gh to remember that these notices go to many classes of
people--and would go a bit slow on the high-sounding phrases: they
would say, 'The soldier whose name appears on the margin of this
letter,' instead of 'The soldier who is marginally noted'; it might
not be so concise, but it is a heap plainer. A few sentences of
sympathy, too, and appreciation, written in by hand, would be a
comfort. I tell you at a time like this we want something human, like
the little girl who was put to bed in the dark and told that the
angels would keep her company. She said she didn't want angels--she
wanted something with a skin face!--So do we all! We are panicky and
touchy, like a child that has been up too late the night before, and
we have to be carefully handled. All the pores of our hearts are open
and it is easy to get a chill!"

As we rode home in the car she told me about the letter which had come
that day from her last boy:--

"It seemed queer to look at this letter and know that I would never
get another one from the boys. Letters from the boys have been a big
thing to me for many years. Billy and Tom were away from me for a long
time before the war, and they never failed to write. Frank was never
away from me until he went over, and he was not much of a
letter-writer,--just a few sentences! 'Hello, mother, how are you? I'm
O.K. Hope you are the same. Sleeping well, and eating everything I can
lay my hands on. The box came; it was sure a good one. Come again.
So-long!' That was the style of Frank's letter. 'I don't want this
poor censor to be boring his eyes out trying to find state secrets in
my letters,' he said another time, apologizing for the shortness of
it. 'There are lots of things that I would like to tell you, but I
guess they will keep until I get home--I always could talk better than
write.' ... But this letter is different. He seemed to know that he
was going--west, as they say, and he wrote so seriously; all the
boyishness had gone from him, and he seemed to be old, much older than
I am. These boys of ours are all older than we are now,--they have
seen so much of life's sadness--they have got above it; they see so
many of their companions go over that they get a glimpse of the other
shore. They are like very old people who cannot grieve the way younger
people can at leaving this life."

Then I read the boy's letter.

"Dear Mother," it ran, "We are out resting now, but going in to-morrow
to tackle the biggest th