PS 3523 .0855 L4 1919 Copy 1 tters from Beatrice By Private Pierre Loving Letters from Beatrice (to a Private in the Medical Department) BY PRIVATE PIERRE LOVING Sketches by Norman Jacobsen OSWEGO TIMES COMPANY OSWEGO, N. Y. « These letters first appeared in Ontario Post, the soldiers weekly, published by the enlisted personnel of the U. S. A., General Hospital No. 5, Fort Ontario, N. Y., where Charles, their happy recipient, was stationed for a while. TRAfJSFERrvcD FfiOM OOPYRie»T Of FIfeF SEP »a FEB 24 1912 "Good-bye Ma! Good-bye Pa! Good-bye, Mule, with yer old hee-haw! I may not know what the war's about, But you bet, by gosh, I'll soon find out. An', O my sweetheart, don't you fear, I'll bring you a king fer a souvenir; I'll git you a Turk and a Kaiser too. An' that's about all one feller can do!" — Popular Song. To the private in the Medical Department, who, while doing his part, still looked enviously at the "long, lean country gink," as "he struck fer town by the old dirt road," singing the foregoing song. I. Boston, Mass., Jan. 3, 1918. Dear Charles: I have wanted ever so long to tell you how much mother and especially I appreciate your having enlisted. We realize that you have made an enormous sacrifice for us (who stay at home, knitting most of the time), and for the cause of Democracy. The sacrifice you have made is really great, and it is up to us to tell you what we think about it, to encourage you and to make you as comfortable as we can by our occasional small gifts. I am knitting a helmet for you, and a muffler, which I hope will keep you good and warm. My thoughts always run to something warm for you — wristlets, a sweater, woolen socks and things like that. I suppose your training is very strenuous up at Fort Ontario. I cannot help smiling when I think of your having to drill, as no doubt you do, about six hours a day. Jack Glennon is at Camp Upton, and he writes that they are always kept on the run, with trench digging, drilling, kitchen police and bayonet practice. I don't suppose you have bayonet practice, but there must be other things. It is very hard for me to picture you as a nurse. Do you do very much nursing? I suppose you must know quite a good deal about medi- cines by now. Isn't it hard to nurse patients in the cold? Every night before going to bed I think of you sleeping in a frosty tent with nothing but a bit of can- vas between you and the heartless sky. I can well imag- ine that campfires are not very warm. I feel guilty when I bask in the comforts of our steam-heated flat. We are cutting down our electricity, and the janitor has warned us that the steam-heat will be decreased. We are sparing with sugar and flour, because we want our boys in the unsheltered trenches and in the com- fortless camps, like yours, to get some of it, at least, no matter how little. We suffer all these things patiently and with cheerfulness, because we know that you are suffering much more. How is the food they give you? Not any too good, I fancy. I shall send you some cake, dates, candy and cigarettes. I am also making something which I know you will appreciate more than anything else — some trench candles. The president of our Red Cross coterie has a new formula. They are made of newspapers dipped in ?/ I haven't mastered all the details yet, but, as soon as I do, I shall make you ten or a dozen, and perhaps you can share them with your friends who have no light to read their letters by. Poor things! I am heart and soul in the prohibition movement. I give little talks at our church and at our club on the benefits of prohibition. One of my best arguments is that the barley aand malt should be hoarded. The coun- try will need those products. At all events, our sol- diers come first. If these products are sent them In- stead of being used for such evil purposes as the manu- facture of liquor, the country will be better off and they will be able to fight all the better for the cause of De- mocracy. With loving regards from mother and myself, I am. Sincerely yours, Beatrice. 6 r : They say smoking is the soldiers' pleasure II. Boston, Mass., Jan. 10, 1918. Dear Charles: It is eight o'clock, and through my window I can see a full moon out. It is getting colder and colder, and my thoughts are all of you. The heat is getting stingier and stingier, but mother and I have resolved to sacrifice ourselves in all the comforts of life, for the sake of our brave soldiers. Whenever I think of our brave soldiers fighting in the trenches for democracy, I think also of you. I presume at this minute you are sitting around the campfire, trying to keep warm, and telling stories, just as soldiers do in the pictures of the Sunday supple- ments of the newspapers. I have recently read about the hardships American soldiers suffered at Valley Forge, and sometimes I read in a history about Napoleon (the little man in the cocked hat, you, know), and his campaign in Prussia or somewhere. (I do hope it was Prussia, because it's all the Prussians deserve with their Kaiser, mailed fist, atrocities and things of that sort.) I have heard that the winters at your camp are, severe, and I know when the history of this war comes to be written in after ages, the historian will not forget what you and your worthy comrades, like Washington at Valley Forge, suffered at Fort Ontario. Did you get the cigars I sent you? They say smoking is the soldiers' only pleasure. The cigar store man said that the brand he induced me to buy had been on the market over thirty years. I thought you would appreciate a "well-seasoned cigar," as he put it. He was very enthusiastic about the cigars, and said: "Cremos, like Democracy, are conquering the world." So I bought them at once. I hope you will like them. Do you have to wear an identification tag? I sup- pose all soldiers must. Mother is very much concerned over your identification tag. She is of the opinion that something radical should be done immediately to save it, as far as possible, from the fierce gunfire you will have to encounter. A bullet might hit it and disfigure it and perhaps your name will be blotted out. You can't imagine how much she worries about it. Well, to make a long story short, she has gone to the jeweler's and has ordered a very pretty silver case, which she trusts will protect it. The girls had a very heated discussion at the club the other day. Things became so warm that Jane Dur- ham and her crowd threatened to resign. The row started over a paper read by Virginia Atterbury on con- ditions at our camps. During the discussion which followed, Jane asserted that the war games at our camps were conducted with real bullets and real cannonballs. Virginia replied that it was not so. I knew so little about the matter that I did not know which side to take. I was at a loss, but I rose finally and said that I had a friend at Fort Ontario, who, I was sure, could decide the question for us. So, Charles, I want you to write a short paper on your war games at Fort Ontario — the materials used, the number of men injured, and whether you use real bullets or not. Perhaps you only use dum-dum bullets in these games. In any event, it will be a great 10 pleasure for me to get upon the floor and read your paper to the girls. And I'm sure you'll do this for me. Mother asks me to convey her best wishes, and hopes that the silver case for your identification tag will be strong and solid enough. Sincerely, Beatrice. 