Joyce Kilmer

* * * * *

(Aug 8, 1917).
Monday.

Dear Father James:

Your letter was opened and read by one Private Kilmer, a hardened military cuss, unused to literary activities. This is the first literary labor he has essayed for a month, aside from studying Moss’s Manual of Military Training and the art of shooting craps.

We’re still in New York—at the Armory from 9 A. M. to 4.30 P. M., but we usually get home at night. Young Louis is in the same company as myself. We probably will go to Spartansberg, North Carolina, about Aug. 17, but we may be here till October, or we may go to France to-morrow. Nobody knows. I find that there are many Catholics in the Seventh. It’s amusing that our training camp is in North Carolina—nothing to drink and no Jesuits! Bishop is a Benedictine mitred abbott—it’s in Belmont Abbey.

Before mobilisation I finished editing “Dreams and Images,” an anthology of Catholic verse written since (but including) Patmore. Terrible rush job, but pretty good book. Do you mind having it dedicated to you? Wanted to include some of your stuff, but didn’t have time to get any. Have dedicated it to you, but can change it, if you wish. Don’t hesitate to say so! Can’t hurt my feelings! Hard military character, seriously considering acquisition of habit of chewing tobacco.

This is an absurd note, but I find myself very stupid at writing. Perhaps after drill becomes easier, I’ll have more of a mind left at night. Fr. Dwight honoured me by asking me for a sonnet on St. Ignatius for America, but I fell down on the assignment. I could not write even a limerick on St. Ignatius in my present mental state! But it’s a comfortable life physically—mentally too, I guess, and as for spiritually, why, pray for yours affectionately,

Joyce.

* * * * *

(Sept., 1917).
Thursday.

Dear Fr. James:

I never expected to write to you on lined paper or Y. M. C. A. paper—uses of adversity! The Y. M. C. A. gives us poor “dough boys” the only place we have to sit down and read and write—so far the Knights of Columbus have not been in evidence in this highly papistical camp. I am, as you know, a member of the 165th Infantry, U. S., formerly the 69th New York. I have recently been transferred from Co. H. to Headquarters Co., and exchanged my 8 hours a day of violent physical exercise (most deadening to the brain, a useful anodyne for me, coming as it did after my grief) for exacting but interesting statistical work. I am called Senior Regimental Statistician, but in spite of all these syllables still rank as a private. My work is under the direction of the Regimental Chaplain, Fr. Francis Patrick Duffy. The people I like best here are the wild Irish—boys of 18 or 20, who left Ireland a few years ago, some of them to escape threatened conscription, and travelled about the country in gangs, generally working on the railroads. They have delightful songs that have never been written down, but sung in vagabonds’ camps and country jails. I have got some of the songs down and hope to get more—“The Boston Burglar”—“Sitting in My Cell All Alone”—they are fine, a veritable Irish-American folk-lore. Before I was transferred to Headquarters Co., I slept in a tent with a number of these entertaining youths, and enjoyed it tremendously. We sang every night from 9 to 9.30. Now I am in more sophisticated but less amusing company—ambitious youths, young office men, less simple and genial than my other friends.

I get to New York for part of Saturday and Sunday. Aline is staying with her mother in New York. It is good that I am not with the 7th Regiment in Spartanburg—as it is I can telephone to Aline every night. I will send you a picture of Rose soon. Her death was a piercing blow, but beautiful. It happened at the best time. Aline was there and I and our parish priest. Rose was happy but did not want to get well. “I’ll drink it in another house,” she said, when the nurse coaxed her to take some broth. Perhaps she meant the new house in Larchmont which we move to in October. And perhaps not. There was a Mission in our parish-church, just a couple of blocks from the house, and while Rose died the voices of the Sisters singing “O Salutaris Hostia” could be heard in the room. I thank you for your letter, beautifully interpretative. Certainly Rose makes Heaven dearer to us.

Yours affectionately,
Joyce.

* * * * *

Headquarters Company, 165th U. S. Infantry,
Camp Albert E. Mills, New York.
October 28, 1917.

