The Defenders of Democracy .............................................................................................................................1

The Militia of Mercy ................................................................................................................................1

Dedication ................................................................................................................................................2

Introduction ..............................................................................................................................................3

Essential Service......................................................................................................................................5

How Can I Serve?....................................................................................................................................5

Preface ......................................................................................................................................................6

Belgium and America..............................................................................................................................8

Good Old Bernstorff! ...............................................................................................................................9

The War in Europe .................................................................................................................................10

Invocation..............................................................................................................................................10

The Test.................................................................................................................................................10

The New Comradeship..........................................................................................................................11

Questionings..........................................................................................................................................12

Democracy in Peace and War ................................................................................................................13

Sunrise over the Peristyle .......................................................................................................................13

Reminiscences of Booth........................................................................................................................15

God of My Faith....................................................................................................................................17

To France...............................................................................................................................................30

Ce Que Disent Nos Morts ......................................................................................................................31

The Transports.......................................................................................................................................34

La Priere Du Poilu.................................................................................................................................34

A Tribute to England.............................................................................................................................37

Unity and Peace.....................................................................................................................................39

Our Common Heritage ...........................................................................................................................39

Poetic Justice ..........................................................................................................................................40

The Spell of the Kilties..........................................................................................................................48

Sherston's Wedding Eve........................................................................................................................49

A Canadian Soldier's Dominion Day at Shorncliffe ..............................................................................58

Simple as Day........................................................................................................................................61

The Epic Standpoint in the War .............................................................................................................65

Eleutherios Venizelos and the Greek Spirit ...........................................................................................67

A Tribute to Italy...................................................................................................................................69

Al Generale Cadorna ..............................................................................................................................71

To General Cadorna On his 69th birthday, September 11, 1917 ...........................................................71

The Voice of Italy..................................................................................................................................71

Japan's Ideals and Her Part in the Struggle ............................................................................................73

Tropical Interlude ...................................................................................................................................74

Latin America and the War ....................................................................................................................76

Drill ........................................................................................................................................................81

The People's Struggle .............................................................................................................................82

Portugal ..................................................................................................................................................82

An Interpretation ....................................................................................................................................84

The Soul of Russia .................................................................................................................................85

The American Bride ...............................................................................................................................88

The Insane Priest ....................................................................................................................................94

Without a Country.................................................................................................................................95

Indian Prayer to the Mountain Spirit.....................................................................................................95

To America4 July, 1776....................................................................................................................96

The Need of Force to Win and Maintain Peace .....................................................................................96

Woman and Mercy .................................................................................................................................97

Joan of ArcHer Heritage ....................................................................................................................97

Things Which Cannot Be Shaken ..........................................................................................................98

Somewhere in France ...........................................................................................................................100

The Associated Press...........................................................................................................................101

Pan and the PotHunter.......................................................................................................................103

Men of the Sea.....................................................................................................................................106

JimA Soldier of the King .................................................................................................................108

Heel and Toe ........................................................................................................................................112

Those Who Went First .........................................................................................................................116

A Summer's Day..................................................................................................................................117

Children of War...................................................................................................................................122

KhakiBoy ...........................................................................................................................................123

Hymn for America...............................................................................................................................130

The Breaking Out of the Flags .............................................................................................................130

Our Day ................................................................................................................................................131

Pour La Patrie......................................................................................................................................132

Sonnet..................................................................................................................................................139

The Idiot ...............................................................................................................................................139

Memories of Whitman and Lincoln .....................................................................................................146

Bred to the Sea .....................................................................................................................................147

Our Defenders ......................................................................................................................................148

The Bomb............................................................................................................................................149

To Those Who Go ................................................................................................................................157

The Hero's Peace ..................................................................................................................................158

To our sailors, soldiers, and nurses in appreciation of their heroism and sacrifice in the cause of Liberty and

"To such a task we can dedicate our lives and our fortunes, everything that we are, and everything that we

have, with the pride of those who know that the day has come when America is privileged to spend her blood

and her might for the principles that gave her birth and happiness, and the peace which she has treasured. God

A Message From Vice Admiral William Sowden Sims, U.S.N., Commanding the American Naval Forces

In such an hour as that with which we are now confronted, when so much depends upon the individual

efforts, our hearts swell with pride as we learn of the thousands of America's best, staunch and true men who

are so willingly forgetting their own personal welfare and linking their lives and all that they are with the

cause of liberty and justice, which is so dear to the hears of the American people. All honor to those who are

giving themselves as such willing sacrifices, and may God grant that their efforts may be speedily rewarded

by a world condition which will make them realize that their efforts have accomplished the desired result, and

I am very pleased to have an opportunity to say a word in praise of the Militia of Mercy.

Unless our women are imbued with Patriotic sentiments, there will be little to hope for in our life. A nation is

only as great as its womanhood; and, as are the women, so are the sons. All praise to the women of America!

I have seldom yielded so willingly to a request for my written views as I do in this instance, when my valued

friend, the master journalist, Melville E. Stone, has asked me, on behalf of the Book Committee, to write an

introduction for "The Defenders of Democracy." Needless to say, I comply all the more readily in view of the

fact that the book in which these words will appear is planned by the ladies of the Militia of Mercy as a

means of increasing the Fund the Society is raising for the benefit of the families of "their own men" on the

And what a theme! It demands a volume from any pen capable of doing it justice. For the present purposes,

however, I approve strongly of a compilation which shall express the reasoned opinions of writers

representing the allied nations, while it is a real pleasure to turn for a few minutes from the day's anxieties

and consider the one great force which supplies the leaven to a warsodden world. Are men to live in

freedom or as slaves to a soulless system?that is the question which is now being solved in blood and

agony and tears on the battlefields of the Old World. The answer given by the New World has never been in

doubt, but its clarion note was necessarily withheld in all its magnificent rhythm until President Wilson

delivered his Message to Congress last April. I have no hesitation in saying that Mr. Wilson's utterance will

become immortal. It is a new declaration of the Rights of Man, but a finer, broader one, based on the sure

principles of Christian ethics. Yet, mark how this same nobility of thought and purpose runs like a vein of

gold through the rock of valiant little Belgium's defiance of the Hun, of President Poincare's firm stand, and

of Mr. Lloyd George's unflinching labors in the Sisyphean task of stemming the Teutonic avalanche. Prussia's

challenge to the world came with the shock of some mighty eruption undreamed of by chroniclers of

earthquakes. It stunned humanity. Nowhere was its benumbing effect more perceptible than in these United

state, whose traditional policy of noninterference in European disputes was submitted so unexpectedly to

the fierce test of Right versus Expediency. And how splendidly did President, Senator, Congress and the

People respond to the test! Never for one instant did America's clear judgment falter. The Hun was guilty,

and must be punished. The only issue to be solved was whether France, Britain, Italy and Russia should

convict and brand the felon unaided, or the mighty power of the Western World should join hands with the

avengers of outraged law. Well, a purblind Germany settled that uncertainty by a series of misdeeds which no

nation of high ideals could allow to pass unchallenged. I do believe most firmly that President Wilson gave

the criminal such chances of reform as no court of law in the world would grant. But, at last, his patience was

exhausted. Whether the enslavers of Germany thought, in that crass ignorance of other men's minds they have

so often displayed, that America meant to keep out of the war at all costs, or were merely careless of

consequences so long as the immediate end was attained, is now immaterial. From the welter of Teutonic

misdeeds and lies arises the vital, the soulinspiring spectacle of a union of all democracies against the

And right here, as the direct speech of New York has it, I want to pay tribute to the sagacity, the clarity of

vision, the sure divination of the truth amidst a fog of deceit, which has characterized almost the whole Press

of the United States since those feverish days at the end of July, 1914, when the nightmare of war was so

quickly succeeded by its dread reality. Efforts which might fairly be described as stupendous were put forth

by the advocates of Kultur to win, if not the approval, at least the strict neutrality of America. That the

program of calculated misrepresentation failed utterly was due in great part to the leading newspapers of New

York, Chicago, Philadelphia and the other main centers of industry and population. Never has the value of a

free Press been demonstrated so thoroughly. The American editor is accustomed to weigh the gravest

problems of life on his own account without let or hindrance from tradition, and it can be affirmed most

positively that, excepting the few instances of a suborned proGerman Press, the newspapers of the United

States condemned the Hun and his methods as roundly and fearlessly as the "Independence Belge" itself

whose staff had actually witnessed the horrors of Vise and Louvain. These men educated and guided public

opinion. Republican or Democrat it mattered notthey set out to determine from the material before them

what was Right and what was Wrong. Once convinced that the Hun was a menace they made their readers

understand beyond cavil just what that menace meant. So I claim that the editors of the United States are

entitled to high rank among the Defenders of Democracy. When the history of the war, or rather a just

analysis of its causes and effects, comes to be written I shall be much mistaken if the critical historian does

not give close heed and honorable mention to the men who wrote the articles which kept the millions of

America thoroughly and honestly informed. Think what it would have meant had their influence been thrown

into the scale against the Allies! By that awesome imagining alone can the extent of their service by

If I have wandered a little from my theme, since our veritable "Defenders" are the men who are giving their

life's blood at the front, and the band of noble women who are tending them in hospital, it will surely be

understood that, if I name them last they are first in my heart. I have seen much of the war. I know what your

soldiers, sailors and nurses are called on to endure. I rejoice that in dedicating this book to them, you honor

them while they live. Never let their memory fade when they are dead. They gave their lives for their friends,

"I wish all success to 'The Defenders of Democracy.' The men who are in this war on the part of the United

States are doing the one vitally important work which it is possible for Americans to do at this time. Nothing

else counts now excepting that we fight this war to a finish. Those men are thrice fortunate who are given the

chance to serve under arms at the front. They are not only rendering the one essential service to this country

and to mankind, but they are also earning honor as it cannot otherwise be earned by any men of our

generation. As for the rest of us, our task is to back them up in every way possible."

