TWO YEARS AGO.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LIII, Issue 16300, 5 August 1916, Page 1 (Supplement)

TWO YEARS AGO.

THE SOLDIER AND HIS HOME.

BY ELSIE K. MORTON.

Last week a postcard came from the battle-fields of France, bearing a brief message: " Write a column of good cheer to the boys at the frontsomething to keep us in touch with home.'' That was all. but those few words, " to keep us in touch with home," held all the longing, the love of home that every soldier carries deep-treasured in his heart, that holds him steadily to the path of honour amid peril of temptation in a new land, nerves him to the work of war, and keeps him in life or death ever very close to the hearts of those whose love follows him even into the great silence of the Beyond.

In two years our soldiers have learned true love of home. Two years ago they were with us. stood side by side with us. with who knows what strange, tumultuous thoughts thrilling their young hearts, watching with the whole nation the first flicker of flame that so soon blazed into the hell-fire of world war! And then, before we had even grasped the meaning of those words. the Empire at war." before we had had time to adjust our thought to what it all might mean, they were standing before us with shining eves and the echo of a splendid gladness in their voices, telling us that they were going to the front. The First Break. Going to the front! And we didn't even know where the front might be'. They were going forth to war, these boys who had lived all their young lives in homes that had known no break nor severance of ties of comradeship and love. Only two years ago. but how manv of us now can think back to that first farewell in terms of months and weeks ? It is one of the periods in life that cannot be measured adequately by the timethought; there are thousands of mothers, sisters, and sweethearts to-day who think only in two periods—before the war, and since their soldier went away. Those first hurried days of preparation —which of us will ever forget them ? For you will remember that not all were granted those precious weeks of reprieve while Auckland's young manhood put aside its work, its pleasures, its every phase of the old home life and hurried into camp. Within a week from that day when the message, " the Empire at war."

flashed across the world, some had gone, to return no more. Just a swift gathering together of a few essentials of equipment, a hurried farewell, and then . . the empty room, all the suddenly-snapped threads of the old life to gather together, the parting messages to deliver, the business matters to arrange, work a-plenty in those first busy days, while the grey ships made ready and the bugle-call sent its message ringing through the land! And so, to many, that first leave-taking was the final one, and the grey ships sailed, and the time of waiting had begun.

" His " Room.

j Many times in the last two years, | surely, have the thoughts of the boys at the front turned back to that little corner !of the home they called their own. And if they could come back to-day, those lads who left when the first call of the bugle sounded, or those who answered later, equally surely would they find all in readiness for their return, for in almost every home " his" room has remained just as he left it. So pitifully little they seemed to need when they went away, so much ' there was to be left behind, all the trea- j sures of boyhood, all the little personal j belongings that typified the old, care-free J life. So tennis racquet and hockey stick | still stand in their old corner; the cherished photographs on the wall, the row of prize school books, the pipe-rack— | all the odd collection of boyish years; j even the clothes so carefully laid away— i all are there, waiting. For is it not a ' source of loving pride to every yearning mother that should her boy come back tonight, were there hope of his coming back ever, he should find all just as he left it, carefully tended, jealously guarded from any desecrating touch. ? From Egyptian desert camp, from ] battlefields of France, from perilous seaways, from old-world hospitals, aye, and from far, unknown lands where the hearts of prisoners and captives die within them as the blank days pass slowly, slowly, full j of longing for the word that never comes I —from every part of the warring world I thoughts will be turning to that day two i years ago, when the Empire's sons put I away the things of boyhood's years, and j turned resolutely to the path from which they have never turned back. ! They went from us boys, their hearts j filled with all the gladness and untamed I spirit of youth, thinking little of what I war might mean; they are men now, and I between the boys we knew and the man j we hope one day to greet again, lies a I gulf of knowledge so wide and dark and j filled with pain, that we may not fathom j it even in thought, nor love efface the i scars of bitter memory. I The End of the Trail. The war trail still stretches ahead into the shadows of death and sorrow; over half a world we still hear the echo of the footsteps of the men who trod Gallipoli's dark ways: waking or sleeping we still hoar the parting words of those who speak to us no more ; whether their voices come across the seas fn>m far battlefields or across the silent river of death, we hear them when they call. To those who still fiuht on. what better message could we send at this anniversary of the Empire's war, than that of homecheer, that every heart in every home from which a soldier has cone forth is filled with pride in thought of what has j been done, with hope for the days to ! come, and the will to bear mrageouslv I whatever of sorrow and suspense we may still be called upon to endure? ' And should they ask us what we. in turn, would have of them, what reply should we send ? What do we ask of I these men who have held our constant I thought through all the months of anxious ' waiting, sons, brothers, lovers, who have shown us how to be brave ? Shall thev bring back to us honours, high distinction, talk of great victories, in recompense for all the waiting and the tears — i are these the things which we women of the hoiiuiHnd are hoping for, looking for, at the ei-d of the long war-trail? In the heart of every women who loves you will find the answernc' These things are great, and worthy and desirable, but not \ one of them is the greatest thing of all! j One message, one abiding thought we send ! to our men afar —let them strive to brine : back to us the clean, brave hearts thev took away: purged by fire, made strong i by suffering, true to the best that is in them. Then all the years of war, the sorrow, the weary waiting will have been worth while, and in the man who comes back to us from the fiery test of war, we shall rejoice to find still the loving, unsullied spirit* of the box -who vest away*.