As usual on trans-Atlantic voyages, there was a concert in the cabin of the Parthia. Clara Barton, returning to America as the heroine of two wars, was asked to participate. She made her contribution to the evening’s entertainment in a poem which she wrote on shipboard, in which she expressed her ardent desire and her solicitude. She was going back to America after a long absence. Was there anything for her to do when she got here? For daily bread she had no concern and no need for concern. Her modest income was adequate for her still more modest needs. Even while traveling abroad she had found no occasion to encroach upon her principal, and her expenses at home were certain to leave her each year a little margin between income and outgo. But there had entered into her soul a vision of the contribution which she might be permitted to make to America and the world by securing America’s adhesion to the international treaty which included the recognition of the Red Cross. Would America listen to her when she pleaded for this? Had it room for her and her mission? HAVE YE ROOM? Five days from New York--five days did he say? Only five days from the glistening bay, That four years ago I sailed tearfully o’er Watching the sunny light fade from the shore! As the kerchiefs had faded along the dense pier, And the God bless you’s died on the listening ear. Tearfully, prayerfully, sailing away, Past the green islands, and out of the bay, Recalling in pain they who sorrowed and wept, More painfully still the brave who had slept; Tearfully, prayerfully sailing away In search of the strength that went out in the fray. It were easy to search for the gems of the sea, The jewels and gold hid in mountain and lea, The thin veins of silver that line the green sod, But health is of wisdom, and strength is of God. Four wearisome years in lands strange and old, Watching the changes that over them rolled, How the calm shadows lay in the valley of rest, And the black war cloud gathered from out of the west; How lancer and _tireur_ dashed o’er the plain And the smiles fled the face of sweet Alsace-Lorraine. And helmet and turban lay soaked in the rain And the masterless dog lapped the wounds of the slain. Fair sons and brave husbands there lingered not one, And the far childless widow prayed--Thy will be done. How the old nations groaned on their unstable beds, As the great car of progress rolled over their heads, Uprooting old forms, time-honored of sages Sowing new truths for the incoming ages. Republics have sprung on the steps of the throne, Kingdoms have crumbled, empires have grown; Princes and prelates have listened their doom, And ermine and gold-decked the refugee’s tomb.