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diff --git a/16495-0.txt b/16495-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..63d4b90 --- /dev/null +++ b/16495-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1615 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Your Boys, by Gipsy Smith + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will +have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using +this eBook. + +Title: Your Boys + +Author: Gipsy Smith + +Release Date: August 9, 2005 [eBook #16495] +[Most recently updated: May 14, 2021] + +Original publication date: 1918 + +Language: English + +Produced by: Roger Frank and The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at + https://www.pgdp.net + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUR BOYS *** + + + + + +YOUR BOYS + +By Gipsy Smith + +With a Foreword by The Bishop of London + +NEW YORK + +GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY + + + + +COPYRIGHT, 1918, + +BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY + +PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + + + + +Foreword + + +I am writing this during an air raid at 12.30 at night, and I have just +finished a Foreword for the Bishop of Zanzibar’s new and tender little +book. He has been a water-carrier for the British force in German East +Africa, and Gipsy Smith has just come from the trenches in France. + +You would not expect the two books to be similar, but they are: they are +both about “Jesus.” This devotion to “Jesus” binds all time Christians +together, and one day will bring us all more visibly together than we +are now. I love this breezy little book of Gipsy Smith’s; it is not only +full of the love of “Jesus,” but love of our “our boys.” They _are_ +splendid. I spent the first two months of the war as their visiting +chaplain—went out to give them their Easter Communion the first year of +the war at the Front. Gipsy Smith and I made friends together, speaking +for them at the London Opera House on the great day of Intercession and +Thanksgiving we had for them when the King himself called us all +together. + +Then I like the common sense of it! You must have robust common sense +if you are going to win “our boys.” Anything unreal, merely sentimental, +washy, they detect in a moment. You must draw them “with the cords of a +man and the bonds of love,” and those who read this book will find many +a hint as to how to do it. + + A.F. London. + + + + +YOUR BOYS + + +I have just come back from your boys. I have been living among them and +talking to them for six months. I have been under shell fire for a +month, night and day. I have preached the Gospel within forty yards of +the Germans. I have tried to sleep at night in a cellar, and it was so +cold that my moustache froze to my blanket and my boots froze to the +floor. The meal which comforted me most was a little sour French bread +and some Swiss milk and hot water, and a pinch of sugar when I could get +it. + +There are Y.M.C.A. marquees close to the roads down which come the +walking wounded from the trenches. In three of these marquees last +summer in three days over ten thousand cases were provided with hot +drinks and refreshment—free. And that I call Christian work. You and I +have been too much concerned about the preaching and too little about +the doing of things. + +A friend of mine was in one of those marquees at the time, and he told +me a beautiful story. Some of the men sat and stood there two and three +hours waiting their turn, and the workers were nearly run off their +feet. They were at it for three nights and three days. There was one +fellow, a handsome chap, sitting huddled up and looking so haggard and +cold, that my friend said to him, + +“I am sorry you have had to wait so long, old chap. We’re doing our +best. We’ll get to you as soon as we can.” + +“Never mind me,” said the man; “carry on!” + +As the sun came out he unbuttoned his coat, and when the coat was thrown +back my friend saw that he was wearing a colonel’s uniform. + +“I am sorry, sir,” said my friend. “I did not know. I oughtn’t to have +spoken to you in that familiar way.” + +“You have earned the right to say anything you like to me,” said the +Colonel. “Go right on.” + +And then my friend said, “Well, come with me, sir, to the back, and I +will get you a cup of coffee.” + +“No, not a minute before the boys. I’ll take my turn with them.” + +That’s the spirit. Your boys, I say, are great stuff. They have their +follies. They can go to the devil if they want to, but tens of thousands +of them don’t want to, and hundreds of thousands are living straight in +spite of their surroundings. They are the bravest, dearest boys that God +ever gave to the world, and you and I ought to be proud of them. If the +people at home were a tenth as grateful as they ought to be they would +crowd into our churches, if it were for nothing else but to pray for and +give thanks for the boys. + +They are just great, your boys. They saved your homes. I was recently in +a city in France which had before the war a population of 55,000 people. +When I was there, there were not 500 people in that city—54,500 were +homeless refugees, if they weren’t killed. I walked about that city for +a month, searching for a house that wasn’t damaged, a window that wasn’t +broken, and I never found one. The whole of that city will have to be +rebuilt. A glorious cathedral, a magnificent pile of municipal +buildings, all in ruins; the Grande Place, a meeting-place for the +crowned heads of Europe, gone! “Thou hast made of a city a heap”—a heap +of rubbish. _Your_ city would have been like that but for the boys in +khaki. + +I was saying my prayers in a corner of an old broken chateau, the +Y.M.C.A. headquarters for that centre, with my trench-coat buttoned +tight and my big muffler round my ears. Presently I heard some one +say—one of the workers—“A gentleman wants to see you, sir,” and when I +got downstairs there was a General, a V.C., a D.S.O., and a Star of +India man—a glorious man, a beautiful character. He was there with his +Staff-captain, and he said, + +“I’ve come to invite you to dinner to-morrow night, Mr. Smith. I want +you to come to the officers’ mess.” + +“What time, sir?” I asked. “I cannot miss my meeting at half-past six +with the boys.” + +“Well, the mess will be at half-past seven. We will arrange that.” + +“Before you go, sir, I should like to ask why you are interested in me.” + +“Well, I’ll tell you, if you wish,” he said. “Men are writing home to +their wives, mothers, sweethearts, and they are talking about a new +power in their lives. ‘We have got something that is helping us to go +straight and play the game,’ they write. And so,” said the General, “we +should like to have a chat with you.” + +I went the next night, and for an hour and a half I preached the