The Project Gutenberg eBook of War Days in Brittany
Title: War Days in Brittany
Author: Elsie Deming Jarves
Release date: September 15, 2014 [eBook #46865]
Most recently updated: November 12, 2025
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
WAR DAYS IN BRITTANY
By Elsie Deming Jarves
Saturday Night Press, Inc. Detroit, Michigan 1920
Original
Mrs. Deming Jarves Officier de l'Académie
MEDAL OF THE RECONNAISSANCE FRANÇAISE
By decree of the President of the Republic, the silver medal of the Reconnaissance Française was conferred on Mrs. Elsie Deming Jarves for the devotion she showed since the beginning of the war to our wounded.
The Citation reads as follows:
"Mrs. Deming Jarves, since the beginning of the war, showed the most generous solicitude for our wounded soldiers in Brittany, has never spared herself and has shown the greatest devotion."
As announced elsewhere, Mr. Deming Jarves was made a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor for the same cause.
The above article is reprinted from "Le Nouvelliste de Bretagne," a French daily paper published in Bonnes, the capital of Brittany.
JUL 26 1920
TO THOSE GENEROUS AMERICANS
FROM WHOM CAME THE FINANCIAL AID AND MORAL ENCOURAGEMENT NECESSARY TO HELP US THROUGH THESE DAYS,
IS DEDICATED THIS LITTLE COLLECTION OF PERSONAL EXPERIENCES DURING THE GREAT WAR
INSTITUT DE FRANCE
Madame:
Vous avez véçu dans notre pays ces années de terrible guerre; vous vous êtes interressée à tout ce que nous avons véçu de misères, à tout ce qu'on souffert nos enfants. Vous m'avez demandé combien des miens étaient mort; J'avais quatre petits neveux, trois sont tombés au Champ d'Honneur; un reste qui était aviateur en Russie et qui a obtenu trois citations à l'ordre de l'armée, cela, c'est le cas habituel des familles Bourgoises; je ne me plaine pas, ne m'eu vaute: Aucun des enfants, n'était marié, aucun n'a laissé d'enfants; mais les morts sont nombreux ailleur et leurs veuves et leurs petits enfants vivent. Il faut qu'ils vivent; ne serait ce que pour opposer encore leurs poitrines aux Barbares quand ils reviendront sur nous pour engager la Suprême bataille. Deux millions de Français sont mort sauver la liberté du monde. Ils ont donné aux autres le temps de venir, mais le temps comme, ils l'ont payé!
Si l'Amérique veut aider leurs enfants à s'instruire, et à se former aux bonnes études nous l'accepterons; ceux qui sont mort sont mort pour Elle comme ils sont mort pour la France. Veuillex agréer Madame l'hommage de mes sentiments respectueux.
Frederic Masson.
December 12, 1918.
Original
CONTENTS
A RED CROSS HOSPITAL IN BRITTANY
WHAT FRENCHWOMEN ARE DOING IN WAR TIME
IN BRITTANY
I
Sing me a song of the west country
Where 'priest and peasant still abide;
Where giant cliffs come down to the sea
To lave their feet in the long green tide;
Atlantic rollers, huge and free,
Beat high on the coast of Brittany!
II
Sing of the pearly sky hung low,
Of verdant forests girding the land!
Where heather and gorse on the hillsides glow,
The long gray lines of the Menhir stand,
Guarding their secret constantly
Through age-long silence, in Brittany.
III
The high-flung roofs in lichen decked,
Yellow and green and golden-brown,
With tiny flowers and weeds o'er-flecked,
Shelter the cottages of the town;
While up from the chimneys, silently,
Floats the thin, blue smoke of Brittany.
IV
A gleam of brass through the open door,
Of walled-in bed of carven oak,
Of polished flags upon the floor,
Neath heavy rafters black with smoke;
The song of the wheel as, cannily,
The wife spins her flax in Brittany.
V
The sabots clatter down the street,
The church bell sounds across the bay,
The brown sails of the fishing fleet
Grow black against the dying day;
While sun and 'peace sink glowingly
Upon the land of Brittany.
VI
Mystic and weird is the ancient tale
Of Arthur and Merlin, and knights of old,
Of Celtic ardor, and holy Grail,
Of Church, and Priest, and Castlehold!
Of Prince and Peasant ardently
Guarding the faith in Brittany.