Dear Father James:

I hope you don’t mind being typewritten to by an unskillful typist. I have learned all I know of this art since I became a soldier. It is ridiculous for a newspaperman to learn typewriting in the army, but I never had the time to learn it before—I found it better to have an expert typist for a secretary and dictate my stuff to him. I used to turn out four or five thousand words an hour when Watts was working for me. I haven’t much speed as yet but I ought to be pretty good at it when I get back. There are two things I always wanted to learn—how to typewrite and how to serve Mass. I’m learning the one and I’m going to get Fr. Duffy to let me pinch-hit for his orderly at Mass some mornings. So I’ll be an accomplished cuss when I come back from the Wars—I’ll know how to typewrite and to serve Mass and to sing the Boston Burglar.

Numerous philanthropic citizens are sending cigarettes to soldiers, and pipe-tobacco (in which last bounty I often share). But some enlightened person should start a nation-wide campaign for sending cigars to Senior Regimental Statistical Representatives. I am Senior Statistical Representative of the 165th U. S. Infantry, I am!

Yours affectionately,
Joyce.

* * * * *

Headquarters Company,
165th Infantry,
A. E. F., France.
April 5, 1918.

Dear Father James:

When I next visit Campion, I will teach you (in addition to “The Boston Burglar”) an admirable song called “Down in the Heart of the Gas-House District.” I sing it beautifully. Its climax is, “If you would meet good fellows face to face, Just hang around Jimmy Cunningham’s place, For it’s down in the heart of the Gas-house district, In Old New York.”

I received two most welcome letters from you recently. One had to do with the case of ——. It contains excellent advice, and I am carrying it in my pocket, intending to clip your name and the name of the college from it and to give it to him. I am deeply grateful, my dear Father, for your great and characteristic kindness in this matter. I think we’ll yet see him practicing and teaching philosophy. You see, in his veins is a dangerous mixture of bloods—like my own—German and Irish, perhaps that accounts for his troubles. Gaelic impetuosity and Teutonic romanticism—no, sentimentality—no, self-pity—no, what is it that makes Germans German? I mean Sturm und Drang, Sorrows of Werther and that sort of thing. Well, it doesn’t matter what it’s called. But all people with any German blood have a bit of it. And highly diluted it’s rather nice. Which reminds me that Father Duffy says I’m half German and half human.

I wrote a poem called “Rouge Bouquet.” I’ll ask Aline to send you a copy—it’s long—and you remind her. It will tell you of an incident which will indicate to you that handling statistics in Regimental Headquarters isn’t the dry task you imagine it. The statistics aren’t dry—they’re wet—and red. Also, I’m attached to the Regimental Intelligence Section, which is exciting. I had a very thrilling week not long ago—I’m not allowed to write about it yet. I’ll tell you about it some day. By the way, it was at that time—Feb. 26, that you wrote to me. I wasn’t in the office then, I was out working as an observer—finest job in the army! By the way, I’m a Sergeant now. I’ll never be anything higher. To get a commission I’d have to go away for three months to a school, and then—whether or not I was made an officer—I’d be sent to some outfit other than this. And I don’t want to leave this crowd. I’d rather be a Sergeant in the 69th than a Lieutenant in any other regiment in the world. Get Aline to send you a copy of “Holy Ireland”—it will explain, somewhat.

Please give my love to anybody who will accept it. Remember me with special fervour to Sister Eugene and Sister Stanislaus. I enjoy reading the Campion, and am glad to see the newspaper has become a reality.

You speak of French anti-clericals in your letter. They all must be in Paris. I haven’t found any in my rather extensive wanderings around France. As a common soldier, I have the privilege of intimacy with the French peasants—and I find them edifyingly good Catholics. Pray for me, dear Father James.

Affectionately,
Joyce.

* * * * *

April 8, 1918.

My dear Father James:

I am sending you with this letter some verses that will, I think, interest you. They are my first attempt at versification in a dug-out—a dug-out not far from the event of which the verses tell. I have sent a copy to Aline, but since the trans-Atlantic mails are so uncertain, will you be so kind as to write to her asking if she has received it?

