secretaries went up to him and said: "Why don't you go over and talk
with them? They would be glad to talk with you."

"Oh," he said, "I never was much for women at home, except my wife and
kid. I never did know how to talk to women. Especially now, for I've
been up in the woods for six months. Just let me sit here and look at
'em. That's enough for me. Just let me sit here and look at 'em!"

And that was the way he spent his leave, just loafing around in that
hotel lobby watching the women at their work.

"This has been the loneliest day of my life," a major said to me on
Mother Day in a great port of entry.

"Why, major?"

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the picture of a
seven-year-old boy and that boy's mother.

Suffering? Yes, of course I have seen boys wounded, as I have said,
but for real downright suffering, loneliness is worst, and it lies
entirely within the province of the folks at home to alleviate this
suffering. I have seen a boy morose and surly, discouraged and grouchy
in the morning. He didn't know what was the matter with himself. In
the afternoon I have seen him laughing and yelling like a wild animal
at play, happy as a lark.

What was the difference? He had gotten a letter.

[Illustration: What was the difference? He had gotten a letter.]