.

For several days after Brussels had come under the control of the

Germans Richard remained there and then decided to go to Paris as the

siege of the French capital at the time seemed imminent. He and his

friend Gerald Morgan, who was acting as the correspondent of the London

Daily Telegraph, decided to drive to Hal and from there to continue on

foot until they had reached the English or French armies where they

knew they would be among friends. At Hal they were stopped by the

German officials and Morgan wisely returned to Brussels. However,

Richard having decided to continue on his way, was promptly seized by

the Germans and held as an English spy. For a few days he had a most

exciting series of adventures with the German military authorities and

his life was frequently in danger. It was finally due to my brother's

own strategy and the prompt action of our Ambassador to Belgium, Brand

Whitlock, that he was returned to Brussels and received his official

release.

On August 27, Richard left Brussels for Paris on a train carrying

English prisoners and German wounded, and en route saw much of the

burning and destruction of Louvain.

BRUSSELS, August 17, 1914.

DEAREST:

Write me soon and often! All is well here so long as I know you are

all right, so do not fail to tell me all, and keep me in touch. If _I_

do not write much it is because letters do not get through always, and

are read. But you know I love you, and you know twice each day I pray

for you and wish for you all the time. I feel as though I had been

gone a month. Gerald Morgan and I got in last night; this is a

splendid new hotel; for $2.50 I get a room and bath like yours on the

"royal suite," only bigger. This morning the minister did everything

he could for us. There are about twenty Americans who want

credentials. They say they will take no Americans, but to our minister

they said they would make exception in favor of three, so I guess the

three will be John McCutcheon, Palmer and myself. John and I, if

anyone gets a pass, are sure. With the passes we had, Gerald and I

started out in a yellow motor, covered with flags of the Allies, and

saw a great deal. How I wished you were with me, you would so have

loved it. The country is absolutely beautiful. We were stopped every

quarter mile to show our passes and we got a working idea of how it

will be. Tonight I dined with Mr. Whitlock, the minister, and John

McCutcheon came in and Irving Cobb. John and I will get together and

go out. All you need is a motor car and you can go pretty much

everywhere, EXCEPT near where there is fighting. So what I am to do to

earn my wages I don't know. I am now going to bed and I send my

darlin' all love. Today I sent you a wire. If it got to you let me

know. Take such good care of yourself. Remember me to Louise, and,

WRITE ME. All love, DEAR, DEAR one. My wife and my sweetheart.

Your husband,

RICHARD.

The following is the last letter that got through.

BRUSSELS, August 21, 1914.

DEAREST ONE:

I cannot say much, as I doubt if this will be opened by you. The

German army came in and there was no fighting and I am very well. I am

only distressed at not being able to get letters from you, and not

being able to send them. I will write a long one, and hold it until I

am sure of some way by which it can reach you.

YOU KNOW WHAT I WOULD SAY.

Mrs. Davis had waited in London to meet Richard on his return from the

war, but a misunderstanding as to the date of his return, coupled with

her strong sense of duty to his interests at home, gave occasion for

the letter which follows:

LONDON, August 31, 1914.

DEAREST ONE:

Not since the Herald Square days have I had such a blow as when I drove

up to 10 Clarges, and found you gone! IT WAS NOBODY'S FAULT! YOU WERE

SO RIGHT to go; and I COULD NOT COME. I am so distressed lest it was

my cable saying I could not get back that decided you to go before the

fifth. But Ashford says it was not. He tells me the cable came at

THREE in the morning and that you had arranged to be called at

six-thirty in order to leave for Scotland. So, for sending that cable

I need not blame myself too much. I sent you so many messages I do not

know which got through. But I think it must have been one saying I

could not return in time to see you before the fifth. THEN, no trains

were running. The very NEXT DAY the Germans started a troop train, and

I took it. The reason I could not come by automobile was because I had

a falling out with the "mad dogs" and they would not give me a pass.

So Evans, with whom I was to motor to Holland, got through Friday

afternoon and sent the cable. As soon as I reached Holland, I cabled I

was coming and kept on telegraphing every step of the journey, which

lasted three days.

I telegraphed last from Folkestone; even telling you what to have for

my supper. As you directed, Ashford opened the cables, and when I

drove up, he was at the door in tears. He had made a light in your

rooms and, of course, as I looked up I thought you still were in them.

When they told me I was a day late, I cried, too. It was the bitterest

disappointment I ever knew. I had taken the very first train out of

Brussels, the one with the wounded, and for three days had been having

one hell of a time. But I kept thinking of seeing you, and hearing

your dear voice. So the trip did not matter. I was only thinking of

SEEING YOU, and thanking God I was shut of the dirty Germans. We had

nothing to eat, and we slept on the floor of the train, the Germans

kept us locked in, and, all through even Holland, we were under arrest.

But nothing mattered, because I was so happy at thought of meeting you.

As I said neither of us was at fault. You just HAD to go, and I could

NOT COME. But, you can feel how I felt to learn you were at sea.

I was so glad I could use your old rooms. I went to the table where

you used to write and was so glad I could at least be as near to you as

that. No other place in London could have held me that night. Not

Buckingham Palace. I found little things you had left. I loved even

the funny pictures on the wall because we had talked of them together.

It was ROTTEN, ROTTEN luck. But only the Germans and their hellish war

were to blame. I drove straight to the cable office, and tried to

wireless you, knowing you would feel glad to know I was well, and safe

and sound. But the cable people could not send my message. You were

then out of reach of wireless, on the Irish coast. And for nine days

there was no way to tell you I had come back as fast as trains and

boats and the dirty Germans would let me. Oh, my dear, dear one, HOW I

LOVE you. If only I could have seen you for just five minutes. As it

was, I thought for five days more we would be together. What I shall

do now, I don't know. I must go back with either the French or the

English until my contract expires, and then, I can join you. Tomorrow

I am trying to see Asquith and Churchill to get with the army. And I

will at once return across the channel. But, do not worry! I will

never again let a German come within ONE MILE of me! After this,

between me and the Germans, there will be some hundreds of thousands of

English or French. So after this reaches you I will soon be on my way

HOME. Don't worry. Get James back and Amelia and everyone else who

can make you comfortable, and trust in the good Lord. I have your

cross and St. Rita around my neck, and in spite of what the Kaiser

says, God is looking after other people than Germans. Certainly he has

taken good care of me. And he will guard you, and our "blessed" one.

And in a little time, dear, DEAR heart, I will be back, and I will

become a grocer. God love you and keep you, as he does. And you will

never know HOW I LOVE YOU! Good night, dearest, sweetheart and wife!

