Girls High School - Yearbook (Reading, PA)

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The Spirit of 191 7 Alumni Prize Essay Isabel K. Strawbridge N the seventh of April, 1917, the United States declared war on Germany. The Stars and Stripes waved from every window. Patriotism was at flood-tide. Everywhere men were leaving their own affairs and enlisting to serve their country. The same spirit was mani- fested by old and young: to put down the Kaiser, cost what it might of blood and treasure. Following this declaration of war, the nation set forth a loud call for volunteers. The call was quickly responded to, and training camps were soon Glled with men, willing to give their lives for a noble and just cause. Also the National Guardsmen, who had been in training on the Mexican border, were speedily equipped and sent across to join the Allied troops. Then came the selective draft. All men between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-one years were called to aid their country, and, after a few months' training, transport after transport filled with American troops sailed out of the Atlantic ports in the dead of night to join the forces already over seas. - And later, when the American boys had been fighting a month or two, the casualty lists came pouring in. The death toll grew larger day after day, and the American people began to realize, more than ever, that we were in a great conflict and that many sacrifices would have to be made in order to make the world again safe for democracy. And now, after four years of a terrible war, all Europe will rest in peace. The tyrant has been put down, forced to acknowledge his own defeat, and recognize the power and authority of the Allied nations. It has been a conflict for the sake of democracy. Great battles have been fought. There have been deeds of sublimest heroism and exhibitions of patriotism which shall stir the hearts of those who are to live in the coming ages. Men, who at the beginning of this war were scarcely known beyond their homes, are now numbered among those names which will never die. But as we look back over those four years and think of the numberless hardships, our boys have endured, we wonder at their marvelous spirit. Do you realize, my friends, the rough road they have traveled, sacrincing all the com- forts of home, facing the most disheartening circumstances, and, at the same time running the risk of their lives? Can you picture their life in the trenches and their struggle on the battlefield? Let us take a trip over that same road and see their spirit in its true light. We will let our imagination carry us across the briny deep, thence through the English Channel to Northern France. This country was, but five years ago, inhabited by a happy, peace-loving people. lts beautiful historical buildings were the pride of its citizens. But it is uninhabited now and everything is in ruins. Things are gone which can never be replaced. Everywhere can be seen finger prints of the destructive hand of the Hun. Now we will rnove a little south-east toward the battle front. Many miles behind the lines can be seen numberless rows of crosses and various other markers. Thousands who have made the supreme sacrihce are here sleeping under French skies. They have been laid here by their more fortunate com- rades, who vowed to take revenge for their deaths. 14

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'I'm afraid there's something the matter with you, young man,' said the doctor. 'I'll tell you what I'll dog I'll sleep with you to-night myself, and if I see it, by Jane, I'll believe it, for there's nothing wrong with me, I know.' I agreed, and so it was arranged. At about the same time as on the preceding night, I was awakened in the same peculiar way. Sure enough, there was the whisk-broom gaily prancing as before. I woke the doctor, and, much to my relief, for I was beginning to have an uneasy feeling that perhaps the trouble was with me, and not with the brush after all, he saw it also, with how much perplexity you can guess. While we were looking at it, the light went out, and the brush fell to the floor as it had previously done. It was there in the morning when we arose. The doctor at last believed my story. Together we investigated every possible place from which a practical joke could have been played upon us, and, after a long search, reluctantly gave up that idea. For a week or more, I saw the whisk-broom perform its peculiar rites every night, and each evening found it oft' its peg and lying on the rug. The news of my adventure by this time was being noised about the little town, and at length I was approached by one of the residents, though a stranger to me-a Spiritualist-who said that his wife had died in the room I was now occupying, and that he believed she was trying to communicate with him through the extraordinary manifestations of my whisk-broom-though why she should choose so ridiculous a medium as a whisk-broom is beyond my under- standing, especially since he said whisk-brooms had never had any particular significance in her life. He asked to spend the night with me to see if further demonstrations would develop, and I consented. He, too, saw the singular display, but, in spite of his presence, nothing more than usual happened. Then the professor ol: science at the college desired to get a glimpse of this 'remarkable phenomenium,l and he, too, went away battled, and so time went on. I was becoming quite used to my whisk-broom's actions after this interval, but, nevertheless, I admit they did bother me. A few months later I chanced to attend the St. Louis Exposition, and as I was passing through the midway in the midst of a crowd, a Hindoo fortune-- teller ran out from her booth, and cried for me to stay. Somewhat annoyed, I tried to pass on. 'Stop, sir! I have a message for you. I have seen your face for days. Sir, I must tell you,' she persisted. 'Comet' 'It is this, sir,' she continued, as I yielded, 'only this. You are worried about something. It is a matter connected with something you use-a toilet article-a hair-brush-No! A button hook-No! Wait-a whisk-broom- Yes! A whisk-broom. Don't let this worry you, it will come out all right at last. lt will bring you good fortune, as long as you keep it.' 'A strange thing, wasn't it?' said the young lawyer. Well, my course at the college was finished in the spring, and I left the town, carrying my whisk- broom with me. But, do you know, it never danced in the night after I left that room, and never has yet, although every time I travel anywhere, and pack that brush in the bottom of my bag, to this very day when I open the valise the whisk-broom is always lying on top, no matter how deep I pack it, or what I put over it. Otherwise the Hindoo was right, it has ceased to bother me. But I have ye to see the promised good fortune. There, I told you you wouldn't believe it, as incredulous glances passed around, and I don't wonder! ia,