VII
Land of the Legends! Country of Dreams—
Of Saints, and Pardons, and Ancient Faith!
Deep-hidden beside your forest streams
Still live the sprites and ghostly wraith!
Land of Crosses, where, fervently,
The peasants still pray in Brittany!
VIII
Brave are your sons as they sail the seas
'Mid storm and tempest and winter gale!
Brave the wife as she waits on the leas
For the distant gleam of homing sail!
Brave and patient and earnestly
The peasants still pray in Brittany!
—Elsie Deming Jarves.
THE TRAIN OF THE WOUNDED
Original
The train draws up gently, soldiers appear at the doors, silent and patiently waiting, some with foreheads swathed in reddening bandages, others with their arms in slings, again others leaning on crutches. One could not judge of the number, as more wounded were lying on the seats. One saw only black and white and yellow faces peering anxiously forth, and one understood that these soldiers had no words to express their sufferings, they only wait "for help."
A young doctor, just commencing his life of self-sacrifice, his eyes heavy with fever, his shoulders drooping with fatigue, seeks the military doctor in charge at the station and hands him a list giving him some information, brief and military, on the wounded hundreds behind him. Some are so injured they must have instant help. Here are men who may travel further; seeking from station to station the promised assistance.
The more desperately wounded are removed on stretchers; the nuns bring cooling water to wash their fevered hands and faces; the nurses bring them food and hot coffee; kind hands replace their slings, awry; boys and girls bring them newspapers, cigarettes and candies. All wish to express their admiration and devotion to these humble defenders of France.
All along the vast platforms are rows of stretchers, each laden with its suffering humanity. One counts the men by the upturned boot soles. Alas! those wounded in the legs hang brokenly down. Here a wretched man with broken shoulder wanders toward the operating room, installed in every railway station. There a feeble comrade leans on the shoulders of a nurse as he struggles toward the doctors awaiting him.
The more seriously wounded must remain on the spot, and the medical director inspects him, as taking his number he encourages him with a few words: "Now, my brave one, you will not travel further; a look, a look at your wound, my friend, and then to a comfortable hospital." The wounded soldier touches his cap, lifts his covering and shows a dressing spotted with yellow and brown; but has the strength to say to the bearers, "Carefully, gently, my friends; I suffer much!" and he looks with misgiving on the motor car, for they are moving him again. Poor fellow, he has suffered so much.
They lift him tenderly and he disappears beneath the Red Cross ambulance, there to find a nurse who whispers "My little soldier, another moment of patience and thou wilt find thyself amidst cool sheets, far from noise and confusion. Thou shalt rest in peace, and thou shalt be well."
In the midst of this "empressement," this joy of helping, the German prisoners, wounded and far from home, are not forgotten. At the door of one of the wagons a little brown chap is leaning, silent, but with shining eyes. The odors of good, refreshing coffee and hot bread are wafted to him; but he does not make a sign. But how hungry he is! And those good comrades behind him who for so many days faced death and famine in the trenches—how they hunger! He glances behind him. Here a man lies on his back, his eyes closed. Another is gasping, with his hands clenched. Others are crouching in obscurity. How hungry they are! How the thirst burns. But one must not ask mercy of one's conquerors.
Suddenly a young doctor, with a nun at his side, appears at the window. Coffee, bread and meat are offered; it is the little brown wounded one kneeling at the window who brings to his fellows the hospitality of France.
The officers are crowded together, heads swathed in blood-stained bandages, legs and arms encircled in spotted bands, but their voices are lowered as they thank the nuns, and they squeeze themselves together to allow a freer space to the more injured companion. The newspaper brought to them tells them of the battles in which they have fought, and in the list of those fallen on the field of honor appears the name of many a cherished friend.
Oh, the brave, humble little Piou-Piou! The little infantrymen who so bravely and so enthusiastically have fought for their native soil; wounded in arm and leg, in head and thigh, in foot and hand; uncomplaining, patient and grateful, so tired and so injured, but as ready to return to their trenches, bearing all things, suffering, seeking a nameless grave, that their beloved France may remain free and intact. These are unknown, courageous Frenchmen, who on the present-day battlefields appeal to us to help, comfort and succor in this their day of tribulation.
