Then the hilarious victory of the Bull Run picnic was turned into a panic of disaster, of shame, of dismay. Lists of dead men became news, and the poor citizens gnashed their teeth upon their grief, understanding how grim and long a game they had begun. Whichever side won the game, both must lose infinitely precious treasures only now valued truly. All the songs were war songs; all the love-stories had either warriors or skulkers involved; the rejoicings were over the disasters of other Americans, other mothers and fathers; the highest of arts was the art of destruction; the zest of life was in slaughtering and enduring. Life had more beauty and glory than ever but no more prettiness, no grace. One day RoBards brought home the paper, and after assuring Patty that Keith’s name was not in any of the gory catalogues, he said: “Our relative-in-law—Cousin Julia Ward Howe—has broken into poetry again. It’s a war poem, very womanly for a blue-stocking; not bad.” Patty took the paper and glanced at it carelessly. Being about silks the verses caught her and her smile became a look of pain. RoBards said, “Read it aloud to me. I used to love to hear you read aloud.” She read. And because of the miracle there is in the voice, especially to him in her voice, the poem seemed to him a thing of deeper sorrow and more majesty than any of the bombast that filled the press. It was a dirge for beautiful glad things: “Weave no more silks, ye Lyons looms, To deck our girls for gay delights! The crimson flower of battle blooms, And solemn marches fill the nights. “Weave but the flag whose bars to-day Drooped heavy o’er our early dead, And homely garments, coarse and gray, For orphans that must earn their bread. “Keep back your tunes, ye viols sweet, That poured delight from other lands! Rouse there the dancer’s restless feet: The trumpet leads our warrior bands. “And ye that wage the war of words With mystic fame and subtle power, Go, chatter to the idle birds, Or teach the lesson of the hour! “Ye Sibyl Arts, in one stern knot Be all your offices combined! Stand close, while Courage draws the lot, The destiny of human kind.” Patty’s voice died away on the last stanza. RoBards, the lawyer, the pleader, the juggler of words like cannon balls, admired the exalted phrases, the apostrophic strain, but Patty was touched only by the first and third stanzas and like a mournful nightingale she warbled softly to a little tune made up of reminiscences of the opera: “Weave no more silks, ye Lyons looms.” Only as she trilled it it ran: “We-e-e-eave no mo-o-ore silks, ye Ly-y-ons loo-oo-oo-ooms.” It got caught in her thoughts and ran through her head for weeks, until unconsciously she was always crooning or whispering the haunting syllables.