Gospel +to those officers. It was a great chance; and it was the result of the +note-paper which I have sometimes given out for an hour and a half at a +time to your boys. + +There are lots of people think you are not doing any spiritual work +unless you are singing, “Come to Jesus.” Put more Jesus in every bit of +the day’s business. Jesus ought to be as real in the city as in the +temple. If I read my New Testament aright, and if I know God, and if I +know humanity, and if I know Nature, then that is God’s programme. God’s +programme is that the whole of life should be permeated with Christ. + +God bless the women who have gone out to help your boys. Women of title, +of wealth and position, serving God and humanity behind tea-tables. + +In one of our huts I saw a lady standing beside two urns—coffee and tea. +She was pouring out, and there were 150 or 200 men standing round that +hut waiting to get served. The fellows at the end were not pushing and +crowding to get first, but waiting their turn. They are more +good-natured than a religious crowd waiting to get in to hear a popular +preacher. I have seen these people jostle at the doors. + +But your boys don’t do that. They just sing, “Pack up your troubles,” +and wait their turn. + +Well, these boys, wet and cold, were waiting for a cup of coffee, and +one of those red-hot gospellers came along, and he said, “Sister, stop a +minute and put a word in for Jesus. This is a great opportunity.” + +“But,” she replied, “they are wet and tired; let me give them something +hot as soon as I can.” + +“Oh! but let’s put a word in for Jesus,” urged this chap. + +Then a bright-faced soldier lad called out, “Guv’nor, she puts Jesus in +the coffee.” That is what I mean when I say you have got to put Jesus +into every bit of the day’s work. + + * * * * * + +I have never once been asked by your boys to what Church I belonged. +They don’t stop to ask that if they believe in you. They want the living +Christ and the living Message. It isn’t creed; it’s need. And don’t you +get the notion that the boys can’t be reached, and don’t you think that +the boys are hostile to Christianity. They are not. I won’t hear it +without protest. The best things that the old Book talks about are the +things the boys love in one another. They don’t always think of the +Book, but they love the fruits of the Spirit in one another. They love +truth, honour, courage, humility, friendship, loyalty. And where do you +get those things? Why, they have their roots in the Cross—they grow on +that Tree. + + * * * * * + +I had a dear friend who won the M.C.—a young Cambridge graduate. He was +all-round brilliant. He could write an essay, preach a sermon, sit down +to the piano and compose an operetta. The boys delighted in him. He +would always be at the front. He would always be where there was danger. +I was talking about him one day in one of the convalescent camps, and +two of the boys said to me afterwards, + +“You have been talking about our padre. We loved him. We were with him +when he was killed, for the shell that killed him wounded us. Every man +in the battalion would have laid down his life for him.” + +This old world’s dying for the want of love. There are more people die +for the want of a bit of it than with overmuch of it. Don’t stifle +it—let it out. + + * * * * * + +“I am afraid,” said a padre to me once, “the boys are sceptical.” + +“Come with me to-morrow,” I answered. “I’ll prove to you they are _not_ +sceptical.” + +We were half an hour ahead of time and the hut was crowded with eight +hundred men. They were singing when I got in—something about “an old +rooster—as you used to.” + +Do you suppose I had no better sense than to go in and say, “Stop this +ungodly music?” You can catch more flies with treacle than with vinegar. + +I looked at the boys and said, “That’s great, sing it again.” + +And I turned to the padre and asked, “Isn’t that splendid? Isn’t that +fine?” + +While we were waiting to begin the meeting, I said, “Boys, we must have +another.” + +“One of the same sort?” they shouted. + +“Of course,” was my reply. And they sang “Who’s your lady friend?” and +when they had sung that, I called out, “Boys, we will have one more. +What shall it be?” + +“One of yours, sir.” + +I had not trusted them in vain. + +I said, “Very well, you choose your hymn.” + +“When I survey the wondrous Cross”—that was the song they chose. + +And they sang it all the better because I had sung their songs with +them. Before we had got to the end of the last verse some of those boys +were in tears, and it wasn’t hard to pray. It isn’t far from rag-time to +“When I survey the wondrous Cross.” + +When they had finished the hymn I said, “Boys, I am going to tell you +the story of my father’s conversion.” For I had to convince my padre +friend that they were not sceptical. I took them to the gipsy tent and +told them of my father and five motherless children, and of how Jesus +came to that tent, saving the father and the five children and making +preachers of them all. + +I said, “Did my father make a mistake when he brought Christ to those +five motherless children?” And the eight hundred boys shouted, “No, +sir.” + +“Did he do the right thing?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“What ought you to do?” + +“The same, sir.” + +“Do you want Jesus in your lives?” and every man of the eight hundred +jumped to his feet. + +You say they are sceptical where Jesus is concerned. I’ll tell you when +they are sceptical—when they see the caricature of Jesus in you and me. + + * * * * * + +I was, as I have said, under shell fire for a month in one place—night +and day for a month—and never allowed out without a gasbag round my +neck. I slept in a cellar there at night when I did sleep—only 700 yards +from the Germans—and, as I have said before, it _was_ cold. + +When the thaw set in, I put a couple of bricks down and put a box-lid on +top, so that I could stand in a dry place. We had two picks and two +shovels in that cellar in case anything happened overnight. I have been +up against it. Whenever I talked to the boys there they sat with their +gas-bags round their necks, and one held mine while I talked. It was +quite a common thing to have something fall quite close to us while we +were singing. + +Imagine singing “Cover my defenceless head,” just as a piece of the roof +is falling in. Or— + + In death’s dark vale I fear no ill + With Thee, dear Lord, beside me— + +then another crash! That makes things real. Every word was accompanied +by the roar of guns—the rattle of the machine gun and the crack of the +rifle. We never knew what it was to be quiet. + +A shell once came and burst just the other side of the wall against +which I was standing and blew part of it over my head. I have suffered +as your boys have, and I have preached the Gospel to your boys in the +front