Somewhere within a radius of five miles from where I write now slumbers (for it’s long after bedtime for soldiers who keep regular hours) one Drury Sheehan. Every day he meets someone from my outfit and asks after me and says he’s coming to see me. And some days ago I—riding on a truck—passed and was passed several times by his outfit. And I paged him, so to speak, unavailingly. Also numerous letters from the States tell me that young Father Charles O’Donnell is somewhere near. We’ll have a great reunion one of these days. I wish you’d be in it! But one of these nights I’ll jump off a freight at Prairie du Chien, break a pane of glass in a basement window and go to sleep in the Bishop’s room. The Brother will be aghast next morning at discovering a ragged mustachioed shaven headed soldier in such a place—I’ll try to explain to him that I’m an adopted alumnus of Campion—I’ll probably use French in my excitement—and he will promptly shoot me. Then I’ll spend two months in the Campion Infirmary, which is, I am told, a very nice place.

I am having a delightful time, but it won’t break my heart for the war to end. I feel much comforted and strengthened by many prayers—those of my wife and little children, those of many dear friends, mostly priests and Sisters. I value highly my share in your Masses. Always pray hard, my dear Father, for

Your affectionate friend,
Joyce.

* * * * *

May 15, 1918.

Dear Father James:

I thought you’d like to see how I looked after six months of soldiering. I’m having a lot of fun (I’m a Sergeant in the Regimental Intelligence Section now, you remember) but I haven’t been to Mass for three weeks! It so happened that I was away from churches (except the ruins thereof) and from Fr. Duffy. So you’ll have to be praying doubly hard for your affectionate friend,

Joyce.

* * * * *

To Mrs. Kilburn Kilmer

To My Mother, on Her Birthday, 1914,
With a Book of Poems

Gentlest of critics, does your memory hold

(I know it does) a record of the days

When I, a schoolboy, earned your generous praise

For halting verse and stories crudely told?

Over those boyish scrawls the years have rolled,

They might not bear the world’s unfriendly gaze,

But still your smile shines down familiar ways,

Touches my words and turns their dross to gold.

Dearer to-day than in that happy time

Comes your high praise to make me proud and strong.

In my poor notes you hear Love’s splendid chime

So unto you does this, my work, belong.

Take, then, this little book of fragile rhyme;

Your heart will change it to authentic song.

* * * * *

To A. K. K.

August the Fourth
Nineteen Hundred and Eleven

Now the English larks are singing,

And the English meadows flinging

Scarlet flags of blazing poppies to the fragrant summer air,

And from every tower and steeple

All the wondering English people

Hear a chime of fairy music, though no bell-ringers are there.

What has caused this jubilation?

Days ago the coronation

Went with jewelled pomp and splendour to the country of the past.

Is the land some Saint’s Day hailing?

Or has some tall ship gone sailing

Through the hostile fleet to triumph, with the Union at her mast?

Nay, it is no warlike glory,

Nor pale saint, of ancient story,

That has made the island blossom into beauty rare and new.

We in this sea-severed nation,

Share with England our elation,

As we keep this feast, your birthday, and are glad with love for you!

* * * * *

“White Horse” of Kilburn
To A. K. K. on Her Birthday, 1912

Last night the beat of hoofs was heard upon the shaded street,

It broke the silent brooding of the peaceful countryside;

I looked and saw a horse that stamped its terrible white feet,

A giant horse, as white as flame, long maned and starry-eyed.

“Who is this monstrous visitant?” said I, “Bucephalus?

Or Rosinante, looking for another crazy Knight?

Or (not to be conceited) may it not be Pegasus?

This mighty horse, this glowing horse, so beautiful and white.”

He proudly tossed his noble head, and neighed, “Across the foam

My stable lies, with clouds for roof, and mountainous green walls;

I come to take your message unto Her, who near my home

Will hold her Birthday feast before another evening falls.”

“Go back, O Horse,” I said, “and seek your pleasant dwelling-place,

And here’s a gift for you to take, I trust it to your care;

Support this heavy load of love until you see her face,

Then humbly kneel before her feet and lay my homage there.”

