In Flanders Fields And Other Poems [30]
very home-like beasts.
They never seem French to me. Bonneau can "donner la patte"
in good style nowadays, and he sometimes curls up inside the rabbit hutch,
and the rabbits seem to like him.
I wish you could see the hundreds of rabbits there are here
on the sand-dunes; there are also many larks and jackdaws.
(These are different from your brother Jack, although they have black faces.)
There are herons, curlews, and even ducks; and the other day
I saw four young weasels in a heap, jumping over each other from side to side
as they ran.
Sir Bertrand Dawson has a lovely little spaniel, Sue, quite black,
who goes around with him. I am quite a favourite, and one day
Sir Bertrand said to me, "She has brought you a present," and here she was
waiting earnestly for me to remove from her mouth a small stone.
It is usually a simple gift, I notice, and does not embarrass by its value.
Bonfire is very sleek and trim, and we journey much. If I sit down
in his reach I wish you could see how deftly he can pick off my cap
and swing it high out of my reach. He also carries my crop;
his games are simple, but he does not readily tire of them.
I lost poor old Windy. He was the regimental dog of the 1st Batt. Lincolns,
and came to this vale of Avalon to be healed of his second wound.
He spent a year at Gallipoli and was "over the top" twice with his battalion.
He came to us with his papers like any other patient,
and did very well for a while, but took suddenly worse. He had all
that care and love could suggest and enough morphine to keep the pain down;
but he was very pathetic, and I had resolved that it would be true friendship
to help him over when he "went west". He is buried in our woods
like any other good soldier, and yesterday I noticed that some one has laid
a little wreath of ivy on his grave. He was an old dog evidently,
but we are all sore-hearted at losing him. His kit is kept
should his master return, -- only his collar with his honourable marks,
for his wardrobe was of necessity simple. So another sad chapter ends.
September 29th, 1915.
Bonneau gravely accompanies me round the wards and waits for me,
sitting up in a most dignified way. He comes into my tent
and sits there very gravely while I dress. Two days ago
a Sister brought out some biscuits for Bonfire, and not understanding
the rules of the game, which are bit and bit about for Bonfire and Bonneau,
gave all to Bonfire, so that poor Bonneau sat below and caught the crumbs
that fell. I can see that Bonfire makes a great hit with the Sisters
because he licks their hands just like a dog, and no crumb is too small
to be gone after.
April, 1917.
I was glad to get back; Bonfire and Bonneau greeted me very enthusiastically.
I had a long long story from the dog, delivered with uplifted muzzle.
They tell me he sat gravely on the roads a great deal during my absence,
and all his accustomed haunts missed him. He is back on rounds faithfully.
VII
The Old Land and the New
If one were engaged upon a formal work of biography rather than
a mere essay in character, it would be just and proper to investigate
the family sources from which the individual member is sprung;
but I must content myself within the bounds which I have set,
and leave the larger task to a more laborious hand. The essence of history
lies in the character of the persons concerned, rather than in the feats
which they performed. A man neither lives to himself nor in himself.
He is indissolubly bound up with his stock, and can only explain himself
in terms common to his family; but in doing so he transcends
the limits of history, and passes into the realms of philosophy and religion.
The life of a Canadian is bound up with the history of his parish,
of his town, of his province, of his country, and even with the history
of that country in which his family had its birth. The life of John McCrae
takes us back to Scotland. In Canada
They never seem French to me. Bonneau can "donner la patte"
in good style nowadays, and he sometimes curls up inside the rabbit hutch,
and the rabbits seem to like him.
I wish you could see the hundreds of rabbits there are here
on the sand-dunes; there are also many larks and jackdaws.
(These are different from your brother Jack, although they have black faces.)
There are herons, curlews, and even ducks; and the other day
I saw four young weasels in a heap, jumping over each other from side to side
as they ran.
Sir Bertrand Dawson has a lovely little spaniel, Sue, quite black,
who goes around with him. I am quite a favourite, and one day
Sir Bertrand said to me, "She has brought you a present," and here she was
waiting earnestly for me to remove from her mouth a small stone.
It is usually a simple gift, I notice, and does not embarrass by its value.
Bonfire is very sleek and trim, and we journey much. If I sit down
in his reach I wish you could see how deftly he can pick off my cap
and swing it high out of my reach. He also carries my crop;
his games are simple, but he does not readily tire of them.
I lost poor old Windy. He was the regimental dog of the 1st Batt. Lincolns,
and came to this vale of Avalon to be healed of his second wound.
He spent a year at Gallipoli and was "over the top" twice with his battalion.
He came to us with his papers like any other patient,
and did very well for a while, but took suddenly worse. He had all
that care and love could suggest and enough morphine to keep the pain down;
but he was very pathetic, and I had resolved that it would be true friendship
to help him over when he "went west". He is buried in our woods
like any other good soldier, and yesterday I noticed that some one has laid
a little wreath of ivy on his grave. He was an old dog evidently,
but we are all sore-hearted at losing him. His kit is kept
should his master return, -- only his collar with his honourable marks,
for his wardrobe was of necessity simple. So another sad chapter ends.
September 29th, 1915.
Bonneau gravely accompanies me round the wards and waits for me,
sitting up in a most dignified way. He comes into my tent
and sits there very gravely while I dress. Two days ago
a Sister brought out some biscuits for Bonfire, and not understanding
the rules of the game, which are bit and bit about for Bonfire and Bonneau,
gave all to Bonfire, so that poor Bonneau sat below and caught the crumbs
that fell. I can see that Bonfire makes a great hit with the Sisters
because he licks their hands just like a dog, and no crumb is too small
to be gone after.
April, 1917.
I was glad to get back; Bonfire and Bonneau greeted me very enthusiastically.
I had a long long story from the dog, delivered with uplifted muzzle.
They tell me he sat gravely on the roads a great deal during my absence,
and all his accustomed haunts missed him. He is back on rounds faithfully.
VII
The Old Land and the New
If one were engaged upon a formal work of biography rather than
a mere essay in character, it would be just and proper to investigate
the family sources from which the individual member is sprung;
but I must content myself within the bounds which I have set,
and leave the larger task to a more laborious hand. The essence of history
lies in the character of the persons concerned, rather than in the feats
which they performed. A man neither lives to himself nor in himself.
He is indissolubly bound up with his stock, and can only explain himself
in terms common to his family; but in doing so he transcends
the limits of history, and passes into the realms of philosophy and religion.
The life of a Canadian is bound up with the history of his parish,
of his town, of his province, of his country, and even with the history
of that country in which his family had its birth. The life of John McCrae
takes us back to Scotland. In Canada