line. I long for the privilege of doing it again. + + * * * * * + +If I had my way I’d take all the best preachers in Britain and I’d put +them down in France. And if the church and chapel goers grumbled, I’d +say, “You’re overfed. You can do without a preacher for a little.” And +if they were to ask, “How do you know?” I should reply, “Because it’s +hard work to get you to one meal a week. You only come once on a Sunday +and often not that. That’s how I know you are not enjoying your food.” + +I love talking to the Scottish boys—the kilties. Oh! they are great +boys—the kilties. When the French first saw them they didn’t know what +they were, whether they were men or women. + +“Don’t you know what they are?” said a bright-faced English boy. “They +are what we call the Middlesex.” + +You can’t beat a British boy, he’s on the spot all the time—“the +Middlesex!” Some of you haven’t seen the joke yet. + + * * * * * + +I once went to a hut just behind the line, within the sound of the guns. +Buildings all round us had been blown to pieces. The leader of this hut +was a clergyman of the Church of England, but he wasn’t an ecclesiastic +there, he was a man amongst men, and we loved him. + +“Gipsy Smith,” he said, “I don’t know what you will do; the boys in the +billets this week are the Munsters—Irish Roman Catholics. You would have +got on all right last week; we had the York and Lancasters.” + +“Do you think they will come to the meetings?” + +“I don’t know,” he replied; “they come for everything else! They come +for their smokes, candles, soap, buttons—bachelor’s buttons—postcards, +and everything else they want. But whether they will come for the +religious part, I don’t know.” + +“Well,” I said, “we can but try.” + +It was about midday when we were talking, and the meeting was to be at +6.30. + +“Have you got a boy who could write a bill for me?” I asked. + +“Yes,” he said, “I’ve got a boy who could do that all right.” + +“Print it on green paper,” said I. + +Why not? They were the Munsters. Why shouldn’t we use our heads? People +think mighty hard in business, why shouldn’t we think in the religious +world? + +“Just say this and nothing more,” I said. + +“‘Gipsy Smith will give a talk in the Hut to-night at 6.30. +Subject—Gipsy Life.’” + +I knew that would fetch them. + +At half-past six the hut was crowded with eight hundred Munsters. If you +are an old angler, indeed if you know anything at all about angling, you +know that you have got to consider two or three things if you are to +stand any chance of a catch. You have got to study your tackle, you have +got to study your bait, you have got to study the habits of your fish. +When the time came to begin that meeting, one of the workers said, + +“Shall I bring the box of hymn-books out?” + +“No, no,” I replied; “that’s the wrong bait.” + +Those Munster boys knew nothing about hymn-books. We preachers have got +to come off our pedestals and not give our hearers what we want, but the +thing that will catch them. If a pretty, catchy Sankey hymn will attract +a crowd, why shouldn’t we use it instead of an anthem? If a brass band +will catch them, why shouldn’t we play it instead of an organ? + +“Keep back those hymn-books,” I said. “They know nothing about +hymn-books.” I had a pretty good idea of what would have happened if +those hymn-books had been produced at the start. + +I got on that platform, and I looked at those eight hundred Munsters and +said, “Boys, are we down-hearted?” + +“_No_,” they shouted. + +You can imagine what eight hundred Munsters shouting “No” sounds like. +They were all attention instantly. I wonder what would happen if the +Vicar went into church next Sunday morning and asked the question, “Are +we down-hearted?” I knew it would cause a sensation, but I’d rather have +a sensation than a stagnation. + +Those boys sat up. I said, “We are going to talk about gipsy life.” I +talked to them about the origin of my people. There’s not a man living +in the world who knows the origin of my people. I can trace my people +back to India, but they didn’t come from India. We are one of the oldest +races in the world, so old that nobody knows how old. I talked to them +about the origin of the gipsies, and I don’t know it, but I knew more +about it than they did. I talked to them about our language, and I gave +them specimens of it, and there I was on sure ground. It is a beautiful +language, full of poetry and music. Then I talked about the way the +gipsies get their living—and other people’s; and for thirty minutes +those Munsters hardly knew if they were on the chairs or on the +floor—and I purposely made them laugh. They had just come out of the +hell of the trenches. They had that haunted, weary, hungry look, and if +only I could make them laugh and forget the hell out of which they had +just climbed it was religion, and I wasn’t wasting time. + +When I had been talking for thirty minutes, I stopped, and said, “Boys, +there’s a lot more to this story. Would you like some more?” + +“Yes,” they shouted. + +“Come back to-morrow,” I said. + +I was fishing in unlikely waters, and if you leave off when fish are +hungry they will come back for more. For six nights I told those boys +gipsy stories. I took them out into the woods. We went out amongst the +rabbits. I told the boys the rabbits got very fond of me—so fond that +they used to go home with me! I took them through the clover-fields on +a June day and made them smell the perfume. I took them among the +buttercups. I told them it was the Finger of Love and the Smile of +Infinite Wisdom that put the spots upon the pansy and the deep blue in +the violet. And then we went out among the birds and we saw God taking +songs from the lips of a seraph and wrapping them round with feathers. + +And the boys saw Jesus in every buttercup and every primrose, and every +little daisy, and in every dewdrop, and heard something of the song of +the angels in the notes of the nightingale and the skylark. Oh! Jesus +was there, and they felt Him, and they saw Him. I took them amongst the +gipsy tents, amongst the woodlands and dells of the old camping-grounds. +They walked with Him and they talked with Him. I didn’t use the usual +Church language, but I used the language of God in Nature and the boys +heard Him. + +Towards the end of the week one of those Munster boys came and touched +me and said, “Your Riverence! Your Riverence!” he says. “You’re a +gentleman.” + +I _knew_ I had got that boy. + +Now, if you are an old angler you know what happens if you begin to tug +at the line the first time you get a bite. When you hook a fish, if he +happens to be a Munster, you have got to keep your head and play him, +let him have the line, let him go, keep steady, no excitement, give him +play. I gave him a bit of line, that young Munster. I thanked him for +his compliment and then walked