For twenty-five years there has stood, in one of the faubourgs of Rouen, not far from the right bank of the Seine, a long two-story brick building, with a wing reaching back to the base of the hill. Up to the year 1915 it was used as a factory for the making of silk ribbons. Rouen had been a center of the cotton manufacturing industry from time immemorial. Why therefore should not the making of silk be added? It was added, and the enterprise grew and became prosperous. Then came the war, vast, terrible, bringing in its train suffering, poverty, a drastic curtailment of all the luxuries of life. Silk ribbons are a luxury; they go with soft living. So, then; voila tout! Before the end of the first year of the conflict the factory was transformed into a hospital. The clatter of looms and the chatter of girls gave place to the moanings of sick and wounded men, and the gentle voices of white and blue clad nurses. It was no longer bales of raw silk that were carted up to the big doors of the factory, and boxes of rolled ribbon that were trundled down the drive to the street, to the warehouses, and thence to the admiring eyes of beauty-loving women. The human freight that was brought to the big doors in these days consisted of the pierced and mutilated bodies of men; soldiers for whom the final taps would soon sound. If they chanced to be of the British troops, and held fast to the spark of life within them, then they were close enough to the seaport to be taken across the channel for final convalescence under English skies.

It was to this hospital that Lieutenant Penfield Butler was brought from the battlefield of the Somme. His battalion had done the work assigned to it in the fight, had done it well, and had withdrawn to its trenches, leaving a third of its men dead or wounded between the lines. Later on, under cover of a galling artillery fire, rescue parties had gone out to bring in the wounded. They had found Pen in the shelter of the shell-hole, still unconscious. They had brought him back across the fire-swept field, and down through the winding, narrow trenches, to the first-aid station, from which, after a hurried examination and superficial treatment of his wounds, he was taken in a guard-car to a field hospital in the rear of the lines. But space in these field hospitals is too precious to permit of wounded men who can be moved without fatal results, remaining in them for long periods. The stream of newcomers is too constant and too pressing. So, after five days, Pen was sent, by way of Amiens, to the hospital in the suburbs of Rouen. He, himself, knew little of where he was or of what was being done for him. A bullet had grazed his right arm, and a clubbed musket or revolver had laid his scalp open to the bone. But these were slight injuries in comparison with the awful wound in his breast. Torn flesh, shattered bones, pierced lungs, these things left life hanging by the slenderest thread. When the médecin-chef of the hospital near Rouen took his first look at the boy after his arrival, he had him put under the influence of an anæsthetic in order that he could the more readily and effectively examine, probe and dress the wound, and remove any irritating splinters of bone that might be the cause of the continuous leakage from the lungs. But when he had finished his delicate and strenuous task he turned to the nurse at his side and gave a hopeless shake of his head and shrug of his shoulders.

“Fichu!” he said; “lé laisser tranquille.”

“But I am not going to let him die,” she replied; “he is too young, too handsome, too brave, and he is an American.”

He smiled, shook his head again and passed on to the next case. The girl was an American too, and these American nurses were always so optimistic, so faithfully persistent, she might pull him through, but the smile of incredulity still lay on the lips of the médecin-chef.

The next day the young soldier was better. The leakage had not yet wholly ceased; but the wound was apparently beginning to heal. He was still dazed, and his pain was still too severe to be endured without opiates. It was five days later that he came fully to his senses, was able to articulate, and to frame intelligent sentences. He indicated to his nurse, Miss Byron, that he wished to have his mother written to.

“No especial message,” he whispered, “just that I am here have been wounded recovering.”

But the nurse had already learned from other men of Pen’s company, less seriously wounded than he, who were at the same hospital, something about the boy’s desperate bravery, and how his stern fighting qualities were combined with great tenderness of heart and a most loving disposition, and she could not avoid putting an echo of it in her letter to his mother.

Later on Pen developed symptoms of pneumonia, a disease that follows so often on an injury to the structure of the lungs.

When the médecin-chef came and noted the increase in temperature and the decrease in vitality, he looked grave. Every day, with true French courtesy, he had congratulated Miss Byron on her remarkable success in nursing the young American back to life. But now, perhaps, after all, the efforts of both of them would be wasted. Pneumonia is a hard foe to fight when it attacks wounded lungs. So an English physician was called in and joined with the French surgeon and the American nurse to combat the dreaded enemy. It seemed, somehow, as if each of them felt that the honor of his or her country was at stake in this battle with disease and death across that hospital bed in the old factory near Rouen.

