Page images
PDF
EPUB

an' tramped, and lumpy with khaki bodies, an' with caps an' guns an' things flung around in it, an' the red sun sailin' down an' down in the West, an' every here an' there awful splatters of blood in the wheat. But I did n't have time to look an' think too much — an' it was mighty lucky I did n't have. They were all English an' had run upon a German battery an' been shot to pieces 'fore they hardly knew what was happenin'. I guess some of 'em must have got away, but there was a plenty that did n't. They'd been layin' there since dawn, an' -an' they were hungry

her voice broke. 'An' I did n't have anything to give 'em,' she whispered.

"They say after a while you get kind of numb to things," she went on presently, with her grave simplicity. 'I don't know how that is, but I know the things I saw made me stop every now an' then down by the creek out of sight, an' just wring an' wring my hands together in a kind of rage of pity. Once, goin' through the wheat, I tramped on something soft, an' when I looked, it was— it was just a piece of a man. I thought I'd lay right down then an' die, but I says to myself, "They want water, they want water" - an' that way I kind of drove myself on. But all the time I could see my heart under my waist just waist just

jumpin' up an' down, like it was fightin' to jump out an' run away. An' then another time -' But she broke off. 'No,' she said, 'I won't tell about that. It's so peaceful here with that blue water an' sunshine an' all, I reckon I ought n't to tell what it's like underneath when Hell takes the lid off. An' maybe some day the Lord 'll let me forget.

'But it's funny,' she went on again presently, 'how your mind grabs ahold of any foolish thing to steady you.' She paused, staring down at the little cup as though she drew remembrance from it. I recollect as I went back

and forth, back and forth, weaving out paths through the wheat, a silly song that we used to sing to a game at school kept runnin' in my head:

I don't want none of your weevily wheat,
An' I don't want none of your barley;
An' I don't want none of your weevily wheat
To bake a cake for Charley.

'I was mighty glad it did. For all it was so silly, it kept me from flyin' right off the handle. An' so I kept on an' on, carryin' 'em water. Some of the men thought it was funny I should be there, an' they wanted to talk an' ask me questions; but the most of 'em were sufferin' too bad to care, an' some of 'em were busy goin' along into the next world, an' were done with bein' surprised over anything in this. Most of 'em called me "Nurse" or "Sister," an' some way I liked to have 'em do it. Some of 'em certainly were brave, too. Why, I saw one young fella jump straight up to his feet an' fling his arms out wide, an' holler right up at the sky, "Are we downhearted? No!" an' pitch over dead. You know,' she paused to explain simply, her extraordinarily childlike eyes lifted to mine for understanding and sympathy, 'it just seems to snatch the heart right out of you to see a person stand up to death like that'specially when they're so young like that little fella was.'

'Of course,' she went on after a moment, 'I did n't just give 'em water. I'd do any other little thing I could besides. An' every time I could do anything, I certainly was glad. Doing things seemed to ease up a little that terrible rage of pity I felt. I took my skirt off an' rolled it up for a pillow for a little fella who could n't move an' was layin' with his head in a kind of a sink-hole. He tried to thank me but he could n't, he just sobbed, — but he caught ahold of my hand an' kissed it. That made me cry. It was so sort

of young an' pretty of him. After that I went on for a spell with the tears just pourin' down my cheeks. But presently I found the one who could n't drink the water, an' I quit cryin' then. My tears were n't big enough; only God's would have been big enough for that.

-

"The man's face was all gone eyes, mouth, everything, an' still he was alive. He must have heard me an' known somebody was there, for he commenced to scream an' moan, tryin' to say things down in his throat, an' to reach out his hands an' flop about -O my God! It was like a chicken with its head off! I thought I'd have to run. But I did n't. I just sort of fell down beside him, an' caught ahold of his hands, an' patted them an' talked to him like you do to a child in a nightmare. I don't know what I said at first. Just a crazy jumble of pity, I reckon; but after a little bit I found I was prayin'. I know I needed it, an' it seemed to help him too, for after a little bit, he stopped that awful tryin' to speak down in his throat, an' lay still just grippin' my hands. I was so crazy I could n't think of a thing to say but "God bless us an' keep us an' make his face to shine upon us an' be merciful unto us." An' I just said that over an' over.

'I guess it wasn't the words that he wanted, it was the feelin' of havin' God there in all that awful dark and blood, an' some human bein' beside him who was sorry. Anyhow, every time I'd stop he'd snatch at my wrists so hard it would hurt; look-'She broke off to push up her gray sleeve, and there on her thin wrist, still vividly black and blue, were the bruised prints of fingers. 'But I was glad to be hurt I wanted to be hurt. I wanted to have a share in all the sufferin'. It just seemed like my heart would break. An',' she added with great simplicity, 'I reckon that's

just what it did do, for I know I broke through into something bigger than I ever had been.