away—with my eyes over my shoulder, for +if he hadn’t come after me I should have been after him. + +Presently he pulled my tunic and said, “Won’t you give me a minute, +sir?” + +“What’s the trouble?” I said. + +“Sir,” he said, with a little catch in his voice that I can hear now, +“you’ve got something I haven’t.” + +“How do you know?” I asked. + +“It’s like the singing of a little song, and it gets into my heart. I +want it. Won’t you tell me how to get it? I want it.” + +“Sonny,” I said, “it’s for you. You can have it at the same price I paid +for it.” + +“Begorra,” says he, “you will tell me to give up my religion, you +will!” + +I said, “If God has put anything in your life that helps you to be a +better and a nobler and a braver man, He doesn’t want you to give it +up.” + +“He doesn’t?” he asked. “What am I to give up, then?” + +And I replied, “Your sin.” + +The boy said again, “You’re a gentleman.” + +If I had said one word about his religion or his creed, my line would +have snapped and I would have lost my fish. + +That night, when all the boys had gone, we got into a corner and we +knelt down, and when he went he said, “I’ve got it, sir. I’ve got the +little song—_and it’s singing_.” + + * * * * * + +At one of my meetings the boys were four thousand strong and the +Commandant of the camp was to preside. As they say in the Army, he had +got the wind up. He did not know me. When he saw the crowd there he +began to wonder what was going to happen. He called one of the officers +to him, and said, + +“I don’t know what he’s going to do. I hope he’s not going to give us a +revival meeting or something of that sort. I hope he knows that +one-third of these fellows are Roman Catholics.” + +Well, of course I knew, and I was laying my plans accordingly. What +right have you or I when we have got a mixed crowd like that to try to +cram our preconceived programme down everybody’s throat? The officer, +who was one of my friends, said to the Colonel, “I don’t think you need +trouble, sir. He’s all right, and knows his job.” + +When we were ready, I went to the Colonel, and said, “We are quite ready +to begin, sir.” + +The Colonel rose and announced, “Officers, non-commissioned officers, +and men, I now introduce to you Gipsy Smith, who will perform.” + +Now, the first thing I wanted to do was to disarm all prejudice in the +mind of both officers and men. So I said, “Are you ready, boys?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Well, we’ll have our opening hymn, ‘Keep the home fires burning.’” + +And didn’t those boys sing that! Some of them were smoking, and I +wasn’t going to tell them not to smoke. That would have put their +backs up. They were British boys and they knew what to do when the right +moment came. And so I said, “Boys, you sang that very well, but you were +not _all_ singing. Now, if we have another, will you all sing?” And they +answered, “Yes.” I knew if they sang they couldn’t smoke. So we had +“Pack up your troubles,” and this time every smoke was out and every +boy was singing. “We’ll have another,” said I, when they had finished; +“we’ll have— + + ‘Way down in Tennessee + Just try to think of me + Right on my mother’s knee.’” + +I knew if I got them round their mothers’ knees I should be all right. + +“Now, boys,” I said, “what am I to talk to you about?” I let them choose +their subject very often. + +“Tell us the story of the gipsy tent,” they called out. + +And there I was at home, and it was all right, and for an hour I told +them the story of how grace came to that gipsy tent—the old romance of +love. + +“Now, boys, I’m through,” I said when I had spoken for an hour—and they +gave me an encore. When I had finished my encore, the dear old Colonel +got up to thank the “performer”—and he couldn’t do it; there was a lump +in his throat and big tears were rolling down his cheeks. + +“Boys, I can’t say what I want to, but,” said he, “we have all got to be +better men.” + +The Gospel was preached in that hut in a different way from what we have +it preached at home, but we got it in, and the thing is to get it in. + + * * * * * + +I was talking behind the lines to some of your boys. Every boy in front +of me was going up to the trenches that night. There were five or six +hundred of them. They had got their equipment—they were going on parade +as soon as they left me. It wasn’t easy to talk. All I said was +accompanied by the roar of the guns and the crack of rifles and the +rattle of the machine guns, and once in a while our faces were lit up by +the flashes. It was a weird sight. I looked at those boys. I couldn’t +preach to them in the ordinary way. I knew and they knew that for many +it was the last service they would attend on earth. I said, + +“Boys, you are going up to the trenches. Anything may happen there. I +wish I could go with you. God knows I do. I would if they would let me, +and if any of you fall I would like to hold your hand and say something +to you for mother, for wife, and for lover, and for little child. I’d +like to be a link between you and home just for _that_ moment—God’s +messenger for you. They won’t let me go, but there is Somebody Who will +go with you. You know Who that is.” + +You should have heard the boys all over that hut whisper, “Yes, +sir—Jesus.” + +“Well,” I said, “I want every man that is anxious to take Jesus with him +into the trench to stand.” + +Instantly and quietly every man in that hut stood up. And we prayed as +men can pray only under those conditions. We sang together, “For ever +with the Lord.” I shall never sing that hymn again without a lump in my +throat. My mind will always go back to those dear boys. + +We shook hands and I watched them go, and then on my way to the little +cottage where I was billeted I heard feet coming behind me, and +presently felt a hand laid upon my shoulder. Two grand handsome fellows +stood beside me. One of them said, + +“We didn’t manage to get into the hut, but we stood at the window to +your right. We heard all you said. We want you to pray for us. We are +going into the trenches, too. We can’t go until it is settled.” + +We prayed together, and then I shook hands with them and bade them +good-bye. They did not come back. Some of their comrades came—those two, +with others, were left behind. But they had settled it—_they had settled +it_. + + * * * * * + +Two or three days after that I was in a hospital when one was brought in +who was at that service. I thought he was unconscious, and I said to the +Sister beside me, “Sister, how battered and bruised his poor head is!” + +He looked up and said, “Yes, it is battered and bruised; but it will be +all right, Gipsy, when I get the crown!” + +One night I had got about fifty boys round me in a dug-out, with the +walls blown out and bits of the roof off. I had taken some hymn-sheets, +for I love to hear them sing. I never