The Ypres Times.
37
But there are other namessome beautifully euphonious and even picturesquesuch
as Mount Noir and Nine Elms," while there are also to be found some that are
drab and even ugly. Of the latter I might instance The Gordon Dump Cemetery
in Sausage Valley."
And yet, as Shakespeare says, What's in a Name I entered that cemetery
with the ugly name to visit for a friend the grave of her brother and I found it in a state
of upheaval-such a state as I had found in no other cemetery. But there was a reason.
The cemetery was passing from its temporary to its permanent state. Workers were
busily engaged in erecting the Cross of Sacrifice and the Stone of Remembrance and the
little wooden crosses, pathetic and simple symbols, were being replaced by the more
enduring headstones.
On my entry there came to me at once the man in charge of the cemetery, a pleasant-
spoken Englishman. Can I be of any assistance he asked. I told him the grave
I wanted to find, and he led me to it. I said that I wanted to photograph the grave
for the relatives. He requested the men working behind it to move away so that the grave
might appear in all its simplicity and quietness. The sun shone brightly overhead the
noise of the workmen was stilled a bee hummed lazily among the flowers, and in that
solitude and peace I knelt before that rough little cross. A momentthe photograph
was taken to bring some little comfort to those loving hearts far away, and then I stood
up. Then with pride begotten of true sympathy that man spoke to me I'm sorry,
sir, that you have found the cemetery in such an unsettled condition, but we are in the
middle of the work. Please tell his friends that by next year I will have this the most
beautiful cemetery in France."
No words could have been spoken to carry greater meaning than those. Here was
a man I felt, who, by his understanding and sympathy, was one link in the connecting
chain between the dead and the living. Here was a man who knew exactly what the
bereaved at home wanted to knowthat their dead were cared for, and who was resolved
that no effort was too great to ensure that those graves would be as lovingly and as
beautifully kept as if the hands of those nearest and dearest to the deceased had tended
them. I thanked him quietly and turned away.
Many such cemeteries I had to visit and in all I found the evidences of sympathetic
care and attention, and that is what I would impress upon our people to give them comfort.
In whatever respect our Government has come short of its duty to the men w-ho returned,
it cannot be said that it is failing to care for the last resting-places of those who gave their
lives. That may be some little comfort to those who even now feel in their hearts the
bitter pain of bereavement.
THE UNKNOWN.
During the holiday season thousands of our people crossed the Channel to revel in
the delights of the Continental resorts. But there were many who, casting their minds
back through the last ten years, had heavy hearts. Even the lapse of that time had not
sufficed to take more than the sharpest edge off the grief of many, and some of those, while
on holiday, took the opportunity of visiting the graves of their loved ones.
But there are some graves which will not be specially sought out by relatives, for no
one knows to whom they belong. Every cemetery has its quota of graves of unknown
British soldiers. I saw one such in a cemetery full of the headstones so familiar now to
our people. All around me were headstones bearing the regimental crest, the name, and
regiment and date of death of the soldier buried there. Each has the simple cross cut
on it, the symbol of sacrifice and of hope, and underneath, a simple message chosen by
the relatives.
Then I stood before the grave of an unknown soldier. There was the same simple