'Well, after a while, God did have mercy on that poor soul, for he quit pullin' at my hands, and began to die, an' when I came 'round again to him he was gone. But that got me started, an' I left off sayin' that foolishness about the weevily wheat, an' said the little prayer instead. I said it to myself first, but after a little bit, I found I was sayin' it out loud. I don't know why, but it seemed like I had to say it every time I gave one of 'em water. Just "God bless us an' keep us an' make his face to shine upon us and be merciful unto us." It was somehow like a child's like havin' to touch every game tree-box goin' along the street, or steppin' over every crack. Each one of 'em had to have the water an' the little prayer, an' then on to the next, or back down to the creek for more. Most of 'em did n't seem to notice, but some of 'em laughed, an' some stared like I was crazy, crazy, an' maybe I was a little, an' again some of 'em were glad of it.

[ocr errors]

'So I kep' on an' on, an' the sun went down, an' the dark came, an' it seemed like a kind of a lid had shut us away from all the world. It was n't right dark, for the stars were shinin'. It was about that time that I found the little officer. He was dyin', off in the wheat all to himself, an' he got me to take down some messages for his folks. I wrote 'em in my diary. I had a pocket flashlight in my bag, an' it made a round eye of light that stared out at every word I wrote. They were the simplest kind of words. Just love, love to mother, and love to father, and Snippy and Peg, an' good-bye to 'em all, an' how he was glad to die for England. But they look mighty strange jumpin' out there in my diary alongside of travel notes about Brussels. It's like something big an' terrible had

smashed its fist right through all the little fancy things.

'But it was funny,' she went on after a minute, 'how sort of like children so many of the men were, so trusting an' helpless. There was one little fella always said the same thing to me every time I came 'round. "They'll sure be around for us soon now, won't they, sister?" he'd say. An' I'd always answer, "Oh, yes, just in a little bit now." An' he'd settle back again, so trusting an' satisfied, an' like I really knew. That was the way they all seemed to me just children. Even the ones that cursed an' screamed at me. An' another thing was funny,' she added lifting her grave child's eyes to mine; 'I've never been married never known what it was to have children but that night all those men were my children, even the biggest an' roughest of 'em. I felt 'em all here' She put her hands up tight against her breast. 'An' I b'lieve I would have died for any one of 'em. I reckon bein' so crazy with pity had stretched me up out of bein' a scary old maid into bein' a mother.

'I recollect there was two loose horses gallopin' about. They were wild with fear, an' they'd gallop as hard as ever they could in one direction, an' then they'd wheel 'round an' come to a stand with their heads up, an' their tails cocked, an' nicker, an' snort over what they smelt, an' then take out again. Well, once they came chargin' right down on us, an' I thought sure they were goin' right over the men. I never stopped to think: I ran straight out in front of 'em wavin' my arms an' hollerin'. They just missed gallopin' right over me. But I did n't care; I b'lieve I'd almost have been glad. It was like I said I wanted to be hurt too. That was because it was all so lonesome for 'em. Death an' sufferin' is a lonesome thing,' she stated gravely. 'When they'd scream, I felt like I'd

tear my

heart out to help 'em. But al I could do was just to stand on the outside like, an' watch 'em sufferin' an maybe dyin' inside there all alone. That's why it seemed like bein' hurt too would make it easier.

'Well, along late in the night, the guns broke out again awful loud, an presently off against the sky I saw red streaks of flame go up in two places. an' I knew they were towns on fire. I just stopped still an' looked, an thought what it was like with the folks scurryin' 'round like rats, an' the fire an' the shells rainin' down on 'em. "That's Hell-right over there," I says out loud to myself, an' then I went on down to the creek faster than ever. Maybe I was gettin' kind of lightheaded then, an' God knows it was enough to make anybody so; anyhow, I felt like I had to hold Hell back. It was loose right over there, an' the only thing that held it off was the cup of water an' the little prayer. So I kept on back an' forth, back an' forth from the creek, faster an' faster. I thought if I missed one of 'em it would let Hell in on all the rest, so I kept on an' on. The guns were boomin', an' the flames goin' up into the sky, an' all Hell was loose, but the little prayer an' the cup of water was holdin' it back. An' then at last, when it commenced to freshen for dawn, I knew I'd won.'

She drew a deep breath, and paused, looking up at me with clear, far-away

eyes.

"That was because I knew He was there,' she said.

'He-?' I questioned, awestruck by her tone.

She nodded. 'Yes, God,' she answered simply. 'An' after that, that terrible lonesomeness melted all away. I knew that though I had to stand outside an' see 'em suffer, He was inside there with 'em - closer to 'em even than they was to themselves. So I

knew it was n't really lonesome for 'em, even if they were sufferin' an' dyin'. An' I'm right sure that a good many of 'em got to know that, too - anyhow, the faces of some of the ones that had died looked that way when I saw 'em in the mornin'. Maybe it was because I cared so much myself that I kind of broke through into knowin' how much more God cared. Folks always talk like He was a father 'way off in the sky, but I got to know that night that what was really God was something big an' close right in your own heart, that was a heap more like a big mother.

