Classic Poem

When the sword is sheathed and the cannon lies
Dumb and still on the parapet,
For the spider to weave his silken net
And the doves to nest in its silent mouth;
When the manly trade declines and dies,
And hearts shrink up in ignoble drouth,
When pitiful peace reigns everywhere,
What is left for old Corporal Pierre?

Nought remains for an honest wight,
But to write for bread, as the poets do,
Beggarly scrawls for paltry sous.
The billet-doux and the angry dun
To the writing-machine are all as one.
What matter the word or sentiment?
If the fee be paid he is well content.
To have heart in one's trade, ah! one must fight.

" M'sieu, if you please, " and a timid hand
Is laid on the soldier's threadbare sleeve.
Pierre was bearish that day, I grieve
To say, and his speech was curt,
As will happen when want or old wounds hurt —
" I wish you to write a letter, please. "
" All right. Ten sous. " But the little boy
Has turned away. " Morbleu! Well, then,
You have n't the money? You think that pen
And ink and paper grow on trees?
Halt! Can't a soldier his joke enjoy
But you must flare up? I understand.

" A begging letter, of course. And who
Shall be favored to-day? Dictate — " M'sieu" " —
" Pardon. 'Tis not " M'sieu." Madame,
La Sainte Vierge. " The writer stopped,
And the pen from his trembling fingers dropped;
The desk was shut with an angry slam.
" Sapristi! You little rascal, you
Would jest with the Holy Virgin too? "

But the child was weeping, and old Pierre
Suppressed his wrath and indulged a stare.
" My mother, M'sieu, she sleeps so long,
These two whole days, and the room is cold.
And she will not awake. It is very wrong,
I know, for a boy to be afraid
When a boy is as many as five years old
But I was so hungry, and when I prayed
And the Virgin did not come, I thought
Perhaps if I send her a letter, why — "

He paused, but old Pierre said nought
There was something new in the old man's throat,
And something strange in the old man's eye;
At length he took up his pen and wrote.
Long it took him to write and fold
And seal with a hand that was far from bold;
Then: " Courage, small comrade, wait and see;
Your letter is mailed, and presently
An answer will come, perhaps to me.

I will open my desk. Behold, 'tis there!
" From Heaven," it says, " a M'sieu Pierre."
You do not read? N'importe. I do.
'Tis a letter from Heaven, and all about you,
And, what? " Mamma is in Heaven, too
And her little boy must be brave and good
And live with Pierre." That's understood.
While Pierre has a crust or sou to spare,
There's enough for him and thee, mon cher. "

Do you think that letter came from above
Freighted with God's and a mother's love?
The child at least believed it true,
So, at the last, Pierre did too,
When the heavenly mail came once again,
To a grim old man on a bed of pain,
Whose dying eyes alone could see,
And read the missive joyfully.
He knew the Hand, and proudly smiled,
For it was as the hand of a little child.