At Rennes and the larger towns there are comforts and medical equipments impossible for our little Dinard and its hastily-installed hospitals; all the hotels and casinos have been "requisitiones" and we are doing our best to make things comfortable for those poor chaps; but we lack, alas, so much! There are no ambulances, and so all sorts of conveyances are called into use, from elegant limousines and small motor cars, down through the list of private carriages and cabs, to express carts.
It is a painful sight to see these latter, minus springs or even mattresses (which are all in use in hospitals), bumping the poor wounded over car-tracks and crossings to their destination.
At the grand casino one's heart is torn by the sight of such suffering supported so uncomplainingly. A large hall is hastily arranged with cane-bottomed chairs, in front of each a tin basin, hot water in cans (heated on a gas stove) is poured into these primitive receptacles, and ladies of the Croix Rouge kneel in front of these rough wounded men. It is hard work, sometimes, to separate the heavy army boots from the wounded feet. Some of these men have not had their boots off in two months; constantly marching to and fro over those fields and through the mud, ready at any moment to spring to arms to defend us and our homes. It is the least we can do, to help their pain now.
The blood has soaked through the worn-out socks, and the whole mass is impregnated with dirt, blood, etc.; but how grateful they are, these poilus, to have their wounds dressed, their torn, dirty uniforms removed, and to find themselves in comfortable beds, a soothing drink of beef tea, with a dash of brandy held to their lips, and a soft pillow behind their weary heads. One boy said to me, as we finally got him in bed: "Madam, one goes gladly to fight for la France, but now, I must rest awhile. With such kind ladies to aid me, I know I shall soon gain strength enough to return to show those Boches." What la Jeunesse Française is willing to bear for France!
October, 1914
DINARD DAY BY DAY
Original
Up the village street comes the funeral. Gusts of wind, bearing fog and rain on their wings, roar up the roadway, tossing the branches against the low sky, tearing the last Autumn leaves from the trees, whirling the skirts of the women and the white garments of the priest, as the mournful little band struggles towards the church.
The bell is tolling in long, heavy notes; the funeral cars, alas! three in number, move slowly along; the "tricolor," wet and draggled, whipping above the heads of the little troopers who have lain down their lives that it may float free and unsubdued over France.
What a sad little procession it is! First, a chorister bearing a cross; then two others chanting, with the priest, the dirge for the dead.
On either side of the three hearses limp a few soldiers, their red trousers the only spot of color in the black and gray landscape.
A group of the Red Cross nurses follow, their dark cloaks and white head-dresses straining in the gale, and then the crowd of sorrowing people. Poor, humble folk they are, in sabots and heavy black peasant costumes. Old women tottering along together, bending their white-coiffed heads to the blast. Young women, white and broken-hearted. Tragedy written in changeless lines on their faces, innocent victims of this unspeakable war, bearing their last poor little offerings in their red hands, a few rain-beaten bunches of chrysanthemums, the only tribute they can offer to their dear ones.
The bell still tolls mournfully; the bowed, black figures grow fainter in the mist. In from the Atlantic sweeps the storm, raging above the piteous mourners. Shrieking! Whistling! Howling! Where now the sunny France sung by the poets? Where the gaiety and life, so typical of the charming French?
Gray clouds, wind-swept roads, black skeleton branches, straining away from the sea. Rain in gusts. Cold, sorrow, desolation in all the land!
Since the war began, seventy-five thousand Frenchmen have fallen on the field of honor. Some on the battlefields, some in the trenches, others destroyed beyond human recognition. Nameless graves cover the northern plains. In innumerable hospitals lie the broken remnants of French manhood.
Five hundred thousand they are today, suffering untold agonies, helpless, uncomplaining.
What can Americans, in the happy safety of their homes know of the tragedy, the death, that overwhelms us here?
It is so far-reaching, so stupendous, so heart-breaking, all energy and activity become paralyzed.
Where begin? What can one do? If one helps only a few hundreds, how about the thousands one cannot reach?
England, in fine generosity, has sent supplies of all kinds: medicines, garments, hospital stores, surgical instruments; five hundred tons have crossed the channel.
Beyond praise, the pitying help of England! She has poured her wealth, her supplies, her splendid armies, into France, giving ungrudgingly and constantly. But for her timely assistance, we should be in unimaginable straits. But now England needs for her own.
With her great losses in men, fifty-seven thousand; her own wounded the end of this October; her thousands upon thousands of refugees—one cannot expect her to do for all.
How are her cousins across the Atlantic coming to our aid?
