<html><head><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div><table class="MsoNormalTable" border="0" cellspacing="6" cellpadding="0" width="760" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; width: 570pt;"><tbody><tr><td width="565" valign="top" style="width: 423.75pt; padding: 3pt;"><table class="MsoNormalTable" border="0" cellspacing="5" cellpadding="0"><tbody><tr><td valign="top" style="padding: 5pt;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 26pt; font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; color: rgb(84, 130, 53);">The Women Who Went to the Fields<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br></span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">by Clara Barton<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; font-size: 11pt; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The women who went to the field, you say,<br>The women who went to the field; and pray<br>What did they go for? Just to be in the way!--<br>They'd not know the difference betwixt work and play,<br>What did they know about war anyway?<br>What could they do? of what use could they be?<br>They would scream at the sight of a gun, don't you see?<br>Just fancy them round where the bugle notes play,<br>And the long roll is bidding us on to the fray.<br>Imagine their skirts 'mong artillery wheels,<br>And watch for their flutter as they flee 'cross the fields<br>When the charge is rammed home and the fire belches hot;<br>They never will wait for the answering shot.<br>They would faint at the first drop of blood, in their sight.<br>What fun for us boys, -- (ere we enter the fight;)<br>They might pick some lint, and tear up some sheets,<br>And make us some jellies, and send on their sweets,<br>And knit some soft socks for Uncle Sam's shoes,<br>And write us some letters, and tell us the news.<br>And thus it was settled by common consent,<br>That husbands, or brothers, or whoever went,<br>That the place for the women was in their own homes,<br>There to patiently wait until victory comes.<br>But later, it chanced, just how no one knew,<br>That the lines slipped a bit, and some began to crowd through;<br>And they went, where did they go? Ah; where did they not?<br>Show us the battle, the field, or the spot<br>Where the groans of the wounded rang out on the air<br>That her ear caught it not, and her hand was not there,<br>Who wiped the death sweat from the cold clammy brow,<br>And sent home the message; -"'T is well with him now"?<br>Who watched in the tents, whilst the fever fires burned,<br>And the pain-tossing limbs in agony turned.<br>And wet the parched tongue, calmed delirium's strife<br>Till the dying lips murmured, "My Mother," "My Wife"!<br>And who were they all? They were many, my men:<br>Their record was kept by no tabular pen:<br>They exist in traditions from father to son.<br>Who recalls, in dim memory, now here and there one.<br>A few names were writ, and by chance live to-day;<br>But's a perishing record fast fading away.<br>Of those we recall, there are scarcely a score,<br>Dix, Dame, Bickerdyke,--Edson, Harvey, and Moore,<br>Fales, Wittenmyer, Gilson, Safford and Lee,<br>And poor Cutter dead in the sands of the sea;<br>And Frances D. Gage, our "Aunt Fanny" of old,<br>Whose voice rang for freedom when freedom was sold.<br>And Husband, and Etheridge, and Harlan and Case,<br>Livermore, Alcott, Hancock, and Chase,<br>And Turner, and Hawley, and Potter, and Hall.<br>Ah! The list grows apace, as they come at the call:<br>Did these women quail at the sight of a gun?<br>Will some soldier tell us of one he saw run?<br>Will he glance at the boats on the great western flood,<br>At Pittsburgh and Shiloh, did they faint at the blood?<br>And the brave wife of Grant stood there with them then,<br>And her calm, stately presence gave strength to his men.<br>And Marie of Logan; she went with them too;<br>A bride, scarcely more than a sweetheart, tis true.<br>Her young cheek grows pale when the bold troopers ride.<br>Where the "Black Eagle" soars, she is close at his side,<br>She staunches his blood, cools the fever-burnt breath,<br>And the wave of her hand stays the Angel of Death;<br>She nurses him back, and restores once again<br>To both army and state the brave leader of men.<br>She has smoothed his black plumes and laid them to sleep,<br>Whilst the angels above them their high vigils keep:<br>And she sits here alone, with the snow on her brow<br>Your cheers for her comrades! Three cheers for her now.<br>And these were the women who went to the war:<br>The women of question; what did they go for?<br>Because in their hearts God had planted the seed<br>Of pity for woe, and help for its need;<br>They saw, in high purpose, a duty to do,<br>And the armor of right broke the barriers through.<br>Uninvited, unaided, unsanctioned oft times,<br>With pass, or without it, they pressed on the lines;<br>They pressed, they implored, till they ran the lines through,<br>And this was the "running" the men saw them do.<br>Twas a hampered work, its worth largely lost;<br>Twas hindrance, and pain, and effort, and cost:<br>But through these came knowledge, knowledge is power.<br>And never again in the deadliest hour<br>Of war or of peace, shall we be so beset<br>To accomplish the purpose our spirits have met.<br>And what would they do if war came again?<br>The scarlet cross floats where all was blank then.<br>They would bind on their "brassards" and march to the fray,<br>And the man liveth not who could say to them nay;<br>They would stand with you now, as they stood with you then,<br>The nurses, consolers, and saviors of men.</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table></div>—————————————————-<br><br><div dir="ltr"><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Seeya 'round town, Moscow, because . . .</span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Moscow Cares" (the most fun you can have with your pants on)</span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">http://www.MoscowCares.net</span></div><div><br></div><div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Tom Hansen</span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Moscow, Idaho</span></div></div><div><br></div><div>“A stranger is just a friend you haven’t met.”</div><div>- Roy E. Stolworthy</div><div></div></div></div></div></div></body></html>