Life — December 20, 1917 — page 10: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

1038 “PRANCE? I'd be there now, if «ss if)... ob, well, what's the use?” “What isn’t of any use?” I asked. We had been arguing the war, the saddening, terrifying, soul-stirring mak- ing of the democracy of the world. “Well, perhaps it's greater heroism to yield to lesser heroism,” muttered Will, half to himself and half to me, pacing the floor, his head bent dis- couragedly, his hands behind his back, nervously cleriching and reclenching. “For goodness’ sake, man, talk English! What are you driving at?” But I could get nothing more from him. His last remark came to me again and again. I knew that the man stood for all that is included in the word “big,” for he was big, physically, mentally, morally and spiritually. I knew his people, their devotion to him and his equal devotion to them. Then "CTE E- The Greater Heroism a light commenced to dawn upon me. I went to his mother. “Why isn’t Will in the fight?” I de- manded. The little lady turned pale. In a choked yet well controlled voice came the answer—its vehemence surprised me—“ He belongs to me.” My suspicion was right. Here was the barrier, the lesser duty that forbade ful- filling the greater. “ He belongs to me; he belongs to me.” The words kept echoing in my ears. For a long time prayers. From memory’s storehouse we sat together, and we said no word. came a soul-stirring strain of the “Here is a woman,” I thought, “a “Star-Spangled Banner.” I jumped to loving mother, who does not yet know my feet. the true meaning of motherhood, for, “Little mother,” I cried, “if you without a doubt, the beauty of mother- really want Will to belong to you, you hood has always had its essence in sac- must first let him belong to himself! rifice. Why have we always extolled Only show him that that which is dear the word mother? Why has it always to him is dear to you also. To him had a sacred place, one above any? the war is a vision, a dream of world Why is it the most exquisite joy? And “democracy, slowly but surely—God! are women now going to voluntarily lower that standard of thought when they have this most wonderful oppor- tunity of the ages to build a sanctuary consecrated to a higher law, to the freeing of the world? No!—a thou- sand times, no!” The little clock on the mantel ticked the seconds, each bringing nearer the doom of the Hun—each the lasting peace of our unspoken, only half formed into thought, yet heart-felt, Machine, of which you are a Part, A Nut for a Head and a Bolt for a Heart; With Sinews of Steel and of Iron and Brass, Spreading Destruction ever you Pass. Wher- The A B C of Kultur stands for Nietzsche— Apostle of Self— A Writer who's Bright- er than All on the Shelf. Read him, and you will get More out of Life, And find Greater Pleasure in Beating Your Wife. stands for Ottoman. Ach! you could Gloat On his Masterful Man- ner of Slitting a Throat. When it’s a Matter of Murder- ous Work, None can Compare with the Ter- rible Turk.