While Celebrating End of War, Don't Forget Men Like John Blalock Who Gave Their All, 1918

From The Rockingham Post-Dispatch, Dec. 5, 1918. To see the photo that was printed with this article, go to https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn91068736/1918-12-05/ed-1/seq-3/
John Blalock, the School Boy

By Mrs. Ed Thomas

Last week the Post-Dispatch asked, in the excitement of peace and the rejoicing of the world, had we stopped to drop a tear on the graves of those who had made this peace possible.

A rose that blooms in the garden,

Must wither and fade some day;

But time only adds to memory

A charm that can never decay.

Yes, we all admired John for his true self; for true worth is being, not seeming.

Ah, the glad wild ways of the school boy’s days;

And rainbow gleams of their youthful dreams,

Are things of the long ago.

I can’t forget the days at old Oakdale school. Each morning fires were made, fresh water brought and all the errands done. Then John would meet me at the door with his broad, gentle smile and shy “Good morning.”

He was quiet, studious and obedient, with a most feminine nature. I remember we had only a few boys, and more girls—John was quite popular with the girls.

One little incident I must tell, for this was John. It was in the days of the beloved hair switch. One of the girls was using the window pain for a mirror and the window sill for a toilet table. John slipped up, seized the hair switch, and faded away through the woods. The next we saw of John, he came swinging along from the well, among a bevy of girls, around him was an apron, pinned on his vest a huge corsage of roses, fixed among his jet black locks was the golden switch before mentioned, and atop of that a lady’s hat. The maiden was waiting for him with a bucket of water and a lively chase followed—peace was made by an invitation from John to a party the next night.

The children had gathered violets. I remember John once brought me three and mischievously said “These are for the language”—and well do we know among the lilies of France he plucked three violets for the whole world—truly for their language, “I love you.” We shall each, the mates of old Oakdale, in imagination, place three violets on John’s grave, hoping that sometime we shall all pick violets from a far more lovely bed.

The west winds are sighing, as daylight is dying,

Good night! Good night! Good night!

Angels are keeping their watch o’er thy sleeping,

Good night! Good night! Good night!