Having English blood in her veins, Mrs. Kilburn Kilmer considers herself something of a Yorkshire woman. The famous White Horse she has climbed many times.

* * * * *

Valentine Written for My Mother, 1913

I will send my heart to England, and will make it learn to act

Like a vacant minded vicar, or a curate full of tea;

I will make my heart talk Cambridgese, or Yorkshirish, in fact;

I will make it be as British as a human heart can be;

I will dress my heart in roses, roses red and ever gay;

I will steep my heart in scarletest of wine;

I will teach my heart to bow, and smile, and sing, and dance, and play—

Just to make you take it for a Valentine.

* * * * *

Birthday Poem—1913

England! England! put your veil of mist away,

Dress in green, with poppies in your hair.

England! England! let your birds sing “Holiday,”

Let your lanes be jubilant and fair.

She is made of singing, therefore hail her with a song;

Strew her path with loveliness, and crown her with delight.

Golden hours of joy and beauty should to her belong.

Everything that lives to-day must own her gentle might.

England! England! now the jocund feast is here.

Now is time for frolicking and mirth.

England! England! now another turning year,

Brings the day that celebrates her birth.

* * * * *

Valentine to My Mother, 1914

The English meadows call her, and the streets of London Town,

And the pleasant little villages under the Yorkshire Hills.

She can see the roads, like ribbons white, that stretch across the down,

And the great slow turning sails of sleepy mills.

She longs for stately mansions, in whose eaves the pigeons coo,

And she longs for yellow corn fields, where the scarlet poppies shine,

She loves the folk of England, and, of course, they love her too,

But she lingers in America to be my Valentine.

Set to music by Mrs. Kilburn Kilmer and published in London in the Spring of 1914.

* * * * *

To An Adventurous Infant
On Her Birthday, August, 1915

“England,” she said, “is surely England yet;

Therefore it is the place where I should be.

In spite of war, I know that tea is tea,

A cigarette is still a cigarette.

“Why should I worry over Wilhelm’s threat?”

And thereupon she said goodbye to me,

And gaily sailed across the dangerous sea,

To where, among the Zeppelins, tea was set.

What if the sea foam mountainously high

With waves that had in Hell their fiery birth?

What if black peril hover in the sky,

And bursting shell wound deep the trembling earth?

All evil things must harmlessly pass by

Her who doth bear the Talisman of Mirth.

* * * * *

Birthday Poem, 1915
To My Mother Singing

Out of the golden valleys of old years,

You have recalled so many a lovely thing.

Forgotten splendours glimmer when you sing,

With their long vanished light of mirth and tears.

Gay lovers flout their love’s delicious fears.

The proud swords clash for Charles, the rightful King,

A woman weeps, and turns her “Silver Ring.”

The “Men of Harlech” charge with level spears.

Yet, I crowned with my crown of vanity,

Have been more happy when you sang and played

The songs wherein your art had succoured me.

As starry note on starry note was laid,

Then my chained rhymes, by your designs set free,

Flew Heavenward on the radiant wings you made.

* * * * *

To My Mother, October, 1915

There fell a flood of devastating flame

On half the world, and all its joy was dead.

The sky was black, the troubled sea was red,

And from all mouths a lamentation came.

But you, in calm and hurricane the same,

Went with gay lips, brave heart and unbowed head.

What was the charm, from which all danger fled?

What did you say, what cabalistic name?

It was my love that sent its quickening breath

On all the waves that bore your ship along.

My love held out, against the flying death,

That clove the sea, a shield than steel more strong,

Bringing you back, where no war harrieth,

Stars in your eyes, and in your heart a song.

* * * * *

August Fourth, Nineteen Sixteen

The Berkshire Hills are gay

With a gladder tint to-day,

And Mount Graylock rears his mighty head in pride.

For the lady that they knew

Long ago, to them is true,

And has come within their shadow to reside.

And across the troubled sea,

Yorkshire hill and Cambridge lea,

Send their love to you by every wind that blows.