Can we count on the Americans? Will their warm hearts send out to us these necessities for the wounded not only now, but during the long weary months that stretch in such dreary perspective before us?
The melancholy little funeral is a daily occurrence; so used to it are we, one scarcely notices it. The wounded living claim all our pity and work.
Darkness closes down early these bleak November days, and the few straggling lights illumine streets deserted. At 8 o'clock all cafes close, the lamps are put out, and only the military patrol with their feeble lanterns traverse the gloom. Nothing more until the cold November dawn wakes us to another day of hard work.
Where fashionable women in luxurious motor-cars sped through the avenues, now soldiers hobbling on sticks and crutches, or wheeled in chairs, appear. Women and children swathed in crepe wander in dumb groups on the Esplanade. The shops are full of soldiers' necessities, and everywhere high and low, young and old, the seamstress, the shop-keeper behind her counter, the young girls taking their morning walks, even little schoolgirls, grandmammas and nurses, all are knitting.
If a friend come to call (a rare pleasure nowadays, as all are too busy for social amenities), out come the needles from a bag. The tea hour is interrupted by the click of steel and the counting of stitches.
Those who cannot nurse are knitting socks, comforters, chest-protectors, cholera belts, for the nights are cold on the battlefields and the trenches are often full of water. The chilling fogs creep up from the Flemish marshes and the little soldier, the little Piou-Piou, has many long hours to face the cold and darkness. Happy he who has some loving women to knit for him.
Strong, vigorous young men one never sees! Only wounded fellows, old men in mourning, and priests ceaselessly on their errands of consolation and pity.
In this hour of tribulation, France has turned devoutly and repentantly to religion. The tone of the press has changed. A reverent and humble seeking after Divine help is felt in their supplications.
It is not only the women and the ancients who now pray, for over many hospital cots hang a crucifix, and hardened, indifferent men turn in their agony to the ever-present clergy.
One dying man told me with great pride that though he had been a great scoffer and unbeliever for many years, "Now that he had confessed and received absolution, he was at peace and willing to go;" so, during the long watches of the night, the old priest, broken as he was with fatigue and sleeplessness, sat beside the poor chap comforting him through the Valley of the Shadow, and when dawn came shortly, closed his eyes, placing the crucifix between the stiffening fingers.
When the next day I placed a few flowers about the quiet form I found the rugged features softened, all coarseness had disappeared. He lay at peace with God and man.
Who was he? A peasant? A shoe-maker? A factory hand or street cleaner? Perhaps an Apache? I do not know. But he gave all he had—his young life! Surely he has gone to his reward.
Dinard, November, 1914.
DINARD ACTUALITIES
1914-1915
There are four thousand wounded in Dinard this winter, and the need for chemises, antiseptic cotton, sacks and bandages, never diminishes. I, fortunately, have a few things left from what I brought over, and I am dealing them out, as if worth their weight in gold. Socks are much appreciated, as many are wounded in the feet, and cannot put on slippers or shoes. One poor wretched Belgian hospital has depended all the winter on what we gave them. The Matron told me but for us they would have had nothing. She has been up two or three times since my return begging socks, chemises and slippers, but, alas, I had none to give her! She said the men were obliged to stay in their rooms or beds as their uniforms were so dirty, torn, and shot-riddled, they had to be repaired, and, having nothing else to wear, they had to stay in hospital. I went by there the other day, a glorious sunny summer afternoon, and I saw such poor, white faces looking out so longingly, so young, and so suffering—mere boys of twenty, twenty-two and twenty-four.
I hate to say too much about the sorrowing and suffering over here—so much has been given, especially from America, where the generosity has been overwhelming. One cannot see such wistfulness and patience without finding a renewal of sympathy and a wish to help.
I was notified last week, that on Saturday, July 10th, at 4 o'clock, the Prefet of our department (the governor of the state) will come to Val Fleuri, officially, in full uniform, surrounded by his staff, to thank us in the name of France, for what we have obtained from our friends in America, and to express through us the Government's grateful recognition of America's generosity. French people tell me it is a rare honor which the government is showing us, and is an expression of France's gratitude to America. The Prefet asked for a report (which we sent), and the government has perfect cognizance from whence came our supplies. So that you may be sure that full recognition has been made for the shipments.
