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Others are bending over cradles, kissing
babes that are asleep. Some are receiving the blessings of old men. Some
are parting with mothers who hold them and press them to their hearts
again and again, and say nothing. Kisses and tears, tears and
kisses--divine mingling of agony and love! And some are talking with
wives, and endeavoring with brave words, spoken in the old tones, to
drive from their hearts the awful fear. We see them part. We see the
wife standing in the door with the babe in her arms--standing in the
sunlight sobbing. At the turn of the road a hand waves; she answers by
holding high in her loving arms the child. He is gone, and forever.
We see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags,
keeping time to the grand, wild music of war; marching down the streets
of the great cities, through the towns and across the prairies, down to
the fields of glory, to do and to die for the eternal right. We go with
them, one and all. We are by their side on all the gory fields, in all
the hospitals of pain, on all the weary marches.


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