Sinopsis

"I have lived much that I have not written, but I have written nothing that I have not lived." It was a little blue-eyed girl of ten who sat on a low hassock at my feet, slowly drawing the soft auburn curls between her fingers, when, suddenly lifting her head and looking me earnestly in the face, she exclaimed: "What is the Red Cross? Please tell me about it; I can not understand it." There was a pleading earnestness in the tone not to be resisted, and laying down my pen I commenced to explain to her the principles, history, and uses of the Red Cross. She listened anxiously, the pretty brow knitted; she seemed more and more perplexed, until, as if a light had broken over her, she exclaimed, half impatiently: "Not that—not that, tell me something it does—it and you, I can understand it better then." A light had broken over me. It was a story the child wanted to illustrate the principle and bring it home to her. A story she must have. In a half hour she felt that she knew it all and was an ardent devotee even of its principles. But she had given me more than I had given her. Here was food for thought. For twenty-five years I had labored to explain the principles ...