The explanation of the attitude of the “constant reader” to the reporters seems to be that he regards the correspondent as a prying busybody, as a sort of spy, and when he is snubbed and suppressed he feels he is properly punished.  Perhaps the reader also resents the fact that while the correspondent goes abroad, he stops at home and receives the news at second hand.  Possibly he envies the man who has a front seat and who tells him about it.  And if you envy a man, when that man comes to grief it is only human nature to laugh.

You have seen unhappy small boys outside a baseball park, and one happy boy inside on the highest seat of the grand stand, who calls down to them why the people are yelling and who has struck out.  Do the boys on the ground love the boy in the grand stand and are they grateful to him?  No.

Does the fact that they do not love him and are not grateful to him for telling them the news distress the boy in the grand stand?  No.  For no matter how closely he is bottled up, how strictly censored, “deleted,” arrested, searched, and persecuted, as between the man at home and the correspondent, the correspondent will always be the more fortunate.  He is watching the march of great events, he is studying history in the making, and all he sees is of interest.  Were it not of interest he would not have been sent to report it.  He watches men acting under the stress of all the great emotions.  He sees them inspired by noble courage, pity, the spirit of self-sacrifice, of loyalty, and pride of race and country.

In Cuba I saw Captain Robb Church of our army win the Medal of Honor, in South Africa I saw Captain Towse of the Scot Greys win his Victoria Cross.  Those of us who watched him knew he had won it just as surely as you know when a runner crosses the home plate and scores.  Can the man at home from the crook play or the home run obtain a thrill that can compare with the sight of a man offering up his life that other men may live?

When I returned to New York every second man I knew greeted me sympathetically with:  “So, you had to come home, hey?  They wouldn’t let you see a thing.”  And if I had time I told him all I saw was the German, French, Belgian, and English armies in the field, Belgium in ruins and flames, the Germans sacking Louvain, in the Dover Straits dreadnoughts, cruisers, torpedo destroyers, submarines, hydroplanes; in Paris bombs falling from air-ships and a city put to bed at 9 o’clock; battle-fields covered with dead men; fifteen miles of artillery firing across the Aisne at fifteen miles of artillery; the bombardment of Rheims, with shells lifting the roofs as easily as you would lift the cover of a chafing-dish and digging holes in the streets, and the cathedral on fire; I saw hundreds of thousands of soldiers from India, Senegal, Morocco, Ireland, Australia, Algiers, Bavaria, Prussia, Scotland, saw them at the front in action, saw them marching over the whole northern half of Europe, saw them wounded and helpless, saw thousands of women and children sleeping under hedges and haystacks with on every side of them their homes blazing in flames or crashing in ruins.  That was a part of what I saw.  What during the same two months did the man at home see?  If he were lucky he saw the Braves win the world’s series, or the Vernon Castles dance the fox trot.