I THE SEARCH]]
By Grace Livingston Hill- -Lutz
Copyright, 1919, by J. B. IJppIncott Company
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He was not satisfied with just
meeting death bravely, with the
Brdor of patriotism in his breast,
as he heard so many about him
talk in these days. That was well
bo far as it went, but it did not
solve the mystery of the future
life nor make him sure how he
would stand in that other world
to which death stood ready to
escort him presently. Death
might he victor over his body,
but he wanted to ho sure that f
death should not also kill that
something within him which he
felt must live forever. He turned
ft over for days and came to the
'conclusion that the only one who
could help him was God. God >
was the beginning of it all. If
there was a God He must be
available to help a soul in a time
like this. There must he a way to
find God and get the secret of
life, and so be ready to meet
death that death should not con
quer anything but the body. How
could one find God ? Had any
body ever found Him? Did any
one really think they had found
Him? These were questions that
'beat upon his soul day after day
as he drilled his men and went
through the long hard hours of
discipline, or lay upon his straw
tick at night while 150 other
men about him slept.
His mother’s secret attempts at
religion lmd been too feeble and
too hidden in her own breast tft
have made much of an impres
sion upon him. Sho had only
hoped her faith was founded up
on a rock. She lmd not known.
And so her buffeted soul had
never given evidence to her son
of hidden holy refuge where he
might flee with her in time of
need.
New and then the vision of a
girl blurred across his thoughts
uncertainly, life a bright moth
hovering in the distance whose
shadow fell across his dusty path.
But it. was far away and vague,
and only a glan e in her eyes be
longed to him. She was not of
his world.
Ho looked up to the yellow
sky through the yellow dust,
and his soul cried out to find
the way to God before he had
to meet death, but the heavens
seemed like molten brass. Not
that he was afraid of death with
a physical fear, hut that liis soul
recoiled from being conquered
by it and he felt convinced that
there was a way to meet it with a
smile of assurance if only he
could find it out. He had read
that people had met it that way.
Was it all their imagination?
The mere illusion of a fanatical
brain? Well, be would try to find
out God. He would put himself
in the places where God ought to
be, and when he saw any indica
tion that God was there lie would
cry out until he made God hear
him!
Tho day he came to that con
clusion was Sunday and he went
over to the V. M. 0. A. auditor
ium. They were having a Mary
Pickford moving picture show
there. If he had happened to go
at any time during the morning j
he might have heard some fine
sermons and perhaps have found
the right man to help him, but
this was evening and the men
were being amused.
i tie stood tor a tew moments
and watched the pretty show.
The sunlight ou Mary’s beauti
ful hair, as it fell gimmering
through the trees in the picture
reminded him of the red-gold
lights on Ruth Mae Donald’s
hair the morning he left home,
and with a sigh he turned away
and walked to the edge of camp
where the woods were still stand
ing.
». Alon^ he looked up to the
starry sky. Amusement was not
what he wanted now. He was in
search of something vague and
great that would satisfy, and
give him a reason for being and
suffering and dying perhaps. He
called it God because *he had no
other name for it. Ked-gold
hair might he for others but not
for him. He might not take it
where he would and he would not
take it where it lay easy to get.
If he had been in the same class
with some other fellows he knew
he would have wasted no time on
follies. He would have gone for
the very highest, fiuest woman.
But. there! What was the usel
Besides, even if he had been—
and he had had—every joy of life
here was but a passing show and
must sometime come to an end.
And at the end would be tjiis
old problem. Sametime he would
■ .„......
5
have to realize it, even if war had
not come and brought the revela
tion prematurely. What was it
that he wanted? How cpuld he
find out how to die? Where was
God?
But the stars were high and
cold and gave no answer, and the
whispering leaves, although they
soothed him, sighed and gave no
help.
The feeling was still with him
next morning when the mail was
distributed. There would be
nothing for him. His mother had
written her weekly letter and it
hud reached him the day before.
He could expect nothing for sev
eral days now. Other men were
getting sheaves of letters. How
friendless he seemed among them
all. One had a great chocolate
eake that a girl had sent him and
the others were crowding around
to get a bit. It was doubtful if
the laughing owner got more
than a bite himself. lie might
have been oue of the group if he
had chosen. They all liked him
well enough, although they knew
him very little as yet, for he had
kept much to himself. But ho
turned sharply away from them
and went out. Somehow he was
not in the mood for fun. He felt
he must be growing morbid but
he,could not throw it off that
morning. It all seemed so hope
less, the things he had tried to do
Hi life and the slow progress he
had made upward; and now to
have it all blocked by war!