11 III. Boston, Mass., Jan. 17, 1918. Dear Charles : Your letter was most welcome. I was glad to be corrected about the dum-dum bullets, but I almost felt like crying, Charles, because I had told Jane Durham that I was sure you used some sort of bullets, and, of course, she will think me a cheat. I cannot tell you how surprised I was to learn that you drilled with litters. I had no idea people ever drilled with litters — but I suppose they are quite deadly. tSo please be careful. In your letter, Charles, you say that Lake Ontario is full of ice caves, but you say nothing at all about the dangers of living in close proximity to them. Aren't you afraid of the polar bears and the seals? Perhaps the seals are tame. If this is really so, I hope you won't think me presumptuous if I ask you to skin one for ine, because I've wanted a sealskin coat ever so long, but mother thinks they are commonplace this season. Things here are very dull, and Ruggles, our Pom- eranian, has become a horrid bore. He is very peevish be- cause we cut down his allowance of sugar. You see, he was accustomed to having six lumps of sugar in his sherry-milk, which is a regular part of every meal. Mow we allow him four lumps, and he is quite piqu?d about it. I would be willing to part with him if you would care to have him as a mascot. I shall do this, however, only on one condition — that he be fed and treated the way he has been raised. 12 **Hc was accustomed to have six lumps of sugar in his sherry-milk'' This is his daily menu: Breakfast, first cut porter- house steak, well trimmed, and sherry-milk, which is composed of one part milk and four parts sherry wmc. After breakfast a nap. After his nap he must be combed and frizzed with aluminum curlers. For lunch- eon, French toast in grade A cream and the white flesh of a squab, also sherry-milk. After luncheon it is his custom to take another nap — his siesta. He must not be disturbed in this, because it is his best sleep. For dinner, chicken a la king, a cup of creme de cocoa and a choice bone full of juicy marrow — also, if he wishes it, sherry-milk. If you will promise to take care of him the way he deserves, I shall be glad to present him to your company as a mascot. I don't suppose the dear little creature would be as much afraid of litters as of dum-dum bul- lets. In your letter you refer to some female nurses. This was a bit of start^ling news to me. I had no idea you had female nurses. You have made me wonder: if there are female nurses, what do you do? I simply can't seem to straighten out the tangle in my mind. No doubt the female nurses are heroic, wonderful women who have sacrificed nobly for the cause of de- mocracy. As you look into their eyes, you must see a transfiguring light burning brightly in them. How won- derful it must be to nurse the wounded! You must have many wounded now. Do the dears ever speak of their mothers and sweethearts back home? How wonderful it must be to take their last dying messages! Of course I haven't the slightest conception of where Fort Ontario is, but I have no doubt it must be somewhere near France. At any rate, you must be nearer France than we, 15 because you are, as you say, near Canada, and Canada is quite overrun with French people, I understand. Well, it is getting late, and I must "Garfield" on lights, so I'm going to bid you good-night. Sincerely, Beatrice. 16 IV. Boston, Mass., Jan. 24, 1918. Dear Charles: It seems that I am bound to be disappointed on all sides. My dense ignorance of military matters pushes me deeper into absurd mistakes. Of course I should have known in advance that litters are not arms. But then, if they are not arms, will you please enlighten me how you can drill with them? It has been snowing here, too, but not as much as in your section of the country. Sixteen feet of snow — just think of it! How thrilling it must be for the men to rescue the wounded under fire with skis and snow- shoes! I see now, Oh how vividly — that hospital men can be heroes, too. At one time, I could not rid myself of the persistent thought that they were shirkers. Now I know better. Yesterday, almost the whole day, I spent shopping downtown and I could not resist gazing into all sorts of shop windows and admiring the displays. I stopped in front of a haberdasher's and suddenly I thought of you. So I went inside and bought two beautiful four-in- hand mauve ties, which I hope you will find just the thing for Saturday inspections. I have seen the Colo- nel's picture in the camp newspaper, that you sent me, and he looks very genial and I know he will give you a good mark for wearing them. But, Charles, you will forgive me if I tell you mat I was shocked by your last letter. It was about the 17 female nurses. I simply can't get over it. In plain, un- mistakable English (I have returned to the photograph again and again to make sure) ; you say that you sit up all night with a female nurse opposite you. Whoever heard of such a thing among the people one knows? Why, Charles, you know as well as I that it isn't done. I think the war has turned the whole world topsy-turvy. If there is a Y. M. C. A. shelter at all in the neighbor- hood of your trench, I want you to promise me to go there immediately. I want you, if you value my friend- ship the least bit, to go there every night and read the magazines. The papers are full of pictures of our soldiers in France, wearing gas masks. Of course I know very lit- tle about these things, but at least I am not so dense as not to realize that, being in a hospital, you do not wear gas masks. Instead of gas masks I suppose you wear ether masks, which are probably far safer con- trivances. Melville Stearns has written me from Camp Mer- ritt. It was a surprising letter, to say the least. I sim- ply couldn't make it or Melville out at all. In it he says that in all probability by next month he will be going to . Now whatever has come over all the boys I once knew? Since they joined the army they are be- ginning to use profanity very freely, even to their girl friends. And, as for you, Charles, how can I forgive you your wild orgies, lasting far into the night, with the female nurses? Mercy, I wish I knew where I was at! Cordially, Beatrice. 