I am never good at messages or sentiments, but perhaps if Mr. Rouland's portrait of me were literally a

speaking likeness it would entreat you to believe that I revere and honor in my heart and soul, the noble ideals

There are strange ways of serving God You sweep a room or turn a sod, And suddenly to your surprise You

hear the whirr of seraphim And ?uid you're under God's own eyes And building palaces for him.

There are strange, unexpected ways Of going soldiering these days It may be only censusblanks You're

asked to conquer with a pen, But suddenly you're in the ranks And fighting for the rights of men!

The Editors gratefully acknowledge the rich contributions to this book which it has been their privilege to

arrange. The generous spirit which has accompanied each gift permeates the pages, and its genial glow will

The book is only a fireside talk on the ideals and purposes held in common by those who belong to the

friendly circle of the Allies, and is not intended to have diplomatic, economic or official significance. The

Editors, however, have been honored by the approval of their plan, and have received invaluable assistance

from diplomatists, statesmen and men of affairs in securing contributions otherwise inaccessible at the

We wish to acknowledge (although we cannot adequately express our appreciation) the gift from the

PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES of his portrait, and his kind recognition of our desire to render an

We are especially indebted to VISCOUNT ISHII, Special Ambassador from Japan to Washington, D. C., and

to LORD NORTHCLIFFE, Chairman of the British War Mission, for their thoughtful and sympathetic

We owe a debt of thanks to HIS EXCELLENCY, the ITALIAN AMBASSADOR, for the privilege of

publishing for the first time in America, D'ANNUNZIO'S sonnet to GENERAL CADORNA; to THEIR

EXCELLENCIES, the PORTUGUESE, GREEK, and CHINESE MINISTERS, for helpful suggestions and

translations; to MR. WILLIAM PHILLIPS, ASSISTANT SECRETARY OF STATE; to MR. JOHN HAYS

HAMMOND; to MR. JOHN LANE, MR. W. J. LOCKE, MRS. THEODORE McKENNA, all of London,

England, who assembled our rich English contributions for us; to MR. WILLIAM DE LEFTWICH DODGE

for the cover design, a rare and beautiful tribute to our defenders; to MR. MELVILLE E. STONE, without

whose personal influence we could not have secured contributions from all of our Allies in so short a time; to

MR. J. JEFFERSON JONES and MR. WILLIAM DANA ORCUTT, who have devoted time and thought

without stint to the making of the book, and have given the committee the advantage of their technical

knowledge and distinguished taste entirely as a patriotic service; to MISS LILIAN ELLIOTT for her many

translations from Portuguese and Spanish writers; to MISS LA MONTAIGNE, CHAIRMAN of THE

This beautiful book is the expression of the eager desire of all of the gifted men and women who have

contributed to it and of the members of the Militia of mercy to render homage to our sailors, soldiers, nurses

and physicians who offer the supreme sacrifice to free the stricken people of other lands and to protect

humanity with their bodies from an enemy who has invented the name and created the thing

"weltschmerz"world anguish. But we want it do more than extol their heroism and sacrifice, we want The

Defenders of Democracy to help them win the war. It has been the thought of those who planned the book to

meet three things needful, not only to the army at the front, but to that vaster army at home who watch and

work and wait (and perhaps we need it more than they who have the stimulus of action)to strengthen the

realization that our soldiers of sea and land, though far away, are fighting for a cause which is vitally near the

heart of every man and every woman, and the soul of every nationhuman freedom; "to forge the weapon of

victory by fanning the flame of cheerfulness," and to be the means of lifting the burden of anxiety from those

who go, lest their loved ones should suffer privation, bereft of their protecting care. So truly is this an Age of

Service, that the response to the scope and spirit of our work was immediate and within four months from the

day we sent our first request for cooperation in carrying out our plans, we had received the rich

contributions contained in this book from men and women of letters and other arts, not only from our own

Perhaps the most difficult task fell to those who were asked not to write of the war but to practice the gentle

art of cheering us all upan art so easily lost in these days of sorrow, suspense and anxietyyet we have

received many delightful contributions in harmony with this request, and so the cheerful note, the finer

Such a book is historic. It is a consecration of the highest gifts to the cause of human freedom and human

fraternity. The Militia of Mercy, in expressing its gratitude to the men and women so greatly endowed who

have made this book possible, trust they will find a rich reward in the thought that it will give both spiritual

The book will be sold for the benefit of the families of the men of the Naval Militia now in the Federal

Service and taking part in sea warfare. John Lane Company have published the book at cost, so that the

publisher's profits, as well as our own, will be given to the patriotic work of the Militia of Mercy.

It has been repeatedly said during the past year that America had not begun to feel the war. If America has

not, how many Americans there are who have! We all know that the responsibilities and inequalities of war

were felt first by our sailors. The whole outlook on life changed for many families of the Naval Militia the

day after diplomatic relations with Germany were severed. Husbands, fathers and sons were called to service

without any opportunity to provide for current expenses or to arrange for the future welfare of their loved

ones. The burden of providing for the necessities of life fell suddenly, without warning, upon the wives and

mothers of the civilian sailors. The world knew nothing of these cases, but the members of the Militia of

Mercy who have visited the needy families, realize with what heroism, courage and selfsacrifice the women

For those of us who look on, to help them is not charity, but opportunity for patriotic service to give a VERY

LITTLE to those who are giving ALL THEY CHERISH and ALL THEY HOLD DEAR for the sake of

"The Need of Force to Win and Maintain Peace," by Dr. C. W. Elliot"New York Times." "The Breaking

Out of the Flags," by Amy Lowell"Independent." "The Bomb," by Alice Woods"Century Magazine."

All other contributions have been especially written for "The Defenders of Democracy."

Childe Hassam. Allies' Day. From the Original Painting. (Color) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Frontispiece

American Artist, New York Portrait. Woodrow Wilson, President of the United States . . . . vi Portrait

Photograph. His Eminence Cardinal Mercier . Facing page 4 Albert Sterner. Sympathy. From the Original

Drawing . . . . . . 6 American Artist, New York Photograph. "The Happy Warriors." (Marshal Joffre and

General Pershing.) Courtesy of L'Illustration, Paris . . . . . . . 14 Jules Guerin. Ballet by Moonlight. (Color)

From the Original Painting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 American Artist, New York Jacquier. Marshal

Joffre. Drawn from life . . . . . . . . . . . 44 J. J. Van Ingen. Memory. From the Original Drawing . . . . . . . 52

American Artist, New York Portrait Photograph. The Right Honourable Arthur James Balfour . 66 Charles

Dana Gibson. Her Answer. From the Original Sketch . . . 126 American Artist, New York Portrait

Photograph. General Cadorna . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132 William De Leftwich Dodge. From the Original

Paintings in Oils (1) The Consecration of the Swords . . . . . . . . . . Cover Design (2) Atlantic and Pacific.

(Color) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140 (3) Gateway of All Nations. (Color) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160 American Artist,

New York O. E. Cesare. Russia's Struggle. From the Original Cartoon . . . 168 American Artist, New York

John S. Sargent. "Big Moon" (Black Foot Chief.) From the Original Drawing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192

American Painter, Boston, Mass. John S. Sargent. A Profile. From the Original Drawing Sketch . . 194

George Barnard. Abraham Lincoln . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196 American Sculptor, New York Portrait in Oil.

Theodore Roosevelt. By George Burroughs Torrey 204 In the Brooklyn Museum Portrait Photograph.

Melville E. Stone . . . . . . . . . . . . . 212 Penrhyn Stanlaws. Souvenir de Jeunesse. (Color) From the Original

Pastel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 220 Scotch Artist, New York Portrait Photograph. Vice Admiral William

Sowden Sims . . . . . . 224 Portrait Photograph. General John J. Pershing . . . . . . . . . . 234 Walter Hale. "Once

the Giant Toy of a People who Frolicked." From the Original Water Color . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 244 American

Artist, New York John T. McCutcheon. The Married Slacker. From the Original Drawing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . 268 American Artist, Indiana W. Orlando Rouland. Portrait of W. D. Howells. From the Original

Painting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 274 American Artist, New York George Bellows. They Shipyard.

(Color) From the Original Oil Painting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 304 American Artist, New York

Joseph Pennell. Dawn. From the Original Drawing . . . . . . . . 324 American Artist, New York

The Beck Engraving Co., of New York and Philadelphia, for furnishing the blackandwhite reproductions

The Walker Engraving Co., of New York, for supplying the color plates for the cover at cost.

M. Knoedler Co., of New York, for the privilege of reproducing Jacquier's drawing from life of Marechal

It would be a banality to speak about the gratitude of the Belgian people toward America. Every one knows

from the beginning of the war that when the Belgians were faced with starvation, it was the American

Commission for Relief which saved the situation, forming all over the country, in America and elsewhere,

those Committees who collected the funds raised to help the Belgians, and saw that they reached the proper

But helping to feed the people was not enough. The Americans did more. They gave their heart. Every one of

them who came into my country to act as a volunteer for the Commission for Relief, brought with him the

sympathy of all the people that were behind him. Every one of these young Americans, who, under the

leadership of Mr. Hoover, came into my country to watch the distribution of the foodstuffs imported by the

Commission for Relief, became a sincere friend of my countrymen. He stood between us and the Germans as

a vigilant sentry of the civilized world, and was able to tell when he returned to America all the sufferings

I remember traveling in America some ten years ago, and being asked, while I was reading a Belgian paper,

where this paper came from and when I answered "It came from Belgium, the next question was: "Belgium?

