The boys of my year are going -- going . Every day two or three of them join up . Some days I almost make up my mind to do it -- and then I see myself thrusting a bayonet through another man -- some woman 's husband or sweetheart or son -- perhaps the father of little children -- I see myself lying alone torn and mangled , burning with thirst on a cold , wet field , surrounded by dead and dying men -- and I know I never can . I ca n't face even the thought of it . How could I face the reality ? There are times when I wish I had never been born . Life has always seemed such a beautiful thing to me -- and now it is a hideous thing . Rilla-my-Rilla , if it were n't for your letters -- your dear , bright , merry , funny , comical , believing letters -- I think I 'd give up . And Una 's ! Una is really a little brick , is n't she ? There 's a wonderful fineness and firmness under all that shy , wistful girlishness of her . She has n't your knack of writing laugh-provoking epistles , but there 's something in her letters -- I do n't know what -- that makes me feel at least while I 'm reading them , that I could even go to the front . Not that she ever says a word about my going -- or hints that I ought to go -- she is n't that kind . It 's just the spirit of them -- the personality that is in them . Well , I ca n't go . You have a brother and Una has a friend who is a coward . '' `` Oh , I wish Walter would n't write such things , '' sighed Rilla . `` It hurts me . He is n't a coward -- he is n't -- he is n't ! '' She looked wistfully about her -- at the little woodland valley and the grey , lonely fallows beyond .
How everything reminded her of XXXXX !
Rilla Rilla-my-Rilla Una Walter day days fallows girlishness laugh-provoking year