e striking is what is implied in the narrative: that when
this "elfin sprite," this gently nurtured young man of bookish pursuits,
took up the art of war, he gloried in his association with a rip-roaring
regiment recruited mainly from hard-handed fellows of the type we may
call (with no atom of disrespect) roughnecks. Hardships and exertions
familiar to them were new to him, but he set himself to win their love
and respect, and did so. He was not content until he had found his way
into the most exhausting and hazardous branch of the whole job. He said,
again and again, that he would rather be a sergeant with the 69th than a
lieutenant with any other outfit. There was a heart of heroism in the
"elfin sprite." The same dashing insouciance that dictated the weekly
article for his paper when in hospital with three broken ribs after
being run down by a train was hardened and steeled in the sergeant who
nightly tore his uniform into ribbons by crawling out through the barbed
wire.

Laughter and comradeship and hearty meals clustered about Kilmer:
wherever he touched the grindstone of life there flew up a merry shower
of sparks. There is convincing testimony to the courage and beauty that
lay quiet at the heart of this singer who said that the poet is only a
glorified reporter, and wished he had written "Casey at the Bat."

Let us spare his memory the glib and customary dishonesty that says "He
died as he would have wished to." No man wishes to die--at least, no
poet does. To part with the exhilarating bustle and tumult, the blueness
of the sky, the sunlight that tingles on well-known street corners, the
plumber's bills and the editor's checks, the mirths of fellowship and
the joys of homecoming when lamps are lit--all this is too close a fibre
to be stripped easily from the naked heart. But the poet must go where
the greatest songs are singing. Perhaps he finds, after all, that life
and death are part of the same rhyme.

TALES OF TWO CITIES

I. PHILADELPHIA

AN EARLY TRAIN

[Illustration]

The course of events has compelled me for several months to catch an
early train at Broad Street three times a week. I call it an "early"
train, but, of course, these matters are merely relative; 7:45 are the
figures illuminated over the gateway--not so very precocious, perhaps;
but quite rathe enough for one of Haroun-al-Raschid temper, who seldom
seeks the "oblivion of repose" (Boswell's phrase) before 1 A. M.

Not