It is a province of France, isn't it?" Now I do not think that any person in America, nor in any other part of the

The American Commission for Relief has to be credited with putting in closer contact the suffering

population of my country with all persons the world over who were eager to assist it. It especially brought the

sufferings of our people nearer to the heart of the American population. Every one knows that. But what

every one does not know is the silent and effective work performed in Belgium by Mr. Brand Whitlock, the

American Minister. He was the real man at the right place and at the right hour. No one could have better

than he, with his deep humanitarian feeling, been able to understand the moral side of the sufferings of the

Belgians under the German occupation. No one could better than he find, at the very moment when they were

needed, the words appropriate to meet the circumstances, and to convey to the people of this stricken country

the feelings which Mr. Whitlock knew were beating in the hearts of all Americans.

When the German authorities forbade the display of the Belgian Flag, and the TriColor so dear to our hearts

had to be hauled down, the American Flag everywhere took its place. Washington's birthday and

Independence Day were almost as solemn festivities to the Brussels people as the fete nationale, and

thousands of persons called at the legation on those days; deputations were sent by the town and official

authorities to show how deep was the Belgian feeling for the United States. America was for the Belgians

"une second Patrie," because they felt that, although America was at the time remaining neutral, her

sympathy was entirely on our side, and when the time would come she would even prove it on the

It may therefore be said that although the war has had for my country the most cruel consequences, there is

one consolation to it. It has shown that humility is better than the pessimist had said it was, and that money is

not the only god before which the nations bow. It has revealed that all over the world, and especially in

America, there is a respect for right and for duty; it has proved that the moral beauty of an action is fully

appreciated. The war has revealed Belgium to America, and America to Belgium. The tie between our two

countries is stronger than any tie has ever been between two far distant people, and nothing will be able to

break it, as it rests not on some political interest or some selfish reason, but because it has been interwoven

[signed]G. de Leval Avocat la cour d'Appel de Bruxelles, Legal advisor to the American and British

Then entrance of America in the war has been nothing short of a miracleperhaps, with the Marne, the most

wonderful miracle, among many others, which we have witnessed since August, 1914.

I do not wish to be misunderstood. I am not necessarily referring to supernatural influences. This will remain

a matter of opinionor rather of belief. I am merely speaking from the ordinary point of view of the main in

People have very generously admired Belgium's attitude, but anybody knowing the Belgians and their King

might have prophesied Liege, and the Yser battle. Others have praised the timely interference of England and

the selfsacrifice of the many thousand British volunteers who rushed to arms, during the early days of the

war, to avenge the wrong done to a small people whose only crime was to stand in the way of a blind and

ruthless military machine. But such an attitude was too much in the tradition of British fair play to come as a

surprise to those who knew intimately the country and the people. Besides, from the Government's point of

view, nonintervention would have been a political mistake for which the whole nation would have had to

But America? What had America to do in the conflict? She had not signed the treaties guaranteeing

Belgium's neutrality. She was not directly threatened by German Imperialism. She had never taken any part

in European politics. Her moral responsibility was not engaged and her immediate interest was to preserve to

the end all the advantages of neutrality and to benefit, after the war, by the exhaustion of Europe...

I had the opportunity of seeing, a few days ago, the second contingent of American troops marching through

London on their way to France. The Belgian flag flew from our window and, as we cheered the men, some of

them, recognizing the colors, waved their hand towards us. And as I watched their bright smile and

remembered the eager interest shown by so many citizens of the States to Belgian's fate, and the deep

indignation provoked beyond the Atlantic by the German atrocities and by the more recent deportations, I

was inclined to think, for one moment, that I had solved the problem, and that their sympathy for Belgium

had brought these soldiers to the rescue. We are so easily inclined to exaggerate the part which one country is

But as I looked at the men again, I was struck by the grim expression on their faces, the almost threatening

determination of their light swinging step. And I soon realized that neither their sympathy for England,

France or Belgium had brought them here. They had not come merely to fight for other peoples, they had

their own personal grievance. they were not there only to help their friends, but also to punish their enemies.

As I turned in to resume my work, I heard a friend of mine who whispered, rubbing his hands: "Good old

And I understood that Germany had been our best champion, and that her plots, her intrigues, and her U boats

had done more to convert America than our most eloquent denunciations. There is no neutrality possible in

the face of lawlessness and Germanism. Sooner or later we feel that "he how is not with Him is against Him."

And there is no compromise, no conciliation which might prevail against such feeling.

Translation of a part of an address by Mr. Tsa YuanPei, Chancellor of the Government University of Peking

and formerly Minister of Education in the first Republican Cabinet, delivered on March 3rd, 1917, at Peking

before the "Wai Chiao Hou Yuan Hui," or a "Society for the Support of Diplomacy."

I am a scholar and not a practical politician. Therefore I can only give you my views as a man of letters. As I

see it, the War in Europe is really one between Right and Might, or in other words, between Morality and

Savagery. Our proverbs run to this effect: "Every one should sweep the snow in front of his door and leave

alone the frost on the roof of his neighbor," and that "when the neighbors are fighting, close your door."

These proverbs have been used by the antiwar party in China as arguments against China's entrance into the

War. The War in Europe, however, is not the "frost on the roof of our neighbor," but rather the "snow right in

front of our door." It is not a "fight between neighbors," but rather a quarrel within the familythe family of

Nations. China therefore cannot remain indifferent. For, if Germany should eventually win the War, it would

mean the triumph of Might over Right, and the world would be without moral principles. Should this occur, it

would endanger the future of China. It is therefore necessary for China to cast her lot with the Right.

Because of the decision of a few, Because in half a score of haughty minds The night lay black and

terrible, thy winds, O Europe! are a stench on heaven's blue. Thy scars abide, and here is nothing new: Still

from the throne goes forth the dark that blinds, And still the satiated morning finds The unending thunder and

Shall night be lord forever, and not light? Look forth, tormented nations! Let your eyes Behold this horror

that the few have done! Then turn, strike hands, and in your burning might Impel the fog of murder from the

It has been my fortune to see something of the war with the army in France, and something also of what war

means for those at home who, having sent out sons and brothers, are themselves compelled to wait and watch.

I have seen suffering beyond imagination, pain, hardship and misery. I have seen anxiety and sorrow which I

should have guessed beforehand men could not have borne without going mad. But I have also seen the

human spirit rise to wonderful heights. Men and women have shown themselves greater, nobler, stronger than

It would not be very astonishing if the strain of war had called forth a fresh greatness in those whose lives

were already seen to be in some way great; in our leaders, our teachers, our thinkers. Or if an added nobility

had appeared in our aristocracies of birth, intellect, education, wealth, or whatever other accidents set men

above the mass of their fellows. Of such we expect a great response to a great demand. And we have not been

disappointed. The old rule of life, NOBLESSE OBLIGE, has proved that it still possesses driving force with

the most of those to whom it applies. The thing which has amazed me is the greatness of the common man.

This I in no way expected or looked for. I confess that, before the war, I was no believer in the great qualities

of those who are called "the people." They seemed to me to be living lives either selfish, sometimes brutal,

always sordid; or else mean, narrow, and circumscribed by senseless conventions. I believed that society, if it

progressed at all, would be forced forward by the few, that the many had not in them the qualities necessary

for advance, were incapable of the far visions which make advance desirable. I know now that I was wrong,

and I have come to the faith that the hoe of the future is in the common people who have shown themselves

So, I suppose, I may contribute to a book with such a title as "The Defenders of Democracy." For now I am

sure that democracy has promise and hope in it. Only I am not sure that democracy has even begun to

understand itself. The common people have displayed virtues so great that those who have seen them unite in

a chorus of praise. Their leaders, elected persons, guides chosen by votes and popular acclamation, have

shown in a hundred ways that they will not, dare not, trust the people. Our silly censorships, our

concealments of unpleasant truths, our suppression of criticism, our galling infringements of personal liberty,

witness to the fact that authority distrusts the source from which it sprang; that the leaders of our democracy

reckon the common people unfit to know, to think or to act. If we are defending democracy we are sacrificing

liberty. Will you, in America, do better in this respect than we have done? you believed in the common

people before England did. You believe in them, if we may trust your words, more completely than England

does. Do you believe in them sufficiently to trust them? Or do you think that democracy can be defended

only after it has been blindfolded, handcuffed and gagged? This is what you have got to show the world. No

one doubts that you can fight. No one doubts that you will fight, with all your strength, as England is fighting.

