The Mobridge News

THOUGHTS ON
MEMORIAL DAY

DECORATION day, day of flags,
and flowers, and green grass-covered
graves.
Decoration
day. the time of sobs and
tears, of prayers, and memories, and
smiles. Decoration day!

It comes only once a year, this brave
holiday, on the boundary line between
May and June. spring and summer
time. Schools give a holiday and
banks close. Business is shut up, and
the tired workingman hangs a flag
out over his porch, and rests. Old
soldiers. tottering on canes, soldiers
bent and white-headed. waiting for
the last "taps" to be sounded, get out
their suits of blue and gray, covered
with tarnished gold lace and brass
buttons, and hobble to the cemetery
to lay a wreath on some comrade's
last resting place.

It is a beautiful thing to think of a
nation celebrating a day—setting it
apart from all others—for the pur-
pose of honoring the nation's heroes.

I was sitting in a trolley car when
a lady entered—a woman no longer
very young. with a pale. sorrowful
face. She wore expensive black, and
her two carefully gloved hands held a
huge dewy mass of roses. Like an
oasis in a desert they filled the dusty
city air with sweetness and color. In
a little while a small newsboy dragged
himself up the step and presented a
grimy transfer to the conductor

"I found it." he confided loudly to a
man seated near the door. Then he
tramped down the aisle. and climbed
up on the seat next to the lady.

"Them flow'rs are swell." he told her
in a soft. wondering tone of voice. "I
never saw any like 'em before." Rev-

erently he touched the nearest blos-

som with moist. grimy fingers.

The lady moved down on the seat,
putting several feet of space between
herself and the small intruder.

"Don't touch them!" she ordered
crossly.

Several blocks farther on she got
out, her arms full of her fragrant bur-

den. With halting footsteps and tear-

filled eyes. she turned in at a great
marble-columned cemetery gate. She
was taking her roses to lay on the
grave of some loved dead one. I was
sorry for the woman: but I could not
help thinking of the little newsboy. He
was very much alive, and a single
flower would have meant paradise to
him.

I know a girl who had a very dear
friend—a friend who meant more to
her than I could possibly put into
words. One day, the friend died and
left her plunged in grief. A year after,
the dead girl's birthday came around,
and the day before the anniversary I
happened to meet my friend on the
street. We went to tea together. I
did not speak to the absent one. but
suddenly. as we sat quietly gazing out
of the window. the girl began to talk.

"Margaret," she said, "something
has been bothering me. I want to ask
you if I'm doing right."

"Perhaps I won't help any. I'm not
so good at advice—but go on."

"You see. it's this way." she told me
"Tomorrow is Alice's birthday—the
first birthday when we haven't been
together for ten years. I had earned
five dollars—it seemed
more personal
that way—and
I was
going to buy
flowers for her grave.
I was just on
my way to the florist to order them
when I met a woman I know—a wom-

an who used to wash for us. Mar-

aret, you should have seen her. Her
eyes were large and black and her
cheeks were perfectly hollow. I asked
her what was the matter, and she said
she was hungry. Hungry? She was
starving! And so were the three chil-

dren that belonged to her! Well. I
told her that I would find some work
for her today. and then I gave her all
the money I had. It was only after
she had left me that I remembered
Alice's flowers—I can't get them now.
Do you think that she'll mind—very
much?"

"Mind?" I groped blindly for words.
"Mind?
Of course not! She would
be glad
and thankful if she only
knew."

Do you think so too. friends of mine?

One day this week I felt rather blue
and unhappy. It was a dark, gloomy
day. with a biting wind coming around
the bleak corners and a heavy rain
that fell drenchingly to the ground—
a steady downpour of big splashing
drops. Somehow the world inside my
office seemed very lonely and gray. I
had a headache, my work had been
going badly and I was rather discour-

aged. When the mail came in—a big
package of letters to be opened—I was
not much cheered. But my special
guardian angel was on duty that day.
When I cut the first envelope. I found
a dainty little letter. written in pencil
on cheap paper, by an unknown lady
old enough to be my grandmother.
But the words, lightly written in an
old-fashioned hand, fell across my
heart like a ray of golden sunshine,
through the grayness of the rain.

"Dear Friend." read the letter, "I
have been seeing your pieces in the
Christian Herald for some time, and
I made up my mind to write to you.
Some people believe in keeping their
kind words and their flowers and their
love until a person is dead. But I
don't. I want you to know, right now,
that you've cheered me up lots of
times, and that I like your stories and
that I like you."

Now. I don't want you to think that
I am disapproving of Decoration day.
The world is stupid enough and mat-

ter-of-fact enough to forget easily the
heroes who lie in our cemeteries. But
we should consider the living. too. Let
us place roses over the little green
mounds. but don't let us overlook the
pleading child-hands that are stretched
out for their sweetness. While we
honor the memory of those beautiful
spirits that have passed from us, let
us not forget the living, breathing
souls that need our help.

It is not necessary to save all the
flowers. the kind words and the kisses
until lips and hearts and minds are
cold and dead.—Margaret E. Sangster,
Jr., in the Christian Herald.