18 **Have me appointed chief nurse at Fort Ontario' Boston, Mass., Feb. 7, 1918. Dear Charles: Your last letter was in one way reassuring, and in an- other it was not. Of course I was hurt, but only when I thought of the wicked impossibilities of the thing. I suppose, now that you have explained in full why you sit out the night with a female nurse, that the war is really to blame for it all. It puts so many temptations in the way of men. Yesterday, while sitting in my room with Ruggles curled up in my lap, I took an inventory of my qualities, and — what do you think? I came to the conclusion that I possessed the sweetness, patient tenderness and motli- erliness which go to make a good nurse. I have nursed Ruggles through many sore trials and illnesses, and I believe that this experience has developed in me a ca- pacity for tending the sick. I wonder whether you could not intercede with your superior officers in order to have me appointed Chief Nurse at Fort Ontario. I promise you that I shall not mind the rigors of out-of- doors camp life. I don't think I shall much mind night duty. It will be jolly fun. I haven't spoken to mother about this yet, but I have already packed a few small things in a traveling bag so as to be ready as soon as I get your telegram. Hastily, Beatrice. n VI. Boston, Mass., February 10, 1918. Dear Charles: At present I am quite heartsick because of a great loss in our family midst. I have been weeping ever since it happened. It is Ruggles. You see, since Mr. Hoover has been issuing his frightful bulletins, we have been cutting down on his food. As you know, he grew peevish and piqued about this, and then became wholly unmanageable. Mother and I, against our wishes, de- cided at last to get rid of him somehow. Last night I asked the poor suffering thing what he preferred to do. He looked at me soulfully and I thought that I detected a patriotic gleam in his soft eyes. This morning I hurried to a Naval Recruiting office with Ruggles. They were all very nice to me, from the gentleman in charge, who, I suppose, was an Admiral, right down to the uniformed orderlies who carried out his commands. I suppose they were middies. Aren't most officers in the Navy either Admirals or middies? Well, Charles, they enlisted him. They took him from me and said they would treat him with the usual tenderness of seamen and the tried hospitality of the Navy. And so, I left the dear, sweet creature who had been so good a companion to me. They didn't tell me exactly what rank they gave him. But I hope it is a high one, because I don't believe he could stand com- mon sailor's food very long. Charles, I am heart-broken, and that is why I want to offer myself to your hospital as a Red Cross nurse. 22 You haven't written anything about the town cf Oswego, But on looking at a military map of New York state, I found that you are located in Oswego. Why didn't you tell me of this before? It looks like a good-sized town, and I imagine there must be people there who are not nurses. Are there any pretty girls? Hoping to get your telegram soon, I am Faithully yours, Beatrice. 23 VII. Boston, Mass., Feb. 14, 1918 (After Breakfast) Dear Charles: The time has arrived when I must be outspoken with you. Charles, I think we have come to the climax of our friendship. The tone of this letter may seem to be one of pique, but I assure you it is quite otherwise. All week I waited for your telegram, announcing that you had interceded with the officers at your hospi- tal; that your request was approved by them and that I was to be the chief night nurse. Instead, you sent me a ticket to a madcap orgy called the "Riot of the Runes." All I can say, Charles, is that the name sounds very suspicious. What are the horrible creatures? Not women, surely? I hope not. Is it not enough for them to be widely acclaimed, but must they also add to their degradation by rioting? Why, Charles, must you partake of everything that is, or savors of, the riotous? Oh, dear! I don't know why I take this solicitous and sisterly interest in you, when, certainly, you do not deserve it. I am beginning to think that even night nurses are infinitely more pref- erable to Runes. Charles, I am wondering whether you read your Bible often. I am going to send you a brand new sol- dier's Testament that has just come out. It's the sweet- est little thing in Morocco you ever saw. Please read it often — at night especially. (After Lunch) Of course, Charles, I have no good reason for being so short with you, since I am neither a sister nor a relative to you — only a friend. It wasn't ordained 24 that we should be more than that. And I've been think- ing you must be lonely at Fort Ontario. You must sometimes sit and think of how nice it would be if you had someone akin to a sister near you. Someone to see that you are not neglected, and to take your part when you get into scrapes with those horrid officers. To plead gently with your superiors in order that they may promote you to the grade you best deserve. I am beginning to view things in a different light now. I shall forgive you for all your short-comings. A woman who has a man's interest at heart should always forgive his failings. She should help him to rise, as the poet says, upon his dead selves, to higher things. She should want to lift him up from his sinful dead selves, his riotous dead selves, his dissipated dead selves, to higher things — to music, to everything that will enno- ble him; don't you think so? Charles, I can't help weeping when I think how lonely and unprotected you are! How exposed to the chill winds of chance and misfortune! How run-down in appearance because you have no one in the world, right by your side, to knit and darn and read poetry to you! I have been unjust to you, Charles. Instead of scolding you the way I did, I should have tried to help you in every way possible. Oh, Charles, my eyes are red with weeping. I have misunderstood you from the beginning! I have been wrong and you have been right. Forgive me. If you want to send me any personal telegrams, send them between 1 and 2 o'clock in the afternoon. Mother is usually out then. Faithfully yours, Beatrice. 