What we wonder is whether your great principle of government, by the people and for the people, will stand

Democracy is the outward and visible sign that a nation recognizes its own needs and aspirations. Democracy

wells up from the very pit of things. Its value is its foundation in actuality, its concordance with the slow

unending process of man's evolution from the animal he was. Democracy, for one with any comic and cosmic

animal sense, is the only natural form of government, because alone it recognizes States as organisms, with

spontaneous growth, and a free will of their own. Democracy is final; other forms of government are but

steps on the way to it. It is the big thing, because it can and does embody and make use of Aristocracy. It is

the rule of the future, because all human progress gradually tends to recognition of God in man, and not

outside of him; to the establishment of the humanistic creed, and the belief that we have the future in our own

In life at large, whom does one respectthe man who gropes and stumbles upward to control of his instincts,

and full development of his powers, confronting each new darkness and obstacle as it arises; or the man who

shelters in a cloister, and lives by rote and rules hung up for him by another in his cell? The first man lives,

The American and the Englishman are fundamentally democratic because they are fundamentally

selfreliant. Each demands to know why he should do a thing before he does it. This is, I think, the great link

between two peoples in many ways very different; and they who ardently desire abiding friendship between

our two countries will do well never to lose sight of it. Any sapping of this quality of selfreliance, or judging

for oneself, in either country, any undermining of the basis of democracy will imperil our newfound

comradeship. You in America have before all things to fear the warping power of great Trusts; we in England

to dread the paralyzing influence of Press groups. We have both to beware of the force which the pressure of

a great war inevitably puts into the hands of Military Directorates. We are for the time being hardly

democracies, even on the surface; the democratic machinery still exists, but is so ungeared by Censorship and

Universal Service, that probably it could not work even if it wanted to. We are now in the nature of business

concerns, run by Directors safe in office till General Meetings, which cannot be held till after the War. But I

am not greatly alarmed. When the War is over, the pendulum will swing back; the individual conscience

which is our guarantee for democracy and friendship will come into its own again, and shape our destinies in

common towards freedom and humanity. The Englishspeaking democracies, in firm union, can and ought to

I have a brilliant idea which, without any parade of modesty, I hereby commend to the notice of the

American, French and British Governments. Let them get together as soon as may be and give us an

authoritative definition of Democracy. Then we shall know where, collectively, we are. Of course you may

say that it has been defined for all time by Abraham Lincoln. But thrilling in its clear simplicity as his slogan

epigram may be, a complex political and social system cannot be fully dealt with in fifteen words. I thought I

knew what it was until a tidy few millions of friends and myself were knocked silly by recent events in

Russia. Here, where the privates of a regiment hold a mass meeting and discuss for hours an order to advance

to the relief of sorely pressed comrades and decide not to obey it, and eventually throw down their rifles and

with a meus conscia recti, proudly run away, we have Democracy with a vengeance. Not one of the

Defenders of Democracy who are writing in this book would stand for it a second. Nor would they stand for

the slobbering maniacs who yearn to throw themselves into the arms of the Germans, and, with the kiss of

peace and universal brotherhood, kiss away their brother's blood from their bloodsmeared faces. Nor would

they stand entirely for those staunch democrats who, inspired with a burning sense of human wrongs but with

none of proportion or humor, would sacrifice vital interests of humanity in general for the transient

amelioration of the lot of a particular section of the community. For years these visionaries told us that every

penny spent on army or navy was a robbery of the workingman. We yielded to him many pennies; but alas,

America has joined the civilized world in the struggle against the surviving systems of medieval barbarism in

Europe that have been permitted to exist under the veneer of civilization. She sees clearly what she has to

destroy. So do we. No American and Englishman can meet but that they grip hands and thank God together

that they are comrades in this Holy War. They are out, like Knights of Fable, to rid the earth of a pestilential

monster; and they will not rest until their foot is on his slain monster's head.

Which is, by Heaven! a glorious and souluplifting enterprise. In it the blood of the Martyrs, rising to God.

But with this difference: the Martyrs died for a constructive schemethat of Christianity. What is the

constructive scheme for which we are dying? It is easy to say the Democratization of Mankind. It is a matter

of common assent that this consummation is ardently desired by the Royal Family of England, by enlightened

Indian Princes, by the philanthropists of America, by the French artist, by the Roumanian peasant, by the

howling syndicalist in South Wales, by the Belgian socialist, by the eager soul in the frail body who is at the

helm of stormtossed Russia today, by the Montenegrin mountaineer, by the Sydney Larrikin yelling down

conscription, by millions of units belonging to the civilized nations of such social and racial divergence that

the mind is staggered by the conception of them all fighting under one banner. But are we sure they are all

fighting for the same thing? If they're not, there will be the deuce to pay all over the terrestrial globe, even

Therefore, with the same absence of modesty I cry for an authoritative crystallization of the democratic aims

of the civilized world. England and France have groped their way through centuries towards a vague ideal.

America proudly began her existence by a proclamation of the equal rights of man. She proudly proclaims

them now; but the world is involved in such a complicated muddle, that the utterances of George Washington

and Abraham Lincoln (to say nothing of their intellectual and political ancestor Jean Jacques Rousseau)

require amplification. The political thought of the older nations of Europe is tired out. It is for the fresher

genius of America to lead them towards the solution of the greatest problem which has ever faced

mankind:the final, constructive and allsatisfying definition of the myriadwise interpreted word

Democracy is by nature a lover of peace. That is the state which it regards as the normal condition of human

life, and in which it seeks its best rewards and triumphs by the organization of the common effort of all

But while democracy is pacific in its desires and aims, it is not a "pacifist." It is willing and able, though not

always at the moment ready, to take up arms in selfdefense. In its broadening vision of a fraternity of

mankind, which shall be in the good future not only intranational but also international, it is willing also to

FIGHT for the safety of its principles everywhere, and for the security of all the peoples in a true and orderly

liberty. That is the position of the democracy of the United States of America today.

As in peace, so in war, the success of the democratic effort depends upon the fullness of the cooperation

between all classes and conditions of men and women. Those men who are fit for military service on land or

sea must render it willingly and to the utmost of their strength. Those who by reason of age or weakness

cannot undertake that service without danger of becoming a burden to the fighting forces, must work to

sustain the army and the fleet of freedom. "If any man will not work neither let him eat."

The women also must do their part, since they are citizens just as much as the men. They must undertake

those tasks of industry of which they are capable and thus relieve the need of labor in all fields. Above all

they must give themselves to those tasks of mercy for which they have a natural aptitude. And through all

they must give sympathy, inspiration, and courage to the men who fight for Liberty and Democracy.

Few of the younger people of the present generation know, by personal experience, how nobly and

incomparably Edwin Booth enriched the modern stage with his vivid portraitures of Shakespearean

characters. The tragic fervor, the startling passion, and the impressive dignity with which he invested his

various roles, have not been equaled, I daresay, by any actor on the English speaking stage since the days of

Garrick and Kean. He had a voice that vibrated with every mood, and a mien, despite his short stature, that

gave a lofty dignity to every part that he played. But Booth as himself was a simple, modest, amiable human

being. Many of us younger men came to know him in a personal way, when he established in New York City

the Players' Club, which he dedicated to the dramatic profession, and which is now a splendid and permanent

I saw him frequently and had many chats with him. When I undertook the management of E. H. Southern, he

was very much interested because he knew young Sothern's father, the original Lord Dundrery; so, when Mr.

Sothern appeared in the first play under my management, "The Highest Bidder," I invited Mr. Booth to

witness the performance. He expressed his delight at seeing his old friend's son doing such delightful work,

and the three of us afterwards met at a little supper at the Players'. He told us that he came nearly being the

Godfather of young Sothern, and that he was to have been called "Edwin" after himself; but the reason why

his name was changed to "Edward," he explained, was as follows: When young Sothern was born in New

Orleans, the elder Sothern telegraphed Booth, asking him to stand as Godfather to his boy, but Booth did not

wish to take the responsibility, doubtless for reasons of his own, and so his name was changed to "Edward";

but he confessed that it was a matter he greatly regretted. He told us many stories of his early career as an

actor, one of which I remember as a very amusing experience on the part of the elder actor when on his way

to Australia. Mr. Booth had an engagement to play in that distant section, and with five members, the nucleus

of a company, started from San Francisco. They had occasion to stop at Honolulu en route. The stop there

being longer than originally anticipated, and the news of his arrival having spread, King Kamehameha sent a

request that he give a performance of "Richard III" in the local theater. In spite of managerial difficulties,

Booth (being then a young man, ardent and ambitious) sought to give a semblance with the scanty material at

hand, of a fair performance. He had to secure the cooperation of members of the local amateur company. The

best he was enabled to do for the part of Queen Elizabeth was an actor, short in stature, defective in speech

and accent, but earnest in temperament, whom he cast for this eminent role. The other parts were filled as

best he could, and the principals with him enabled Mr. Booth to give some semblance of a decent

performance. In order to properly advertise the event, he secured the assistance of several Hawaiians, and

furnished them with a paste made out of their native product called "poi." He discovered later, to his

amazement, that not a bill had been posted, and that the "poi," being a valuable food article, had been

appropriated by the two individuals, who decamped. Mr. Booth, with his colleagues, then personally posted

the town with the bills of the impending performance. On the evening the house was crowded. The King

occupied a seat in the wings, there being no place for him in the hall. When the throne scene was to be set for

the play, word was sent to His Majesty humbly asking the loan of the throne chair, which he then occupied,

for use in the scenea favor which His Royal Highness readily granted. At the end of the performance, word

was brought to Booth that the King wished to see him. Booth, shy and modest as he was, and feeling that he

could not speak the language, or that His Royal Highness could not speak his, approached His Majesty

timidly. The latter stepped forward, slapped the actor heartily on the back and said: "Booth, this is as fine a

The question as to whether an actor should feel his part or control his emotions, has been an argument which

has interested the dramatic profession for many years, since it was first promulgated by the French writer

Diderot, and afterwards ably discussed by Henry Irving and Coquelin. Of course, we all feel that no matter

how violent the actor's stress of emotion is, he must control his resources with absolute restraint and poise.

Sometimes, however, an actor feels he is under the sway of his part in an unusual degree and comes to the

conviction, through his excitement, that he has given a greater performance than usual. So Booth, one night at

his own theater, seeing his beloved daughter in a box, and desiring to impress her with his work, played with,

as he felt, a degree of emotion that made him realize that he had given an unusually powerful interpretation.

At the end of the play, his daughter ran back to him and said: "Why, dad, what is the matter with you?" And

Booth, awaiting her approval, said: "Matter?" "Why you gave the worst performance I ever witnessed," she

said. This control of one's resources and the check upon one's feelings was indicated at another time during a

performance of Booth, of "Richelieu," as told to me by the actor's friend, the late Laurence Hutton, the writer.

Mr. Hutton and Mr. Booth were sitting in the latter's dressing room at Booth's Theater. Booth was, as usual,

smoking his beloved pipe. When he heard his cue, he arose, and walked with Hutton to the prompter's

entrance, where, giving his pipe to his friend, said: "Larry, will you keep the pipe going until I come off?"