I am writing this at your table, and, thanking God you are going to the

farm, and to peace and happiness. I SEND YOU ALL THE LOVE IN ALL THE

WORLD.

RICHARD.

LONDON, September 3rd.

MY DEAREST ONE:

It was a full moon again tonight and I think you were on deck and saw

it, because by now, you have passed the four days at sea and should be

in the St. Lawrence. So I knew you saw the moon, too, and I sent you a

kiss, via it. It was just over St. James Palace but also it was just

over you.

Today has been a day of worries. Wheeler cabled that the papers wanted

me to be "neutral" and not write against the Germans. As I am not

interested in the German vote, or in advertising of German breweries

(such a hard word to SAY) I thought, considering the EXCLUSIVE stories

I had sent them, instead of kicking, they ought to be sending me a few

bouquets. Especially, as I got cables from Gouvey, Whigham, Scribner's

and others congratulating me on the anti-German stories. So I cabled

Wheeler to tell papers of his syndicate, dictation from them as to what

I should write was "unexpected," that they could go to name-of-place

censored and that if he wished I would release him from his contract

tonight. Considering that without credentials I was with French,

Belgian and German armies and saw entry of Germans into Brussels and

sacking of Louvain and got arrested as a spy, they were a bit

ungrateful. I am now wondering WHAT I would have seen HAD I HAD

credentials.

I saw Anthony Hope at the club last night. He had to go back to the

country, so I dined alone on English oysters. Fancy anyone being

NEUTRAL in this war! Germany dropping bombs in Paris and Antwerp on

women and churches and scattering mines in the channel where they blow

up fishermen and burning the cathedrals! A man who now would be

neutral would be a coward. Good night, NEAR, DEAR, DEAR one. It has

been several weeks since I had sleep, so if I rave and wander in my

letters forgive me. You know how I am thinking of you. God bless you.

God keep you for me.

Your husband who loves you SO!

LONDON, September 7th.

DEAREST:

I just got your cable saying you were at the farm, and well! HOW HAPPY

IT MADE ME! I cabled you to Quebec, and to Mt. Kisco, and when two

days passed and I heard nothing, today I was scared, so I cabled Gouvey

to look after you, and also to Wheeler. I went to the Brompton Oratory

today, which is the second most important church here (the cardinal

lives at Westminster) and burned the BIGGEST CANDLE they had for you

and the "blessing." A big woman all in black was kneeling in the

little chapel and when I could not get the candle to stand up, she

beckoned to one of the priests, and he ran and fixed it. Then she went

on praying. And WHO do you think she was? Queen Amelie of Portugal,

you see her pictures in the Tattler and Sphere opening bazaars. So she

must be very good or she would not be saying her prayers all alone with

the poor people and seeing that my Bessie's candle was burning. I have

been waiting here hoping to get some sort of credentials from

Kitchener. But though Winston Churchill has urged him, and tomorrow is

going to urge him again, they give me no hope. So I'll just go over

"on my own" and I bet I'll see more than anyone else. I have fine

papers, anyhow. I am now writing Scribner article, so THAT is off my

mind. And now that you are home, I have no "worries." I wish I had got

your cable earlier. I would have had oysters and champagne in BATH

TUBS. Give my love to all the flowers, and to Shea and Paedrig, and

Tom, and Louise, and Gouvey and the lake. And take SUCH good care of

yourself, and love me, and be happy for I do so love you dear one. I

DO SO LOVE YOU.

YOUR HUSBAND.

September 15th.

DEAREST:

Tonight I got your cable in answer to mine asking if you were well.

All things considered twenty-four hours was not so long for them to get

the answer to me. You BET I will be careful. I don't want to get

nearer to a German than twenty miles. At the battlefield I collected

five German spiked helmets but at the Paris gate they took ALL of them

from me. I WAS mad! I wanted to keep them in my "gym," and pound them

with Indian clubs. I wrote all day yesterday, so today I did not work.

There is nothing more here to do. And as soon as my contract is up

October 1st, I will make towards YOU! Seeing the big battle was great

luck. So far I have seen more than anyone. I have had no credentials;

and yet have been with ALL the armies. Now I am just beating time,

until I can get home. The fighting is too far away even if I could go

to it. But I can't without being arrested. And I am fed up on being

arrested. Today all the little children came out of doors. They have

been locked up for fear of airships. It was fine to see them playing

in the Champs Elysees and making forts out of pebbles, and rolling

hoops.

God loves you, dear one, and I trust in Him. But I am awful sick for a

sight of you. What a lot we will have to tell each other. One thing I

never have to tell you, but it makes me happy when I can. It is this:

I LOVE YOU! And every minute I think of you.

With all my love.

Your

RICHARD.

PARIS, September 15th, 1914.

DEAR CHAS.:

I got this morning your letter of August 25th. In it you say kind

things about my account of the Germans entering Brussels. Nothing so

much pleases me as to get praise from you or to know my work pleases

you. Since the Germans were pushed in every one here is breathing

again. But for me it was bad as now the armies are too far to reach by

taxicab, and if you are caught anywhere outside the city you are

arrested and as a punishment sent to Tours. Eight correspondents,

among them two Times men and John Reed and Bobby Dunn, were sent to

Tours Sunday. I had another piece of luck that day with Gerald Morgan.

I taxicabed out to Soissons and saw a wonderful battle. So, now I can

go home in peace. Had I been forced to return without seeing any

fighting I never would have lived it down. I am in my old rooms of

years ago. I got the whole imperial suite for eight francs a day. It

used to be 49 francs a day. Of course, Paris that closes tight at nine

is hardly Paris, but the beauty of the city never so much impressed me.

There is no fool running about to take your mind off the gardens and

buildings. What MOST makes me know I am in Paris, though, are the

packages of segars lying on the dressing table. Give my love to Dai,

and tell her I hope soon to see you. The war correspondent is dead.

My only chance was to get with the English who will take one American

and asked Bryan to choose, he passed it to the Press Association and

they chose Palmer. But I don't believe the official correspondents

will be allowed to see much. I saw the Germans enter Brussels, the

burning of Louvain and the Battle of Soissons and had a very serious

run in with the Germans and nearly got shot. But now if you go out,

every man is after you, and even the gendarmes try to arrest you. It

is sickening. For never, of course, was there such a chance to

describe things that everyone wants to read about. Again my love to

Dai and you. I will see you soon.

RICHARD.

