Then in the bursting shells' dim light I saw he was clad in white. For a moment I thought that I saw the smock Of a shepherd in search of his flock. Alert were the enemy, too, And their bullets flew Straight at a mark no bullet could fail; For the seeker was tall and his robe was bright; But he did not flee nor quail. Instead, with unhurrying stride He came, And gathering my tall frame, Like a child, in his arms.... Again I swooned, And awoke From a blissful dream In a cave by a stream. My silent comrade had bound my side. No pain now was mine, but a wish that I spoke,-- A mastering wish to serve this man Who had ventured through hell my doom to revoke, As only the truest of comrades can. I begged him to tell me how best I might aid him, And urgently prayed him Never to leave me, whatever betide; When I saw he was hurt-- Shot through the hands that were clasped in prayer! Then, as the dark drops gathered there And fell in the dirt, The wounds of my friend Seemed to me such as no man might bear. Those bullet-holes in the patient hands Seemed to transcend All horrors that ever these war-drenched lands Had known or would know till the mad world's end. Then suddenly I was aware That his feet had been wounded, too; And, dimming the white of his side, A dull stain grew. "You are hurt, White Comrade!" I cried. His words I already foreknew: "These are old wounds," said he, "But of late they have troubled me." _Robert Haven Schauffler_ FLEURETTE THE WOUNDED CANADIAN SPEAKS: My leg? It's off at the knee. Do I miss it? Well, some. You see I've had it since I was born; And lately a devilish corn. (I rather chuckle with glee To think how I've fooled that corn.) But I'll hobble around all right. It isn't that, it's my face. Oh, I know I'm a hideous sight, Hardly a thing in place. Sort of gargoyle, you'd say. Nurse won't give me a glass, But I see the folks as they pass Shudder and turn away; Turn away in distress.... Mirror enough, I guess. I'm gay! You bet I _am_ gay, But I wasn't a while ago. If you'd seen me even to-day, The darnedest picture of woe, With this Caliban mug of mine, So ravaged and raw and red, Turned to the wall--in fine Wishing that I was dead.... What has happened since then, Since I lay with my face to the wall, The most despairing of men! Listen! I'll tell you all. That _poilu_ across the way, With the shrapnel wound on his head, Has a sister: she came to-day To sit awhile by his bed. All morning I heard him fret: "Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?" Then sudden, a joyous cry; The tripping of little feet; The softest, tenderest sigh; A voice so fresh and sweet; Clear as a silver bell, Fresh as the morning dews: "_C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel! Mon frère, comme je suis heureuse!_" So over the blanket's rim I raised my terrible face, And I saw--how I envied him! A girl of such delicate grace; Sixteen, all laughter and love; As gay as a linnet, and yet As tenderly sweet as a dove; Half woman, half child--Fleurette.