Booth entered on the scene; then came the big moment in the play when the nobles and the weak King had

assembled to defy the power of the Cardinal; and Richelieu launches (as Booth always did with thrilling

effect) the terrifying curse of Romea superb bit of oratorical eloquence. At the conclusion, the house

shouted its wild and demonstrative approval, and when the curtain dropped on this uproar for the last time,

Booth approached Hutton at the prompter's entrance saying, in his usual quiet voice: "Is the pipe still going,

No actor we have ever known has inspired so much genuine affectionI may say almost idolatryas the

simple Edwin Booth aroused in the hearts of his friends and his fellowworkers. In the beautiful Players'

Club House, which he bequeathed to the dramatic profession, he presented also his own valuable theatrical

library, numbering several thousand memorable works on the stage; and no one event greater than this gift to

The action passes in Dartrey's Chambers in the late Spring of Nineteen Hundred and Fifteen.

(The lowering of the Curtain momentarily will denote the passing of several days.)

NELSON DARTREY is seated at a writing table studying maps. He is a man in the early thirties, prematurely

worn and old. His face is burned a deep brick color and is sharpened by fatigue and loss of blood. His hair is

sparse, dry and turning gray. Around the upper part of his head is a bandage covered largely by a black

skullcap. Of over average height the man is spare and muscular. The eye is keen and penetrating: his voice

abrupt and authoritative. An occasional flash of humor brings an oldtime twinkle to the one and heartiness

With an impatient ejaculation he goes into the passage and opens the outer door. Standing outside cheerfully

humming a tune is a large, forceful, breezy young man of twentyeight. He is DERMOD GILRUTH.

Splendid in physique, charming of manner, his slightlymarked Dublin accent lends a piquancy to his

conversation. He has all the ease and poise of a traveled, polished young man of breeding. Dartrey's face

I'm glad to have you. I'm quite alone with yours on my hands. (He brings Gilruth into the room and wheels a

Indeed I will not. Look at your desk there. I'll not interrupt your geography for more than a minute.

(Forces him into the chair) I'm glad to get away from it. Why, you look positively boyish.

The greatest thing in the world for youth and highspirits. I'm going to be married next week.

Well, I'm going to and I want you to father me. Stand up beside me and see me through. Will you?

I've known you longer than any one over here. And I like you better. So there you are.

(Shakes his head) She's never been over before. Everything will be new to her. I tell you it's going to be

wonderful. I've planned out the most delightful trip through Irelandshe's Irish, too.

(Enthusiastically) She's beautiful, she's brilliant: she's goodshe's everything a man could wish.

No. We'll stay till the autumn. Then I must go back to America. But some day when all this fighting is over

and people talk of something besides killing each other I want to have a home in Ireland.

Indeed they do not. Once they get out to America and do well they stay there and become citizens. My father

did. Do you think he'd live in Ireland now? Not he. He talks all the time about Ireland and the hated

Sassenachsthat's what he calls you Englishand he urges the fellows at home in the old country to fight

for their rights. But since he made his fortune and became an American citizen the devil a foot has he ever

put on Irish soil. He's always going, but he hasn't go there yet. And as for living there? Oh, no, America is

good enough for him, because his interests are there. I want to live in Ireland because my heart is there. So

(Springing up) Now I'm off. You don't know how happy you make me by promising to be my best man.

And just wait until you see her. Eyes you lose yourself in. A voice soft as velvet. A brain so nimble that wit

flows like music from her tongue. Poetry too. She dances like thistledown and sings like a thrush. And with

I want her to meet you first. A snug little dinner before the wedding. She's heard so much against the English

(Dartrey laughs heartily) I tell you if you pass muster with her you have the passport to Kingdom come.

Oh, dear, yes. It's quite healed up. I'll have this thing off in a day or two. (Touching the bandage) I expect to

It looks like it. We've hardly begun yet. It will take a year to really get the ball rolling. Then things will

(Shakes his head doubtfully) I wonder. It seems a pity not to bury all the BunkerHill and Bostonteachest

In places they are. Now that I know the English a little I have been agitating to revisit them. It all seems so

damned cheap and petty for a big country to belittle a great nation through the mouth of children.

There's no hatred like family hatred. After all we're cousins, speaking the same tongue and with pretty much

There's one race in America that holds back as strongly as it can any better understanding between the two

countries, and that's my racethe Irish. And well I know it. I was brought up on it. There are men today,

men of position too, in our big cities who have openly said they want to see England crushed in this war.

So I've heard. It would be a sorry day for the rest of civilization, and particularly America, if we were.

You can't convince them of that. They carry on the prejudices and hatred of generations. I have accused some

of them of being actively proGerman; of tinkering with German money to foster revolution in Ireland.

I do. Thank God there are not many of them. I have accused them of taking German money and then urging

the poor unfortunate poets and dreamers to do the revolting while they are safely three thousand miles away. I

don't know of many who are willing to cross the water and do it themselves. Talking and writing seditious

articles is safe. Take my own father. He says frankly that he doesn't want Germany to win because he hates

Germans. Most Irishmen do. Besides they've done my father some very dirty tricks. But all the same he wants

to see England lose. All the doubtful ones I know, who don't dare come out in the open, speak highly of the

French and are silent when English is mentioned. I blame a great deal of that on your Government. You take

no pains to let the rest of the world know what England is doing. You and I know that without the British

fleet America wouldn't rest as easy as she does today, and without the little British army the Huns would

have been in Paris and Calais months ago. We know that, and so do many others. But the great mass of

people, particularly the Irish, cry all the time, "What is England doing?" Your government should see to it

I know it isn't. And the more's the pity. Another thing where you went all wrong. Why not have let Asquith

clear up the Irish muddle? Why truckle to a handful of disloyal North of Ireland traitors? If the Government

had court martialed the ringleaders, tried the rest for treason and put the Irish Government in Dublin, why,

man, threequarters of the male population of the South of Ireland would be in the trenches now.

Don't let us get into that. I was one of the officers who mutinied. I would rather resign my commission than

(Hotly) Loyal? Loyal! When they refused to carry out their Government's orders? When they deny justice to

(Going on vehemently) It's just that kind of pigheaded ignorance that has kept the two countries from

understanding each other. Why shouldn't Ireland govern herself. South Africa does. Australia does. And

when you're in trouble they leap to your flag. Yet there is a country a few miles from you that sends the best

of her people to your professions and they invariably get to the top of them. Irishmen have commanded your

armies and Ireland has given you admirals for your fleet and at least one of us has been your Lord Chief

Justice. Yet, by God, they can't be trusted to govern themselves. I tell you the English treatment of Ireland

(Opens the door, then turns and looks straight at Gilruth) My head bothers me. Will you kindly

(All contrition) I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to blaze out. Do forgive me like a good fellow. It's an old sore of

(The sound of a boy's voice calling newspapers is heard faintly in the distance; then the hoarse tones of a man

shouting indistinctly; then a chorus of men and boys comes nearer and nearer calling of some calamity.

Dartrey hurries out through the outer door. Gilruth stands ashamed. He does not want to leave his friend in

bad blood. He would like to put things right before going. He waits for Dartrey to come back.

In a few minutes Dartrey walks through the outer doorway and into the room. He is very white, very agitated

and his face is set and determined. He is reading a special edition of an evening paper with great "scare" head

The sound of the voices crying the news in the street grows fainter and fainter.

Dartrey stops in front of Gilruth and tries to speak; nothing coherent comes from his lips. He thrusts the paper

Gilruth reads it once slowly, then rapidly. He stands immovable staring at the newssheet. It slips from his

(Almost frenzied) Now will your country come in? Now will they fight for civilization? A hundred of her

men, women and children done to death. Is that war? Or is it murder? Already men are reading in New York

and Washington of the sinking of that ship and the murder of their people. What are they going to do? What

(Creeps unsteadily to the door; standing himself with a hand on the lock; his back is to the room. He speaks

(The curtain falls and rises again in a few moments. Several days have elapsed. Dartrey, in full uniform, is

busily packing his regimental kit. The bandage has been removed from his head. The telephone bell rings.

(In a few moments the doorbell rings. Dartrey opens the outer door and brings Gilruth into the room. He is

in deep mourning; is very white and broken. He seems grievously ill. Dartrey looks at him commiseratingly.

A few miles outside. I went there that night and stayed there untiluntil shethey found her.

I wandered round there for days. Wasn't so bad while it was light. People to talk to. All of us on the same

errand. Searching. Searching. Hopingsome of them. I didn't. I knew from the first. I KNEW. It was

horrible at night alone. I had to try and sleep sometimes. They'd wake me when the bodies were brought in.

Hers came toward dawn one morning. Three little babies, all twined in each others arms, lying next to her.

Fancy! She'd been out in the water for days and nights. All alone. Tossed about. Days and nights. She! who'd

never hurt a soul. Couldn't. She was always laughing and happy. Drifting about. All alone. Quite peaceful she

(Covers his eyes and groans. In a little while he looks up at Dartrey and touches his left eye)

(He clenches and unclenches his hands nervously and furiously. He gets up slowly, walks over to the

fireplace, shivers, then braces himself trying to shake off the horror of his thoughts. Then he begins to speak

Never saw anything to equal the kindness of those poor peasants. They gave the clothes from their bodies; the

blankets from their beds. And took nothing. Not a thing. "We're all in this," they said. "We're doing our best.

It's little enough." That's what they sayd. Pretty find the Irish of Queenstown. Eh?

A monument. That's what the Irish peasants of Queenstown should have. A monument. Never slept, some of

them. Wrapped the soaking woman in their shawlsand the little children. Took off their wet things and

gave them dry, warm ones. Fed them with broths they cooked themselves. Spent their poor savings on brandy

for them. Stripped the clothes off their own backs for them to travel in when they were well enough to go.

