BEHIND THE WAR.

Pukekohe & Waiuku Times, Volume 5, Issue 205, 1 September 1916, Page 3 (Supplement)

BEHIND THE WAR.

THE SORROW OF iriE MOURNERS. Far from the sound of guns and ai • tillery and far behind the trenches there's a long quiet fight go'ng on. It's a fight with loneliness and anxiety, with stern economy and the overwhelming sorrow that comes to those whose loved ones are lying on some namele-s loved ones are Ivuig on some nameless battlefield. 1 have watched this unrecorded struggle waging in the hills and glens of bonnie Scotland, in the lonely islands of the western Hebr : des and in the moorland tracks of Ireland. 1 hax-t seen it stirring in the Yorkshire dales and in the sweet, flower-scented lan-s of Devon. 1 have heard it in the sound of Celtic voices that only speak the Gaelic and in the curious patois ot French tongues. The sp : rit and the meaning were th«* same, though sometimes the expressio ■ varied. It was ):ke the music of a violincello, with courage for the main theme and pain the undercurrent. Fot so, says the poet, "as in all sweetest music, a tinge of sadness was in every notu." Over in Flanders I saw delightful little orchards laden with a foam >)? pink and wlr'te. Their scent was wonderful. Tiie birds were fluttering among the blossoms, singing their little hearts out in ecstasy. And when I saw th« ruined hearthstones and the desolation that the German guns had made it seemed as though the birds' song was 1 chant of death. Spring clambered rotously over the battlefield of the Mairne, too, where von Kluck made his memorable retreat. But there were dreadful spots whcr> not a single flower would grow, and. drawing nearer, I saw the reason why These great white circles were the German funeral pyres, where the assembled dead had ben piled up by the hundred, and, soaked with paraffin, had blazed up till the very sky grew red. Among the ashes and the lime one even yet could see fragments of bone. Everywhere one goes there's a long, long list of those who are waiting tor the men that w : Il never return. They plod along the old routine, but all Hie gladness of life has died within them. All honour for the brave fight they are putting up and let us judge their stumblings gently! In Ireland I saw many of those quiet mourners. There are those who in the present troubled times can see no good in Ireland. For tho benefit of such, 1 wish to state here that the recent uisur-j-ccUon d : d not for one single moment represent the real spirit of the distressful country. It is wrong to class the many with tho few. Ireland is loyal :n her heart and will continue so. Pity •she demands but never condemnation. A web of tragedy seems to weave it* toils around her through all the ag.es. No other country has a h"'story half so sad. TRUE SPIRIT OF IRELAND.

The real, true sp : rit of the rare is soon jn the heroic Irish regiments fight, ing at the front. It is seen too in tn« quiet peasantry who wait so anxiously for news of them. I talked with many of those simple folk quite recently n Ireland and tlie : .r enthusiasm astounded me. Such plucky struggles to keep the home hies burning, to maintain a cheerful face, to hide their sorrows from each other! But here and there the tragedy of an .empty home or of a broken romance woul drear its head. In a certain Highland glen far in the north of Scotland, where a tumbling river flows down to the sea and tiie leaves droop to the water of a summer's afternoon, there's a small community who are waiting, waiting. The silver birch and rowan trees shelter the little hamlet as it nestles on the green hillside, and the heather and the bracken and the hog myrtle fill the air with a wonderful perfume. But inside ever/ little cottage and under each little thatched roof there is tragedy. From every house men have gone out to fight, and to every house have eomo heartbreaking messages. There are those who will never come hack again, the bravo Dugals and Duncans whose graves are scattered over Europe and whose photographs and records fill papers daily. THOSE LEFT BEHIND. No fighters can eclipse the Highland regiments for bravery. There are the gallant Gordons and "the Seaforths, the Black Watch and the Cameron Highlanders headed by Lochiel. It is to men l : ke these that Britain owes her victories, men who account it a high privilege to lay down their lives (in her service. But it's hard for those who arc left behind in the deserted hamlets, who have to "carry on'' alone and know that life can never he quite the same aga'n now "ho" is gone. In the Highland glon of which 1 spoke there's a queer little hillock capped by the famous Wishing Stone I rem whose summit one can see the sea for miles round. Early each morning a woman climbs the rock and gazes through a pair of old-fashioned fieldglasses far out across the waters. She s : t there by the hour, her shabby shawl fluttering : n the winds and her hair blowing dishevelled round about her head. I wondered what the trouble w«:s. Then one of the crofters told mo "She will be looking for the boat that brings the papers with news i>t the fighting," he said ill his hesitating English, "and it's to the Wishing Stone she climbs because she says 'tis trie only place she can pray. I will be thinking her mi ml 's not just what it was hoiifiy the war. Her man was killed at Mons and her youngest son at Ypros. There was another, too — they made an officer of him. But they're tolling me that h.e is iniss : ng " She is waiting, wait'ng interminably for the news, this Highland mother. Her little house stands empty most of the day. for she ; s alwavs wandering on the hills that overlook'the sea. Perhaps now she has heard good tidings - who knows? THE SPIRIT IN FRANCE. "Over in France the mus'c of the "Marseillaise"' bring'- comfort to the waiting hearts. ju>t as the plaintive tones of the Scottish p : pcs bring hope to Scotland. "The band has played the "'Marsollaise," says a writer, "not once, but many times: the 'Marseillaise' is the music of Frame which no othi r people can hope to imitate . It is frame-, if speaks l>ir solenoid and troubled spirit : it. reveals her joy and her long, long sorrow. France is cho child spirit of the nations; all things have come to her; all things have boon known to her; the cups of joy and sorrow, of defeat and victory, of fame and triumph—all of these she lias drained to the dregs. And she lives still a clr! 1. fervent, generous, beautiful. Yes. bolrnd the trenches there are many shadowed hearts and many broken lives Yet a day will break irradiated with the light of a glorious dawn, when war is over and ha.ppin.ess fcomes back asran." -May Christie, in New York "Even'ti£ Sun."