Mothers and sisters wept over it, young lads
thrilled to it, the whole great heart of humanity caught it up as an
epitome of all the pain and hope and pity and purpose of the mighty
conflict, crystallized in three brief immortal verses. A Canadian lad in
the Flanders trenches had written the one great poem of the war. "The
Piper," by Pte. Walter Blythe, was a classic from its first printing.
Rilla copied it in her diary at the beginning of an entry in which she
poured out the story of the hard week that had just passed.
"It has been such a dreadful week," she wrote, "and even though it is
over and we know that it was all a mistake that does not seem to do away
with the bruises left by it. And yet it has in some ways been a very
wonderful week and I have had some glimpses of things I never realized
before--of how fine and brave people can be even in the midst of
horrible suffering. I am sure I could never be as splendid as Miss
Oliver was.
"Just a week ago today she had a letter from Mr. Grant's mother in
Charlottetown. And it told her that a cable had just come saying that
Major Robert Grant had been killed in action a few days before.
"Oh, poor Gertrude! At first she was crushed. Then after just a day she
pulled herself together and went back to her school. She did not cry--I
never saw her shed a tear--but oh, her face and her eyes!
"'I must go on with my work,' she said.
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