And wouldn't take a thing. Great people the Irish of Queenstown. Nothing much the matter with them. A

Laid out the bodies too; just as reverently as if they were their own people. They laid her out. And prayed

over her. And watched with me over her until she was put into the. Such a tiny shell it was, too. She had

no father or mother or brother or sisters. I was all she had. That's why I buried her here. Kensal Green. She'll

(He walks about distractedly. Suddenly he stops and with his hands extended upwards as if in prayer, he

Out of my depths I cry to Thee. I call on you to curse them. Curse the Prussian brutes made in Your likeness,

but with hearts as the lowest of beasts. Curse them. May their hopes wither. May everything they set their

hearts on rot. Send them pestilence, disease and every foul torture they have visited on Your people. Send the

Angel of Death to rid the earth of them. May their souls burn in hell for all eternity.

and if there is a god they will. But is there a good God that such things can be and yet no sign from Him?

Listen. I didn't believe in war. I reasoned against it. I shouted for Peace. And thousands of cravens like me. I

thought God was using this universal slaughter for a purpose. When His end was accomplished He would cry

to the warring peoples "Stop!" It was His will, I thought, that out of much evil might come permanent good.

That was my faith. It has gone. How can there be a good God to look down on His people tortured and

maimed and butchered? The women whose lives were devoted to Him, defiled. His temples looted, filled

with the filth of the soldiery, and then destroyed. And yet no sign. Oh, no. My faith is gone. Now I want to

murder and torture and massacre the foul brutes.... I'm going out, Dartrey. In any way. Just a private. I'll dig,

carry my load, eat their rations. Vermin: mud: ache in the cold and scorch in the heat. I will welcome it.

I'm going through Ireland first. Every town and village. It's our work now. It's Irishmen's work. All the

Catholics will be in now. No more "conscientiousobjecting." They can't. It's a war on women and little

children. All right. No IrishCatholic will rest easy; eat, sleep and go his days round after this. The call has

gone out. America too. She'll come in. You watch. She can't stay out. She's founded on Liberty. She'll fight

for it. You see. It's clean against unclean. Red blood against black filth. Carrion. Beasts. Swine.

(Drops into a chair mumbling incoherently. Takes a long breath; looks at Dartrey)

I'm not going back. I'm bringing everything over here. England, France, Russia, Belgium, Serbiathey can

(Fiercely) I want to tear themtear them as they've torn me. As they mangled her.

(Grits his teeth and claws with his fingers) Tear themthat's what I want to do. May I live to do it. May the

war never end until every dirty Prussian is rotting in his grave. Then a quick end for me, too. I've nothing

(Gets up again wearily and dejectedly; all the blazing passion burnt out momentarily)

This was to have been my weddingday; our weddingday. Now she's lying there, done to death by Huns. A

few days ago all youth and freshness and courage and love. Lying disfigured in her little coffin. I know what

you meant now by wanting to go back for a third time. I couldn't understand it the other day. It seemed that

every one should hate war. But you've seen them. You know them. And you want to destroy them. That's it.

Destroy.... The call is all over the world by now. Civilization will be in arms.... To hell with your Pacifists.

It's another name for cowards. They'd lose those nearest them: the honor of their women; the liberty of their

peopleand never strike a blow. To hell with them. It's where they should be. I was one of them. No more.

Wherever I meet them I'll spit in their faces. They disgrace the women they were born of; the country they

(His fingers ceaselessly locking and unlocking) I'll be all right. It's a relief to talk to you. (Sees the

I envy you now. I wish I were going. But I will soon. Ireland first. I must have my say there. What will the

"Sinn Feiners" say to the LUSITANIA murder? I want to meet some of them. What are our wrongs of

generations to this horror? All humanity is at stake here. I'll talk to them. I must. They'll have to do something

now or go down branded through the generations as ProGerman. Can a man have a worse epitaph? No

decent Irishman will bear that; every loyal Irishman must loathe them.... I'll talk to themsoul to soul....

Sorry, Dartrey. You have your own sorrow.... Good of you to put up with me. Now I'll go....

I've mentioned you here.... If I don't come throughsee to a few things for me. Will you? They're not much.

(Simply) Thank you. You've always been decent to me.... Dartrey. Today! You would have been my best

I will. I'll be all right. In a little while I'll be along out there. I hope I server under you. (Grips his hand)

(Passes out, opens and closes the outer door behind him and disappears in the street. Dartrey resumes his

For the third time in history it has fallen to the lot of France to stem the Barbarian tide. Once before upon the

Marne, Aetius with a Gallic Army stopped the Hun under Attila. Three hundred years later Charles Martel at

Tours saved Europe from becoming Saracen, just as in September, 1914, more than eleven centuries later,

General Joffre with the citizen soldiery of France upon that same Marne saved Europe from the heel of the

Prussianized Teuton, the reign of brute force and the religion of the Moloch State. These were among the

world's "check battles." Yet the flood of barbarism was only checked at the Marne, not broken; again the

flood arose and pressed on to be stopped once more at Verdunthe Gateway of Francein the greatest of

America was a spectator, but not an indifferent one. Once again mere momentary material interest counseled

abstention; precedent was invoked to justify isolation and indifference. The timid, the ignorant, the disloyal,

those to whom physical life was more precious than the dictates of conscience, counseled "peace and

prosperity." Many began to wonder if America had a soul and was indeed worth saving as the policy of

"Terrorism" on land followed that of "Terrorism" on the high seas seemed to leave us indifferent. Yet the

same spirit, as of yore, dominated the nation. The people of America at last understood that it was not any

particular rule of law, but the existence of law itself, divine and human, that was involved in the Fate of

The task confronting this nation is a stupendous one. Let there be no illusion. The war may well be long and

painful, beyond expression, but the past few weeks have taught us that the nation will bear the strain with that

same courage and enduring perseverance as in the past, following the example of the Fathers and inspired by

the traditions of the American Revolution, this people will stand like a stone wall with our splendid Ally of

old and of todayFranceand from Great Britain from whence came our institutions, to end forever the

Hohenzollern system of blood and iron so that a better future may come to Europe and America, one in which

peace may be builded upon a guaranty of justice and lawa world order in which fundamental moral

postulates and human rights may never again be set at defiance at the behest of mere material force, however

To France has fallen the honor of checking, to Britain the burden of containing by sea and land, to America

now comes the duty of finally overthrowing that common enemy of democratic institutions and ordered

liberty, the foe whose morality knows no truth, whose philosophy admits no check upon the "will to power."

In France the traveler passing along the roads to the northeast leading to Lorraine may see at every

crossroad a great index finger pointing to the single word VERDUN. To many thousands, nay, hundreds of

thousands of men passing over these roads in the five fateful months of critical battle, these six letters spelled

mutilation and death, yet the word was an inspiration to heroism in every home of France, and from every

corner of the land men followed that great index finger pointing, as it did indeed, to the modern Calvary.

Today at every crossroad must we here in America set up a great index hand with the words "TO

FRANCE." To France, land of suffering humanity, in whose devastated fields again must be saved the same

principles for which Americans fought at Bunker Hill, at Saratoga, at Yorktown, at Gettysburg and in the

Wilderness; to France, where the fate of the world is still pending; to France, which has again checked the

Huns of the modern world as it did those of the ancient; to France, the manhood of this nation must now be

directed, to save the heritage of the American Revolution and the Civil War, to preserve the dearest conquests

of the Christian civilization; to France will our men go by the thousands, hundreds of thousands, if need be

by the million, to prove that the soul of America is more completely intent upon battling for the right than

ever before, intent that slavery in another but far subtler and more dangerous form may not prevail upon the

It was Washington who gave as the watchword of the day in those soultrying hours that preceded the birth

of our nation the immortal and prophetic phrase, "America and FranceUnited Forever."

Il n'est pas besoin de rappeler le souvenir de ceux qui nous furent chers et ne sont plus, a notre peuple qui

passe, non sans raison, pour celebrer avec ferveur le culte des morts. N'estce pas en France, au

dixneuvieme siecle, qu'est nee cette philosophie qui met au rang des premiers devoirs de l'homme la

reconnaissance envers les generations qui nous ont precedes dans la tombe, en nous laissant le fruit de leurs

pensees et de leurs travaux? Certes la religion des ancetres est de tous les temps et de tous les climats; elle est

meme chez certains peuples orientaux la religion unique; mais en quel pas les liens entre les morts et les

vivants sontils plus forts qu'en France, les deuils plus solennels a la fois et plus intimes? Chez nous,

d'ordinaire, les defunts aimes et veneres ne quittent pas tout entiers le foyer ou ils vecu; ils y respirent dans le

Je me rappelle trop confusement pour en faire usage ici une scene tres belle d'une vieille chanson de geste,

GIRART DE ROUSILLON, je crois, ou l'on voit une fille de roi contempler, la nuit, apres une bataille, la

plaine ou gisent les guerriers innombrables tomber pour sa querelle. "Elle eut voulu, dit le poete, les

embrasser tous." Et, du fond de mes tres lointains souvenirs, cette royale fille m'apparait comme une image

de notre France pleurant aujourd'hui la fleur de sa race abondamment moissonnee.

Aussi n'estce pas pour exhorter mes concitoyens a commemorer en ce jour nos morts selon un usage

immemorial, que j'ecris ces lignes, mais pour honorer avec notre peuple tout entier ceux qui lui ont sacrifie

leur vie at pour mediter la lecon qu'ils nous donnent du fond de leur demeures profondes.