choose a hymn for them—I always +let them choose their own hymns. There is wisdom in that. If they have +asked for something and don’t sing it, I can come down on them. Among +the great hymns they choose are these: + + “Jesu, Lover of my soul,” + +and I have heard them sing, + + “Cover my defenceless head,” + +with the shells falling close to them. I have heard them sing, + + “I fear no foe ...” + +with every seat and every bit of building round us rocking with the +concussion of things. And then they will choose: + + “The King of Love my Shepherd is,” + “The Lord’s my Shepherd, I’ll not want,” + “Abide with me,” + “Rock of ages, cleft for me,” + +and the one they love, I think, most of all is, + + “When I survey the wondrous Cross.” + +Those are the hymns they sing, the great hymns of the Church—the hymns +that all Christian people sing, about which there is no quarrelling. +It’s beautiful to hear the boys. + +That night I said, “I have brought some hymn-sheets. I thought we might +have some singing, but I’m afraid it’s too dark.” + +Instantly one of the boys brought out of his tunic about two inches of +candle and struck a match, and in three minutes we had about twenty +pieces of candle burning. It was a weird scene. + +After the hymns I began to talk, and the candles burnt lower, and some +of them flickered out, and I could see a boy here and there twitch a bit +of candle as it was going out. + +I said, “Put the candles out, boys. I can talk in the dark.” + +It was a wonderful service, and here and there you could hear the boys +sighing and crying as they thought of home and father and mother. It +isn’t difficult to talk to boys like that. + + * * * * * + +There is no hymn of hate in your boys’ hearts. I have known them take a +German prisoner even after he has played the cruel thing; but there! he +looked hungry and wretched, and in a few minutes they have shared their +rations and cigarettes with him. I call that a bit of religion breaking +out in an unlikely place. The leaven’s in the lump, thank God! + + * * * * * + +I was speaking at a convalescent camp. Every one of the boys had been +badly mauled and mangled on the Somme. This particular day I had about +seven or eight hundred listeners. It was evening, and when I had talked +to the boys, I said, + +“I wonder if any of you would like to meet me for a little prayer?” + +And from all over the camp came the answer, “Yes, sir; yes, sir; yes, +sir.” + +There was a big room there—we called it a quiet room—and so I asked all +the boys who would like to see me, just to leave their seats and go into +this room. I went to them and said, + +“You have elected to come here to pray, so we will just kneel down at +once. I am not going to do anything more than guide you. I want you to +tell God what you feel you need in your own language.” + +The prayers of those boys would have made a book. There were no +old-fashioned phrases. You know what I mean—people begin at a certain +place and there is no stopping them till they get to another certain +place. One of these boys began, “Please God, You know I’ve been a +rotter.” That’s the way to pray. That boy was talking to God and the +Lord was very glad to listen. + + * * * * * + +I was talking to one boy—an American; he was a little premature, he was +in the fight before his country. + +“Sonny,” I said, “you’re an American?” + +“Yes, sir. I was born in Michigan.” + +“Well, what are you doing, fighting under the British flag?” + +“I guess it’s my fight too, sir. This,” he said, “is not a fight for +England, France, or Belgium, but a fight for the race, and I wouldn’t +have been a man if I had kept out.” + +I told that story to one of our Generals who died last September. + +“Ah!” he said, “that boy got to the bottom of the business. It’s for +the race. It’s for the race.” + +“Are you a Christian?” I asked. + +“No,” he answered; “but I should like to be one. I wasn’t brought up. I +grew up, and I grew up my own way, and my own way was the wrong way. I +go to church occasionally—if a friend is getting married. I know the +story of the Christian faith a little, but it has never really meant +anything to me.” + +Then he continued slowly, “On the Somme, a few hours before I was badly +wounded”—he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a little crucifix—“I +picked up that little crucifix and I put it in my pack, and when I got +to hospital I found that little crucifix on my table. One of the nurses +or the orderlies had put it there, thinking I was a Catholic. But I know +I’m not, sir. I am _nothing_. I have been looking at this little +crucifix so often since I was wounded, and I look at it till my eyes +fill with tears, because it reminds me of what He did for me—not this +little bit of metal, but what it means.” + +I said, “Have you ever prayed?” + +He replied, “No, sir. I’ve wept over this little crucifix—is that +prayer?” + +“That’s prayer of the best sort,” I said. “Every tear contained volumes +you could not utter, and God read every word. He knows all about it.” + +I pulled out a little khaki Testament. “Would you like it?” I said. +“Would you read it?” + +He answered, “Yes,” and signed the decision in the cover. + +When I shook hands with him there was a light in his eyes. Have you ever +seen the light break over the cliff-tops of some high mountain peak? +Have you ever watched the sun kiss a landscape into beauty? Have you +ever seen the earth dance with gladness as the sun bathed it with +radiance and warmth? Oh, it’s a great sight; but there’s no sight like +seeing the light from Calvary kiss a human face as it fills the heart +with the assurance of Divine forgiveness. + + * * * * * + +One hundred and fifty-two thousand cups of tea and coffee are given away +monthly at one railway-station. I once happened to be at a +railway-station on the main lines of communication. There are women +working there, women of position and means, working at their own +expense. I have seen rough fellows go up to a British woman behind a +counter—the first time they have seen a British woman for months—and I +have heard them say, “Madam, will you shake hands with me?” I saw an +Australian do that. He got her hand—and his was like a leg of mutton—and +he thought of his mother and his home-folk. He forgot his tea. It was a +benediction to have that woman there. + +Well, on this occasion two of these ladies said to me, “Gipsy, we’re +having a relief train pass through to-morrow, and one comes through up +and one comes through down.” + +“I’ll be there,” I said. + +The train that was coming from the front we could hear before we could +see it. And it wasn’t the engine that we heard, because that came so +slowly, but I could hear the boys singing as they came round the curve, + + “Blighty, Blighty is the place for me.” + +We served them with tea and coffee, French bread a yard long, and +candles and matches and “Woodbines,” and then we got that crowd +off—still singing “Blighty.” + +They had been gone about five minutes when the other train _from_ +Blighty came in. We couldn’t hear them singing. They were quiet and +subdued. We served them with coffee and tea, candles, bootlaces, and +smokes, and then, as they had some time, they started having a wash—the +first since they left Blighty. The footboard of the train was the +washstand, the shaving-table, and the dressing-table. But they didn’t +sing. + +I saw in a corner of that little canteen a pile of postcards, and I +said, “Who says a postcard for wife or mother?” + +Somebody asked, “Who’s going to see them posted?” + +I said, “I am. You leave them to me.” + +They said, “All right,” and I began to give out the postcards. + +I started at one end of the train and went on to the other end. In the +middle I found two carriages full of officers. + +“Gentlemen,” I said, “will you please censor these postcards as I +collect them, and that will relieve the pressure on the local staff, for +I don’t want to put any extra work on them?” + +“Oh, certainly,” they answered, and I sent a dozen or twenty up at a +time to them, and in fifteen minutes that train was steaming out of the +station and the boys were singing, “Should auld acquaintance.” + +When they had gone I collected the postcards that had been written and +censored—and there were 575. To keep the boys in touch with home is +religion; to keep in their lives the finest, the most beautiful +home-sentiment that God ever gives to the world is a bit of +religion—pure and undefiled. + + * * * * * + +How gloriously brave are the French women and Belgian women! I was +talking to one in London—a young girl not more than eighteen or +nineteen. She was serving me in a restaurant, and I saw she was wiping +her eyes, so I called her to me and said, “What’s the matter, my child?” + +She answered, “Sir, I came over on the boat from Belgium early in the +war, and my mother and sisters got scattered, and I have never seen or +heard of them since.” + +And the Madame of the restaurant came to me a little while afterwards, +and said, “We dare not tell her, but they were all killed.” + +Many people at home don’t realise what is going on. Some are in +mourning, some have lost boys, some have lost husbands, brothers, but we +have not suffered as others have suffered. I was riding in a French +train a few weeks ago. Beside me sat a lady draped in mourning. I could +not see her face, it was so thickly veiled with crape. Beside her was a +nurse, and the lady wept, oh, so bitterly! I cannot bear to see anybody +weeping. If I see a little child crying in the street I want to comfort +it. If I see a woman crying in the street I want to comfort her. God has +given me a quick ear where grief is concerned—and I am thankful. I +wouldn’t have it otherwise—though I have to pay for it. + +That woman’s tears went through me. Every little while she was counting +in French, “Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq,”—then she would weep again +and then she would count. + +I said to the nurse, “Nurse, what’s the trouble?” and she said, “Sir, +her mind has given way. Before the war she had five handsome sons, and +one by one they have been killed, and now she spends her time counting +over her boys and weeping.” + +And all that is for you and for me! What sort of people ought we to be, +do you suppose? Are we really worth—_that_? + + * * * * * + +I was talking to some Canadians one night—and the Canadians are fine +boys. I was putting my foot on the platform, just about to begin, when a +bright young Canadian touched me and said, “Say, boss, can _you_ shoot +quick?” and I replied, + +“Yes, and straight.” + +“Well,” he said, “you’ll do.” + +I had a great time with those fellows. Hundreds of those Canadian boys +stood up to say, “God helping me, I am going to lead a better +life!”—hundreds of them. And then I put another test to them. “I +want you all to promise,” I said, “that you’ll kneel down and say your +prayers to-night in the billet, and those of you who will promise to do +that come up and shake hands with me as you go out.” I was kept one +half-hour shaking hands. + +Now, there were nine fellows sleeping in one billet and not one knew the +other eight had been to the meeting. They all got mixed up, but all the +nine came up to shake hands, and the one that got back to billets first +told the story afterwards. This one had made up his mind he would kneel +down and say his prayers, but when he returned he found there was no one +there. Somehow he felt different then—he felt he couldn’t do it. He was +more afraid of nobody than he would have been of somebody. Then just +suppose the others came back and found him kneeling there! + +“I funked it,” he said. “I got under the blanket, and tried to say my +prayers under the blanket, but it wouldn’t work. Then I heard one man +come into the room, then two, three, four, five, six, seven, and eight. +And the eighth man was the champion swearer of the company.” + +“Boys,” said this man, “did you hear him?” + +“Yes,” they said, “we heard him.” + +And the little chap under the blanket said “Yes” too. + +“Well, I shook hands with that man, and I promised him for my mother’s +sake that I’d kneel down and say my prayers to-night.” + +And the little chap under the blanket jumped up, blanket and all, and +said, “So did I. I’m with you.” + +And the others said, “So did we.” + +“Well,” the last comer said, “the best thing we can do is to kneel down +now and say a little prayer.” + +So they all knelt down, and they each said a little prayer—I wish I had +a record of those prayers—and they finished up with “Our Father.” + +Then the champion swearer said, “Boys, I’ve cut it all out: no more +drink—not another drop.” + +And they said, “All right, we are with you. We’ll cut it out.” + +Then he said, “I’ve cut something else out. No more swearing.” + +Eighty-five times out of every hundred that the boys in France use a +swear-word they mean no more than I do when I say, “Great Scott.” + +“Do you, boys?” I ask them. + +“No, sir,” they invariably reply. + +“Well, then, why do you use these swear-words?” + +And then I’ve got them and, out of their own mouths, they are condemned. +I tell them it is bad form, and I say, “Cut it out.” + +These boys made a solemn compact that night that the first man who swore +should clean all nine guns, and before the week was out my champion was +cleaning nine guns. + +But those eight boys didn’t go back on him. They were sporty. + +I have seen a little bird’s nest all broken with the wind and torn with +the storm, and two or three little eggs, with a few wet leaves over +them, addled and cold and forsaken, and my little gipsy heart cried over +those poor little motherless things, for I was motherless too. And up in +a tree I have