“Lots of people have written about him; but this book is his own.”
“You mean he wrote it?” He smiled incredulously. “Why, the poor chap hadn’t any education!”
“Perhaps he had more than you think. Let me keep the book a moment longer, and read you something from it.”
He signed an assent, though I could see the apprehension of the printed page already clouding his interest.
“What sort of things did he write?”
“Things for you. Now listen.”
He settled back into his armchair, composing a painfully attentive countenance, and I sat down and began:
A sight in camp in the day-break grey and dim.
As from my tent I emerge so early, sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air, the path near by the hospital tent,
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there, untended lying,
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woollen blanket,
Grey and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.
Curious, I halt, and silent stand:
Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest, the first, just lift the blanket:
Who are you, elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-grey’d hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes?
Who are you, my dear comrade?
Then to the second I step—And who are you, my child and darling?
Who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet blooming?