Joy in the Morning | Page 8

the lads who
charged through horror across this flowery field to hear our talk and to
know that to them and their deeds we owe the happiness and the
greatness of the world we now live in.
Englishman. Their short, Homeric episode of life admitted few
generalizations, I fancy. To be ready and strong and brave--there was
scant time for more than that in those strenuous days. Yet under that
simple formula lay a sea of patriotism and self-sacrifice, from which
sprang their soldiers' force. "Greater love hath no man than this, that a
man lay down his life for his friends." It was their love--love of country,
of humanity, of freedom--which silenced in the end the great engine of
evil--Prussianism. The motive power of life is proved, through those
dead soldiers, to be not hate, as the Prussians taught, but love.
American. Do you see something shining among the flowers at the
bottom of the ditch?
Englishman. Why, yes. Is it--a leaf which catches the light?
American. (Stepping down.) I'll see. (_He picks up a metal
identification disk worn by a soldier. Angélique has rubbed it so that
the letters may mostly be read_.) This is rather wonderful. (He reads
aloud.) "R.V.H. Randolph--Blankth Regiment--U.S." I can't make out
the rest.
Englishman. (Takes the disk.) Extraordinary! The name and regiment
are plain. The identification disk, evidently, of a soldier who died in the
trench here. Your own man, General.
American. (Much stirred.) And--my own regiment. Two years ago I
was the colonel of "The Charging Blankth."

HER COUNTRY TOO
David Lance sat wondering. He was not due at the office till ten this
Saturday night and he was putting in a long and thorough wonder.
About the service in all its branches; about finance; about the new
Liberty Loan. First, how was he to stop being a peaceful reporter on the
Daybreak and get into uniform; that wonder covered a class including
the army, navy and air-service, for he had been refused by all three; he
wondered how a small limp from apple-tree acrobatics at ten might be
so explained away that he might pass; reluctantly he wondered also
about the Y.M.C.A. But he was a fighting man par excellence. For him
it would feel like slacking to go into any but fighting service. Six feet
two and weighing a hundred and ninety, every ounce possible to be
muscle was muscle; easy, joyful twenty-four-year-old muscle which
knew nothing of fatigue. He was certain he would make a fit soldier for
Uncle Sam, and how, how he wanted to be Uncle Sam's soldier!
He was getting desperate. Every man he knew in the twenties and many
a one under and over, was in uniform; bitterly he envied the proud
peace in their eyes when he met them. He could not bear to explain
things once more as he had explained today to Tom Arnold and "Beef"
Johnson, and "Seraph" Olcott, home on leave before sailing for France.
He had suffered while they listened courteously and hurried to say that
they understood, that it was a shame, and that: "You'll make it yet, old
son." And they had then turned to each other comparing notes of camps.
It made little impression that he had toiled and sweated early and late in
this struggle to get in somewhere--army, navy, air-service--anything to
follow the flag. He wasn't allowed. He was still a reporter on the
Daybreak while the biggest doings of humanity were getting done, and
every young son of America had his chance to help. With a strong,
tireless body aching for soldier's work, America, his mother, refused
him work. He wasn't allowed.
Lance groaned, sitting in his one big chair in his one small room. There
were other problems. A Liberty Loan drive was on, and where could he
lay hands on money for bonds? He had plunged on the last loan and
there was yet something to pay on the $200 subscription. And there

was no one and nothing to fall back on except his salary as reporter for
the _Daybreak._ His father had died when he was six, and his mother
eight years ago; his small capital had gone for his four years, at Yale.
There was no one--except a legend of cousins in the South. Never was
any one poorer or more alone. Yet he must take a bond or two. How
might he hold up his head not to fight and not to buy bonds. A knock at
the door.
"Come in," growled Lance.
The door opened, and a picture out of a storybook stood framed and
smiling. One seldom sees today in the North the genuine old-fashioned
negro-woman. A sample was here in Lance's doorway. A bandanna of
red and yellow made a turban for her head; a clean