In October Richard returned to the United States and settled down to

complete his first book on the war. During this period and indeed

until the hour of his death my brother devoted the greater part of his

time to the cause of the Allies. He had always believed that the

United States should have entered the war when the Germans first

outraged Belgium, and to this effect he wrote many letters to the

newspapers. In addition to this he was most active in various of the

charities devoted to the causes of the Allies, wrote a number of

appeals, and contributed money out of all proportion to his means. The

following appeal he wrote for the Secours National:

"You are invited to help women, children and old people in Paris and in

France, wherever the war has brought desolation and distress. To

France you owe a debt. It is not alone the debt you incurred when your

great grandfathers fought for liberty, and to help them, France sent

soldiers, ships and two great generals, Rochambeau and La Fayette. You

owe France for that, but since then you have incurred other debts.

"Though you may never have visited France, her art, literature, her

discoveries in Science, her sense of what is beautiful, whether in a

bonnet, a boulevard or a triumphal arch, have visited you. For them

you are the happier; and for them also, to France you are in debt.

"If you have visited Paris, then your debt is increased a hundred fold.

For to whatever part of France you journeyed, there you found courtesy,

kindness, your visit became a holiday, you departed with a sense of

renunciation; you were determined to return. And when after the war,

you do revisit France, if your debt is unpaid, can you without

embarrassment sink into debt still deeper? What you sought Paris gave

you freely. Was it to study art or to learn history, for the history

of France is the history of the world; was it to dine under the trees

or to rob the Rue de la Paix of a new model; was it for weeks to motor

on the white roads or at a cafe table watch the world pass? Whatever

you sought, you found. Now, as in 1776 we fought, to-day France fights

for freedom, and in behalf of all the world, against militarism that is

'made in Germany.'

"Her men are in the trenches; her women are working in the fields,

sweeping the Paris boulevards, lighting the street lamps. They are

undaunted, independent, magnificently capable. They ask no charity.

But from those districts the war has wrecked, there are hundreds of

thousands of women and little children without work, shelter or food.

To them throughout the war zone the Secours National gives instant

relief. In one day in Paris alone it provides 80,000 free meals. Six

cents pays for one of these meals. One dollar from you will for a week

keep a woman or child alive.

"The story is that one man said, 'In this war the women and children

suffer most. I'm awfully sorry for them!' and the other man said, 'Yes

I'm five dollars sorry. How sorry are you?'

"If ever you intend paying that debt you owe to France do not wait

until the war is ended. Now, while you still owe it, do not again

impose yourself upon her hospitality, her courtesy, her friendship.

"But, pay the debt now.

"And then, when next in Paris you sit at your favorite table and your

favorite waiter hands you the menu, will you not the more enjoy your

dinner if you know that while he was fighting on the Aisne, it was your

privilege to help a little in keeping his wife and child alive."

The winter of 1914-15 Richard and his wife spent in New York, and on

January 4, 1915, their baby, Hope, was born. No event in my brother's

life had ever brought him such infinite happiness, and during the short

fifteen months that remained to him she was seldom, if ever, from his

thoughts, and no father ever planned more carefully for a child's

future than Richard did for his little daughter.

On April 11 my brother and his wife took Hope to Crossroads for the

first time. In his diary of this time he writes, "Only home in the

world is the one I own. Everything belongs. It is so comfortable and

the lake and the streams in the woods where you can get your feet wet.

The thrill of thinking a stump is a trespasser! You can't do that on

ten acres."

A cause in which Richard was enormously interested at this time was

that of the preparedness of his own country, and for it he worked

unremittingly. In August, 1915, he went to Plattsburg, where he took a

month of military training.

PLATTSBTTRG, N. Y.

August, 1915.

DEAR OLD MAN:

This is a very real thing, and STRENUOUS. I know now why God invented

Sunday. The first two days were mighty hard, and I had to work extra

to catch up. I don't know a darned thing, and after watching soldiers

for years, find that I have picked up nothing that they have to learn.

The only things I have learned don't count here, as they might under

marching conditions. My riding I find is quite good, and so is my

rifle shooting. As you could always beat me at that you can see the

conditions are not high. But being used to the army saddle helps me a

lot. I have a steeple chaser on one side and a M. F. H. on the other,

and they can't keep in the saddle, and hate it with bitter oaths. The

camp commander told me that was a curious development; that the best

gentlemen jockeys and polo players on account of the saddle, were sore,

in every sense. Yesterday I rose at 5-30, assembled for breakfast at

six, took down tent to ventilate it, when a cloud meanly appeared, and

I had to put it up again. Then in heavy marching order we drilled two

hours as skirmishers, running and hurling ourselves at the earth, like

falling on the ball, and I always seemed to fall where the cinder path

crossed the parade ground. We got back in time to clean ourselves for

dinner at noon. And then practised firing at targets. At two we were

drilled as cavalry in extended order. We galloped to a point, advanced

on foot, were driven back by an imaginary enemy, and remounted. We

galloped as a squadron, and the sight was really remarkable when you

think the men had been together only four days. But the horses had

been doing it for years. All I had to do to mine was to keep on. He

knew what was wanted as well as did the Captain. After that we put on

our packs and paraded at retreat to the band. Then had supper and

listened to a lecture. I ache in every bone, muscle, and joint. But

the riding has not bothered me. It is only hurling the damned rifle at

myself. At nine I am sound asleep. It certainly is a great

experience, and, all the men are helping each other and the spirit is

splendid. The most curious meetings come off and all kinds of men are

at it from college kids to several who are great grand fathers.

Russell Colt turned up and was very funny over his experiences. He

said he saluted everybody and one man he thought was a general and

stood at attention to salute was a Pullman car conductor. The food is

all you want, and very good. I've had nothing to drink, but

sarsaparilla, but with the thirst we get it is the best drink I know.

I have asked to have no letters forwarded and if I don't write I hope

you will understand as during the day there is not a minute you are

your own boss and at night I am too stiff and sleepy to write.

All love to you.

DICK.

DEAREST:

It is now seven-thirty, and I have had twelve busy hours. They made me

pass an examination as though for Sing Sing, then a man gave me a gun

that at first weighed eight pounds and then twenty. He made me do all

sorts of things with it, such as sentries used to do to me. Then I was

given the gun to keep, and packs, beds, blankets, and I made myself at

home in a tent; then I was moved to another tent with five other men.

Then I got a horse and they galloped us up and down a field for two

hours. I lost ten pounds. Then we were marched around to a band. I

had a sergeant on either side of me, so I did not go wrong, OFTEN.

Then, aching in every bone and with my head filled with orders and

commands, I got into the lake and escaped. You can believe I enjoyed

that bath. It certainly is a fine thing, and I am glad I enrolled (for

every one has been as nice as could be), but I miss you and Hope

terribly. It seems years since I saw you. I am going to my cot quick.