And a greater love than these

Hurries Northward on the breeze

From the little hills they call the Ramapos.

* * * * *

Valentine for My Mother, 1917

If some day, as you idly turn the pages,

Whereon my verses are,

You find a flower where angry winter rages,

On the black earth a star;

If in dead words you come on something living,

Some fair and vibrant line—

It is the message that my heart is giving,

It is your Valentine.

* * * * *

March, 1918.

Dear Mother:

The sweater arrived, and it certainly is a magnificent specimen of knitting, and the wristlets are wonderfully purled—whatever purling may be. Probably I shall need both sweater and wristlets for many weeks, for although it is Spring now, it often is cold.

Under separate cover I am sending you my warrant as Sergeant. I thought you might like to have it framed to hang in the Old-Fashioned Room. The “drafted” in the corner means that the regiment was drafted into Federal Service; that is, made a part of the United States Army instead of a part of the New York State National Guard.

I suppose that you have read in the newspapers of the Regiment’s recent activities. Now we are taking it easy in a very pleasant little town. I hope we may stay here at least a month, as it is hard to work when the Regiment is moving about the country. I had a week’s respite from office work some time ago and spent it doing what is called “observation” work for the Regimental Intelligence Section. It was most interesting.

Did Aline tell you of Kenton’s success in school? It seems that he won a gold medal for being the best pupil in the school. I was delighted to learn it. So nearly as I can remember, I was not an especially keen student when I was his age, although I became one later.

There is practically no chance of my rising any higher in the Regiment than Sergeant, and I am perfectly content. To become an officer I would have to go to school away from the Regiment for several months, then if I failed to pass my examinations and win a commission, I would be sent to some other Regiment than this, and if I succeeded I would be sent as an officer, not back to the 69th, but to some other outfit, and I want very much to stay with the Regiment. I have many good friends here, and I would feel lost in any other military organization.

I am looking forward to receiving the photographs you have had taken. By this time you must have received the one I sent you. I hope you like it.

Your letters are very gratefully received, and I am looking forward specially to receiving the cake and the candy you sent me. Everything else you have written of in your letters has arrived in good condition, and a day or two ago I got five big jars of excellent tobacco from the Dickens Fellowship ... a most intelligent gift.

Affectionately yours,
Joyce.

* * * * *

May 15th, 1918.

Dear Mother:

As to your “War Mother” poem, I hesitate to tell you how much I like it, because I am afraid you may think I am trying to flatter you. It certainly is the best poem you ever wrote—beautiful, original and well sustained. I have seen no recent war verse I like so well. There is no question but what you will sell it to some good magazine. I certainly congratulate you, and congratulate the magazine fortunate enough to print your poem.

I am very glad to hear of the deserved success your songs made at Lakewood, and in general of your triumphs at the Dickens Fellowship, and elsewhere. I wish I could have witnessed them, but I will be seeing more of the same sort next winter. That is what we like to hear about over here—triumphs and celebrations, and in general the pleasant and prosperous course of civilian life.

Of course we soldiers are undergoing hardships and privations—we expect to, but we don’t spend our time advertising them. But in the States when you find they must do without quite as much wheat, or meat, or something of the sort, instead of just going without and keeping their mouths shut, they advertise their remarkable abstention by having “wheatless days” and “meatless days,” and all that sort of hysterical rubbish, and fill the papers with the news, thereby disgusting us soldiers and undoubtedly comforting the enemy. I think I will start a “strawberryless, ice creamless, sodaless day” for the army. It would be as sensible as what the people at home have been doing. If you (I don’t mean you personally, of course) have to eat hardtack instead of butter-raised biscuits, why eat the hardtack and shut up about it, but don’t be such an ass as to have a “butter-raised biscuitless Monday,” and don’t shut down on theatres and amusements; and don’t deprive people of their honest drink. Merely making stay-at-homes dismal does not help the soldiers a bit. England’s early “Business as Usual” scheme was more practicable, and this is something of a concession for me to make. There is quite a sermon on economics for you! Kindly read it to my father, whom it will edify and instruct. A recent letter from him shows that he utterly misunderstands my point of view on this subject, the result of lamentably careless reading by him of one of my letters in which I contrasted the gaiety and common-sense of the French, through years of starvation and ruin, with the wail which a little self-denial brought from the States.

