And then the most memorable thing happened, the most memorable thing in what for me was a wondrous journey. All across the Old World we had come, almost from the very farthest corner of the Old World, a wonderful journey not to be lightly undertaken nor soon forgotten. And yet as I went on board that ship I felt what a very little thing it was. I have been feeling it ever since. A Norwegian who spoke good English was there, going back to London, and, talking to another man, he mentioned in a casual manner something about the English contingent that had landed on the Continent.
It startled me. Not in my lifetime, nor in the lifetime of my father, indeed I think my grandfathers must have been very little boys when the last English troops landed in France.
“English troops!” I cried in astonishment.
The Norwegian turned to me, smiling.
“Yes,” he said. “But of course they are only evidence of good will. Their use is negligible!”
And I agreed. I actually agreed. Britain's rôle, it seemed to me, was on the sea!
And in four years I have seen Britain grow into a mighty military power. I have seen the men of my own people come crowding across the ocean to help the Motherland; I have seen my sister's young son pleased to be a soldier in that army, just one of the proud and humble crowd that go to uphold Britain's might. And all this has grown since I stood there at the head of the Norwegian fiord with the western sun sparkling on the little wavelets and heard a friendly foreigner talk about the little army that was “negligible.”
I was tired. I envied those who could work and exert themselves, but I could do nothing. If the future of the nation had depended on me I could have done nothing. I was coming back to strenuous times and I longed for rest. I wanted a house of my own; I wanted a seat in the garden; I wanted to see the flowers grow, to listen to the birds singing in the trees. All that our men are fighting for to keep sacred and safe, I longed for.
And I have had it, thanks to those fighting men who have sacrificed themselves for me, I have had it. It is good to sit in the garden where the faithful little friend I shall never forget has his last resting-place; it is good to see the roses grow, to listen to the lark and the cuckoo and the thrush; but there is something in our race that cannot keep still for long, the something, I suppose, that sent my grandfather to the sea, my father to Australia, and scattered his sons and daughters all over the world. I had a letter from a soldier brother the other day. The war holds him, of course, but nevertheless he wrote, quoting:
“Salt with desire of travel