Many wounded there are always, but the spirit of the French people is magnificent. No sacrifice is too great to make, no economy too severe. All France has the utmost confidence in the soldiers and their generals, and everyone feels it is time for endurance, economy and work. And all, high and low, rich and poor, are putting their hearts and courage into the affair, with an enthusiasm and devotion quite surprising to those who thought of France as a decadent nation.
Yesterday I met at tea a French duchess, last year the most frivolous and worldly person, always dressed in the height of fashion and devoted to golf, bridge, and motoring. Yesterday she was dressed in a cheap, ready-made black serge suit, with a black straw sailor hat, trimmed with a black taffeta bow, such as a poor little governess or an upper housemaid would have worn a year ago. And she said she was proud to wear the costume, bought ready-made at the "Galleries Lafayette" for 50 francs.
She has had a hospital in her chateau since the war began, where one hundred little Pious-Pious have been taken care of and nursed back to health, and, alas, to a quick return to the trenches! So she said she had no money "pour la toilette."
What these French women are doing is beyond praise. A sober, quiet determination has taken the place of their erstwhile frivolity. And when one sees delicately nurtured ladies doing the most ordinary menial work in the hospitals, not day by day, but month by month, rising at 7 a. m., and only returning home for meals and bed at 8.30 p. m.—women who in former times thought of nothing but extravagance, luxury and display—one realizes that there is good, red blood left in France, and the Gallic strain, having supported the trials of centuries, is still able to make a stand for justice and freedom.
The best English and French authorities say that the war will last at least a year or eighteen months. An English colonel told me recently that the British government was preparing to make heavy-calibre guns for August, 1916, and the French are settling down to another year or two of war, but after the Lusitania horror I should think all Americans would feel it their bounden duty to help the allies. If they are defeated, what chance has America against the German spirit of world dominion? And we want to remember that every pair of socks, every bandage, every roll of cotton is a stone in the barricade against these abominable Huns. There is no uncertainty, no discouragement, no failing in French lines or English, which hold 580 miles from the North Sea to Switzerland.
I often go to the "Arrivee des Blesses." Alas, they come too often to the railroad station, long stretchers filled with broken humanity. Does one ever hear complaints, groans or repinings? No, never! One said to me as I gave him a cup of beef tea, after he had been lifted from a box car where he had passed three days and three nights: "Madame, I am a homeless cripple, my eyesight is gone and I am forever dependent on my family, my poor wife and my children. But, in the future, when France is victorious and at peace, they will not begrudge their old father his sup and board, for he was decorated by the guns of Arras" (meaning, poor wretch, his sightless eyes).
The Belgian soldiers are strong, able-bodied, silent fellows, and speak eagerly of their return to their country. They do not seem to realize that such a consummation is most unlikely.
I am sending by express a few baskets made by them as they lie crippled on their hospital cots. The little money I paid for them will buy them tobacco, chocolate, post-cards and pencils. I should be glad if you will give these baskets to your friends who have so kindly sent us things. They are of no value, but they will show our appreciation of all you have done. There are also some rings made out of the aluminum which forms the point of the German shells. The men have picked them up on the battlefields and in the trenches—these bits, so full of interest and personal strife—and have made them into rough rings, but carrying a pathetic interest of their own.
Original
The first of the "Grands Blesses Prisonniers en Allemagne" have arrived. They came via Switzerland to Lyons, and from there have been distributed through the country and seashore places. Nineteen came to Dinard, very severely injured—blind, many one-legged, and some badly disfigured, but so rejoiced, poor chaps, to find themselves once more in France. Some have been in Germany since September. They say they were kindly treated in the hospitals, but had precious little to eat. Their looks show it, being quite emaciated. Being also accustomed to little food, their capacity for digesting has also decreased—much to their regret; but, no doubt, that misfortune will correct itself now they are back in the "land of plenty."
It appears that when the train drew up in the Lyons Gare, they saw hundreds of enthusiastic compatriots cheering and waving flags and handkerchiefs, flowers everywhere, and heard the "Clarions de France," some broke down and cried like children. They had borne the privations and sufferings consequent to imprisonment for ten long months, but when they heard those sweet, clear notes, and saw the "tricolor" once more (Ils Avaient le Coeur Gros) they just gave way; that is, the weaker ones did.