It is now eight o'clock, and I feel like I had been beaten in a stone

crusher. Kiss Hope's foot for me.

Your loving husband,

DICK.

Monday.

DEAREST ONE:

I got such a beautiful letter from you! With pictures of Hope

playing with the Bunny. It is the best picture yet. I carry it next

to my heart because you made it, because it is of her. And she sits up

now? Well, I will miss the big clothes-basket. I loved to see her in

it. Years ago, when I left home, she was trying to crawl out of it.

What you tell me of her--knowing what you mean when you say "Kitty" and

"Bunny"--is wonderful. How good it will be! You must come close under

my arm, and tell me every little thing. I feel so much better now that

we have broken into the last week, and are on the home stretch. We

have broken the backbone of the long absence, and, the first thing you

know, I'll be telephoning to have you meet me at White Plains.

This is me sewing up a hole in my breeches. The socks are drying on

the line, my rubber bath is on the right. I am now going to Canada.

But I'll be back in half an hour; it's only 200 yards distant. All the

folks here are French, and the signs are in French. Last place we

halted I bought lumberman's socks to wear at night. I sleep very well,

for I buy my raincoat full of hay from the nearest farmer, and sleep on

that. Today we had another "battle." It began at 7.30 and ended at

one o'clock. We were kept going all that time, taking "cover" behind

railroad embankments and stone walls and in plowed fields, finally

ending with a bayonet charge. I killed so many I stopped counting.

Don't let Hope forget her father. Better put on a wrist-watch and my

horn spectacles, and hold her the wrong way, so she will be reminded of

her Dad.

Good-night, my dearest one. You will never know how terribly I miss

you and love you, and want you in my arms, and you holding Hope so that

I can have all my happiness in one big armful of all that is good.

YOUR LOVING HUSBAND.

Wednesday.

DEAREST ONE:

The Vitagraph people came today. They have a great film to stir people

to preparedness called "The Battle Cry of Peace." It shows New York

destroyed by Germans. They took pictures of several of the

better-known men showing "them" preparing. I was taken cleaning my

rifle, and, as the captain was passing, I asked him to get in the

picture with me and be shown instructing me. He was delighted, but

right in the middle of the picture he "inspected" my barrel. I had not

cleaned it, and he forgot the camera, and gave me the devil. You can

imagine how the crowd roared, and the camera director man was

delighted. I wanted it retaken showing the captain patting me on the

back.

Roosevelt turned up today, and was very nice. Martin Egan came with

him and the British Naval Attache, and they have asked me to dine at a

real table at Hotel Champlain with two other men. It will be fine to

eat off china. The "hike" begins Friday, and we sleep each night on

the ground, but the country we march through is beautiful. All that

counts is getting the days behind me and getting you in my arms. Doing

one's "bit" for one's country is right, but as the man said, "God knows

I love my country and want to fight for her, but I hope to God I never

love another country." Good-night, dear, dear one! How wonderful it

will be to see and hear you again. Kiss Hope for her Dad.

RICHARD.

Saturday.

DEAREST:

This is writing with all the love, but with difficulties. I am sitting

on a log and the light is a candle. Today we had our first fight. It

happened the squad of eight men I am in was sent in advance, and I was

100 yards in front, so I was the first to come in touch with the scouts

of the Red Army, and I killed a lot. My squad was so brave that we all

got killed THREE TIMES. But as soon as the umpire rode away we would

come to life, and go on fighting. Finally, he took us prisoners, and

made us sit down and look on at the battle. As we had been running

around and each carrying a forty-pound pack, we were glad to remain

dead. But we have declared that nothing can kill us tomorrow but

asphyxiating gas. I have terrible nightmares for fear something has

happened to one of you, and then I trust in the good Lord, and pray him

to make the time pass swiftly.

Good-night, and all the love and kisses for you both.

RICHARD.

On October 19, 1915, Richard sailed on the Chicago for France and his

second visit to the Great War. He arrived at Paris on October 30, and

shortly afterward visited the Western front at Amiens and Artois. He

also interviewed Poincare, and through him the French President sent a

message to the American people. At this time my brother had received

permission from the authorities to visit all of the twelve sectors of

the French front under particularly advantageous conditions, and was

naturally most anxious to do so. However, through a misunderstanding

between the syndicate he represented and certain of the newspapers

using its service, he found it advisable, even although against his own

judgment, to go to Greece, and to postpone his visit to the sectors of

the French front he had not already seen. On November 13 he left Paris

bound for Salonica.

On Way to France, Oct. 18, 1915.

DEAREST ONE:

You are much more brave than I am. Anyway, you are much better

behaved. For all the time you were talking I was crying, not with my

eyes only, but with ALL of me. I am so sad. I love you so, and I will

miss you so. I want you to keep saying to yourself all the time, "This

is the most serious effort he ever made, because the chances of seeing

anything are so SMALL, and because never had he such a chance to HELP.

But, all the time, every minute he thinks of me. He wants me. He

misses my voice, my eyes, my presence at his side when he walks or

sleeps. He never loved me so greatly, or at leaving me was so unhappy

as he is now."

Goodby, dear heart. My God-given one! Would it not be wonderful, if

tonight when I am up among the boats on the top deck that girl in the

Pierrot suit, and in her arms Hope, came, and I took them and held them

both? You will walk with her at five, and I will walk and think of you

and love you and long for you.

God keep you, dearest of wives, and mothers.

RICHARD.

October 24.

MY DEAR DAUGHTER:

So many weeks have passed since I saw you that by now you are able to

read this without your mother looking over your shoulder and helping

you with the big words. I have six sets of pictures of you. Every day

I take them down and change them. Those your dear mother put in glass

frames I do not change. Also, I have all the sweet fruits and

chocolates and red bananas. How good of you to think of just the

things your father likes. Some of them I gave to a little boy and

girl. I play with them because soon my daughter will be as big. They

have no mother like you, OF COURSE; they have no mother like YOURS--for

except my mother there never was a mother like yours; so loving, so

tender, so unselfish and thoughtful. If she is reading this, kiss her

for me. These little children have a little father. He dresses them

and bathes them himself. He is afraid of the cold; and sits in the

sun; and coughs and shivers. His children and I play hide-and-seek,

and, as you will know some day, for that game there is no such place as

a steamer, with boats and ventilators and masts and alleyways. Some

day we will play that game hiding behind the rocks and trees and rose

bushes. Every day I watch the sun set, and know that you and your

pretty mother are watching it, too. And all day I think of you both.

Be very good. Do not bump yourself. Do not eat matches. Do not play

with scissors or cats. Do not forget your dad. Sleep when your mother

wishes it. Love us both. Try to know how we love you. THAT you will

never learn. Good-night and God keep you, and bless you.