25 VIII. Boston, Mass., February 20, 1918. Dear Charles: What you said about walking on the lake puzzled me for the longest while. I racked my little brain, and just racked and racked it, but couldn't quite make out what you meant. I thought of all the beautiful exam- ples in history, of people walking on water: of Moses and the Israelites and so on. I attributed it to fantasy at first, believing that it came to you because you had been reading the Scrip- tures diligently of late, according to my wish. But then, I reasoned, you could not have gotten so far al- ready. At last, your pictures came and I understood per- fectly what you meant. I saw that the lake was frozen and that you had ventured out on the ice. Were you hunting for those seals? The pictures were very small, and most people would have been hard put to recognize you among the group, but I picked you out at once. It was your eyes. They are so different! I understand the allies have recently engaged the Germans in an aeroplane battle. It must be a wonder- ful sensation to have wings — to fly! The emotion, the instinct is so lofty, so exalted, that all our boys must be eager to be aviators. And why shouldn't they be? Flying is such a natural human instinct, that al- most anybody can take to it without effort. Every soldier, in my opinion, should have his own 26 little aeroplane. If all women, instead of devoting their spare time to knitting, would pledge themselves to make aeroplanes for our boys in the trenches, a great deal more would be accomplished in the end. The women of this country, I think, must wake up to their responsibility. This is going to be the subject of my next talk at my club. I want to do my own part. That is why I offered myself as chief nurse to your hos- pital. Of course, I would be satisfied with less, but since I have been applying myself industriously to the Red Cross Magazine, reading every single issue, I now feel I am now qualified for one of the superior positions in the service. (Next Morning) Charles, I have changed my mind about being a nurse at the Fort. It is terrible— terrible! I have just talked to an Englishman, and he told me there are rats in the trenches. Oh, dear! dear! It's not the enemy's bullets, Charles — but I really cannot stand mice or rats. So please tell your Colonel that I really shall have to be excused from accepting the position of chief nurse. Faithfully yours, Beatrice. 29 IX. Boston, Mass., Feb. 28, 1918. Dear Charles: My experience in Red Cross nursing is progressing quite wonderfully. The other day Cousin Ethel's dachs- hund, Gretel, fell ill from auto-intoxication and he just squirmed and acted queerly on the parlor rug. We were at a loss as to what to do. I thought of pepsin luckily, and administered a fairly large dose by dribbling it down his tongue. In a short while, his con- dition took a decided change for the better, and he looked at me with kind, grateful eyes. I felt very proud of being some help in an emergency. Is that the idea in back of Red Cross work? We had a very heated discussion the other night at the club, regarding the Caduceus. The question was brought up by Margaret Bradbury. She wanted to know the meaning of the symbol. Margaret is incorri- gible. She always wants to know the meaning of things. Some said it was a kind of a tree, others a sort of Maltese Cross, and still others said it wasn't any- thing at all. Then Margaret, who is a trouble-maker, asked why it was used as an emblem. If it did not mean anything, why should the Medical Department of Uncle barn's army adopt it as an emblem? They might have taken something that had some sense to it, at least — a roll of bandage or an amputating knife or something like that. To settle the matter, we decided to call up a news- paper office, and they told us that it was the walking- stick of some old prune of a god — Greek, I think it was. We were more puzzled than ever. Why should they take the walking-stick of a Oreeic 30 god for an emblem? Especially when they are always starting campaigns of "America First." Surely they might have adopted something which was made in America, instead of Greece. And then I couldn't for the life of me see the connection between a walking- stick and hospital work. Mrs. Mason, president of our Red Cross chapter, explained the matter to me in full. She said that most of our men, when they get out of the hospital, will have to use walking-sticks to get about. That is why they hit upon the idea of using a walking-stick for a symbol. They went back to ancient Greece, she said, because it wouldn't have done to use a modern cane — that was too commonplace. They needed something classical for an emblem. I was quite satisfied with her explanation. (In the Evening) Mr. Jerrins, the banker, came to see mother this afternoon about some busineses^ and I asked him about it. He refuted all the other theories and declared the Caduceus was a stick with a couple of snakes around it. Snakes! Good gracious! I looked quite foolish, I am sure, because I couldn't see the point. Mr. Jerrins continued to explain. He said snakes and snake-bites were dangerous things; for, when you are bitten by a snake, you need some form of first-aid. Sometimes, you resort to a stick, and sometimes after you are bitten you call for help. The help that you get is called first-aid. Charles, my brain is in a whirl. I am sure I shall see nothing but walking-sticks and snakes for the next few weeks. Faithfully, Beatrice. 33 X. Boston, Mass., March 7, 1918. Dear Charles: At the same time that I am mailing you this letter, I am sending you a life-preserver with emergen- cy provision pockets. The store at which I bought it guaranteed that it would keep a man afloat for five days or more. The pockets, as you can see for yourself, are intended for food. Do not neglect the butter pocKet when you fill them before sailing. The butter, the sales- man assured me^ would not spoil because at this time of the year the water is still quite cold. Isn't the war a wonderful thing? It has produced so many marvel- ous and stunning inventions. Charles, I want you to promise me not to sleep in the hold. A torpedo, I am told, always hits the hold first. With several extra blankets and your overcoat you could sleep fairly comfortably on deck or on the captain's bridge. The bridge is really the safest place, because then, if anything should happen, you would have enough time to decide whether you wanted to leap overboard or not. Isn't there usually a lifeboat or something on the roof of the captain's cabin? When you get to France, Charles, I suppose we shall both have to be discreet in our letters. The cen- sor, no doubt, censors everything. He reads all — even the most ardent letters. He is without a soul. Some- times, I am told, when a soldier sends kisses to his 34 sweetheart or wife, indicated by crosses at the bottom of his letter, the censor deletes them for fear it may be some secret code which he hasn't yet got onto. I don't imagine there is a code we might