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280 you, carried you on his shoulder, dropped sweeties on your lap as he passed you. You knew him by name and called to him familiarly. You never thought of him as great. He never thought of himself that way. He was your friendly playmate.

He passed you daily on his way to work down at the corners, or in the city or on granddad's farm. His clothes were the clothes of a worker and his hands were soiled and brown when he passed by at evening. But he still smiled at you. Remember him now?

When the call to war came he said nothing about it. He gathered up his few things—there weren't many, a few shirts and handkerchiefs and a couple of photographs—and bunched them into an old suitcase that was held together by one strap. He smiled good-by to you as he passed on his way to camp. Remember him now?

You missed him for a while. You heard that he was out at camp and as you wound the muddy brown wool that your mother was knitting into socks you hoped he would get a pair of them. He did. He wore them in the trenches and the fields. He had them on when they picked him up and tagged his poor broken body and buried it with a little flag and a white cross marking the place.

Don't you remember him now? Why, child,