THE RISK OF REACHING FOR BEAUTY
It was an afternoon in the early summer; there was a strange quiet on the battlefield. In the bright sunshine, the air was balmy and had a breath of garden in it. By some grotesque miracle, a bird was singing somewhere near at hand. On the firing step, with his rifle lying in a groove in the parapet, stood a private soldier in field-gray, his uniform stained with mud and blood. On his face, so young yet strangely marked with the lines of war that made him look old, was a wistful faraway expression. He was enjoying the sunshine and the quiet of this strange lull in the firing. The heavy guns had been silent – there was no sound to break the eerie stillness. Suddenly a butterfly fluttered into view and alighted on the ground almost at the end of his rifle. It was a strange visitor to the battleground – so out of place – so…
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