Et tout d'abord, a la memoire des notres, associons pieusement la memoire des braves qui ont verse leur sang

sous tous les etendards de l'Alliance, depuis les canaux de l'Yser jusqu'aux rives de la Vistule, depuis les

Puis, offrons les fleurs les plus nobles palmes aux innocentes victimes d'une atroce cruaute, aux femmes, aux

enfants martyrs, a cette jeune infirmiere anglaise, coupable seulement de generosite et dont l'assassinat a

Et nos morts, nos morts bien aimes! Que la patrie reconnaissante ouvre assez grand son coeur pour les

contenir tous, les plus humbles comme les plus illustres, les heros tombes avec gloire a qui l'on prepare des

monuments de marbre et de bronze et qui vivront dans l'histoire, et les simples qui rendirent leur dernier

Que tous ceux dont le sang coula pour la patrie soient benis! Ils n'ont pas fait en vain le sacrifice de leur vie.

Glorieusement frappes en Artois, en Champagne, en Argonne, ils ont arrete l'envahisseur qui n'a pu faire un

pas de plus en avant sur la terre sacree qui les recouvre. Quelquesuns les pleurent, tous les admirent, plus

d'un les envie. Ecoutons les. Tendons l'oreille: ils parlent. Penchonsnous sur cette terre bouleversee par la

mitraille ou beaucoup d'entre eux dorment dans leurs vetements ensanglantes. Agenouillonsnous dans le

cimetiere, au bords des tombes fleuries de ceux qui sont revenus dans le doux pays, et la, entendons le souffle

imperceptible et puissant qu'ils melent, la nuit, au murmure du vent et au bruissement des feuilles qui

FRERES, vivez, combattez, achevez notre ouvrage. Apportez la victoire et la paix a nos ombres consolees.

Chassez l'etranger qui a deja recule devant nous, et ramenez vos charrues dans les champs qui nous avons

FRANCAIS, aimezvous les uns les autres d'un amour fraternal et, pour prevaloir contre l'ennemi, mettez en

commun vos biens et vos pensees. Que parmi vous les plus grands et les plus forts soient les serviteurs des

faibles. Ne marchandez pas plus vos richesses que votre sang a la patrie. Soyez tous egaux par la bonne

VOUS nous devez d'assurer, a notre exemple, par le sacrifice de vousmemes, le triomphe de la plus sainte

des causes. Freres, pour payer votre dette envers nous, il vous faut vaincre, et il vous faut faire plus encore: il

Nos morts nous ordonnent de vivre et de combattre en citoyens d'un peuple libre, de marcher resolument dans

l'ouragan de fer vers la paix qui se levera comme une belle aurore sur l'Europe affranchie des menaces de ses

tyrans, et verra renaetre, faibles et timides encore, la JUSTICE et L'HUMANITE etouffees par le crime de

Voila ce qu'inspirent nos morts a un Francais que le detachement des vanites et le progres de l'age

There is no need to recall to the minds of our people those who were dear to us and have passed hence, for

they are celebratingand with good causethe anniversaries of their deaths. Was it not in France, in the

19th century, that there was born that philosophy which placed in the rank of the foremost duties of mankind

gratitude towards those generations who have preceded us to the grave, and have left us the fruits of their

thoughts and of their labors? Indeed, ancestral worship prevails in all climes and at all periods; in fact, with

certain Oriental nations it is the only religion. But in what country is the link between the dead and the living

so strong as it is in Francethe rites at the same time so solemn and so intimate? With us, as a rule, our

dead, beloved and venerated, never entirely depart from the homes in which they have dwelt, but take up their

abode in the hearts of the living who imitate them, consult them, pay heed to them.

I recollect, too vaguely to make full use of it here, a beautiful scene from the heroic song, "Girart de

Roussillon," I think it is, where one is shown a king's daughter, one night after a battle gazing across the

battlefield where lay the innumerable warriors who had fallen in the fight. "She felt a desire," said the poet,

"to embrace them all." And from the depths of my faraway memories this apparition of the daughter of a

royal house arises before me as an image of our France today, weeping for the flower of our race so

My object in writing these lines is not to exhort my fellowcitizens to commemorate today our noble dead,

according to immemorial custom, but to honor as a united people those who have sacrificed their lives for

their country and to meditate upon the lesson that comes to us from their scattered burial places.

First, with the memory of our own, let us with all piety associate the memory of those brave ones who have

shed their blood under all the Allies' standards, from the streams of the Yser to the banks of the Vistule; from

Then, let us offer our choicest flowers of memory to the innocent victims of an atrocious cruelty, to the

women, the child martyrs, to that young English nurse, guilty only of generosity, whose assassination aroused

And our dead, our beloved dead! May a grateful country open wide enough its great heart to contain them all,

the humblest as well as the most illustrious, the heroes fallen with glory to whom have been erected

monuments of bronze and marble, who will live in history, and those simple ones who drew their last breath

Blessed be all those whose blood has been shed for their country! Not in vain have they sacrificed their lives.

At the glorious encounter at Artois, Champagne, and Argonne they repulsed the invader who could not

advance one step farther on the ground made sacred by their fallen bodies. Some weep for them, all admire

them, more than one envies them. Let us listen to them. They speak. Let us make every effort to hear them.

Let us prostrate ourselves on this ground, torn up by shot and shell, where many of them sleep in their

blooddyed garments. Let us kneel in the cemetery at the foot of the flowerstrewn graves of those who were

brought back to their country, and there listen to the whispers, scarcely audible but powerful, which mingle

through the night with the murmur of the breeze and the rustle of the falling leaves. Let us make every effort

BROTHERS, live, fight, accomplish our work. Win victory and peace for the sake of your dead. Drive out

the intruder who has already retreated before us, and bring back your plows into the fields now saturated with

FRENCHMEN, love one another with brotherly love, and, in order that you may prevail against the enemy,

put into common use your possessions and your ideas. Let the greatest and strongest among you serve the

weak. Be as willing to give your money as your blood for your country. Be willing that perfect equality shall

exist amongst you. You owe this to your dead. Because of our example, you owe us the assurance that by

your selfsacrifice ours will be the triumph in this holiest of all causes. Brothers, in order to pay your debt to

Our dead demand that we shall live and fight as citizens of a free country; that we shall march resolutely

through the hurricane of steel toward Peace, which shall arise like a beautiful aurora over Europe freed from

the menace of her tyrants, and shall see reborn, though weak and timid, Justice and Humanity, for the time

Thus are the French, detached from the vanities and progress of the age, drawn nearer to our dead and

The long tide lifts each might boat Asleep and nodding on the dock, Of the little cradles they take no note

But time brings round the Day of GoodByes For it's women's fate to weep and endure, While curious men

Yet the mighty boats on that morning tide When they flee away from the dwindling lands Will feel the clutch

Et alors, le poilu, levant la tete derriere son parapet, se mit, dans la nuit froide de decembre, a fixer une etoile

qui brillait au ciel d'un feu etrange. Son cerveau commenca a remeur de lointaines pensees; son coeur se fit

plus leger, comme s'il voulait monter vers l'astre; ses levres fremirent doucement pour laisser passer une

"O Etoile, murmuratil, je n'ai pas besoin de ta lueur, car je connais ma route! Elle a pu me paraitre sombre

au debut, quand mes yeux n'etaient point accoutumes a ses rudes contours; mais, depuis un an, elle est pour

moi eblouissante de clarte. On a beau me l'allonger chaque jour, on n'arrivera pas a me l'obscurcir. On a beau

y multiplier les ronces et les pierres, apres lesquelles je laisse de ma chair et de mon sang, on n'arrivera pas a

m'y arreter. Je sais que j'irai jusqu'au bout. Je vois devant moi la victoire.... Mais, labas, derriere moi, il y a

une foule qui parfois s'inquiete dans les tenebres. Au moment ou la vieille anne va tourner sur ses gonds

vermoulus, elle repasse en son esprit agite les evenements qui la marquerent. Elle songe aux peuplades

barbares d'Orient que le Germain a entraenees derriere son char: Turcs et Bulgares, Kurdes et Malissores, et

elle oublie les grandes nations qui s'enrolerent sous la banniere de la civilisation. Elle songe aux territoires

que foule la lorde botte tudesque, et elle oublie les empires que nous detenons en gages: ici, l'ouest et l'est

Africains, grands comme quatre fois toute l'Allemagne, avec leurs 5000 kilometres de voies ferrees et leurs

mines de diamants; la, ces eles d'Oceanie et cette forteresse d'Asie: KiaoTcheou, que le kaiser avait

proclame la perle de ses colonies. Elle s'alarme de toutes les pailles que, dans sa course desordonnee, ramasse

l'Allemagne et ne voit pas les poutres enormes qui soutiennent la France.... Nous autres, qui sommes la

"Le passe est la qui enseigne l'avenir. Chaque fois qu'une armee quelconque, prise de la folie de l'espace, a

voulu s'enfoncer dans les terres lointaines et abandonner le berceau ou elle puisait sa force et ses vivres, elle

est morte de langueur et d'epuisement, elle s'est effritee comme la pierre qu'on arrache de l'assemblage solide

des maisons, elle n'est pas plus revenue que ne reviennent les grains de poussiere qu'emporte le vent.... Voici

plus d'un siecle que des legions ont tente la conquete de l'Egypte et ces legions etaient les plus magnifiques

du monde. Elles avaient des chefs qui s'appelaient Desaix, Kleber et Bonaparte; mais elles n'avaient pas la

maitrise de la mer et rien ne revint des sables brulants du desert. Voici un siecle aussi qu'une armee la plus

formidable d'Europe, conduite par le plus fameux conquerant qu'ait connu l'univers, tenta de submerger

l'immense empire russe; mais l'empire etait trop grand pour la grande armee et rien ne revint des solitudes

glacees de la steppe.... Puisse, de meme, aller loin, toujours plus loin, l'armee allemande deja decimee,

haletante, epuisee! Puissetelle pousser jusqu'au Tigre, jusqu'a l'Euphrate, jusqu'a l'Inde!...