'An' it was all bigger an' sort of simpler than I'd ever thought it would be. =Right over there was Hell an' big guns, an' men killin' each other, but here where we were, were just stars overhead, an' folks that you could do things for, an' God. I reckon that's the way,' she said with her grave simplicity, 'when things get too awful you suffer through to God, an' He turns you back to the simplest things—just the little prayer, an' the cup of water for men that were like sick children. This is the cup,' she added, holding it out for my inspection. 'An'an' that's all, I reckon,' she concluded. When daylight came the stretcher-bearers did get through to us. There was a sort of doctor officer with them, an' I never in my life saw any one look so tired.

""Who are you, an' what in thunder are you doing here?" he stormed out at me only I don't say it as strong as he did.

'I reckon I must have looked like a wild woman. I had lost my hat and

my hair was all falling down, an' I only had on my short alpaca underskirt, 'cause I'd taken off my dress skirt to make a pillow like I said; but I just stood right up in the midst of all those poor bodies, an' says, "I'm Miss Smithson-Sadie Virginia Smithson - an' I've been holdin' Hell back all night."

'I knew I was talkin' crazy but I did n't care-like the way you do comin' out of ether.'

'He stared at me for a spell, an' then he says, kind of funny, "Well, Miss Sadie Virginia, I'm glad you held some of it back, for everybody else in the world was letting it loose last night.”

'He was mighty kind to me, though, an' helped get me to one of the base hospitals, an' from there over to England. But I don't know what happened to the professor an' his party.'

'Well,' I ventured after a long pause, and not knowing quite what to say, the Laurel Literary Society will be glad enough to have you belong to it now.'

She flashed bolt upright at that, her eyes staring at me.

'But - but you don't understand,' she cried breathlessly. 'I've been face to face with war an' death an' Hell an' God, I've been born again, — do you reckon any of them little old things matter now?'

I was stunned by the white look of her face.

'What does matter-now?' I whispered at last.

'Nothin',' she answered, 'nothin' but God an' love an' doin' things for folks. That was why I had to tell you.'

BREAD AND SALT

BY ABRAHAM MITRIE RIHBANY

I

To an Oriental the phrase 'bread and salt' is of sacred import. The saying, 'There is bread and salt between us,' which has been prevalent in the East from time immemorial, is equal to saying, 'We are bound together by a solemn covenant.' To say of one that he 'knows not the significance of bread and salt' is to stigmatize him as a base ingrate.

A noble foe refuses to 'taste the salt' of his adversary- that is, to eat with him so long as he feels disinclined to be reconciled to him. Such a foe dreads the thought of repudiating the covenant which the breaking of bread together forms. In the rural districts of Syria, much more than in the cities, is still observed the ancient custom that a man on an important mission should not eat his host's bread until the errand is made known. The covenant of 'bread and salt' should not be entered into before the attitude of the host toward his guest's mission is fully known. If the request is granted, then the meal is enjoyed as a fraternal affirmation of the agreement just made. So in the twenty-fourth chapter of the book of Genesis we are told that Abraham's servant, who had gone to Mesopotamia, 'unto the city of Nahor,' to bring a wife of his master's kindred to his son Isaac, refused to eat at Laban's table before he had told his errand.

Of all his enemies, the writer of the Forty-first Psalm considered the 'familiar friend' who went back on this

simple covenant to be the worst. 'Yea,' he cries, mournfully, 'mine own familiar friend, in whom I trusted, which did eat my bread, hath lifted up his heel against me.'

As the son of a Syrian family I was brought up to think of bread as possessing a mystic sacred significance. I never would step on a piece of bread fallen in the road, but would pick it up, press it to my lips for reverence, and place it in a wall or some other place where it would not be trodden upon.

What always seemed to me to be one of the noblest traditions of my people was their reverence for the aishbread; literally, 'the life-giver.' While breaking bread together we would not rise to salute an arriving guest, whatever his social rank. Whether spoken or not, our excuse for not rising and engaging in the cordial Oriental salutation before the meal was ended, was our reverence for the food, - hirmetel-'aish. We could, however, and always did, invite the newcomer most urgently to partake of the repast.

At least once each year, for many years, I carried the korban - the bread offering-to the mizbeh (altar of sacrifice) in our village church, as an offering for the repose of the souls of our dead as well as for our own spiritual security. Bread was one of the elements of the holy Eucharist. The mass always closed with the handing by the priest to the members of the congregation of small pieces of consecrated bread. The Gospel taught us also that Christ was the 'bread of life.'

« PreviousContinue »