invent, that he wouldn't fathom at the end of two or three letters. The wretch! I can call him the names he deserves now, but later, I suppose^ he will delete them. It's all so brutal, Charles, so unfair. Would you consider it presumptious on my part, if I warned you against the wiles of the French women? Their "flyness" is too well known, for me to do more than mention it here. They are charming, no doubt, and that is exactly why I fear for you. Their charm will beguile you until you will forget everything— your family and your friends. So please, for my sake, be on your guard. The other day I saw a picture in the Sunday news- papers which was taken in Paris. In it there were many soldiers of almost all nations, and everybody was prom- enading in the company of a female person. Right in front, with a fast young thing on his arm, I recognized the picture, true as life, of Charlie Sandham, who mar- ried Mabel Stout, a school chum. Charles, you cannot imagine the heartache I shall suffer until the war is over and you come back — come back to — your friends. Good-bye for the present. Faithfully ever, Beatrice. 35 XI. Boston, Mass., March 14, 1918. Dear Charles: There was a bit in the newspapers the other day about Medical officers, and it said that our Medical offi- cers were handicapped abroad because of their lack of sufficient rank. Now, you have never told me what rank you have, but I hope it is a high rank and that they will see to it very soon that you get a higher one. You must be half-way across the ocean at the writ- ing of this letter. I hope you will reach port safely ■and in health. I have heard a lot recently about the horrible poison gas the Germans are using on our poor innocent soldiers, and that it kills hundreds at once. How horrid! Couldn't something be done? If I sent you some Djer Kiss perfume, do you thing it would neutralize the gas fumes? Something of that sort should be used by our brave soldiers over there. I understand that gas masks are very much in fa- vor in the war zone, although I have never been able to understand of what use a mask would be against foul- smelling gas, which asphyxiates one. At any rate, it will do no harm for you to put your gas mask on, as soon as you land in Paris, and per- haps over there you can purchase some of the Franch colognes which may be able to relieve whatever distress you may be compelled to suffer. You will please me very much, Charles, if you will 36 send me a picture of yourself standing against the background of a French chateau. I just love French chateaus. But please do not wear your gas mask, be- cause I think your features would be hard to make out. Faithfully, Beatrice. 37 XII. Boston, Mass., March 21, 1918. Dear Charles: With Secretary Baker in France now, I suppose we at home can expect mail service between the United States and our boys at the front. The Secretary of War, I understand, is going to take messages from the men and deliver them personally to their friends. I hope you will not forget to ask him to visit us and tell us how you are faring in the war zone. All the girls of our coterie have expressed themselves in the highest terms regarding this noble work of his and have immediately set to work writing their sweethearts and friends, not to overlook this precious opportunity. I met with a sad disappointment the other day. Since you left for the sunny land of France, I have studied the advertisements assiduously regarding what {Our soldiers wear abroad. I want nobody to reproach me with a lack of patriotism. In one of the popular w^eeklies I saw an advertisement of Nettleton boots for officers. There was a picture of a tall, stalwart young man wearing high trim boots. It was wonderful! So with- out delay, I started out for a boot shop, with the idea of purchasing myself boots that would come as near as possible to the style that is in vogue among our brave fighters. I asked the salesman confidently to give me a high 38 boot of Nettleton make of a brilliant dark tan. And what you think happened? He informed me apologet- ically that the National Service or something like that of the shoe industry was restricting the color of leather and also limiting the height of woman's shoes to eight and a half inches. Now isn't that mean? They talk about conservation and patriotism in the same breath — as if indeed they were the same thing! I read somewhere not very long ago that the Eng- lish drink tea in the trenches. So, I am sending you twenty-five pounds of excellent English breakfast tea. I am very fond of the ways of the English. Aren't you? Faithfully, Beatrice. 39 XIII. Boston, Mass., March 28, 1918. I have been considerably perplexed of late and, seeing no clear way out of my confusion, I am going to open my heart to you. It is all about this Daylight Saving plan. I had it explained to me thoroughly last week and then I found, after attempting to put it into practice, that I didn't understand it at all. Supposing we put the clocks back one hour, I can understand that we will have twenty-five hours in the day instead of twenty-four, and that that will give us so much more time to sleep and do our shopping in. This will be great because the shops are so crowded nowadays that it takes from three to five hours more every day to do one's shopping completely. But here is a point I fail to understand exact- ly. I said to Mr. Briefcase, our family solicitor, after he had explained the matter to me fully, what exactly would be the objection to setting the clock back two hours, and thus making the day twenty-six hours long. Mr. Briefcase took the trouble to go over the whole matter again, and still I failed to be convinced. I am still of the opinion that the original idea oi saving daylight can be improved in some such manner, as I have suggested. Then I thought of China. I do not know how I came to think of China. But somehow China flash- ed through my mind, like an inspiration, and I thought that with China I would simply baffle clever Mr. Brief- case. I wanted to show him that I wasn't thr^ simple young thing he doubtless considers me. 40 China, I said, is enveloped in complete darkness during our own daylight, and vice versa, we are en- veloped in darkness when China has the sun. He agreed v/ith me, such was the case. Well, I continued, if that is really the case, why not do away with night al together, Mr. Briefcase raised his eyebrows with a start and looked at me in kind of foolish amazement. Yes, I said, why not put the clock back twelve hours instead of one hour? Then the difference of time between China and our part of the world, which is about twelve hours, would be done away with and we should have daylight at the same time all over the world. I went further than that, for a bolder scheme hurtled through my head. "Why not," said I with quiet coolness, "put the clock back the whole twenty-four and so do away with night entirely?" Mr. Briefcase gasped at the stupendousness of the idea. I could see that it had taken him completely by surprise. "By doing that," I went on, "you will be saving oil, gas and electric power; you will conserve coal; you will increase the output of manufactures; you will benefit the national health by more daylight, because of so many additional hours for recreation; you will reduce the cost of living, for persons will be able to rais5 garden truck for domestic consumption — and you will also improve the training of our brave fighting forces." What do you think, Charles? After my enthusiastic explanation,, Mr. Briefcase said that he could not see it. Faithfully, Beatrice. 