YOUR DAD.

PARIS, November 1.

DEAREST ONE:

Today is "moving" day, and I feel like ---- censored word, at the

thought of your having the moving to direct and manage by yourself. I

can picture Barney and Burke loading, and unloading, and coal and wood

being stored, and provisions and ice, and finally Hope brought down to

take her third--no--fourth motor ride. And God will see she makes it

all safely, and that in her new house you are comfortable.

Last night I dreamed about Hope and you, a long dream, and it made me

so happy. Something happened today that you will like to hear. When

the war came the French students at the Beaux Arts had to go to fight.

The wives and children had nothing to live on. So, the American

students, about a dozen of them, organized a relief league. The Beaux

Arts is in a most wonderful palace built by Cardinal Richelieu and

decorated later by Napoleon. In this they were gathering socks,

asphyxiating masks, warm clothes. They were hand painting postcards

for fifty cents apiece. The "masters" as they call their teachers,

also were painting them. I gave them some money which was received

politely, but, as it would not go far, without much enthusiasm. As I

was going, I said, "I'll be back tomorrow to get some facts and I'll

write a story about what you're doing." This is the part that is

embarrassing to write, but you will understand. They gave a cheer and

a yell just as though I had said, "Peace is declared" or "I will give

you Carnegie's fortune." And they danced around, and shook hands, and

Whitney Warren, who is at the head of it, all but cried. Later, he

told me the letter I had written for his wife's fund for orphans by the

war had brought in $5000, that was why they were so pleased. So we,

you and I, will try to look at it that way, and try to believe that

from this separation, which is cruel for us, others may get some

benefit. Tomorrow, I am to be received at the Elysee by the President,

and I am going to try to make him say something that will draw money

from America for the French hospitals. If he will only ask, I know our

people will give. In a day or two, I think I will be allowed to see

something, but, that you will know best by reading The Times.

Your loving husband is lonely for you, and so it will be always.

RICHARD.

November 17th.

DEAR SWEETHEART:

My last letter was such a complaining one that I am ashamed. But, not

leaving me to decide what was best for the papers, made me mad. Since

I wrote, I ought to be madder, for I have been to the trenches outside

of Rheims in Champagne; and, had they not deviled the spirit out of me

with cables, I believe I could have written such a lot of stories of

France that no one else has had the opportunity to write. Believe me

no one has yet told the story of the trench war. Anyway, in spite of

all the photographs and articles, to me it was all new. I was allowed

to go alone, and given carte blanche to see whatever I wished. I saw

everything, but it would not be possible to write of it yet. It was

wonderful. I was in the three lines, reaching the FIRST line by

moonlight. No one spoke above a whisper. The Germans were only 300 to

400 yards distant. But worst of all were the rats. They ran over my

feet and I was a darned sight more afraid of them than the Germans. I

saw the Cathedral, and the only hotel open (from which I sent you and

Hope a postal) was the same one in which we stopped a year ago. I had

sent the hotel my book in which I said complimentary things, and I got

a great welcome. They even gave me a room with a fire in it, and so I

was warm for the first time since I left the Crossroads. And this

morning it SNOWED. On my way back to Paris, I stopped to tell the

General what I had seen and to thank him. He said, "Oh, that is

nothing. When you return, I will take you out myself, and I will show

you something worth while." I am going to carry a rat-trap, and two

terriers on a leash. Tonight, when I got back, there was a letter from

you, but no writing, but there was a photo of Her, and me holding her.

How is it possible that any living thing is so beautiful as my child?

How fat, and wonderful, and dear, and lovable, and how terribly I want

to hold her as I am holding her in the picture, and how much better as

I really don't need my left arm to hold such a mite), if I had you

close to me in it. I miss you so, and love you so! I told Wheeler

before I left as I was not going to waste time traveling I would not go

to Servia. So, as soon as I arrived, I was fretted with cables to go.

I cabled to stop giving me advice, that I had a much better chance in

France than anyone could have anywhere else. Maybe, before I arrive,

the Greeks will have joined the Germans, in which case, I WON'T LEAVE

THE SHIP. I'll come straight back on her to the Allies.

RICHARD.

November 20th.

This is the way Hope's cat looks, "My whiskers!" she says, "I never

knew I was to be let in for anything like this!" When I told her about

the big rats in the trenches she wanted to go with me next time, but,

today when I told her that the Crown Prince of Servia made his servants

eat live mice (he is no longer Crown Prince), she looked just as she

does in the picture. "Then, what do _I_ eat in Servia?" she said, and

I told her both of us would live on goat's milk.

You will be glad when I tell you I have been, warm. We came pretty far

south in two days, and, the damp chill of Paris is gone. On the train

a funny thing happened. An English officer and I got talking and he

was press censor at Salonica where I am going after Athens. I asked

him to look over the many letters I had and tell me if any of them

would be likely to get me in bad, being addressed to pro-Germans, for

example. He said, "Well, THIS chap is all right anyway. I'll vouch

for him, because this letter is addressed to me."

SEE THE CAT!

HOPE GAVE THE CAT TO HER DAD.

IS THE CAT SAD?

YES

IS THE DAD SAD?

VERY!!

WHY IS THE CAT AND THE DAD SAD?

THEY WANT HOME AND HOPE.

DO THEY LOVE HOPE?

DON'T MAKE THEM LAUGH!

We leave, the Basses, the English officer and I, in a small tub of a

boat for Patras, and train to Athens. I will try to go at once to

Servia. Harjes, who are the Paris house of J. P. Morgan, gave me a

"mission" to try and organize for the Servians the same form of relief

as has been arranged for the Belgians. He gave me permission if I saw

the need for help was imminent (and it will be) to cable him for

whatever I thought the Serbs most needed. So, it is a chance to do

much. To get out news will be impossible. However, here I am and

tomorrow I'll be good and seasick.

I have your charm around my neck, and all the pictures, and the

luck-bringing cat, and the scapular, and the love you give me to keep

me well and bring us soon together. That is the one thing I want. God

bless you both, Hope's dad and your husband.

ATHENS,

November 26th.

DEAR HEART:

I am off tonight for Salonica. I am not very cheerful for I miss you

very, very terribly, and the further I go, the worse I feel. But now I

am nearly as far as I can get, and when you receive this I will--thank

God--be turned back to Paris, and London, and HOME! I thought so often

of you this morning when I took a holiday and climbed the Acropolis.

