As I write these lines I think of one dear boy, a young sergeant, a Public-School boy. I had watched him grow up. I knew his home, and as he leaned against me he said, “Gipsy, I’m homesick; I want my mother,” and then, with a sob, he said, “Tell me more about Jesus.”
I was able to talk to him about his mother because I had lost mine, and just because I love Jesus I was able to talk to him about the blessed Jesus Who comes into a man’s heart when he is sad, lonely, and homesick, and helps him.
He was lying on a stretcher, and it was my privilege to hold his hand and to kiss him for his mother.
“Gipsy,” he said, “does it mean West?”
I said, “Sonny, it means West.”
As I held his hand it flickered for a moment and he said, “I am not afraid to go. I know Christ. I found Him in your meetings, and—it’s great to die, for freedom.”
And it was a great thing for me to be with your boy then.
I thank my God upon every remembrance of your boys.
THE END