41 XIV. Boston, Mass., April 4, 1918. Dear Charles: Now that the Germans have seized all the petro- leum interests in Rumania^ what are we going to do for Petroleum Jelly? Petroleum Jelly is quite necessary to the ordinary household as talcum powder and that — /at least the French kind — is growing scarcer and scarc- ..er every day. I do not know, Charles, what will become of the world if all these necessary articles, especially cosmet- ics, are taken away from us. Some people will turn to cold cream no doubt, and when the bulk of the sup- ply of cold cream gives out, I suppose we will eke out the day's shopping with polished noses. Don't you think it would be most patriotic at this time to launch an anti-cosmetic campaign? The short- age of satisfactory French perfumes is positively ap- palling. Dear me, it is simply horrid, when you come to think of it. Imagine the soldiers returning and finding their wives, sisters and sweethearts, trudging home from their farmettes, with the implements of agricultural toil swung across their enlarged shoulders, and greeting them with shiny, glistening faces. And that reminds me to tell you that I am working whole-heartedly with the women's division of the Unit- ed States Employment Service which proposes to sup- ply women for farm work. This in addition to my in- 42 dividual spy-hunting campaign. "Swat the Spy" is my unlagging slogan. My masters are Dupin, Sherlock Holmes and the thrilling stories of Arthur B. Reeve. If everybody undertook to detect and capture at least one enemy agent, the United States would, I am sure, soon be rid of the insidious 400,000 who infest the land. In order to make myself fit for this task, which I consider my master-service, I have bought a sword, one set of Poe's works and two sets of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a magnifying glass and other implements, nec- essary to hunt down the underhanded system of Ger- man espionage in our beloved country. The other day I started my search, accoutred with several essential weapons taken from my supply of pa- raphernalia. I had always suspected our laundry- woman, who has a pronounced foreign accent. I never thought to inquire to what nationality she belonged, but I was almost certain that she was German, and sometimes she aroused my curiosity by her strange and unaccountable actions. I followed her one day to her tenement house. Holding my breath, I crept up the stairs and peered through the keyhole. I heard voices conversing in an outlandish jargon which I surmised must be German. Three men and a boy were leaning over a large sheet of paper spread on the table. They were all making mysterious designs on the paper and whispering. I complimented myself on the accuracy of my in- stincts. This was a nest of German spies. I slid down stairs noiselessly and called a policeman. Together we went upstairs. He rapped on the door. It was openea. A man came to the door. 45 "What are you doing here?" said the officer in a raucous voice. "I leeve here," replied the man, a trifle overawed by the policeman. "What are you and your friends doing there? What is your nationality?" "Mister p'leeceman," pleaded the man, so humbly that I pitied him, "I speak lettle English. I am a Ru- manian. My leetle son and my frainds, they play with — what you call it — a puzzle in the newspaper." We approached the table, and, to be sure, it was the American and each one was trying to solve one of those perfectly silly puzzles which they print from time to time and for which they offer some sort of stupid prize. I looked at the policeman, shame-faced and amazed. "Let me hear you speak Rumanian," commanded the policeman gruffly. It seemed that he had had ex- perience with spies before this and was inwardly deter- mined not to be outwitted. The man spoke a few words in his strange jargon. Then the policeman turned to me and said very po- litely. "Pardon me, Miss, I am sure this man is not a German. At least, he doesn't speak like one and he doesn't look like one. You see. Miss, as I was born in Bavaria and studied at the University of Berlin, I know the German dialects fairly well. And the language this man speaks, I can say with some degree of cer- tainty, is not one of the German dialects." Charles, can you imagine how I felt? Faithfully, Beatrice. 46 -TTKofis^ **1 Will not enlarge on the play' XV. New York, N. Y., April II, 1918. Dear Charles: Mother and I have been visiting in New York, and we have been quite rushed to death making our rounds of the Soldiers' and Sailors' clubs and contributing our mite. Of course, all our activities along war work lines have been more or less exciting, but the most thrilling experience I have had thus far in New York was in connection with my espionage crusade. I have not been as successful as I should wish, but I feel every day that I am making appreciable progress in the right direction. Would you advise me to join a Pinkerton Sleuth school? I am seriously considering the step. My latest episode or experience, whichever you call it, in New York was most thrilling. It happened last night. You see Mr. and Mrs. Howe Marreed, with whom we are visiting, invited us to go to the theater. I will not enlarge on the play. It soon bored me, but the man who was sitting at my right soon attracted my attention. He had a harsh, round face, and wore a dark, threatening, bristling moustache. His gaze was seem- ingly directed at the stage, but I soon discovered that this was only a clever bit of camouflage, and that he was taking in every word that we were saying. Out of the corner of my eye I studied his face carefully. It was most exotic, to say the least, and soon I came to the conclusion that he was a German. As we were leaving, after the last curtain, I whis- 49 pered to Mr. Marreed to pile mother and Mrs. Marreed into a taxi and to utter