It was so pretty and peaceful a village that it seemed hard to realize that the shadow of war was lying across it, but some mournful stories were being told almost daily by the mill-pond, which was the favorite place for gossip.
“Is Willie looking up all right?” asked a lad of Mrs. Pollard as she sauntered down to the pond by way of a break in her morning’s work.
“Ah, Mrs. Pollard, you did ought to be proud of your Willie!” put in a neighbor, without waiting for the reply. “Such a smart, well-set-up lad, and with such a beautiful voice, to be sure! And now to think he’s going to the Front! There, I could cry, for it do seem cruel to send a lad like him.”
“And he only nineteen,” replied Willie’s mother with a sigh. “Thank you, Mrs. Bowden, for your sympathy.”
‘There, there, mother,’ he says when he’d ‘listed, don’t ‘ee take on so. I couldn’t do nothing else now, could I, when King and country want me? And I’m going to fight for you, mother, as well as for the rest. And then you know it is all right between me and God. I’m sure He’ll take care of me, and if I’m wounded —’
“ ‘Don’t say it, lad,’ I cried. ‘Yes, I know the Lord will be with you, wherever you be.’ For Willie is a true Christian lad, and all my prayers are answered for him. His last Sunday I can never forget. How he did sing, as he stood in the pew, tall and straight, in his khaki! That day we had his favorite hymn, ‘Jesus, lover of my soul.’ I can hear his voice ring out now as he sang those words, ‘Oh, receive my soul at last.’”
The tears ran down her face at the recollection. “Do you hear from him regular?” asked Mrs. Bowden and the lad together.
“Oh, yes, of course I do. Folks are mighty kind out there in France, he says; there are huts, with tables and chairs, and pens and ink to encourage the lads to write home. But Willie wants no encouragement; he was always a good lad to his mother.”
It was night in the camp, the first night in France for the draft of men who were undressing, throwing their boots with a clatter on to the floor, chaffing each other, grumbling, and swearing. How could anybody kneel to pray in such a clatter? There was only a moment’s hesitation, and then Willie Pollard dropped on to his knees and bent his head. God surely forgave him the fact that his prayer was little more than an attitude, because he was expecting boots and buckles to be hurled with violence at his head.
There was a moment’s silence, then came shouts of derisive laughter, scornful words, and threats; but no hand was laid on Willie, and he lay down without replying to anybody. He had to endure much petty persecution at first, but after a time it died down, and presently he won over some of his worst opponents, and induced them to go with him to the hut for meeting’s.
“My word, but the chap’s got a voice!” they said, as they sat beside him and heard his beautiful voice in the hymns; in none was it heartier than in his favorite.
Then came the call to the firing line, and at that time the men watched Willie more closely than ever, and they could see that his faith was real. There was no sign of “funk” or of cowardice about him. The bombardment had been cruel, and many men had already fallen, when the word was passed along that Pollard was “downed.” Then it was that his influence over his rough, swearing comrades was seen to be very real. “Young Pollard wounded? A right good sort he is. Let me pass. I must take a hand in carrying him along.” Presently two of those who had, at first, most bitterly opposed him, pressed forward to carry him to the field dressing station at the end of the trench. They lifted him gently on to the stretcher, and he smiled when he saw them.
Almost immediately he began to sing his beloved hymn, and tears sprang to the eves of the men as they stumbled along the mud-filled trench with their burden. After the first few lines the voice grew still sweeter, but very low.
“Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,
Till the storm of life be past.”
The voice died away in an involuntary moan, and a spasm of pain crossed the white face; but when they laid him down the tenor notes rang out once more, and he made an effort to raise himself.
“Safe into the haven guide.”
That line was very clear, but it was followed by a pause. Faintly, as Willie fell back, he whispered: “Oh, receive my soul at last.”
Then all was over, and he was safe in the haven where he had longed to be.
“But when the last notes died away,” so runs the record in which this true story was sent to England, “the two men who carried him in pledged themselves to follow the same Saviour, who was so manifestly with him in death.” Whether they are still living, or have since laid down their lives, I cannot say, but this much is certain: they were not the only two soldiers who turned to the Saviour because they watched Willie Pollard’s consistent life and brave, beautiful death.
The day which brought the news to Willie’s mother was a sad one for her; but she knows where to look for comfort, and she expects to see her boy again before long.
Life, however, is lonely without him. She often talks of him to her neighbors by the mill-pond, and sometimes she fancies that she can hear that last line that fell from his dying lips, and she rejoices to know that the prayer was so quickly answered, and that, “safe in the arms of Jesus,” Willie crossed the dark river and entered the heavenly home.
M. Hickley.