THE SUNDAY EVENING LETTER

Dominion, Volume 11, Issue 117, 4 February 1918, Page 3

THE SUNDAY EVENING LETTER

COMPANION .PICTUBBS. (By Hilda M. Lore, in tho "Daily Mail.")-. ; One girl lies on the mat in front of the fire, writing steadily. Nan is seated on the cut-down chair by the grandfather clock, supporting a writing-pad on her knee. Him arifo Biddy share the ink, the table, and the lamplight,' while Mick stands by tlip old oak dresser reading through her lengthy epistle, her brilliant head a blob of gold against the blue willowpattern plates. Nothing disturbs the serenity of■ the charming cottage sot amid the hills of .Worcestershire save the scratching of pens, tho rustle of paper, an occasional quiet chuckle, as some anecdote is penlied, and now andi aeain an unconscious, 6igh as one of the writers -pauses, leaning on'her elbow, quietly chewing the ,end of her pen. It was a peaceful enough, war scene. Tho soft glow of firelight and lamp showed the healthy, keen, happy faces of the girls who for months have braved •;uu, wind, and rain, growing fruit and •egctables.for the it rested on t 'ieir moving fingers, displaying tho mourable—if unlovely—jnarKs of •uch recent onion weeding and sprout picking. Finally,; the lengthy, stillness . was broken by a search for humorous cartoons, a-wrapping up of magazines, journals, and Sunday papers, a_ selection of snapshots of the girls in the fields, a. late violet slipped into an envelope, addresses verified, and a final sealing and stamping of letters. It all brought back so vividly the scone on which I gazed a week ago —a Sunday scene familiar all over France. A long Y.M.C.A. hut ..where from morning till night the pens and pencils are busy. After church parade till the camp sleeps, khaki men clown from the lire, bound for the line, convalescent or .permanent bases, are writing on the stationery that' bears the scarlet trier rle known to all women. All through/the mGrning, right on

through tho afternoon and evening, the huts are thronged with men writing—writing homo, fhey are deaf to the conversation going on around them, to tho tea and coffee drinkers by their side, indifferent to the variety of humanity that passes down the barbedwiro fence outside the camp. They, too, occasionally loan on their elbows an'd pause as they write. They aro trying to visualise scones so different, to realise the simple things that tho folk at home will be doing at this minute, to shut out the grey camp, tho barbed wire, and the signs and sounds of war. ' ,

In the evening it is easier to concentrate. The drawn blinds, the departure of gayer spirits, the comparative quiet of' the camp, aid expression and help thoughts to reach the pon. _ It is on Sunday evening that something of the shy soul of the fighting man creeps into the lines of his letter. That Sunday evening letter has become an institution both "at home" and ■ "out there."

Mothers of families, when tbe children are in bed, when the duties of tlio day are mostly finished, when peace Mescends upon the household, choose that hour to write to the husband or son away at the war. Women and girls of the business world cherish that hour of Sunday for the letter to "him." There is a peculiar fascination' about that Sunday evening letter. Out of the crowded days of work, of l heartache and anxiety, this quiet hour of the Sabbath comes as a blessed respite ; hearts separated hold communion one with another, unseen hands of comfort seem to stretch out and bridge the distance, the new week stretches' ahead with all its wonderful possibilities, fresh vigour seems to come for the individual effort, words of love, words of optimism and cheer, flow freely from the pen, and a special benediction seems to fall upon the for reunion, peace, and victory. ' Probably that is -why the Sunday evening letter is treasured so dearly by those men of ours beyond the waters, and by the*women at home who read in the loved handwriting:_ "It is Sunday evening. I am picturing what you are all doing at home. . . ." Maybe on the night of the Sabbath our spirits bridge for awhile the seas that divide.