It was late in February when Pen’s mother and his Aunt Millicent reached Havre, and took the next available train up to Rouen. They had not heard from Pen since sailing, and they were almost beside themselves with anxiety and apprehension. But the telephone service between the city and its faubourgs is excellent, Aunt Millicent could speak French with comparative fluency, and it was not many minutes after their arrival before they had obtained connection with the hospital and were talking with Miss Byron.

“He is very ill,” she said, “but we feel that the crisis of his disease has passed, and we hope for his recovery.”

So, then, he was still living, and there was hope. In the early twilight of the winter evening the two women rode out to the suburban town and went up to the hospital to see him. He did not open his eyes, nor recognize them in any way, he did not even know that they were with him.

“There have been many complications of the illness from his wound,” said the nurse; “double pneumonia, typhoid symptoms, and what not; we dared not hope for him for a while, but we feel now that perhaps the worst is over. He has made a splendid fight for his life,” she added; “he deserves to win. And he is the favorite of the hospital. Every one loves him. The first question all my patients ask me when I make my first round for the day is ’How is the young American lieutenant this morning?’ Oh, if good wishes and genuine affection can keep him with us, he will stay.”

So, with tear-wet faces, grateful yet still anxious, the two women left him for the night and sought hospitality at a modest pension in the neighborhood of the hospital.

But a precious life still hung in the balance. As he had lain for many days, so the young soldier continued to lie, for many days to come, apparently without thought or vitality, save that those who watched him could catch now and then a low murmur from his lips, and could see the faint rise and fall of his scarred and bandaged breast.

Then, so slowly that it seemed to those who looked lovingly on that ages were going by, he began definitely to mend. He could open his eyes, and move his head and hands, and he seemed to grasp, by degrees, the fact that his mother and his Aunt Millicent were often sitting at his bedside. But when he tried to speak his tongue would not obey his will.

One day, when he awakened from a refreshing sleep, he seemed brighter and stronger than he had been at any time before. The two women whom he most loved were sitting on opposite sides of his cot, and his devoted and delighted nurse stood near by, smiling down on him. He smiled back up at each of them in turn, but he made no attempt to speak. He seemed to know that he had not yet the power of articulation.

His cot, in an alcove at the end of the main aisle, was so placed that, when the curtains were drawn aside, he could, at will, look down the long rows of beds where once the looms had clattered, and watch wan faces, and recumbent forms under the white spreads, and nurses, some garbed in white, and some in blue, and some in more sober colors, moving gently about among the sufferers in performance of their thrice-blest and most angelic tasks. It was there that he was looking now, and the two women at his bedside who were watching him, saw that his eyes were fixed, with strange intensity, on some object in the distance. They turned to see what it was. To their utter astonishment and dismay they discovered, marching up the aisle, accompanied by an infirmière, Colonel Richard Butler. Whence, when, and how he had come, they knew not. He stopped at the entrance to the alcove, and held up his hand as though demanding silence. And there was silence. No one spoke or stirred. He looked down at Pen who lay, still speechless, staring up at him in surprise and delight.

Into the colonel’s glowing face there came a look of tenderness, of rapt sympathy, of exultant pride, that those who saw it will never forget.

He stepped lightly forward and took Pen’s limp hand in his and pressed it gently.

“God bless you, my boy!” he said.

No one had ever heard Richard Butler say “God bless you” before, and no one ever heard him say it again. But when he said it that day to the dark-haired, white faced, war-worn soldier on the cot in the hospital near Rouen, the words came straight from a big, and brave, and tender heart.

He laid Pen’s hand slowly back on the counterpane, and then he parted his white moustache, as he had done that night at the hotel in New York, and bent over and kissed the boy’s forehead. It may have been the rapture of the kiss that did it; God knows; but at that moment Pen’s tongue was loosened, his lips parted, and he cried out:

“Grandfather!”

With a judgment and a self-denial rare among men, the colonel answered the boy’s greeting with another gentle hand-clasp, and a beneficent smile, and turned and marched proudly and gratefully back down the long aisle, stopping here and there to greet some sick soldier who had given him a friendly look or smile, until he stood in the open doorway and lifted up his eyes to gaze on the blue line of distant hills across the Seine.

Later, when the two women came to him, and he went with them to the pension where they were staying, he explained to them the cause of his sudden and unheralded appearance. He had received their cablegrams indeed; but these, instead of serving to allay his anxiety, had made it only the more acute. To wait now for letters was impossible. His patience was utterly exhausted. He could no more have remained quietly at home than he could have shut up his eyes and ears and mouth and lain quietly down to die. The call that came to him from the bed of his beloved grandson in France, that sounded in his ears day-time and night-time as he paced the floors of Bannerhall, was too insistent and imperious to be resisted. Against the vigorous protests of his niece, and the timid remonstrances of the few friends who were made aware of his purpose, he put himself in readiness to sail on the next out-going steamer that would carry him to his longed-for destination. And it was only after he had boarded the vessel, and had felt the slow movement of the ship as she was warped out into the stream, that he became contented, comfortable, thoroughly at ease in body and mind, and ready to await patiently whatever might come to him at the end of his journey.