Xone of the other fellows ever
dreamed that he was lonely, big,
husky, handsome fellow that he
was, with a continuous joke on
as associates, with an arm of iron
and a jaw that set like steel, grim
and unmistakably brave. The
awkward squad as they wrath
fully obeyed his stern orders
would have told you he had no
heart, the way he worked them,
and would not have believed that
he was just plain homesick and
lonesome for some oi*e to care for
him.
He was not hungry that day
when the dinner call came, and
flung himself down under a scrub
oak outside the barracks while
the others rushed in with their
mess kits ready for beans or
whatever was provided for them.
He was glad that they were gone,
glad that he might have the lux
ury of being miserable all alone
for a few minutes. He felt
strangely as if he were going to
cry, and yet he didn’t know
what about. Perhaps he was go
ing to be sick. That would be
horrible down in that half fin
ished hospital with hardly any
equipment yeti He must brace
up and put an end to such soft
ness. It was all in the idea any
way.
Then a great hand came down
upon his shoulder with a mighty
slap and he flung himself bolt
upright with a frown to find his
comrade whose bunk was next to
his in the barracks. He towered
over Cameron polishing his tin
plate with a vigor.
‘1 What’s the matter with you,
you boob There’s roast beef and
its good. Cooky saved a piece
for you. I told him you’d come.
Go in and get it quick! There’s
a letter for you, too, in the office.
I’d have brought it only I was
afraid I would miss von. TTppp
take my mesa kit and hurry!
There’s some cracker-jack
pickles, too, little sweet ones!
Step lively, or some one will
swipe them all!’'
Cameron arose, aceptcd his
friend’s dishes and sauntered into
the mess hall. The letter couldn’t
be very important. His mother
had no timo to write again soon,
and there was no one else. It
was likely an advertisement or
a formal greeting from some of
the organizations at home. They
did that about fortnightly, the
Red Crass, the Woman’s club,
the Emergency Aid, the fire com
pany. It was kind in them but
he wasn’t keen about it just then.
It could wait until he got his din
ner. They didn’t have roast beef
every day, and now that he
thought about it he was hungry.
He almost forgot the letter af
ter dinner until a comrade re
minded him handing over a thick
delicately scented envelope with
a silver crest on the back. The
boys got off their kidding about
“the girl he’d left behind him"
and he answered with his old
good-natured grin that made
them love him, letting them think
he had all kinds of girls, for the
dinner had somewhat restored hii
spirits, but he crumpled the let
ter into his pocket and got away
into the woods to read it.
Deliberately he walked down
the yellow road, up over the hill
by the signal corps tents, across
Wig-Wag Park to the woods be
yond, and sat down on a log with
his letter. He told himself that it
was likely one of those fool let
ters the fellows were getting all
the time from silly girls who
were uniform-crazy. He wouldn’t
answer it, of course, and he felt
. a kind of contempt with himself
for being weak enough to read it
even to satisfy his curiosity.
Then he tore open the envelope
half angrily and a faint whiff of
violets floated out to him. Over
his head a meadow lark trilled a
long sweet measure, and glad sur
prise suddenly entered into his
soul.
CHAPTER V.
The letter was written in a fine
beautiful hand and even before
he saw the silver, monogram at
the top, he, knew who was the
writer, though he did not even
remember to have seen the writ
ing before:
My Dear Friend:
I have hesitated a long time
before writing because I do not
know that I have the right to call
yop a friend, or even an acquain
tance in the commonly accepted
sense of that term. It is so long
since you and I went to school to
gether, and we have been so
widely separated since then that
perhaps you do not even remem
ber me, and may consider my let
ter an intrusion. I hope not, for
I should hate to rank with the
girls who are writing to strang
ers under the- license of mistaken
patriotism.