no word, but to follow me, al- lowing himself a margin of twenty paces. Mr. Marreed started to protest, but I would not listen. Well, Charles, I followed the stranger. He was rather stout and stocky in build and walked slowly. We turned down Forty-fourth street. At Madison avenue he boarded a car. I beckoned to Mr. Marreed and we both followed after. At Fifteenth street, the myste- rious German got off and directed his way toward Ir- ving Place. We pursued, Mr. Marreed diligently keep- ing his twenty paces. At Irving Place, the stranger glanced behind; then came to an abrupt stop. He faced me, opened the lapel of his coat with a wide flourish, and then — "Halt," he commanded, flashing a police badge right in my face. "I'm from Headquarters. No sass, see! If youse don't answer my questions, I'll run youse in, and no bones about it, either. We's had too much trouble wid youse furriners of late." "Why — why — " I protested. "No back talk," he bellowed rudely. "Now you tell me where you come from. I know you ain't born in New York. You speak wid the dialeck of a furriner. I bin watchin' you ever since you entered the theayter. Where do you come from? No soft stuff; I want the truth." "Why why — we come from Boston." Luckily, at that moment, Mr. Marreed came up and explained to the detective that we were well-known Boston people, and that our patriotism was beyond re- proach, as we had three members of the family in the war of 1776, two in the Civil war, and at least half a 50 ^'I followed the stranger *' dozen doing their bit at the present time. At first the detective would not be convinced. "What about that furrin accent? What about the yellow wispy German hair? I can tell when folks is speakin' American. This lady speaks wid a furrin ac- cent, I tell you, or my name ain't Tim Scanlon, the searchlight of the plain-clothes squad." Oh, Charles, it was terrible — terrible — to be sus- pected of being a German spy. Think of that! Mr. Mar- reed managed at last, by mysteriously uncreasing his bill-fold to settle the matter with Mr. Tim Scanlon, the searchlight of the plain-clothes squad. I breathed a sigh of relief. I am heart-broken — truly heart-broken. I was born and bred in poston. I have lived in and around Boston all my life, and — and do yoi; think I speak with a for- eign accent? Faithfully, Beatrice. 53 XVI. New York, N. Y., April 18, 1918. Dear Charles: I am still in New York, but, due to the extraordi- nary fiascoes and amazing failures of my espionage hunt, I have renounced my intended career of sleuth- ing. Instead, I am now going in for research work as to the causes of the war and the most feasible method of ending it. I have sat for hours and hours pondering, analyz- ing, appealing to the innermost recesses of my mind for a suggestion, for a cure, which will surely end all wars. I want to proclaim my idea, when once I have discovered it, to the world, before Mr. Taft's League of Nations gets a firm and secure hold. After much thought, I have come to the conclusion that one thing would do it — one wonderful, soothing thing, and that thing is — guess? Just music — music, divine, seraphic, quieting, lull- ing music, the food of the gods. I reasoned that most people nowadays are driving in two positive directions. One is toward high-pitched emotionalism and the other is toward phleggma. (Oh dear, I do hope that I have spelled that word correctly.) Each day, as we walk down the street, we are continu- ally being attracted by lots of objects that are really unimportant, and as a result our heads keep moving and bobbing in all directions. How much worse will it be, when the deep blue heavens will be studded with aeroplanes? That's what we must seek to avoid, and music is the one thing that will do it. Now as to phlegma, there are some people, as you know quite well, who need a bombing party to arouse them to anything like activity, so great is their innate inertia. My theory, in brief, is that phlegma must be treated by the hypnotic power of music. And so it nat- urally follows, having done away with emotionalism and phleggma, all wars will end. These things cause all wars. I disagree emphati- cally with the writers on the present war, as to its causes. These two things are the only causes possible. So give us — the world — music, — the word thrills my backbone when I utter it — music — music. Charles, tell me how you like the idea. Does it impress you? Charles, I am ashamed to confess it, but I must, — it is all part of a speech, which was written out for me by a well-known musician, and which I must deliver at various clubs. I hope the subject is well presented. The decorative touches are mine. Faithfully, Beatrice. 57 XVII. Boston, Mass., April 24, 1918. Dear Charles: After a brief career of lecturing on the mollifying effects of music and its immeasurable value in any sane drive for world peace, I am back in Boston with new in- terests, new ennobling preoccupations. Of late, I have been ruthlessly haunted with the nightmare which has materialized in the shape of a restless questioning: Am I patriotic? Am I doing all I can for the cause? Am I? And the only reply forth- coming, within myself, is that decidedly I am not. This is why I have sought to increase my war activ- ities a thousandfold. To begin with, I have joined a Knitters' Reserve Corps, of which Mrs. Blackdon Adams is chairman and I am secretary. My work consists in taking down the names of people who would like to join us, and sending them pos- tal cards when the meetings are called. Also, of ignor- ing and discreetly snubbing the people whose names we don't just like. That is the major part of my work, to be truthful, and it is very fascinating, I assure you. There are so many people in Boston whose names are not the names. You know what I mean. I almost forgot to tell you about our Liberty Loan parade. We wore simple white nurses' frocks with red sashes, and we looked very efficient and immaculate when we assembled. Charles, you have marched, — tell me, does one always get dusty and tired and parched 58 when one is on the march? My, but we did march! We marched up Beacon Hill and along Commonwealth Ave- nue, and — almost everywhere. We walked on cobble-stones, on car tracks, between car tracks. Don't you think it stupid of them, not hav- ing removed, the car tracks for the lofty occasion? In France, I understand, they have removed the trouble- some car tracks, so that the feet of their women might not become bruised and swollen. But in Boston they haven't. How tired and limp we were when we came to the end. We all looked for a tea shop, discovered one and darted into it, in order to recuperate. I cannot avoid thinking that we helped the cam- paign considerably, and Boston's quota will be largely exceeded because of our supreme sacrifice. Why, even our complexions were damaged, owing to the sun and the exertion. Of course, we were well prepared. But what do cosmetics avail, when one is on the march for victory? I have written to Washington about my own bonds. I told them expressly that the money I contributed was to go for flowers for you — and your comrades in the trenches. Perhaps the flowers will have a soothing in- fluence on those unspeakable rats! Faithfully, Beatrice. 