On the top of it I picked a dandelion for you. It was growing between

the blocks of marble that have been there since 400 years before our

Lord: before St. Paul preached to the Athenians. I was all alone on

the rock, and could see over the AEgean Sea, Corinth, Mount Olympus,

where the Gods used to sit, and the Sphinx lay in wait for travelers

with her famous riddle. It takes two days and one night to go to

Salonica, and the boats are so awful no one undresses but sleeps in his

clothes on top of the bed.

Goodby, sweetheart, and give SUCH a kiss to my precious daughter. How

beautiful she is. Even the waiter who brought me a card stopped to

exclaim about her picture. So, of course, being not at all proud I

showed him her in my arms. I want you both so and I love you both SO.

And, I wanted you so this morning as I always do when there is a

beautiful landscape, or flowers, or palms. I know how you love them.

The dandelion is very modest and I hope the censor won't lose it out,

for she has a long way to go and carries a burden of love. I wish I

was bringing them in the door of the Scribner cottage at this very

minute.

RICHARD.

VOLO, November 27.

I got here today, after the darnedest voyage of two days in a small

steamer. We ran through a snow storm and there was no way to warm the

boat. So, I DIED. You know how cold affects me--well--this was the

coldest cold I ever died of. I poured alcohol in me, and it was like

drinking iced tea. Now, I am on shore in a cafe near a stove. We

continue on to Salonica at midnight. There are 24 men and one woman,

Mrs. Bass, on board. I am much too homesick to write more than to say

I love you, and I miss you and Hope so, that I don't look at the

photos. Did you get the cable I sent Thanksgiving--from Athens, it

read: "Am giving thanks for Hope and you." I hope the censor let that

get by him. The boat I was on was a refrigerator ship; it was also

peculiar in that the captain dealt baccarat all day with the

passengers. It was a sort of floating gambling house. This is

certainly a strange land. Snow and roses and oranges, all at once. I

must stop. I'm froze. Give the kiss I want to give to Her, and know,

oh! how I love and love and love her mother--NEVER SO MUCH AS NOW.

SALONICA November 30th, 1915.

DEAR OLD MAN:

I got here to night and found it the most picturesque spot I ever

visited. I am glad I came. It was impossible to get a room but I

found John McCutcheon and two other men occupying a grand suite and

they have had a cot put in for me. To-morrow I hope to get a room.

The place is filled with every nation except Germans and even they are

here out of uniforms. We had a strange time coming. The trip from

Athens should have taken two nights and a day but we took four. The

Captain of the boat anchored and played baccarat whenever he thought

there were enough passengers not seasick to make it worth his while.

He played from eleven in the morning until four in the morning. I

don't know now who ran the ship. It is so cold when you bathe, the

steam runs off you. I never have suffered so. But, it looked as

though every one else was singing "Its going to be a hard, hard winter"

from the way they, dress. Tomorrow I am going to buy fur pants. You

can't believe what a picture it is. Servians, French, Greeks, Scots in

kilts, London motor cars, Turks, wounded and bandaged Tommies and

millions of them fighting for food, for drink, for a place at the

"movies," and more "rumors" than there are words in the directory.

To-morrow, I present my letters and hope to get to the "front." I only

hope the front doesn't come to us. But, it ought to be a place for

great stories. All love to you old man, and bless you both. How I

look forward to our first lunch in your wonderful home! And to sit in

front of your fire, and hear all the news. All love to you both.

RICHARD.

December 6, 1915.

DEAREST ONE:

I have been away so could not write. They took us to the French and

English "front" and away from Greece; we were in Bulgaria and Servia.

It was at a place where the three boundaries met. We saw remarkable

mountain ranges and deep snow, and some fine artillery. But throwing

shells into that bleak, white jumble of snow and rocks--there was fifty

miles of it--was like throwing a baseball at the Rocky Mountains.

Still, it was seeing something. Now, I have a room, and a very

wonderful one. I had to bribe everyone in the hotel to get it; and I

have something to write and, no more moving about I hope, for at least

a week. I am able to see the ships at anchor for miles, and the

landing stage for all the warships is just under my window. As near as

McCoy Rock from the terrace. It is like a moving picture all the time.

I bought myself an oil stove and a can of Standard oil, and, instead of

trying to warm the hotel with my body, I let George do it. But it is a

very small stove, and to really get the good of it, I have to sit with

it between my legs. Still, it is such a relief to be alone, and not to

pack all the time. McCutcheon and Bass, Hare and Shepherd are fine,

but I felt like the devil, imposing on them, and working four in a room

is no joke. We dine together each night. Except them, I see no one,

but have been writing. Also, I have been collecting facts about

Servian relief. Harjes, Morgan's representative in Paris, gave me

carte blanche to call on him for money or supplies; but I waited until

today to cable, so as to be sure where help was most needed. It is

still cold, but that AWFUL cold spell was quite unprecedented and is

not likely to come again. I NEVER suffered so from cold, and, as you

know, I suffer considerable. All the English officers who had hunted

in cold places, said neither had they ever felt such cold. Seven

hundred Tommies were frost bitten and toes and fingers fell off. I do

not say anything about how awful it is not to hear. But, if I had had

your letters forwarded to this dump of the Levant, I never would have

got them. Now, I have to wait for them until I get to Paris, but there

I will surely get them. Cables, of course, can reach me, but no cables

mean to me that you are all right. Nor do I want to "talk" about

Christmas.

You know how I feel about that, and about missing the first one SHE has

had. But it will be the LAST one we will know apart. Never again!

I want you in my arms and to hear you laugh and see your eyes. I am in

need of you to make a fuss over me. McCutcheon and Co. don't care

whether I have cold hands or not. You do. Your ointment and gloves

saved my fingers from falling off like the soldiers' did. And your

"housewife" I use to put on buttons, and, your scapular and medal keep

me well. But your love is what really lifts me up and consoles me.

When I think how you and I care for each other, then, I am scared, for

it is very beautiful. And we must not ever be away from each other

again. God keep you my beloved, and both my blessings. I cannot bear

it--when I think of all I am missing of her, and, all that she is

doing. God guard you both. My darling and dear wife and mother of

Hope.

Your husband,

RICHARD.

SALONICA, December 18th.

