What Could I Do But Go With

I Have Never Worked For Fame Or Praise, And Shall Not Feel Their Loss As I Otherwise Would. I Have Never For A Moment Lost Sight Of The Humble Life I Was Born To, Its Small Environments, And The Consequently Little Right I Had To Expect Much Of Myself, And Shall Have The Less To Censure, Or Upbraid Myself With For The Failures I Must See Myself Make.

I Founded The American Red Cross.

The Door That Nobody Else Will Go In At, Seems Always To Swing Open Widely For Me.

If I Were To Speak Of War, It Would Not Be To Show You The Glories Of Conquering Armies But The Mischief And Misery They Strew In Their Tracks; And How, While They Marched On With Tread Of Iron And Plumes Proudly Tossing In The Breeze, Some One Must Follow Closely In Their Steps, Crouching To The Earth, Toiling In The Rain And Darkness, Shelterless Themselves, With No Thought Of Pride Or Glory, Fame Or Praise, Or Reward; Hearts Breaking With Pity, Faces Bathed In Tears And Hands In Blood. This Is The Side Which History Never Shows.

My Business Is Stanching Blood And Feeding Fainting Men; My Post The Open Field Between The Bullet And The Hospital. I Sometimes Discuss The Application Of A Compress Or A Wisp Of Hay Under A Broken Limb, But Not The Bearing And Merits Of A Political Movement. I Make Gruel--not Speeches; I Write Letters Home For Wounded Soldiers, Not Political Addresses.