Evening Republican, Volume 21, Number 209, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 September 1918 — “A Letter To Mr. Somebody” [ARTICLE]

“A Letter To Mr. Somebody”

By LOUISE OLIVER

(Copyright, IMB, byjthe McClure Newspaper Syndicate.) Philip sat thoughtfully down on the fire step of the trench. The German musketry had ceased for the time and all was quiet along the line. Three of the men in his platoon had been wounded and taken back to the firstaid stations behind the lines. But he hadn’t a scratch. Bbside him, crouching in a variety of attitudes, were five of the boys playing cards. Someone had produced a dog-eared, muddy pack, and now they were having a round of jackpots. The entire crowd had an aggregate of less than a dollar, all told. “Come on in, Pearson, the betting’s fine,” called Dorgan. “Sky’s the limit.” But Philip shook his head. “It hurts my finer feelings to see my fellow beings risking their Immortal souls. I can’t be a party to the outrage. Besides, I’m broke.” “Poor Phil!” Dorgan drew three cards. “Lonely again." “Who’s he got to be lonely for?” Kearney, new to the company, didn’t know Phil's history. “Nobody. That’s the trouble. We cusses here think we’re killed because we can’t see our folks. But did you ever think what it meant not to have any folks to get homesick for? That’s Phil’s trouble. He just naturally hasn’t got anybody. That’s what he’s thinking this minute. Til bet a jitney. Never gets any mail —never hears from anyone. By George, here comes Bandy now with letters. Hurrah I The mail’s in, Jimmy! All those for me, chaplain? Well, this is my day.” Philip sat stolidly on the fire step, without moving. He knew the chaplain had no mail for him. All the other boys were busily tearing open letters and papers and hungrily devouring every word. Then the chaplain stopped in front of him and put a hand on his shoulder. “My boy, I wonder if---” He put his other hand in his pocket and drew out ’a letter. “I don’t approve of this — much. I don’t have any idea what’s inside, but I’m going to leave it with you.” Philip took the letter ’ eagerly and scanned the address. It was written in a rather angular feminine hand on plain white paper and directed to: MR. SOMEBODY, American Expeditionary Forces, i France. Puzzled, he slid his trench knife under the flap and drew out the closely written folded pages. The letter began: “Dear Mr. Somebody: Before you read my letter I’m going to ask whether or not you are getting mail from home and friends. If you are, will you please give this to someone who is not, for this is not your letter, then, but his. lam writing to a lonely man who has no one to care about him —not to you.” Philip paused. Strange that the chaplain had followed the directions so closely without divining the contents. He turned again to the letter. Surely the letter had reached its Intended destination. Who else had a better right to it than he? Then suddenly a revulsion of feeling seized him. He didn’t want sympathy, he didn’t want to read a lot of Sunday school stuff about patiently bearing one’s lot and being sustained by pride in what he was doing. His eyes ran rebelllously over the next few words, then he read more eagerly, and before he knew it —but let us read the letter. “First of all,” it ran, 'Tm going to wish a family onto you, Mr. Somebody—my family. And I’m going to tell you all about what we’ve been doing. Maybe you’ll want to hear about them and maybe you won’t, but I absolutely refuse to sympathize with your loneliness and write consoling things like that. And as I have to have something to put into a letter, you will just have to be patient. And I’m not going to introduce them. I will speak of them as though you’d known us all forever.

“To begin, Mr. Peabody finally came across and gave Dad the position as department head that he should have had years ago. Oh, you don’t know what it meant to us I Or, I forgot, you do know, of course. When Dad came home that night and told us, Buddy stood right up in the middle of the dining-room table and started to recite Webster’s oration, knocking over my vase of clove shrub, the first out of the garden, and ruining a bran clean tablecloth that had taken me forty-seven minutes to iron. But I was in a forgiving humor, of course, and merely kissed him and ordered him down. Lotty gave Dad a hug that nearly strangled him and marched right upstairs and returned with everyone—everyone—mind you, of her old dresses over her arm.” “‘Now, Sis,’ she demanded, ‘can’ll give these to the poor Harbisons right away, and get that pink-embroided voile and the Peter Tom suit tomorrow? • ■ / . I was ready to promise anything, my dear sir, but all the while I was thinking how fine It would be to have the money for the gas and milk and* butcher and grocery man without Dad’s having to sit up till midnight figuring bow to make the money stretch. “Well, that’s that Already Dad

♦ looks ten years younger, and last* night when he was shaving I heard him whistling. Wasn’t it wonderful! “The Emerys next door are having their house painted with mahogany trimmings. It was a dear of a house before they bought it and looked so lovely white. But Mr. Emery had made a fortune in munitions and he’s building a stone addition to it Imagine! Some way I think houses are like people, don’t you? I mean, they show what kind of people live in them. Our house looks like the home of poor genteel, as we’re usually called. Vines and things growing up to hide places where we need a carpenter and painter. It’s like shoe polish on an old pair of shoes. But I think if one’s shoes are old, it’s better to have them polished than not, don’t you? “But talking of the house and vines brings me to my hobby. My garden— I don’t know whether you like flowers or not —but I just have to tell you about It. Just now I’m writing out here in an old green swing under a pink heaven of blossoms. The trees are all out and the birds are fairly bursting their little throats for joy. “And the bed of white and red tulips over the fence is blooming so bravely—it is as good as a sermon on courage. And over by the shed —but of course you can’t see the shed for the bushes. I’ll just have to tell you it’s there —the lilacs are coming out. Can’t you smell that exquisite deliciousness away over there in your trench? Surely heaven will have hedges of lilacs. And the shrubs are out —the snowballs a lovely tender greenish white. How I wish you could see it, Mr. Somebody. “And now, I’m going to tell you a secret. I hadn’t intended to, but pomeway I feel' that you are sympathetic, that you’ll understand. “I have a soldier, a lonely soldier. He must be away over In France, and it is my fault he is lonely, for we quarreled and he went away, and now I can’t find out where he is. So after all, this is his letter you are getting. Oh, I wish someone would write to him —for lie is lonely, I know. He had nobody but me. And, oh, if I only knew, so I could ask him to forgive. “This is all for this time, Mr. pomebody. If you like my letter and send me your name and address, I’ll write again. “Faithfully yours, “Elizabeth Downing, “Somerset, Mass.” This was Philip’s answer: “Dearest Little Betty.—Mr. Somebody got your letter, and what do you think? It was I. You see God must have guided it here. So you want me to forgive you, sweetheart. Dearest, I’m not fit to kiss the hem of your dainty little dress. I adore you and always will. But since I got your letter I determined to live and go back to you. Before, I resented every crack the -other fellows got Instead of me. There, the post’s going out and I must send this, but I’ll write every day. Good-bye, dearest girl. “Forever yours, Philip.”