Death is done, my Soldier Son, and you know, aye, you know, that France is safe and children’s homes.
And the little mother (ah! well we ken, Laddie, you and I, how much she gave herself to you) sends you this message:
“Thank God I gave my boy to be a Soldier,”
and saying it, her face glowed with the pride of the mother whose first-born son, flying in the heavens, was transfigured before her eyes as he soared upwards into the presence of his God.
We’ll nae’ forget you, Laddie, and we’ll be greeting you soon, but while we tarry here, sitting often alone by the fireside in the old home you loved, we won’t grieve for you, Laddie, and if we are a wee bit lonely at times, we will open the treasure box of “pleasant memories” you left us and let the joy of them fill our hearts.
Your Father.
Winnetka, Ill., March 1, 1919.