So it was in good health and spirits that he landed at Havre, came up to Rouen, and made his way to the hospital.

And for once in her life his daughter did not chide him. Instinctively she felt the power of the great tenderness and yearning in his breast that had impelled him to come, and, so far as any word of disapproval was concerned, she was silent.

He talked much about Pen. He asked what they had learned concerning his bravery in battle, the manner in which he had received his wounds, the nature of his long illness, and the probability of his continued convalescence.

“I hope,” said Pen’s mother, “that I shall be able to take him back to Lowbridge next month.”

The old man looked up in surprise and alarm.

“To Lowbridge?” he said, and added: “Not to Lowbridge, Sarah Butler. My grandson will return to Bannerhall, the home of his ancestors.”

“Colonel Butler, my son’s home is with me.”

“And your home,” replied the colonel, “is with me. My son’s widow must no longer live under any other roof than mine. The day of estrangement has fully passed. You will find welcome and affection, and, I hope, an abundance of happiness at Bannerhall.”

She did not answer him; she could not. Nor did he demand an answer. He seemed to take it for granted that his wish in the matter would be complied with, and his will obeyed. But it was not until his daughter Millicent, by much argument and persuasion, through many days, had convinced her that her place was with them, that her son’s welfare and his grandfather’s length of days depended on both mother and son complying with Colonel Butler’s wish and demand, that she consented to blot out the past and to go to live at Bannerhall.

It was on the second day of April, 1917, that the President of the United States read his world famous message to Congress, asking that body to “declare the recent course of the Imperial German Government to be in fact nothing less than war against the Government and people of the United States” and to “employ all of its resources to bring the Government of Germany to terms and to end the war.”

And it was on the third day of April that Colonel Richard Butler, walking up the long aisle of the war hospital near Rouen in the late afternoon, smiled and nodded to right and left and said:

“At last we are with you; we are with you. America has answered the call of her conscience, she will now come into her own.”

And they smiled back at him, did these worn and broken men, for the news of the President’s declaration had already filtered through the wards; and they waved their hands to the brave American colonel with the white moustache, stern visage, and tender heart, and in sturdy English and voluble French and musical Italian, they congratulated him and his noble grandson, and the charming ladies of his family, on the splendid words of his President, to which words the patriotic Congress would surely respond.

And Congress did respond. The Senate on April 4, and the House on April 6, by overwhelming majorities, passed a resolution in full accordance with the President’s recommendation, declaring that a state of war had been thrust upon the United States by the German government, and authorizing and directing the President “to employ the entire naval and military forces of the United States, and the resources of the government, to carry on war against the Imperial German government.”

Colonel Richard Butler was at last content.

“I am proud of my country,” he declared, “and of my President and Congress. I have cabled the congressman from my district to tender my congratulations to Mr. Wilson, and to offer my services anew in whatever capacity my government can use them.”

If he had favored the Allied cause before going abroad he was now thrice the partisan that he had been. For he had seen France. He had seen her, bled white in her heroic endeavor to drive the invader from her soil. He had seen her ruined homes, and cities, and temples of art. He had seen her women and her aged fathers and her young children doing the work of her able-bodied men who were on the fighting line, replacing those hundreds of thousands who were lying in heroes’ graves. He had been, by special favor, taken to the front, where he had seen the still grimmer visage of war, had caught a glimpse of life in the trenches, of death on the field, and had heard the sweep and the rattle and the roar of unceasing conflict. And in his eyes and voice as he walked up and down the aisles of the hospital near Rouen, or sat at the bedside of his grandson, was always a reflection of these things that he himself had seen and heard.

And he was a favorite in the wards. Not alone because he so often came with his one arm laden with little material things to cheer and comfort them, but because these men with the pierced and broken and mutilated bodies admired and liked him. Whenever they saw the familiar figure, tall, soldierly, the sternly benevolent countenance with its white moustache and kindling eyes, enter at the hospital doors and walk up between the long rows of cots, their faces would light up with pleasure and admiration, and the friendliness of their greetings would be hearty and unalloyed.

Somehow they seemed to look upon him as the symbol and representative of his country, the very embodiment of the spirit of his own United States. And now that his government had definitely entered into the war, he was in their eyes, thrice the hero and the benefactor that he had been before.