heard a thrush singing the song of a seraph and I have +said, as I looked at the eggs, “You would have been singers too, but you +were forsaken.” + +These boys—they did not forsake their chum. They said, “Buck up, old +boy. We’ll help you.” + +“No,” he said. “This is my job.” + +So they stood by him and cheered him on. People, I say again, don’t die +of overmuch love, but for the want of a bit of it. These boys stood by +my champion swearer, and when he was putting the polishing touches on +the last gun he stood up, his face radiant, like a man that has fought a +battle and won: “Boys, this is the last gun I shall clean for anybody +under these conditions, because, God helping me, I’m going to see this +thing through.” + +And he _is_ seeing it through. + + * * * * * + +I was at a home for limbless men the other day—there are over one +hundred and eighty of them in that home. I held my hand out to shake +hands with the first two men I met, and they laughed at me. I looked +down for their hands—they hadn’t got one between them! I took the face +of one of those dear boys and I patted it. I wanted to kiss it with +gratitude. I wonder how you feel! + +I walked round amongst those boys—one hundred and eighty limbless! I +found one boy without legs and without an arm. He was just a trunk, and +his comrades, those who could, were carrying him around. He was the +sunshine in the whole place—not a grouse. They are doing no +grousing—your boys there. When they see you they just say, “Cheerio.” + +A friend of mine, a minister, went to see one of these boys, and he was +wondering what he could say to him; he thought he had got to cheer him +up. The boy looked at the padre and said, + +“Guv’nor, don’t get down-hearted. I am going to make money out of this +job. Why, I shall only want a pair of trousers with one leg, and I shall +only want a coat with one sleeve, and I shall only want a pair of boots +with one boot.” + +It reminds me of the question I once asked: “Sonny, what struck you most +when you got in the trenches?” and the reply came sharp, + +“A bit of shrapnel.” + +Another of your boys, just picked up in the trenches by those tender +fellows, the stretcher-bearers, those men with the hands of a woman and +with the heart of a mother—God bless them!—called out as they came to +him, “_Home, John_.” And when he was passing the officer and they were +carrying him into the Red Cross train, he cried, “_Season_.” He had two +gold stripes already. That’s the spirit of your boys. + + * * * * * + +There was a dear old Scotchman from Aberdeen. A telegram had come to +that granite city to say that his boy was badly wounded, and he ran all +the way to the station and jumped into a train without stopping to put +on a collar. You don’t think of collars when your boys are dying. I saw +him when he landed. It was my job to help him. The dear old fellow was +just in time to see his boy die—and afterwards he came and laid his head +on my shoulder and he sobbed. And I wept too. He was seventy. + +Presently he said, “It will be hard to go home and tell mother that her +only boy has gone, but I’ve got a message for her. ‘Father,’ my boy +said, ‘tell mother I am not afraid to die. I have found Jesus. Tell +mother that.’” + +There are some people who think you are not doing Christian work unless +you have a hymn-book in one hand and a Bible in the other and are +singing, “Come to Jesus.” I am glad I haven’t to live with that kind of +people. I call them the Lord’s Awkward Squad. + +If you take “firstly,” “secondly,” “thirdly,” out to the front with you, +by the time you get to thirdly the boys will be in the trenches. I never +take an old sermon out with me to France. I write my prescription after +I’ve seen my patients. + +I was talking to a thousand boys one day. “Boys,” I said, “how many of +you have written to your mother this week?” + +Now, that’s a proper question. I wonder what would happen if the +preacher stopped in his sermon next Sunday morning and said, “Have you +paid your debts this week?” “In what sort of a temper did you come down +to breakfast this morning?” + +If a man’s religion does not get into every detail of his life he may +profess to be a saint, but he’s a fraud. Religion ought to permeate life +and make it beautiful—as lovely as a breath of perfume from the garden +of the Lord. + +The boys have given me the privilege of talking straight to them. “If +you don’t write, you know what you’ll get,” I said, and I began to give +out the note-paper. I can give boys writing-paper and envelopes and sell +them a cup of coffee or a packet of cigarettes with as much religion as +I can stand in a pulpit and talk about them. Why, my Master washed +people’s feet and cooked a breakfast for hungry fishermen. He kindled +the fire with the hands that were nailed to a tree for humanity. There +are no secular things if you are in the spirit of the Master—they are +all Divine. + +I went on dealing the note-paper out, and presently a clergyman came to +me and said, “Gipsy Smith, a man in my room wants to see you.” + +When I got there, I saw he was crying, sobbing. + +“I am not a kid,” he said; “I am a man. I’m forty-one. You told me to +write to my mother. Read that,” he said, throwing down a letter; and +this is what I read: + + “My dear Mother, + + “It’s seven years since I wrote you last. I’ve done my best to + break your heart and to turn your hair grey. I’ve lived a bad + life, but it’s come to an end. I have given my heart to God. I + won’t ask you to believe me, or to forgive me. I deserve + neither. But I ask for a bit of time that I may prove my + sincerity. + + “Your boy still, + “Jack.” + +“Shall I put a bit at the bottom for a postscript?” I asked. “But first +of all, let us pray.” + +We got on our knees, and I said, “You begin.” + +“I’m not used to it,” he replied. + +“Begin; never mind how. Did you ever pray?” + +“Yes,” he said; “I prayed as a child.” + +“Start with that, then—He loves cradle faith.” + +It took him some time, but presently he began with his mother’s prayer, +“Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me.” When he got to the third line there +was a big lump in his throat and one in mine, and then he gave me a dig +with his elbow and said, “You’ll have to finish”—and I finished. + +I put my postscript to that letter. “God has saved him,” I wrote. +“Believe him. Write and tell him you forgive him.” + +And when that mother got that she knew that giving out note-paper was +religion. + + * * * * * + +I was in a cemetery just behind the lines, walking among the graves of +our dear lads who have fallen, and weeping for those at home who weep +over graves that they will never see. There I found an old soldier who +had been to the woods and had cut a big bundle of box trimmings. He was +setting a little border of box round the graves. + +“But,” I said to him, “they