Story Hour Readings: Seventh Year Part 45

On the day which I have in mind, a drizzling rain comes softly, though steadily, down. A number of soldiers, hardly distinguishable from the mud in which they are working, are busy leveling off the ground around a flagpole which stands in the center of the cemetery. Presently they stop 15 work and stand listening to the drumbeats which can be heard faintly in the distance. The little group gathers about the flagpole, waiting.

Slowly up the roadway comes a procession headed by the band playing the sweetly solemn funeral march. Behind 20 it is carried a plain wooden box, draped with the Stars and Stripes, while a firing squad marches in the rear. They stop at a newly dug grave and gently lower the coffin. In clear, concise tones the chaplain reads the funeral service. A mist seems to creep up from the valley and wisps of it wind themselves through the air. In the neighboring field the sheep who have been grazing huddle together and gaze, as only sheep can, at the performance going on near them. Like the sheep, the soldiers in the cemetery gather closer to each 5 other, each one's eyes filled with tears, and each one conscious of a queer sensation going on within him. . . .

Now the chaplain has finished, the members of the firing squad take their places. A dead silence ensues, broken by the shots of their rifles. Two more salvos are fired and the 10 ceremony is finished. Finally, when the mist has become very dense, the clear notes of the bugle ring out, blowing taps for a soldier's last farewell sleep.

You will never really appreciate the beauty and pathos of the notes of taps unless you have heard them while lying 15 on your hard bunk some night at the end of a hard day.

The music seems to say that some day things will be peaceful again, all these hards.h.i.+ps will be merely incidents to laugh over in the happy days to come. And so, singing its farewell to you, the notes die away, leaving you to slip into 20 the balm of sleep.

The grave has now been covered and the procession and workers gone. The fields and valley seem forsaken and alone in the late afternoon. But no, there by the graves, flitting through the rain in their capes and hoods, and looking 25 like so many little sparrows, are some little French girls, daughters of the near-by peasants. Tenderly their little hands decorate the newest grave with flowers, their tribute to one who risked all for the safety of little maidens. Thus the grave is left, heaped with green branches and flowers, a 30 pretty resting place.

--_The Springfield Republican._

_OUR COUNTRY_

_Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights, She heard the torrents meet.

There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gathered in her prophet mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind.

Then stepped she down through town and field To mingle with the human race, And part by part to men revealed The fullness of her face._

--ALFRED TENNYSON.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE STATUE OF LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD]

AMERICA FOR ME

BY HENRY VAN d.y.k.e

Doctor van d.y.k.e (1852-) is a noted clergyman, writer, and educator. He has long been connected with Princeton University. From 1913-1917, during the trying period of the World War, he was United States minister to Holland. His many visits to Europe have served only to increase his devotion to his native land. The following poem is a fine expression of the genuine homesickness of the traveled scholar for his own country. You should read it and re-read it until it has sung itself into your memory.

(From _The Poems of Henry van d.y.k.e_. Copyright, 1920, by Charles Scribner's Sons.)

'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down Among the famous palaces and cities of renown, To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of the kings-- But now I think I've had enough of antiquated things. 5

_So it's home again, and home again, America for me!

My heart is turning home again, and there I long to be, In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars._

Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air; 10 And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair; And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study Rome; But when it comes to living, there is no place like home.

I like the German fir woods, in green battalions drilled; I like the gardens of Versailles with flas.h.i.+ng fountains filled; But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble for a day In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her 5 way!

I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something seems to lack; The Past is too much with her, and the people looking back; But the glory of the Present is to make the Future free,-- 10 We love our land for what she is and what she is to be.

_Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me!

I want a s.h.i.+p that's westward bound to plow the rolling sea, To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the ocean bars, 15 Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars._

1. How many places are mentioned by name? Tell what and where each is.

2. What does the author admire in the Old World?

What does he mean by his distinction between London and Paris? List the things the author misses in the Old World. How is America contrasted with Europe?

Explain line 15, page 334.

3. Report on other writings of Dr. van d.y.k.e. Which of his outdoor books do you know?

Love thou thy land, with love far-brought From out the storied Past, and used Within the Present, but transfused Through future time by power of thought.

--_Alfred Tennyson._

WARREN'S ADDRESS AT THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL

BY JOHN PIERPONT

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!

Will ye give it up to slaves?

Will ye look for greener graves?

Hope ye mercy still?

What's the mercy despots feel? 5 Hear it in that battle peal!

Read it on yon bristling steel!

Ask it--ye who will!

Fear ye foes who kill for hire?

Will ye to your homes retire? 10 Look behind you! they're afire!

And, before you, see Who have done it! From the vale On they come!--and will ye quail?-- Leaden rain and iron hail 15 Let their welcome be!

In the G.o.d of battles trust!

Die we may--and die we must; But, oh, where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, 20 As where heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell?

WHAT IS AN AMERICAN?

BY HECTOR SAINT JEAN DE CReVECUR

De Crevecur (1731-1813) was a French writer who emigrated to America at the age of twenty-three. He settled on a farm near the City of New York, and came to know many of the great men of his day. For instance, he had the friends.h.i.+p of Was.h.i.+ngton and Franklin. France appointed him as her consul at New York. In 1782 Crevecur published his _Letters of an American Farmer_. As this extract shows, it is almost prophetic in its insight into the future.