Newspaper Page Text
July, 1917
THE ATLANTI AN
sion was gained — as was mine — through Bible stories.
There was the tale of the ten spies who were sent by
Moses to discover the strength of the Canaanites and the
resources of the Promised Land. (Was there a picture
in your book of Bible stories, of two of the spies return
ing with a huge cluster of grapes that reached from their
shoulders almost to the ground?) Then there was the
more exciting story of the two spies dispatched by Joshua
into Jericho, and their marvelous escape from that city
by the aid of the woman, Rahab, who let them down in
a. basket from a window in the wall.
When you got to the American-history stage, you
perhaps learned the stories of other spies — of Nathan
Hale, the brave patriot who regretted that he had only
one life to give for his country; and of bluff “Mad An
thony” Wayne, who, disguised as a farmer selling vege
tables, discovered the strength of the Stony-Point for
tress; or of Belle Boyd, the heroic woman who served
the Confederate States so well. But perhaps you have
never realized the magnitude of spying systems and the
immense part played by spies in the history of the world.
The records of ancient Greece and Rome show that
the spy was fully as useful as the soldier in the wars of
conquest and defense carried on by those nations —
though then, as now, his share of glory was small. Alex
ander the Great employed a host of spies to keep him
informed^ of the strength, the expectations, the inten
tions, add the movements, of the Persians. Hannibal
had a perfect system of espionage, which prepared the
way for the advance of his armies. For years before
he undertook his campaign against Rome, his agents were
in Italy to observe everyone and everything. He charged
them to ascertain and transmit to him exact and positive
information concerning the fertility of the Trans-Alpine
Plains and the Valley of the Po, the spirit of their people,
the military preparations being made, and, above all, the
disposition of the population toward the government of
Rome.
Never Neglect. Your Mother
By A. M.
They may write—'they may paint—
they may eulogize brave men on the
field of battle; the captain who re
fuses to leave, and goes down with
his' sinking s.hip; the martyrs of old
who went to their death in the
arena, it’s all good—brave deeds—no
one questions loyalty to the princi
ples for which they faced death and
died; but for genuine fidelity, devo
tion and love, give me the battle
fought, alone, the battle beside the
fessiional nurses were an unknown
luxury, and the devoted mother
fought alone, 'the battle besode the
bed of her sick child, beating back
death with home remedies, so to
speak.
■Back in those days when physi
cians were not so shilled as at pres
ent; when much depended on good
nursing, rather than the physician—
those were the days that tried the
souls of women.
The child would-awaken after mid
night with the chill, then came the
burning fever; they quickly sent for
the physician—and slowly he seemed
to come, looking exceedingly wise;
pulse was felt, tongue was examined,
medicine, mixed and given, while the
final diagnosis was heard with fear
and trembling—the dreaded word—
pneumonia. Then mother it was,
who assumed the grave responsibility
in the battle about to be fought to
save the life of the one she had her
self faced death to bring into the
world, the one she had nursed so ten
derly through dangerous years of
baby life, and now as the baby was
stepping into ohildhood, she would
till fight for with a bravery and te
nacity known only to her sex. Ohers
BEATTY
might sit and doze in the big rock
ing chair through the night—'but not
mother. It was she who sat by the
bedside and faithfully watched the
old clock slowly move around, and
with fidelity gave the medicine. It
was she, who renewed 'the poultices
of hope. It was mother whom you
felt slipping her hand between the
covers to see if the little feet were
taking on natural warmth. Again, it
was mother, who prepared the calo
mel in the spoonful of molasses, and
gave the nasty bogs ofcastor oil,
coaxing you with an assuring tone of
voice to take; then stood ready with
the hot coffee, to 'take the sickening
taste out of your parched mouth.
During the days when the doctor
came three times each day, while
your life was hanging in the balance,
and he would shake his head in
doubt—when you were fighting for
each breath coming from your dis
eased lungs with those sharp, cutting
pains, when fever, merciless fever,
made her baby boy talk so strange,
and now and then in his delirium, re
cite a stanza or two from “Mother
Goose,” or a bible verse which she
taught, it was mother who forced
back the tears, and sat by the bed
side and whispered into the baby
ear, “yes, yes, darling, now you will
soon be feeling better; mama’s right
here.”
Then when the day appointed by
the doctor for <the turning point came
—was right there, but to the anxious
looks and questions of those around
the bed, he gave no hope—it was
mother who prepared to meet the
crisis, stoically she faced death, and
As you came out of your delirium,
away in the night, and the light was
burning low, you heard the old town
clock striking the hour of two. away
off somewhere, weird it was, you
heard a dog howling, which to the
superstitious, meant a death—it was
then, just for a few seconds, you
heard a low voice; it was mother on
bended knees, praying to the Master
to spare her baby to her; as you
turned, or tried to, for you were, oh,
so tired, it was the same gentle voice
you heard—“I am right here pelt,
don’t worry, you will soon be better,"
and the last you remember of that
awful night, was the same mother’s
hand plac'ng red flannel packs wrung
out in scalding turpentine waiter on
your breast. It was a battle royal
with death, which only mother knew
how to fight and conquer.
Then came dawn—and, when you
moved out of the "valley of 'the sha
dow,” and opened your eyes, the first
to meet your feverish sight was that
same tired, patient mother, still sit
ting 'by your bedside, sleepy and hag
gard, but the voice—that welcome
voice, that sounded as that of an
angel—greeted you with. “Thank God
you’re better! I know you’re better;’’
and then you closed your eyes and
dropped off into peaceful sleep. It
was still mother, who stood guard
at the door, like unto a Roman sol
dier, and refused to permit any one
to enter until you awakened of your
self. When the doctor came, expect
ing to find you dying, he was delight
ed at the improvement. You heard
him tell mother she had done just
the right thing.
Again, it was mother who, when
you'were convalescent, would slip
you little things the doctor had for
bidden you to have. It was patient,
uncomplaining mother who eased the
sore fever blisters, and taught you
how to walk again on tender feet;
it was mother, blessed, thankful
mother, whom you heard in devotion
on bended knees, giving thanks to
the Master, night after night, for
sparing to her the life of her baby
boy.
Soldiers may die in battle—sailors
may go to their death on sinking
ships—martyrs may die for their
faith—but the bravest of the brave,
the one who stoically refuses to ac
cept defeat, and fights on, is the
mother who battles for the life of
her sick child, when all others have
given up and say he must die.
You arc a man now; mother has
passed over into the land of peace
and rest You stood by her bed
side and bid her farewell, just be
fore she closed her eyes in the last
long sleep, realizing, as you shed bin
ter tears, you were losing your best
friend—mother—but death was cruel
to you, he mocked you, then you
heard him knock—and how helpless
you were to stay his hand.
Man may become saintly an 1 cx
alted; he may fall to 'the lowsst sin
fnd degradation, but no matter whit
his station in life may be before the
black camel kneels at his door, the
sweetest memory he cherishes 'to his
death, is that of the loyalty, fidelity
and love of his good, gentle, patient
old mother.
HELPPING HIM OUT.
Student (writing home)—How do
yon spell “financially?”
Other — F-i-n-a-n-c-i-a-l-l-y, and
there are two r’s in “embarrassed.”
—Harper’s Magazine.