Send your picture soon.

Affectionately yours,
Joyce.

* * * * *

May 27th, 1918.

Dear Mother,

I presume by this time you have received the humorous photographs of myself I sent you.

I am delighted to know of the Kilburn Hall project. By all means buy the Hall; it will be an excellent investment. Property is now very cheap in England, and prices will rise as soon as the war is over. I hope to be able to spend my summers in France after the war, and I have the place in mind—only about a day’s run from London. I am absolutely in love with France, its people, its villages, its mountains, everything about it. America would do well to copy its attitude in the war. It has suffered tremendous hardships with dignity and humour and kept its sanity and faith. America, to judge by the papers, grows hysterical over a little self-denial; can’t do without an extra lump of sugar in its tea without a band and speeches and “sugarless” Sundays. It is funny and rather pathetic to us soldiers. But I honestly think, although it may seem conceited to say so, that when we soldiers get back from the war we will do the spiritual and intellectual life of the States a lot of good. France has taught us lessons of infinite value.

I am having an absolutely Heavenly time since I joined the Intelligence Section. I wouldn’t change places with any soldier of any rank in any outfit. This suits me better than any job I ever had in civil life.

The cake is not yet here. I will soak it in wine all right, don’t worry about that. Speaking of wine, enclosed find some flowers given me by a very nice wine-shop girl in a city near here. “Madelon” is a perfectly respectable song, but “Madelon” is not a gun or anything else of the sort; it is the name of the girl who serves wine to the soldiers, as the song clearly states.

Yours affectionately,
Joyce.

* * * * *

June 14th, 1918.

Dear Mother:

There is a chance that I will be able to get to England on a seven days’ leave in a few weeks. In that case I shall probably spend most of my time in London, with a possible visit to Oxfordshire, where my friend Mrs. Denis Eden lives. I wish there was something I could do for you to expedite the purchase of Kilburn Hall, but since the Archbishop of Yorkshire is in the States you should, yourself, be able to make a deal with him. English real estate is a wise investment these days; it will go up fifty per cent in a year’s time. I wish I could afford to buy some property in this country. I certainly would like to live here. If the States go “dry” I honestly think I will move my family over here. I can write for American papers without living in America. Then if you move to Kilburn Hall I will be only a day’s trip away from you, and you will love rural France almost as much as you love rural England.

Learn to sing “Madelon.”

Affectionately yours,
Joyce.

* * * * *

June 28, 1918.

Dear Mother:

I received three letters from you yesterday and to-day, the first I have had from you in a long time. Your letters always come in bunches like that. And this morning I received two admirable boxes of Mirror Candy, in perfect condition. I certainly was delighted to get it, as it is a long time since I have had any candy. My gratitude is so great that I even will refer to it as “Sweets.”

I was also glad to get your picture, taken on shipboard. You must send to Larchmont another copy of the picture of yourself looking at my photograph, which you sent me some weeks ago, as I had to remove it from its mount and cut it down to make it fit into my wallet. All the rest of the fellows in the Intelligence Section (there are nine of us, nearly all college graduates, and men of some standing—editors, brokers, etc.), have pictures of their mothers, but none of them so good looking as mine.

You would be amused at some of the scenes when your picture is exhibited. Tired from a long hike from a stay in the trenches, I am having an omelet, and some fried potatoes, and some vin rouge, beau coup, le vin rouge in some French peasant’s little kitchen. It is a cottage such as you and I often visited in Derbyshire and Cambridgeshire; a low grey stone building with rose trees against the wall, a tiny garden, and a geometrically neat path. The kitchen floor is of stone, the table without a cloth, but shining from much polishing. The only thing to distinguish it from the typical English rural cottage is the crucifix on the wall, and the wooden shoes at the door. (People wear sabots out of doors, cloth slippers in the house, leather shoes on Sunday). Well, after such a repast as I have described, I take out my wallet to pay my bill, and the sharp eyes of little Marie, or little Pierre, intently watching this strange soldat Americaine espy the picture. At once an inquisitive, but delighted, infant is on my knee demanding a closer inspection of the picture; the Maman must see it, and Grandpere, and Veuve Vatre from across the street (the man of the house can’t see it; he is away from home on the errand that brought me across the sea). Well, they all say “Elle est jolie, ma foi, et jeune aussi.” These comments have been made on your picture many times in many towns, which I will one day show you on a map of France.