won’t strike. It’s not the right time of +year—and the ground’s too dry.” + +“I know, sir,” he said, “but it will look as if somebody cares.” + +God’s jewels lie deep, and if you will dig deep enough you will find +them—so I took the trouble to dig a little deeper. I said, “Nobody will +see them here.” + +“Yes, sir, the angels will. You taught me to think like this in one of +the meetings in the huts, and since I can’t do any more in the +fight”—for he was disabled—“I am putting in my time caring for the +boys’ graves, and if the wives and mothers don’t see them—well”—and his +face lit up with a radiance that I can’t put into words—“the angels +will, sir.” + + * * * * * + +I have had your boys say to me, “Gipsy, does it mean Blighty, or does it +mean West?” I have had to say to some of them, “It doesn’t mean +Blighty.” + +A sister took me to see one dear fellow. He was blown up by a mine, both +his legs and his arm were broken. + +“I was lying out there, after the mine blew up, for twenty-four hours, +and I was half buried,” he told me. + +Fancy lying out there in No Man’s Land for twenty-four hours with both +legs broken and an arm! + +I said, “Sonny, you have had a rough time.” + +And this was his reply: “They copped me, worse luck, before I had a pot +at them.” + +You can’t beat these boys of yours, the nation’s boys, the best boys of +our homes, the flower of our manhood, the noblest and the dearest that +God ever gave to a people. These boys, they are worth everything in the +world, and there is _nothing_ you and I can do will ever repay them for +what they are doing for you and for me. + + * * * * * + +When the great end of the day comes, the greatest joy of all will be the +joy of knowing you have tried to make somebody else’s life happy. It is +the flowers that you have made grow in unlikely places that will +tell—not how much money you have made, not how big a house you have +lived in, not how popular you were in the world of letters, of science, +of finance, but—how many burdens have you lifted? How many dark hearts +have you lightened? You can’t do too much for your boys. Remember what +they are doing for you. Remember the lives that are being laid down for +you. + +I shook hands with a boy a little while ago in Scarborough, and he said, +“I believe I hold the record for having lost most in the war. I have +lost five brothers, my sister was killed in the war, and my mother died +of a broken heart through grief, but,” he said, “I’ll give my next +week’s pay, sir, towards this new hut.” + +Another boy, when I was making my appeal, said, “I’ve been wounded and I +am discharged. I’ll give my next week’s pay,” and up jumped a war-widow +and she said, “I’ll give my next week’s pension.” + +I was talking in Doncaster, and I had a batch of wounded men from one of +the local hospitals—a batch of twenty dressed in blue—and every one of +them gave something; and when I looked round and said, “Boys, why are +you giving?” one said, “Well, sir, we’re grateful for what it did for us +when we were there.” + +People say, “What are you going to do with the huts after the war?” We +want to pick them up, and bring them back to this country and put one +down in every parish in the land, so that when the boys do come back +they will still have the Y.M.C.A. hut to go into, so that they can still +keep up the spirit of unity. + +Woe be to the man who goes into the hut and tries to preach +sectarianism. The Y.M.C.A. is creating a spirit of unity amongst the +boys, and that is going on all the time. I want the limitations to +vanish at home. I want the ecclesiastical barriers to go. When you get +to Heaven the Lord will have to give Gabriel a job to introduce many +Christians to one another. You should see your boys, how they mix up. +They come in—the Roman Catholics, the Church of England, and the +Nonconformists and Plymouth Brethren and Salvation Army, and all +sorts—you don’t know who’s who. We are not quarrelling over religions +at the front—we are fighting and dying for the folks who are doing that +at home. + +Let’s stop our religious nonsense. Religion’s too big to be confined +within our four little walls. If our Church rules are so rigid that they +won’t let us come together, then our Church rules are wrong. God never +made rules which divide men—all God’s laws unite. Christ died that we +might be one, and it is time we got together. Your boys are bigger than +your Churches. You and I have got to rise to the opportunity. God help +us to do it! + + * * * * * + +Somebody asks, “Why does the Y.M.C.A. always want more new huts? Why not +move the old ones?” What will the boys do who take the places of those +who have gone forward? When the line goes forward, it does not come +back—not in these days; it abides—and the boys who come up as a +support, they take the huts the other boys leave. + +The Y.M.C.A. stands for everything to your boys. It is their club, their +church, their recreation-room. It is their canteen—dry canteen, you may +be sure—it is their reading-room, it is their smoking-room, and why +should not the Church of Jesus Christ provide places of recreation for +its own people? Why should it leave the public-house and the theatre to +do it all? We have lost lots of people because we have been so slow—we +have lost them, you and I, but we are learning sense in these days, and +the Y.M.C.A. has come to the help of the Churches, to be the +communication-trench between the Churches and the people. + +It is doing magnificent work. + +As I write these lines I think of one dear boy, a young sergeant, a +Public-School boy. I had watched him grow up. I knew his home, and as he +leaned against me he said, “Gipsy, I’m homesick; I want my mother,” and +then, with a sob, he said, “Tell me more about Jesus.” + +I was able to talk to him about his mother because I had lost mine, and +just because I love Jesus I was able to talk to him about the blessed +Jesus Who comes into a man’s heart when he is sad, lonely, and homesick, +and helps him. + +He was lying on a stretcher, and it was my privilege to hold his hand +and to kiss him for his mother. + +“Gipsy,” he said, “does it mean West?” + +I said, “Sonny, it means West.” + +As I held his hand it flickered for a moment and he said, “I am not +afraid to go. I know Christ. I found Him in your meetings, and—it’s +great to die, for freedom.” + +And it was a great thing for me to be with your boy then. + + * * * * * + +_I thank my God upon every remembrance of your boys._ + + +THE END + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUR BOYS *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so +the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. +Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this +license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and +trademark. 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