THE RED FLOWER.

Taihape Daily Times, Issue 220, 15 June 1917, Page 3

THE RED FLOWER.

THE STORY OF A MAID AND

A EAID.

If her imagination had been at all morbid, she might have perceived some sinister significance in the fact that she had stuck in his bolt a rod flower from the Small group of blooms in the greenhouse as a token at the moment of farewell.

It was so rich, so vivid, on its plain background of khaki—it suggested so clearly, with its flat, serrated petals, a splash of blood, But no thought of the resemblance crossed her mind or his; and in the crowded confusion of the Channel crossing the flower remained unnoticed, unreproved. the evening he stood with only memory to cheer him within the clamour of the guns.

It happened to him that very night to take part In an attack, or rather a raid, and without any thought of dan ger he did thoroughly the deadly work that fell to his share. At the recall, very tired —not without reason, as the utter wreckage of a few dugouts in the raided area would have recorded he started back across the strip of intervening ground; and there it was that he dropped, struck by a flying picce of shell just below the heart. He became aware of the warm flood soaking his shirt and tunic; saw in the pallid moonlight the dark stainheard, amid other noises, the stumbling feet of the luckier ones pass him by; he tried to shout, but his voice sounded thin and feeble. He felt carefully in his inside pocket for the flask of brandy which he had brought from home as a precaution; it was broken to pieces. 'Then, fearing to move, lest his wound should open afresh, he lay very still, gazing up at the misty moon, glancing now and again at the stain that reminded him of tho rod flower. It was, he grimly imagined, tho crimson flower of death.

Long before dawn they missed him, and three gallant boys braved the enemy’s angry blast of shelling to come out and look for him. Gently, bidding him not speak too much, they lifted him and carried him back to the advancing dressing station. Skilfully the doctor slit away the sodden clothes, and made his swift, unerring examination. Then, he stood back, hands on hip, and spoke candidly to his patient.

“It’s a bad smash, my boy. I’m afraid I can’t do much to mend it.” ''Tell me the worst, doctor. I can stand it.”

"Well —your coat is absolutely soaked with brandy; you smell like a pub-

lie-house, and there are about 20 fragments of the flask distributed externally in the cardiac region. A most rercgrettablc smash. Otherwise you’re a perfect fraud, lying out in the moonlight and pretending to be a ‘blighty. ’ Get up, 3'ou son of a sea-cook, and make room for a deserving case! Up with you! ’’ ‘ ‘But there was blood —blood on my coat, doctor. I watched it.” The doctor stopped, picked up something from the floor, and held it before his victim. It was a large drooping rod flower. ‘ 1 Up you get,” he said. "Here’s your terrible crimson stain. You’re an active mind, m3’ boy. You can kill a man, as possibty you are aware, by blindfolding him passing a lump of ice across his throat, and letting a little warm water trickle down his neck, and I’ve no. doubt that -when the bit of shell hit you on the —on the spirit department you felt pretty bad. But a little arnica will soon take the bruise out. Bo oil with you, and have a good feed. I won’t split!’ Rather shamefacedly the patient put on the remnants of his coat and walked away. But he picked up the red flower and put in his pocket-book, for luck. —‘ W.L.R., ’ in the London Daily Mail.