"Listen," she said. "The old people would not leave the village,--your father and mother...so I stayed. At that time it was still supposed that the Germans were human beings..."

"And my father and mother?" asked the Idiot.

"Some of the people went into the street to see the Germans enter the village. But we watched from a window in your father's house....

They were Uhlans, who came first. They were so drunk that they could hardly sit on their horses. Their lieutenant took a sudden fancy to Marie Lebrun, but when he tried to kiss her, she slapped his face.... That seemed to sober him.... Old man Lebrun had leapt forward to protect his daughter.

"'Are you her father?'" asked the Lieutenant.

"'Yes,'" said the old man.

"'Bind him,'" said the lieutenant, and then he gave an order and some men went into the house and came out dragging a mattress....

They dragged it into the middle of the street.... They held old man Lebrun so that he had to see everything...for some hours, as many as wanted to.... Then the lieutenant stepped forward and shot her through the head, and then he shot her father.... Your father and mother hid me in the cellar of their house, as well as they could.... But from the Germans nothing remains long hidden....

Your father and mother tried to defend me...tied them to their bed...and...set fire to the house."

The Idiot's granite-gray face showed no new emotion.

"And you?"

She shook her head violently.

"What you cannot imagine," she said. "I have forgotten.... There have been so many.... No street-walker has ever been through what I have been through.... There's nothing more to say...I wanted to live...to bear witness against them.... For you and me everything is finished..."

"Almost," said the Idiot. "You talk as if you no longer loved me."

The granite-gray of his face had softened into the ruddy, sun-burned coloring of a healthy young soldier, long in the field, and she could not resist the strong arms that he opened to her.

"They have not touched your soul," said the Idiot.

[signed] Gouverneur Morris

Memories of Whitman and Lincoln

"When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd" --W. W.

Lilacs shall bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln.

Spring hangs in the dew of the dooryards These memories--these memories-- They hang in the dew for the bard who fetched A sprig of them once for his brother When he lay cold and dead....

And forever now when America leans in the dooryard And over the hills Spring dances, Smell of lilacs and sight of lilacs shall bring to her heart these brothers....

Lilacs shall bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln.

Who are the shadow-forms crowding the night?

What shadows of men?

The stilled star-night is high with these brooding spirits-- Their shoulders rise on the Earth-rim, and they are great presences in heaven-- They move through the stars like outlined winds in young-leaved maples.

Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln.

Deeply the nation throbs with a world's anguish-- But it sleeps, and I on the housetops Commune with souls long dead who guard our land at midnight, A strength in each hushed heart-- I seem to hear the Atlantic moaning on our sh.o.r.es with the plaint of the dying And rolling on our sh.o.r.es with the rumble of battle....

I seem to see my country growing golden toward California, And, as fields of daisies, a people, with slumbering up-turned faces Leaned over by Two Brothers, And the greatness that is gone.

Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln.

Spring runs over the land, A young girl, light-footed, eager...

For I hear a song that is faint and sweet with first love, Out of the West, fresh with the gra.s.s and the timber, But dreamily soothing the sleepers...

I listen: I drink it deep.

Softly the Spring sings, Softly and clearly: "I open lilacs for the beloved, Lilacs for the lost, the dead.

And, see, for the living, I bring sweet strawberry blossoms, And I bring b.u.t.tercups, and I bring to the woods anemones and blue bells...

I open lilacs for the beloved, And when my fluttering garment drifts through dusty cities, And blows on hills, and brushes the inland sea, Over you, sleepers, over you, tired sleepers, A fragrant memory falls...

I open love in the shut heart, I open lilacs for the beloved."

Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln.

Was that the Spring that sang, opening locked hearts, And is remembrance mine?

For I know these two great shadows in the s.p.a.cious night, Shadows folding America close between them, Close to the heart...

And I know how my own lost youth grew up blessedly in their spirit, And how the morning song of the might bard Sent me out from my dreams to the living America, To the chanting seas, to the piney hills, down the railroad vistas, Out into the streets of Manhattan when the whistles blew at seven, Down to the mills of Pittsburgh and the rude faces of labor...

And I know how the grave great music of that other, Music in which lost armies sang requiems, And the vision of that gaunt, that great and solemn figure, And the graven face, the deep eyes, the mouth, O human-hearted brother, Dedicated anew my undevoted heart to America, my land.

Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln.

Now in this hour I was suppliant for these two brothers, And I said: Your land has need: Half-awakened and blindly we grope in the great world....

What strength may we take from our Past, What promise hold for our future?

And the one brother leaned and whispered: "I put my strength in a book, And in that book my love...

This, with my love, I give to America..."

And the other brother leaned and murmured: "I put my strength in a life, And in that life my love, This, with my love, I give to America."

Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln.

Then my heart sang out: This strength shall be our strength: Yea, when the great hour comes, and the sleepers wake and are hurled back, And creep down into themselves There shall they find Walt Whitman And there, Abraham Lincoln.

O Spring, go over this land with much singing And open the lilacs everywhere, Open them out with the old-time fragrance Making a people remember that something has been forgotten, Something is hidden deep--strange memories--strange memories-- Of him that brought a sprig of the purple cl.u.s.ter To him that was mourned of all...

And so they are linked together While yet America lives...

While yet America lives, my heart, Lilacs shall bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln.

[signed] James Oppenheim

Bred to the Sea