MV reason for writing vmi ia
that,# good many years ago you
did something very nice and kind
for me one day, in fact you
helped me twice, although I
don’t suppose you knew it. Then
the other day, when you were
going to camp and I sat in my
car and watched you, it suddenly
came over me that you were
doing it again; this time a great
big wonderful thing for me; and
doing it just as quietly and in
consequentially as you did it be
fore; and all at once I realized
how splendid it was and wanted
to thank you.
It came over me, too, that I had
never thanked you for the other
times, and very likely you never
dreamed that you had done any
thing at all.
You see I was a little girl, very
much frightened, because Chuck
Woodcock had teased me about
my curls and said that he was go
ing to catch me and cut them
off, and send me home to my
aunt that way, and she would
turn me out of the house. He had
been frightening me for several
days, so that/1 was afraid to go
to school alone, and yet I would
not tell my aunt because I was
afraid she would take me away
from the public school and send
me to a private school which I
did not w'ant. But that day I
had seen Chufek Woodcock steal
in behind the hedge, ahead of the
girls. The others were ahead
of me and I was all out of breath
—running to catch up because I
was afraid to pass him alone; and
just as I got near two of them—
Mary Wurta and Caroline Mea
dows, you remember them, don’t
you I—they gave a scream and
pitched headlong on the side
walk. They had tripped over a
wire he had stretched from the
tree to the hedge. I stopped short
and got behind a tree, and I re
meniher hoW the tears felt, in rnv
throat, but I was afraid to let
them out because Chuck would
call me a cry baby and I hated
that. And just then you came
along behind me and jumped
through the hedge and caught
Chuck and gave him an awful
whipping. ‘•lacking" I believe
we called it then. I remember
how condemned I felt as I ran
by the hedge and knew in my
heart that 1 was glad you were
hurting him because he had been
so cruel to me. He used to pull
my curls whenever ha sat be
hind me in recitation.
I remember you came in to
school late with your hair all
mussed up beautifully, and a big
tear in your coat, and a streak
of mud on your face. I was so
worried lest the teacher would
find out you had been fighting
ami make you stay after school.
Because you sec I knew In my
heart that you hail been winning
a battle for me, and if anybody
had to stay after school 1 washed
it could be me because of what
you had done for me. But you
came in laughing as you always
did, and looking as if nothing in
the world unusual had happened,
and when you passed my desk
you threw before me the loveliest
piuk rose bud 1 ever saw.* That
was the second thing you did for
me.
Perhaps you won't understand
how nice that was, either, for you
see you didn’t know how un
happy I had been. The girls had
n’t been very friendly with me.
They told me I was “stuck f!p“’
and they said I was too young
to be in their classes anyway and
ought to go to kindergarten. It
was all very hard for me because
I longed to be big and have them
for my friends. 1 was very lone
ly in that great big house with
only my aunt and grandfather
for company. But the girls
wouldn’t be friends at all until
they saw you give me that rose,
and that turned the tide. They
were crazy about you, every one
of them, and they made up to
me after that and told me their
secrets and shared their lunch
and we had great times. And it
was all because you gave me the
rose that day. The rose itself
was lr/ely and I wras tremen
dously happy over it for its own
sake, but it meant a whole lot to
me besides, and opened the lit
tle world of school to my long
ing feet. I always wanted to
thank you for it, but you looked
as if you didn’t want me to, so
I never dared; and lately I
wasn’t quite sure you knew me,
because you never looked my
way any more.
But when I saw you standing
on the platform the other day
with the other drafted men, it all
came over me how you were giv
mg up me lire you nail planned
to go out and fight for me and
other girls like me. I handn’t
thought of the war that way be
fore, although, of course, 1 had
heard that thought expressed in
speeches; but it never struck into
my heart until I saw the look on
your face. It was a kind of
“knightliness,” if there is such
a word, and when I thought
about it I realized it was the very
same look you had worn when
you burst through the hedge af
ter Chuck Woodcock, and again
when you came back and threw
that rose on my desk. Although,
you had a big, broad boy’s grin
on your face then, and were
chewing gum I remember quite
distinctly; and the other day you
looked so serious and sorry as if
it meant a great deal to you to
go, but you were giving up every
thing gladly without even think
ing of hesitating. The look on
your face was a man’s look, not
a boy’s.
It has meant so much to me to
realize this last great thing that
you are doing for me and for the
other girls of our country that I
had to write and tell you how
much I appreciate it.
