was discretion a few miles farther back.
The amazing part of the "show," however, was the American doughboy. Never was there a more cheerful,
laughing, good-natured set of boys in the world; never a more homesick, lonely, and complaining set. But
good nature predominated, and the smile was always uppermost, even when the moment looked the blackest,
the privations were worst, and the longing for home the deepest.
Bok had been talking to a boy who lived near his own home, who was on his way to the front and "over the
top" in the Argonne mess. Three days afterward, at a hospital base where a hospital train was just discharging
its load of wounded, Bok walked among the boys as they lay on their stretchers on the railroad platform
waiting for bearers to carry them into the huts. As he approached one stretcher, a cheery voice called, "Hello,
Mr. Bok. Here I am again."
It was the boy he had left just seventy-two hours before hearty and well.
"Well, my boy, you weren't in it long, were you?"
"No, sir," answered the boy; "Fritzie sure got me first thing. Hadn't gone a hundred yards over the top. Got a
cigarette?" (the invariable question).
Bok handed a cigarette to the boy, who then said: "Mind sticking it in my mouth?" Bok did so and then
offered him a light; the boy continued, all with his wonderful smile: "If you don't mind, would you just light
it? You see, Fritzie kept both of my hooks as souvenirs."
With both arms amputated, the boy could still jest and smile!
It was the same boy who on his hospital cot the next day said: "Don't you think you could do something for
the chap next to me, there on my left? He's really suffering: cried like hell all last night. It would be a
Godsend if you could get Doc to do something."
A promise was given that the surgeon should be seen at once, but the boy was asked: "How about you?"
"Oh," came the cheerful answer, "I'm all right. I haven't anything to hurt. My wounded members are
gone--just plain gone. But that chap has got something--he got the real thing!"
What was the real thing according to such a boy's idea?
There were beautiful stories that one heard "over there." One of the most beautiful acts of consideration was
told, later, of a lovable boy whose throat had been practically shot away. During his convalescence he had
learned the art of making beaded bags. It kept him from talking, the main prescription. But one day he sold the
bag which he had first made to a visitor, and with his face radiant with glee he sought the nurse-mother to tell
her all about his good fortune. Of course, nothing but a series of the most horrible guttural sounds came from
the boy: not a word could be understood. It was his first venture into the world with the loss of his member,

mister, that's a mother-pig, that is. She's going to have young ones in a few days. How could I chase her out?"
"You're quite right, Buddy," said Bok. "You couldn't do that."
"Oh, no," said the boy. "The worst of it is, what am I going to do with her when we move up within a day or
two? I can't take her along to the front, and I hate to leave her here. Some one might treat her rough."
"Captain," said Bok, hailing the officer, "you can attend to that, can't you, when the time comes?"
"I sure can, and I sure will," answered the Captain. And with a quick salute, Pinney and his porker went off
across the road!
Bok was standing talking to the commandant of one of the great French army supply depots one morning. He
was a man of forty; a colonel in the regular French army. An erect, sturdy-looking man with white hair and
mustache, and who wore the single star of a subaltern on his sleeve, came up, saluted, delivered a message,
and then asked:
"Are there any more orders, sir?"
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"No," was the reply.
He brought his heels together with a click, saluted again, and went away.
The commandant turned to Bok with a peculiar smile on his face and asked:
"Do you know who that man is?"
"No," was the reply.
"That is my father," was the answer.
The father was then exactly seventy-two years old. He was a retired business man when the war broke out.
After two years of the heroic struggle he decided that he couldn't keep out of it. He was too old to fight, but
after long insistence he secured a commission. By one of the many curious coincidences of the war he was
assigned to serve under his own son.
When under the most trying conditions, the Americans never lost their sense of fun. On the staff of a prison
hospital in Germany, where a number of captured American soldiers were being treated, a German sergeant
became quite friendly with the prisoners under his care. One day he told them that he had been ordered to
active service on the front. He felt convinced that he would be captured by the English, and asked the
Americans if they would not give him some sort of testimonial which he could show if he were taken prisoner,
so that he would not be ill-treated.
The Americans were much amused at this idea, and concocted a note of introduction, written in English. The

greatest need. Then he remembered that just before leaving home he had heard sung at matins, after the prayer
for the President, a beautiful song called "Passing Souls." He had asked the rector for a copy of it; and,
wondering why, he had put it in his wallet that he carried with him. He took it out now and holding the hand
of the boy at his right, he read to them:
For the passing souls we pray, Saviour, meet them on their way; Let their trust lay hold on Thee Ere they
touch eternity.
Holy counsels long forgot Breathe again 'mid shell and shot; Through the mist of life's last pain None shall
look to Thee in vain.
To the hearts that know Thee, Lord, Thou wilt speak through flood or sword; Just beyond the cannon's roar,
Thou art on the farther shore.
For the passing souls we pray, Saviour, meet them on the way; Thou wilt hear our yearning call, Who hast
loved and died for all.
Absolute stillness reigned in the room save for the half-suppressed sob from the nurse and the distant booming
of the cannon. As Bok finished, he heard the boy at his right say slowly: "Saviour-meet-me-on-my-way": with
a little emphasis on the word "my." The hand in his relaxed slowly, and then fell on the cot; and he saw that
the soul of another brave American boy had "gone West."
Bok glanced at the other boy, reached for his hand, shook it, and looking deep into his eyes, he left the little
hut.
He little knew where and how he was to look into those eyes again!
Feeling the need of air in order to get hold of himself after one of the most solemn moments of his visit to the
front, Bok strolled out, and soon found himself on what only a few days before had been a field of carnage
where the American boys had driven back the Germans. Walking in the trenches and looking out, in the clear
moonlight, over the field of desolation and ruin, and thinking of the inferno that had been enacted there only
so recently, he suddenly felt his foot rest on what seemed to be a soft object. Taking his "ever-ready" flash
from his pocket, he shot a ray at his feet, only to realize that his foot was resting on the face of a dead
German!
Bok had had enough for one evening! In fact, he had had enough of war in all its aspects; and he felt a sigh of
relief when, a few days thereafter, he boarded The Empress of Asia for home, after a ten-weeks absence.
He hoped never again to see, at first hand, what war meant!
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its beginning it had been unlike any other periodical; it had always retained its individuality as a magazine
apart from the others. It had sought to be something more than a mere assemblage of stories and articles. It
had consistently stood for ideals; and, save in one or two instances, it had carried through what it undertook to
achieve. It had a record of worthy accomplishment; a more fruitful record than many imagined. It had become
a national institution such as no other magazine had ever been. It was indisputably accepted by the public and
by business interests alike as the recognized avenue of approach to the intelligent homes of America.
Edward Bok was content to leave it at this point.
He explained all this in December, 1918, to the Board of Directors, and asked that his resignation be
considered. It was understood that he was to serve out his thirty years, thus remaining with the magazine for
the best part of another year.
In the material which The Journal now included in its contents, it began to point the way to the problems
which would face women during the reconstruction period. Bok scanned the rather crowded field of thought
very carefully, and selected for discussion in the magazine such questions as seemed to him most important
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