I have not much anxiety for my father, for I look on his condition as a state of rest really necessary to a mind so constantly busy. But I am glad that from you I have inherited the power of readily escaping from worry and work; of entering with enthusiasm into whatever mirth I find around me; in finding good and true and merry friends everywhere. I think that some of this quality would have helped my father very much, and increased his bodily and mental health. I worried grievously about you for a while, and wished I could have been with you when my father was taken ill, but I don’t worry now—you are too spirited and courageous for anybody to worry about. I certainly admire you more than ever, and look forward eagerly to regular banquets at Henri’s and Rector’s with you.

I want you to meet all the Regimental Intelligence Section—a fine bunch of brave men, and good comrades. We have taken big chances together, and it has made us the best of friends. You will like them all and they will like you.

Affectionately yours,
Joyce.

* * * * *

To Kenton Kilmer

Headquarters Co.,
165th Infantry,
A. E. F.
Nov. 28, 1917.

My dear Kenton:

I hope that by this time you have entirely recovered from your illness. I remember that I had whooping-cough when I was about your age. If you are back in school, send me some of your monthly reports. The address you must put on letters to me is just what you see at the top of this sheet, except that you must put before it “Private Joyce Kilmer.”

There is a school in the building where I work, much like the school you attend, except that there are no nuns here for teachers. When the weather is wet, the children wear wooden shoes instead of rubbers. They go to school at eight in the morning and don’t leave until five. You wouldn’t like that, would you?

This letter ought to reach you about Christmas time. I am not sending you anything at once, but I will later. And I know that your mother and all your grandparents will give you things, and so will Saint Nicholas.

Be a good boy, and pray to St. Francis and Our Lady to help you. You ought to go to Mass every morning, since you live so near the church. Take care of Deborah and Christopher and Michael, and do all you can to make things easy for your Mother.

From Your affectionate Dad.

* * * * *

To Kenton Kilmer

January 10, 1918.

My dear Kenton:

Your plan for ending the war is very good. I showed your letter to Sergeant Russell, who fought in the Spanish-American war, long before you were born, and he said that your plan was the one that the American Army would adopt.

I am glad to see that you can write and typewrite so well. I hope that you will get Fr. Morris to teach you how to serve Mass, we live so near the church that you can easily serve his Mass and get your breakfast and get to school on time, and if you are a priest when you grow up you will be glad you had such practice when you were young.

Take care of Deborah and Michael and Christopher and your mother and don’t forget to pray for

Your affectionate Dad.

* * * * *

To Deborah Kilmer

Headquarters Co.,
165th Inf.,
A. E. F., France.
May 27th, 1918.

My dear Deborah:

About a month ago, I sent you a rubber doll. If you didn’t get it, let me know and I’ll send you another one.

Yesterday morning about six o’clock I climbed down the mountain to go to Mass. And just outside the village where the church is, I met a young lady and walking beside her was a pleasant young pig with a pink nose.

“Bonjour, M’sieur!” said the young lady.

“Bonjour, Mam’selle!” I replied.

“Bonjour, M’sieur!” said the pig.

“Bonjour, M’sieur!” I replied.

And the young lady and the pig threw back their heads and laughed heartily and went on to breakfast. And I went on to Mass.

Remember me to young Michael and young Christopher, and believe me

Your respectful Dad.

About This Book

To Mrs. Kilburn Kilmer

To Kenton Kilmer

To Kenton Kilmer

To Deborah Kilmer