I have been wondering wheth
er some one has been knitting
you a sweater yet, and the other
things that they knit for soldiers;
and if they haven’t, whether you
would let me send them to you!
It is the only thing I can do for
you who have done so much for
me.
I hope you will not think I am
presuming to have written this
on the strength of a childish ac
quaintance. I wish you all hon
ors that can come to you on such
a quest as yours, and I had al
most said all good luck, only that
that word sounds too frivolous
and pagan for such a serious mat
ter ; so I will say all safety for a
swift accomplishment of your
task and a swift homecoming. I
used to think when I was a little
child that nothing could ever
hurt you or make you afraid, and
I cannot help feeling now that
you will come through the fire
unscathed. May I hope to hear
from you about the sweater and
il ■ * .) A .3_T — ,,,,P
Your friend!
Ruth MacDonald.
John Cameron lifted his eyes
from the paper at last and looked
up at the sky. Had it ever been
so blue before! At the trees.
What whispering wonders of liv
ing green 1 Was that only a bird
that was singing that heavenly
song—a meadow lark, not an
angel! Why had he never ap
preciated meadow larks before!
He rested his head back
against a big oak and his sol
dier’s hat fell off on the ground.
He closed his eyes and the burden
of loneliness that had borne down
upon him all these weeks iu the
camp lifted from his heart. Then
he tried to realize what had come
to him. Ruth Macdonald, the
wonder and admiration of his
'childhood days, the admired and
envied of the home town, the
petted beauty at whose feet every
man fell, the girl who had every
thing that wealth could pur
chase 1 Slie had remembered the
little old rose he had dared to
throw on her desk, and had
bridged the years with tliis let
ter!
(To Be Continued! Next Week)
Members of the famous prison bard at
Atlanta. Oa,, save a concert rec. ntly
broadcasted from apparatus at the At
lanta Journal. It was the flret time
many of these prisoners had been out
^elde prison walte since their arrival.
■ .
Never Mind—
Re-vitalize
YOU BET it’s warm—the more
need then for keeping the vitality
up. to par.
Vital men resist heat easily. Lan
guid ones are floored. Re-vitalize
yourself and you won’t mind the
weather.
Get new energy in little raisins.
1560 calories of energizing nutri
ment per pound in Little Sun-Maids.
75 per cent pure fruit sugar.
Wonderful because this sugar
'doesn’t need, and, therefore, doesn’t
•tax digestion and thus heat the blood.
Yet energizes almost immediately.
Contain fatigue-resisting food-iron
also. Try a box today.
Little Sun-Maids
Between-Meal Raisins
5c Everywhere
—in Little Red Packages
L........ —. ....
"Wilting to Pay.”
Two colored ball teams were assem
bled ;.nd were abcut to start theii
game, but discovered one of theii
fielders ndsslug. Their captain asked
for someone from the crowd to fill the
fielder’s place. A tall gent said ht
had some experience, so they put hire
In the game. Everything went all
right till it came his turn at bat
After the newcomer had swung at
{wo pitched balls he connected with
11 te next one aiid it went soaring over
Ilu* fence. The crowd all began tc
/ell “Run ! Run !” But he didn’t gel
it, and turning to the crowd he shout
ed : “Run nothing. I’ll buy them an
other ball!"
Proof.
"Hubby, do you love me?”
“Of course.”
"How much do you love me?”
“Well, here's my check book. Tot
can glance over the stubs.”—Judge.
Silence is the hedge that guards wis
dom.
I,-. .■ '
Unkind Remark.
A scenario writer experienced grta{
difficulty in getting Ids plots ncceptedj
As a rule, they were so uninteresting
that a complete hearing was seldom
granted. At last he managed to perj
suade n weary producer to listen tq
the synopsis of his latest play.
"Imagine,” he began, “midnight, all
'silent as the grave.
“Two burglars force open library
windows, and eventually commence
operations on the safe. The clock
strikes one—”
“Which one?” yawned the producer.
A Preference.
We rather hope it will turn-out that
the dead can’t really speak to us aften
all, as we have a number of decea se<J
friends who we'd rather believe arq
pleasantly situated ns long as we can;
—Ohio State Journal.
i -
But on an Average?
“I hear your wife Is a 200-pounder.’?
“Yes, and some days she pounds mq
more than that.”
.-.■■■^1
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/