61 XVIII. Boston, Mass., May 3, 1918. Dear Charles: Many thrilling and uplifting things have happened to me since I wrote to you last. The war, with its hor- rors, its sacrifices, has vanished for me, and yet, strange as it may seem to you, I have been shaken to the very roots of my being. I do not know how to broach the subject to you, Charles. And, more than that, I cannot let you write to me any longer as you have. Please do not take it very much to heart. I know that you will be affected- Perhaps you will be bruised, and, being bruised will be bad for you at the front. Charles, I have wanted — Oh, so much! — to do my bit. I wanted to send a soldier to the front, but I had nobody to send. I have thought of you — well — tender- ly, resolving to make you cheerful and happy at all costs. The effectiveness of Mr. Baker's great army, I said to myself, shall not be diminished by so much as one soldier, if I can help it. But, Charles dear, some- thing wonderful, something tremendous has happened to me. Can you guess what? Can you guess? But my heart bleeds for you, because the news I must now divulge will touch you to the quick, and, who knows, perhaps rack you to inaction. Please, please, Charles, do not let Uncle Sam, President Wilson and his Cabinet lose you now, just when you are in the thick of the fighting at Fort Ontario. Bear this with noble valor. Look at the French, at the battle of the 62 Marne, the English, at Ypres, and the Somme! They had more to bear than you — infinitely more. Take cour- age from them, your noble Allies. But I must tell you. Do you remember Johnny Doughpate? He was a classmate of yours at school. Well, one day while moth- er and I were busy knitting and making trench candles, for you and your comrades at the front, who should breeze in but an officer — a Captain of Infantry! Think of that. He looked very smart and very much like no one I knew. He bowed and introduced himself. You can imagine the rest. It was Johnny Doughpate. i am aware that you did not think much of Johnny. Noboay did, in fact. The war has changed him and made him the most wonderful soldier I have seen or read about. He is just a splendid figure of a man. He took me to the theater that evening, and I was proud to have him at my side. And then, suddenly, when I least expected it, he proposed. Yes, Charles, he proposed, but in such an original manner. He said to me, "Beatrice, dear, I want you to give up knitting and candle-making and espionaging. I want you to forget the war and be my wife." "But you are going to France," I protested. "No, he said, with a bitter smile, "I am not going, Beatrice. I have just been discharged for flat feet." Nevertheless, Charles, he was a brave-looking soldier, and his manner was irresistible. He represented to me a sacrifice to the great cause of Democracy. I was de- termined at once to make him my sacrifice — my own small sacrifice, and so I accepted. The marriage has been set for a month from next Saturday. I am happy now in the consciousness that I have given at least one man to the service. Charles, our letters must now end. I have told him all about our 63 friendly correspondence. Frankly, he disapproves. He says that soldiers are not fit persons to associate with. Of course, 1 do not wholly agree with him, but I cannot go contrary to his wishes. Charles, our letters must now end. Let us be silent friends. For the present, until the war is over, good-bye. Sincerely, Beatrice. (Soon to be Mrs. John Chirp whistle Doughpate.) 64 Boston, Mass., November 11, 1918. Dear Charles: Peace has come! The armistice has been signed and the world, including Boston, is a sort of raging flame. I do not as yet understand it all. I cannot see why people should get so disgustingly happy and aban- doned, when there is so much to discuss, to talk about, to debate in connection with the great issues the war has aroused. It is such a very, very long time that I have writ- ten you, Charles, and I feel guilty and ashamed. Do not think that I have quite forgotten you. You have been in my thoughts night and day, Charles. What I have wanted to tell you during all these trying months — and I struggled hard — is that I have broken my engagement with Johnny Doughpate. John- ny was, as you know, a brave-looking, trig and trim soldier. His serge uniform fitted him like a Paris glove; his insignia were immaculately polished; his braid was generously broad; his Nettletons were the last word in boots. I, therefore, decided to accept him as my sacrifice in the great war. Was I selfish? Was I wrong? I wanted to do something for the cause, and Johnny, as you know, had flat feet. I think the military surgeons call it bi- flateral or something of the sort. Well, Johnny was bi-flateral on both feet and couldn't possibly be sent to the trenches. Suppose the Germans made a sur- prise attack. What would have happened to poor Johnny? 65 Of course, that was not why I concluded to break with Johnny. It was another matter entirely. It was because, when he finally resigned from the army, he had to discard his tailor-made uniform. And Johnny with- out his uniform — Charles, you will forgive me if I can- not suppress the hot gush of tears — Johnny without his uniform turned out to be a perfect fright. He was thin and rawboned. He was chicken-breasted and knockneed. Oh, Charles, it is all too horrible! The uniform was evidently padded and had been very well tailor-made by a military tailor. I simply couldn't marry Johnny Doughpate. Johnny's conversation was never brilliant as you know. Frankly, it bored me to extinction. And so, thus stripped of his military regalia, I could not pos- sibly marry him for his conversation. What would my friends say? Charles, I can but wait until the boys come home. I know that you will not be discharged from the army for some time yet. But, when you do return from the war, whether you wear a croix de guerre identification tag or other honor or not, remember that I am still your friend. I know that mother is — that we are waiting for your speedy return. Yours for the Peace Conference, Beatrice. 66 uiBHAHY OF CONGRESS !!!illil!llli!l!!l!!IJI!!!iil!!l!!!llil!l!l!li 015 926 391 5