DEAREST WIFE AND SWEETHEART:

I am very blue tonight, and NEVER was so homesick. Yesterday just to

feel I was in touch with you I sent a cable through the fog, it said,

"Well, homesick, all love to you both." I did not ask if you and Hope

were well, because I KNOW the good Lord will not let any harm come to

you. I am certainly caught by the heels this time. And it will be the

last time. As you know, I meant only to go to France where no time

would be wasted in travel, and I would be able to get back soon. But

the blockade held up the ship and on the other one the captain stayed

at anchor, and, then when I got here, the Allies retreated, and I had

to stay on to cover what is to come next. What that is, or whether

nothing happens, you will know by the time this reaches you. So, here

I am. For TEN days until this morning we have never seen the sun. In

sixty years nothing like it has happened. The Salonicans said the

English transports brought the fog with them. Anyway, I got it. My

room is right on the harbor. I never thought I would LOVE an oil

stove. I always thought they were ill-smelling, air-destroying. But

this one saved my life. I wrote with it between my knees, I dry my

laundry on it, and use the tin pan on top of it to take the dampness

out of the bed. The fog kept everything like a sponge. Coal is thirty

dollars a ton. To get wood for firewood the boatmen row miles out, and

wait below the transports to get the boxes they throw overboard. I go

around asking EVERYBODY if this place is not now a dead duck for news.

But they all give me no encouragement. They say it is the news center

of the world. I hope it chokes. I try to comfort myself by thinking

you are happy, because you have Hope, and I have nobody, except John

McCutcheon and Bass and Jimmie Hare, and they are as blue as I am, and

no one can get any money. I cabled today to Wheeler for some via the

State Department. I went to the Servian camp for the little orphans

whose fathers have been killed, and they all knelt and kissed my hands.

It was awful. I thought of Hope, and hugged a few and carried them

around in my arms and felt much better. Today for the first time, I

quit work and went to see an American film at the cinema to cheer me.

But when I saw the streetcars, and "ready to wear" clothes, and the

policemen I got suicidal. I went back and told the others and they all

rushed off to see "home" things, and are there now. This is a yell of

a letter, but it's the only kind I can write. My stories and cables

are rotten, too. I have seen nothing--just traveled and waited for

something to happen. Goodnight, dearest one. I love you so. You will

never know how much I love you. Kiss my darling for me, and, think

only of the good days when we will be together again. Such good days.

Goodnight again--all love.

RICHARD.

HARBOR SALONICA, December 19th.

I am a happy man tonight! And that is the first time I have been able

to say so since I left you. The backbone of the trip is broken! and my

face is turned West--toward you and Hope. John McCutcheon gave me a

farewell dinner tonight of which I got one half, as the police made me

go on board at nine, although we do not sail until five in the morning.

So there was time for only one toast, as I was making for the door.

Was it to your husband? It was not. It was to Hope Davis, two weeks

yet of being one year old, and being toasted by the war correspondents

in Salonica. They knew it would please me. And I went away very

choken and happy. SUCH a boat as this is! I have a sofa in the

dining-room, and at present it is jammed with refugees and all smoking

and not an air port open. What a relief it will be to once more get

among clean people. We must help the Servians, and God knows they need

help. But, if they would help each other, or themselves, I would like

them better. I am now on deck under the cargo light and, on the top

floor of the Olympus Hotel, can see John's dinner growing gayer and

gayer. It is like the man who went on a honeymoon alone. I am so

happy tonight. You seem so near now that I am coming West.

How terribly I have missed you, and wanted you, and longed for your

voice and LAUGH, and to have you open the door of my writing room, and

say, "A lady is coming to call on you," and then enter the dearest wife

and dearest baby in the world!

God bless you, and all my love.

RICHARD.

ROME,

Christmas Eve, 1915.

MY DEAREST, DEAREST, DEAREST:

I planned to get to Paris late Christmas night. I cabled Frazier at the

Embassy, to have all my letters at the Hotel de l'Empire. I MEANT to

spend the night reading of you and Hope. I made a record trip from

Salonica. By leaving the second steamer at Messina and taking an

eighteen-hour trip across Italy I saved ten hours. But when I got here

I found the French Consul had taken a holiday, AND WAS OUT BUYING

CHRISTMAS PRESENTS! So, I could not get permission to enter France.

With some Red Cross Americans, I raged around the French Consulate, but

it was no use. So I am here, and cannot leave UNTIL MIDNIGHT

CHRISTMAS. When I found I could not get away, I told Cook's to give me

their rapid-fire guide, and I set out to SEE ROME. The Manager of

Cook's was the same man who, 19 years ago, sold me tickets to the Greek

war in Florence, when the American Consulate was in the same building

with Cook's, and Charley was Consul. So he gave me a great guide. We

began at ten this morning and we stopped at six. They say it takes

five years to see Rome, but when I let the rapid-fire guide escape, he

said he had to compliment me; we climbed more stairways and hills than

there are in all New York and Westchester County; and there is just one

idea in my mind, and that is that you and I must see this sacred place

together. On all this trip I have wanted YOU, but NEVER so as today.

And I particularly inquired about the milk. It is said to be

excellent. So we will come here, and you, with all your love of what

is fine and beautiful, will be very happy, and Hope will learn Italian,

and to know what is best in art, and statues and churches. I have seen

2900 churches, and all of them built by Michael Angelo and decorated by

Raphael; and it was so wonderful I cried. I bought candles and

prayers, and I am afraid Christian Science had a dull day. Tomorrow we

start at nine, and go to high mass at St. Peter's, and then into the

country to the catacombs, where the early Christians hid from the

Romans. It is not what you would call an English Christmas, but it is

so beautiful and wonderful that you BOTH ARE VERY NEAR.

I sent you a cable, the second one, because it is not sure they are

forwarded, and I hung up a stocking for Hope. One of the peasant women

made in Salonica. I am bringing it with me. And the cat is on my

window--still looking out on the Romans. The green leaf I got in the

forum, where Mark Antony made his speech over Caesar's body. It is the

plant that gave Pericles the idea of the Corinthian column. You

remember. It was growing under a tile some one had laid over it--and

the yellow flower was on my table at dinner, so I send it, that we may

know on Christmas Eve we dined together.

Good-night, now, and God bless you. I am off to bed now, in a bed with

sheets. The first in six days. How I LOVE you, and LOVE you. Such

good wishes I send you, and such love to you both. May the good Lord

bless you as he has blessed me--with the best of women, with the best

of daughters. I am a proud husband and a proud father; and soon I will

be a HAPPY husband and a HAPPY father.

Good-night, dear heart.

RICHARD.

PARIS, December 28th, 1915.

DEAR OLD MAN:

Hurrah for the Dictator! He has been a great good friend to me. I

will know to-day about whether I can go back to the French front. If

not I will try the Belgians and then London, and home. I spent

Christmas day in Rome in the catacombs. I could not wear my heart upon

my sleeve for duchesses to peck at. It is just as you say, Dad and

Mother made the day so dear and beautiful. I did not know how glad I

would be to be back here for while the trip East led to no news value,

to me personally it was interesting. But I am terribly tired after the

last nine days, sleeping on sofas, decks, a different deck each night

and writing all the time and such poor stuff. But, oh! when I saw

Paris I knew how glad I was! WHAT a beautiful place, what a kind

courteous people. We will all be here some day. Tell Dai she must be

my interpreter. All love to her, and you, and good luck to the

syndicate. YOUR syndicate. I have not heard from mine for six weeks.