At the mother-house of the Little Sisters of the Poor, at St. Bern, one hundred and twenty-five are installed in that quiet convent, in the midst of the rich fields, and the green and peaceful woods of Brittany, with those good little sisters to wait upon them and nurse them; with fine milk, butter and eggs, chickens and fresh vegetables to eat, they will soon recover and they can hardly express their feelings, poor fellows, but just sit smiling and cheery in the sun. Mere boys, many of them—thin-cheeked, fresh-colored, bright-eyed, but crippled for life. Older men, fathers of families, bronzed and calm, thankful to be in France, with the thought of soon returning to their wives and children. May they there regain their health and strength. To these brave ones, we all, Americans and French alike, owe an immense debt of gratitude, for, but for them and their like, we would be facing now a very different outlook.
What impresses one above all is their modesty, patience and patriotism. Whether they are doctors or lawyers, peasants or little artisans, they all show the same soul-stirring love for France, they count their sufferings as nothing compared to the welfare of the nation.
The life of the last ten years which we knew and loved so well, has vanished like the snows of yester-year. Where the tango was danced are now long rows of hospital cots. The music of the Hungarian band has given place to the silence of the ambulance corridors. Crippled men are sitting on the casino verandas where fashionable women in former years strolled in idleness and elegance. Horrid odors of iodoform and chloroform assail one, instead of the perfume of the flowers. The gay young girls of other days, who laughed and flirted and danced in these airy halls, are now demure Red Cross nurses, in severe white linen gowns, the Red Cross embroidered on their white veils; a vivid testimony to their real nature and pitying compassion for the helpless.
What a few awful months of this World's War seems to us over here. You in America, who continue to live as much as usual, can really have but little conception. To you that pageant and tragedy of war is as "A Tale that is Told"—very horrible, perhaps, but of necessity it cannot affect you intimately. You can know little of the heartrending day-by-day experience and hourly ordeals demanded of those men and women of France.
Some few weeks ago I attended a class for "first aid" to the injured, whose matron was rather a formidable Frenchwoman, laden with years and honors. As I went in, a friendly Red Cross nurse murmured: "The poor Marquise had just received a telegram two hours ago announcing the death of both her sons; but, you know, her husband was killed in September, and she has given her boys to France. She does not wish it mentioned—do not refer to it." As I looked at that wrinkled but composed countenance, so stern and so calm, as I listened to her instructions, given in a quiet voice, it was quite evident that the old French proverb still holds good, "Bon sang ne peut mentir." There she was, an old, stricken mother, looking drearily into the future. Her two dear sons killed on the same day on the field of honor, her home forever desolate. But she came down, nevertheless, to show us how to bandage the wounded men, to teach us patience, endurance and control under all circumstances. At night she returns to her lonely hearth to mourn these brave boys. But did she not need our sympathy? To us, watching this superb example, she seemed to embody the spirit of courage, which admits of no defeat. The valiant heart rising above the wreck of happiness and home to do its duty to "La Patrie."
Only a short distance separates us from the battlefields, where the manhood of France and England are daily laying down their lives in defense of their countries. God grant that no such sacrifice may ever be demanded of America. To us who have remained in France, life has become a very solemn reality; as we go forth in sober garb and spirit to do what we can for these suffering hundreds, wounded men and boys, lonely young widows, stricken parents, we realize intensely that life in Europe has utterly changed. The old order of things has passed away. What will replace it? Who can tell?
Letter Written to Dr. Livingston Seaman,
British War Relief in New York,
July, 1915.
TO A DYING BOY
Poor little soldier, lying there weak and wounded,
Why were you horn to live so brief a day?
Is your young manhood hut to serve as target
For the grim guns of war to injure or to slay?
So young to die. On lip and cheek and forehead
Still flame youth's brilliant colors, white and red,
And your clear eyes so full of hope and courage,
Must we tomorrow count you with the dead?
All life before you; glad and useful hours
Lay shining in your path unsullied, clear,
Youth's dreams fulfilled in manhood's ampler duties,
A wife, a home, and all that we hold dear
Vanished. In one short hour's tragic action,
Swept from the world of man and manly ways.
Naught but a memory in your mother's bosom,
Shall soon recall your transient, earthly days.
In vain our aid. Our utmost skill and patience
Cannot re-string the loosened silver cord.
The golden bowl is broken at the fountain,
And your lone soul must hence to meet it's God,
Lonely, yet clad in beauty pure and holy,
For of your best you gave, unstinted, glad,
That at your country's call all selfish thought and purpose
Faded away—you gave your life, dear lad!
Dinard, 1915