Читать книгу Journal of Small Things - Helen Mackay - Страница 14

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Other people will write beautiful things of it—it is so beautiful.

How beautiful it is, this going forth of all that is young and gay and fearless, of all that means our ideal and our faith, without singing and shouting, to battle.

There are no grand words, they only go.

And none of the women cry, till afterwards.

You see them laughing as they help their boys carry the bundles.

And you see them coming home through the streets afterwards, each one alone and proud, crying quite noiselessly.

Sometimes the people who feel things most, remember only the smallest things.

There was an old woman with a push-cart full of pears, this morning, in the rue Boissy d'Anglas, who ran and ran as fast as she could, panting, out of breath, to give her pears, all of them, to the blue boys of an infantry regiment passing with their blankets and knapsacks.

I remember that, and that it was a beautiful blue-and-gold day, with a flaming, thundering sunset.