Letter from Mexico

Veracruz, February 10

"You put the kid in my care. -He's dead.
And more than one of his pals with him, poor dear soul.
The crew. . . there ain't any more. A few of us,
Maybe, will get back. -It's fate-

"Nothing as beautiful as that-Sailor-for a man;
They'd all like to be one on land-you bet.
Without the discomfort. Nothing but: You can see
How already the apprenticeship's tough!

"I weep to be writing it, me, old Shore-Brother.
I'd gladly have given my skin, without ado,
To send him back to you. . . Me, it ain't my fault:
You can't argue with this sickness.

"The fever here is regular as Lent in March.
You go to the cemetery to get your ration.
The Zouave called it-Parisian at that-
'The Garden of Acclimatization:

"Console yourselves. They're dropping off here like flies.
. . . I found in his satchel some souvenirs of his heart:
A girl's picture, and two little babouches,
And; marked-Gift for my sister.

"He wants his Mom to be told: that he said his prayers.
And his Dad; that he'd rather have died in a war.
Two angels were with him in his last hour:
A sailor. An old soldier."