When he entered the hospital the morning after news of America’s war declaration had been received, and turned to march up the aisle toward his grandson’s alcove, he was surprised and delighted to see from every cot in the ward, and from every nurse on the floor, a hand thrust up holding a tiny American flag. It was the hospital’s greeting to the American colonel, in honor of his country. He stood, for a moment, thrilled and amazed. The demonstration struck so deeply into his big and patriotic heart that his voice choked and his eyes filled with tears as he passed up the long aisle.

There were many greetings as he went by.

“Hurrah for the President!”

“Vive l’Amérique!”

And one deep-throated Briton, in a voice that rolled from end to end of the ward shouted:

“God bless the United States!”

But perhaps no one was more rejoiced over the fact of America’s entrance into the war than was Penfield Butler. From the moment when he heard the news of the President’s message he seemed to take on new life. And as each day’s paper recorded the developing movements, and the almost universal sentiment of the American people in sustaining the government at Washington, his pulses thrilled, color came into his blanched face, and new light into eyes that not long before had looked for many weeks at material things and had seen them not.

He was sitting up in his bed that morning, and had seen his grandfather come up the aisle amid the forest of little flags and the sound of cheering voices.

Grouped around him were’ his mother, his Aunt Millicent, the médecin-chef, and his devoted nurse, the American girl, Miss Byron. She was waving a small, silk American flag that had long been one of her cherished possessions.

“We are so proud of America to-day, Colonel Butler,” she exclaimed, “that we can’t help cheering and waving flags.”

And the médecin-chef shouted joyously:

“A la bonne heure, mon Colonel!”

Pen, looking on with glowing eyes and cheeks flushed with enthusiasm, called out:

“Grandfather, isn’t it glorious? If I could only fight it all over again, now, under my own American flag!”

Colonel Butler’s face had never before been so radiant, his eyes so tender, or his voice so vibrant with emotion as when standing on the raised edge of the alcove, he replied:

“On behalf of my beloved country, ladies and gentlemen, I thank you. She has taken her rightful place on the side of humanity. Her flag, splendid and spotless, floats, to-day, side by side with the tri-color and the Union Jack, over the manhood of nations united to save the world from bondage and barbarism.”

He faced the médecin-chef and continued: “Your cry to us to ’come over into Macedonia and help’ you, shall no longer go unheeded. Our wealth, our brains, our brawn shall be poured into your country as freely as water, to aid you in bringing the German tyrant to his knees, and, as our great President has said: ’To make the world safe for democracy.’”

He turned toward the rapt faces of the listening scores who lined the wards: “And men, my brothers, I say to you that you have not fought and suffered in vain. We shall win this war; and out of our great victory shall come that thousand years of peace foretold by holy men of old, in which your flag, and yours, and yours, and mine, floating over the heads of freemen in each beloved land, will be the most inspiring, the most beautiful, the most splendid thing on which the sun’s rays shall ever fall.”

Short Historical Sketch of the United States Flag

After the war of the Revolution, it became necessary for the newly formed United States of America to devise a symbol, representing their freedom. During the war the different colonies had displayed various flags, but no national emblem had been selected. The American Congress, consequently, on the 14th of June, 1777, passed the following Resolution:

“Resolved, That the flag of the thirteen united states shall be thirteen stripes, alternate red and white, that the union be thirteen stars, white in a blue field, representing a new constellation.”

Betsy Ross, an upholsterer, living at 239 Arch Street, Philadelphia, Pa., had the honor of making the first flag for the new republic. The little house where she lived is still standing, and preserved as a memorial. This flag contained the thirteen stripes as at present, but the stars were arranged in a circle. This arrangement was later changed to horizontal lines, and the flag continued to have thirteen stars and thirteen stripes until 1795. When Vermont and Kentucky were added to the Union, two more stripes, as well as two more stars, were added. In 1817, it was seen that it would not be practicable to add a new stripe for each new state admitted to the Union, so after deliberation, Congress, in 1818, passed the following Act:

“An Act to establish the flag of the United States.

“Se. That from and after the 4th of July next, the flag of the
United States be thirteen horizontal stripes, alternate red and
white that the Union have twenty stars, white in a blue field.

“Se. Be it further enacted,
that on the admission of every new State into
the Union, one star be added to the Union of the flag,
and that such addition shall take effect on the
4th of July next succeeding such admission.”

Since the passing of this Act, star after star has been added to the blue field until it now contains forty-eight, each one representing a staunch and loyal adherent.

Boy Scouts Pledge to the Flag

“I pledge allegiance to my flag and to the Republic for which it stands; one nation indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”