One characteristic of Clara Barton during these four years deserves mention and emphasis because her independent position might have made it easy for her to assume a critical attitude toward those who worked under the regular organization or through different channels. In all her letters, in all the entries in her diaries, there is found no hint of jealousy toward any of the women who worked as nurses in the hospitals, or under the Sanitary or Christian Commission. Clara Barton from her childhood was given to versifying. She was once called upon to respond to a toast to the women who went to the front. She did it in rhyme as follows: TOAST “THE WOMEN WHO WENT TO THE FIELD” The women who went to the field, you say, The _women_ who went to the field; and pray What did they go for? just to be in the way!-- They’d not know the difference betwixt work and play, What did they know about _war_ anyway? What could they _do_?--of what _use_ could they be? They would scream at the sight of a gun, don’t you see? Just fancy them round where the bugle notes play, And the long roll is bidding us on to the fray. Imagine their skirts ’mong artillery wheels, And watch for their flutter as they flee ’cross the fields When the charge is rammed home and the fire belches hot;-- They never will wait for the answering shot. They would faint at the first drop of blood, in their sight. What fun for us boys,--(ere we enter the fight;) They might pick some lint, and tear up some sheets, And make us some jellies, and send on their sweets, And knit some soft socks for Uncle Sam’s shoes, And write us some letters, and tell us the news. And thus it was settled by common consent, That husbands, or brothers, or whoever went, That the place for the women was in their own homes, There to patiently wait until victory comes. But later, it chanced, just how no one knew, That the lines slipped a bit, and some ’gan to crowd through; And they went,--where did they go?--Ah; where did they not? Show us the battle,--the field,--or the spot Where the groans of the wounded rang out on the air That her ear caught it not, and her hand was not there, Who wiped the death sweat from the cold clammy brow, And sent home the message;--“’Tis well with him now”? Who watched in the tents, whilst the fever fires burned, And the pain-tossing limbs in agony turned, And wet the parched tongue, calmed delirium’s strife Till the dying lips murmured, “My Mother,” “My Wife”! And who were they all?--They were many, my men; Their record was kept by no tabular pen: They exist in traditions from father to son. Who recalls, in dim memory, now here and there one.-- A few names were writ, and by chance live to-day; But’s a perishing record fast fading away. Of those we recall, there are scarcely a score, Dix, Dame, Bickerdyke,--Edson, Harvey, and Moore, Fales, Whittenmeyer, Gilson, Safford and Lee,