They have not sent me a single clipping of anything, so I don't know

whether anything got through or not, and I have nothing to show these

people here that might encourage them to send me out again. They

certainly have made it hard hoeing. Tell Guvey his letter about the

toys was a great success here, and copied into several papers.

Goodbye, and God bless you, and good luck to you.

DICK.

PARIS, December 31st, 1915.

DEAR OLD MAN:

To wish you and Dai a Happy New Year. It will mean a lot to us when we

can get together, and take it together, good and bad. I am awfully

pleased over the novel coming out by the Harper's and, in landing so

much for me out of The Dictator. You have started the New Year for me

splendidly. I expect I will be back around the first of February. I

am now trying to "get back," but, I need more time. I can only put the

trip down to the wrong side of the ledger. Personally, I got a lot out

of it, but I am not sent over here to improve my knowledge of Europe,

but to furnish news and stories and that has not happened.

I am constantly running against folks who knew you in Florence, and I

regret to say most of them are in business at the Chatham bar. What a

story they make; the M----'s and the like, who know Paris only from the

cocktail side. One of our attaches told me to-day he had been lunching

for the last 18 months at the grill room of the Chatham, where the

"mixed grill" was as good as in New York. He had no knowledge of any

other place to eat. The Hotel de l'Empire is a terrible tragedy. They

are so poor, that I believe it is my eight francs a day keeps them

going; nothing else is in sight. But, it is the exception. Never did

a people take a war as the French take this worst of all wars. They

really are the most splendid of people. I only wish I could have had

one of them for a grandfather or grandmother. Bessie writes that Hope

is growing wonderfully and beautifully, and I am sick for a sight of

her, and for you. Good night and God bless you and the happiest of New

Years to you both.

Your loving brother,

DICK.

These postcards are "originals" painted by students of the Beaux-Arts

to keep alive, and to keep those students in the trenches. They are

for Dai.

PARIS, December 31, 1915.

DEAREST ONE:

The old year, the dear, old year that brought us Hope, is very near the

end. I am not going to watch him go. I have drunk to the New Year and

to my wife and daughter, and before there is "a new step on the floor,

and a new face at the door," I will be asleep. Of all my many years,

the old year, that is so soon to pass away, has been the best, for it

has brought you to me with a closer tie, has added to the love I have

for every breath you breathe, for your laugh and your smile, and deep

concern, that comes if you think your worthless husband is worried, or

cross, or dismayed. Each year I love you more; for I know you more,

and to know more of the lovely soul you are, is to love more. Just now

we are in a hard place. I am sure you cannot comprehend how her

father, her "Dad" and your husband can keep away. Neither do I

understand.

But, for both your sakes, I want, before I own up that this adventure

has been a failure, to try and pull something out of the wreck. If the

government says I CAN, then I still may be able to do something. If it

says, "NO," then it's Home, boys, Home, and that's where I want to be.

It's home, boys, home, in the old countree. 'Neath the ash, and the

oak, and the spreading maple tree, it's home, boys, home, to mine own

countree! This is Hope and you. So know, that in getting to you I

have not thrown away a minute. I have been a slave-driver, to others

as well as to myself. But you cannot get favors with a whip; and, the

French war office has other matters to occupy it, that it considers of

more importance than an impatient war correspondent. So long as you

understand, it will not matter. Nothing hurts, except that you may not

understand. The moment I see you, and you see me, you will understand.

So, goodnight, and God bless you, you, my two blessings. Here is to

our own year of 1915, your year and Hope's year, and, because I have

you both, my year. I send you all the love in all the world.

RICHARD.

January 5, 1916.

MY DEAREST ONE:

WHAT PICTURES! WHAT HAPPINESS! What a proud Richard! On top of my

writing yesterday that I had had no sketches of yours, and no kodaks of

Hope, eight came to-night, and oh! I am so proud, so homesick. What a

wonderful nurse and mother you are! Was ever there anything so

lovable? And that she should be ours, to hold and to love, and to make

happy. These last eight days in Paris, in and out, have made me so

homesick for those I love, that you will never know what the delays

meant. I felt just the way poor women feel who kidnap babies. In the

parks I know the nurse-maids are afraid of me. I stick my head under

the hoods of the baby carriages, and stop and stand watching them at

play. And tonight when all these beautiful pictures came, I was the

happiest father anywhere.

The delay was no one's fault, not mine anyway, nor can I blame anyone.

These people are splendid. They are willing to do anything for one,

but it takes time. When they are fighting for their lives and have not

seen their own babies in a year, that you want to see yours is only

natural and to oblige you they can't see why they should upset the

whole war. But now it looks less as though I would have to call it a

failure. And Hope may be proud of me, and you may be proud of me, and

I will have enough ammunition to draw on for many articles and letters,

and another book.

It has been a cruel time; and when I tell you how I worked to get it

over, and to be back with you, you will understand many things. The

most important of all will be how I love you. Only wait until I can

lay eyes on you, you will just take one look and know that it couldn't

be helped, that the delay was the work of others, that, all I wanted

was my Bessie and my Hope.

How heavy she will be, if she is anything like the picture of her on

the coverlet, she is a prize baby. And if she is anything like as

beautiful as in the baby carriage she is an angel straight from God. I

want to sit in the green chair and have you on one knee and her majesty

on the other, and have her climb over me, and pull my hair and bang my

nose, and in time to know how I love you both.

Goodnight, dear heart, I wish you had had yourself in the picture. I

have three in the summer time with you holding her and that is the way

I like to see you, that is the way I think of you. I love you, and I

love her for making you so happy, and I love her for her sake, and

because she is OURS: and has tied us tighter and closer even than it

has ever been. I love you so that I can't write about it, and I am

going to do nothing all spring but just sit around, and be in

everybody's way, watching you together.

How jealous I am of you, and homesick for you. Of course, she knows

"mamma" is YOU; and to look at you when they ask, "Where's mother?"

Who else could be her mother BUT THE DEAREST WOMAN IN THE WORLD, and

the one who loves her so, and in so wonderful a way. She is beautiful

beyond all things human I know. If ever a woman deserved a beautiful

daughter, YOU DO, for you are the best of mothers, and you know how "to

care greatly."

Good-night, my precious, dear one, and God keep you, as He will, and

help me to keep you both happy. What you give me you never will know.

RICHARD.