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Further on we can see huts of various kinds, rudely constructed and float- ing that wonderful flag of mercy-the Red Cross. The first sight which greets our eyes on entering the hut is a band of queenly figures dressed in the costume of the Mothers of the World. They move back and forth so quickly that one might mistake them for an apparitioii. They are the well-known Red Cross nurses and a God-send to our boys over there. Next in view is a crowd of Yanks, playing their favorite game of Swat the Kaiser. Every one seems extremely excited, and those poor unfortunates who are unable to sit up are greatly amused by this little vaudeville show. Their smiling faces tell us how happy they are, but behind each smile gleams a ray of hope. Their main ambition is to get on the Hring line once again in order to take revenge for their comrades who have fallen. Does this not show wonderful spirit? Could you be happy after going through the hardships of the battlefield and being brought back, minus an arm or leg or with a partly shattered face? Could you smile after having seen your comrades fall beside you and pass into the 'Great Beyond? Could you go back and suffer the same hardships all over again? A few more miles of imaginary travel brings us to the trenches. The sights we see here do not bring to our minds memories of the dead or wounded, or of the devastation of the soil, but of mud-everlasting mud. lt is not the kind the American children use in playing bakers, but is a greenish, yellowish slimy mixture. ln these trenches our boys have lived and fought for one or two months at a time, in mud. There seemed to be no escape from it, no corner where they could be free of the oozy horror. But months of 'troughing it are easily borne, when, after that, if only for a few days, one can return to civilized life and all that it meansg just as the crossing of a desert is rendered tolerable by the oases that break its barren solitude. This was the feeling of every American boy who fought in our trenches since 1917. The dreams of a little hut, where they would be sent after the battle, enabled them to bear their sufferings without complaint. Even the thoughts of a removal, no matter where, were enough to enable them to go through the hardships which might have otherwise eventually crushed their spirit. Everywhere along the front, a few miles behind the trenches, thousands of delightful shelters have sprung up against the mud like so many oases, and in the midst of all the ruins and desolation of nature numbers of small huts are to be seen bearing the familiar letters of Y. M. C. A. Great shouts and applauses from within tell us that our boys are having a good time and are happy, that their spirits have not been crushed, that they are recovering from the great nervous strain of the battlefield, and that they are once again enjoying a few of the many home comforts. The Y huts, as the Yanks call them, are homes for the time being, and are the places which make them think they are again back in the good old U. S. A. lt is while in these huts that those long, interesting letters are written to home folk and friends, which show the unselfisli and modest motives our boys have. Their spirit is one to be admired, for it is not to themselves that they give the credit of victory, but rather to the French and English. ln a letter to his home folks one Yank writes: We men have been disappointed in the forte of the home letters that have recently come. They strike the note as if the Yanks are doing all the fighting, as if the Americans were winning the warg as though the tremendous sacrifices of the past four years of the Allies are all to be forgotten. 15