"Certes ces nuits d'hiver sont longues. Et tous tes scintillements, Etoile, ne valent pas le sourire de la femme

aimee au logis. Cependant, tu as quelque chose de la femme, puisque tant d'hommes te suivent aveuglement:

tu en as la grace et l'eclat; et toi, au moins, nul couturier boche ne t'habilla jamais!... Tu possedes meme des

vertus que ne possede pas toujours la femme: tu as la patience et le calme. Les nuages ont beau s'interposer

entre tes adorateurs et toi, l'aurore a beau chaque matin eteindre tes feux, tu t'inclines devant la loi supreme de

la nature et nulle revolte ne vint jamais de toi.... Tache d'inspirer ta soumission a tes soeurs terrestres qui,

"O Etoile, apprends a celles qui ne sont pas dans les tranchees, la Discipline!...

"Que tous, que toutes sachent qu'il y a quelque chose audessus du Nombre, audessus de la Force,

audessus meme du Courage: et c'est la Perseverance.... Il y eut, une fois, un match de lutte qui restera a

jamais celebre dans l'histoire du sport: celui de Sam Mac Vea contre Joe Jeannette. Le premier, trapu, massif,

tout en muscles: un colosse noir du plus beau noir. Le second, plus leger, plus harmonieux, tout en nerfs: un

metis jaune du plus beau cuivre. Le combat fut epique: il se poursuivit pendant quarantedeux rounds et dura

trois heures. Au troisieme round, puis au septieme, Sam Mac Vea jetait Joe Jeannette a terre et sa victoire ne

paraissait plus faire de doute. Cependant, Joe Jeannette peu a peu revint a la vie, se cramponna, se defendit,

vecut sur ses nerfs, puis attaqua a son tour. Au quarantedeuxieme round, epaule contre epaule, haletants,

ruisselants de sang, ils se portaient les derniers coups; mais le ressort de Sam Mac Vea etait casse et, devant

l'assurance de son adversaire, il se sentit vaincu... Alors on vit le grand geant noir lever les bras et s'ecrouler

en disant: I GUESS I CAN NOT.... (Je crois que je ne peux pas...) Ainsi, bientot peutetre, verronsnous

Then "Le Poilu" standing, in the cold December night, behind the breastworks, fixed his gaze upon a star that

was shining with a strange brilliance in the sky above. His mind was stirred with thoughts of far away things.

His heart grew lighter, as though it yearned to reach the star; his lips trembled, and softly he breathed a

"O Star," he murmured, "I need not thy glimmering light, for I know my way. The road may have appeared

dark at first when my eyes were unaccustomed to its sharp turns, but for a year it has been divinely illumined

for me. Even if it grew longer each day, it will never seem dark again. Although torn by thorns and cut by

stones, nothing can make me turn back. I know that I shall go on, steadfast to the end. I behold before me

Victory.... But there,behind me, is a multitude sorely troubled in the darkness.

"Now, as the old year revolves on its rusty hinges, those who wait at home live over in their troubled hearts

the events which marked its passing. They think of the barbarous hordes of the Orient which the German has

caught in his train; Turks and Bulgarians, Kurds and Malissores, and they overlook the great nations enrolled

under the banner of civilization. They brood over lands ground under the iron heel of the Teuton and

overlook the Empires that we hold; here, West and East Africa, four times as large as all Germany, with their

thousands of miles of railroads and their diamond mines; there, the Islands of Oceania and the fortress of

Asia: KiaoTcheou, which the Kaiser has proclaimed the pearl of his colonies. They are alarmed at the chaff

that Germany gathers in her lawless course and they do not see the mighty girders that stay France. But we

"By the light of the past we behold the future. Whenever an army, seized with the frenzy of conquest, has

forced its way into a far land, abandoning the cradle whence it drew its life and strength, it has wasted away,

it has perished from utter exhaustion. Like stones loosened from a solid wall, it has disintegrated. Like the

"More than a century ago legions attempted the conquest of Egypt. They were the most magnificent in the

world. Their chiefs bore the names of Desaix, Kleber and Bonaparte. But they had not the mastery of the

seas, and returned not from the burning sands of the desert.... Think also of the time when the most

formidable army of Europe, led by the greatest conqueror the world has ever known, tried to overwhelm the

vast Russian Empire. But the empire was mightier than the Great Army, and it returned not from the glacial

solitude of the steppes.... So let it go far, ever farther on, that German army already decimated, panting,

exhausted; let it reach the Tigris, the Euphrates, even far off India! It will not return.

"Truly the winter nights are long, and all the rays, O Star, are not worth the smile of the loved woman at the

hearth. And yet, thou hast something of woman, since so many men follow thee blindly: thou hast her grace

and splendor. [No German couturier will ever clothe you!] Thou hast even virtues that women do not possess,

for thou art patient and calm. Clouds come between thy worshipers and thee, dawn each morning

extinguishes thy light, yet dost thou bow before the supreme law of nature without a murmur. I pray thee

inspire with submission thy sisters of the earth; teach them calmly and patiently to await the return of their

"Would that all men, that all women might know that there is something above Numbers, above Force, above

even Courage, and that is PERSEVERANCE! A few years ago there was a boxing match between Sam Mac

Vea and Joe Jeannette that will remain famous in the history of the sport. Mac Vea was a heavy weight,

strong, all muscle: a veritable black giant. Joe Jeannette, light, well proportioned, all nerve: a mongrel of the

best sort. The match was epic. It went on for fortytwo rounds and lasted three hours. At the third round, and

again in the seventh, Sam Mac Vea threw Joe Jeannette, and his victory seemed assured. But little by little

Joe Jeannette revived, pulled himself together, defended himself, and through sheer nerve, began to attack. At

the fortysecond round, shoulder to shoulder, panting, dripping wet and covered with blood they struck the

last blow. The resources of Sam Mac Vea were exhausted, and through the very assurance of his adversary he

felt himself beaten.... Suddenly the great giant lifted his arms and gave way, saying: 'I guess I cannot.'...

"Thus shall we soon see Germany fall to the earth, saying brokenly, 'I cannot.'...

It may be said of this war, as the master mind of all the ages said of adversity, that "its uses are sweet," even

though they be as a precious jewel shining in the head of an ugly and venomous toad. While the worldwar

has brutalized men, it has as a moral paradox added immeasurably to the sum of human nobility. Its epic

grandeur is only beginning to reveal itself, and in it the human soul has reached the high water marker of

The war has enriched our language with many new expressions, but none more beautiful than that of

"Somewhere in France." To all noble minds, while it sounds the abysmal depths of tragic suffering, it rises to

The world has paid its tribute to the immortal valor of France, and no words could pay the debt of

appreciation which civilization owes to this heroic nation; but has there been due recognition of the equal

valor and the like spirit of selfsacrifice which has characterized Great Britain in this titanic struggle?

When the frontier of Belgium was crossed, England staked the existence of its great empire upon the issue of

the uncertain struggle. It had, as figures go in this war, only a small army. If it had been niggardly in its effort

to defend Belgium, and save France in her hour of supreme peril, England might have said, without violating

any express obligation arising under the ENTENTE CORDIALE, that in giving its incomparable fleet it had

rendered all the service that its political interests, according to former standards of expediency, justified; and

it could have been plausibly suggested that the ordinary considerations of prudence and the instinct of

selfpreservation required it, in the face of the deadly assault by the greatest military power in the world, to

reserve its little army for the defense of its own soil. England never hesitated, when the Belgian frontier was

crossed, but moved with such extraordinary speed that within four days after its declaration of war its

standing army was crossing the channel, and within a fortnight it had landed upon French soil the two army

What follows will be remembered with admiration and gratitude by the English speaking races as long as

they endure, for nothing in the history of that race is finer than the way in which the so called "contemptible

little British Army," as the Kaiser somewhat prematurely called itoutnumbered four to one, and with an

even greater disproportion in artillerywithstood the powerful legions of Von Kluck at Mons. Enveloped on

both flanks they stood as a stone wall for three days against an assault of one of the mightiest armies in

recorded history, and only retreated when ordered to do so by the high command of the Allied forces in order

to conform to its strategic plans. The English were not defeated at Mons. It was a victory, both in a technical

The retreat from Mons to the Marne was one of terrible hardship and imminent danger. For nearly fourteen

days, in obedience to orders, the British soldiers,fighting terrific rear guard actions, which, in retarding the

invaders, made possible the ultimate victory,slowly retreated, never losing their morale, although suffering

untold physical hardships and the greater agony of temporary defeats, which they could not at that time

understand, and yet it is to their undying credit, in common with their brave comrades of the French Army,

that when the moment came to cease the retreat and to turn upon a foe, which flushed with unprecedented

victory still greatly outnumbered the retreating armies, the British soldier struck back with almost

undiminished power. The "miracle of the Marne" is due to Tommy Atkins as well as to the French Poilu.

Even more wonderful was the defense of Ypres. There was a time in the first battle of Ypres when the British

high command, denuded of shells, were allotting among their commands, then engaged in a lifeanddeath

struggle, ammunition which had not yet left England. So terribly was the "first seven divisions" of glorious

memory decimated in this first battle of Ypres, that at a critical time, the bakers, cobblers and grooms were

put into the trenches to fill the gaps made by the slain soldiers in that great charnel house. The "thin red line"

held backnot for days, but for weeks,an immensely superior force, and the soldiers of England

unflinchingly bared their breasts to the most destructive artilleryfire that the world at that time had ever

known. They held their ground and saved the day, and the glory of the first and second battles of Ypres,

which saved Calais, and possibly the war itself, will ever be that of the British Army.

Over four million Britons have volunteered in the war, and although very few of them had ever had an

previous military experience, yet their stamina and unconquerable courage were such that the youth of the

great Empire, on more than one occasion, when called upon, as on the Somme, to attack as well as defend,

swept the famed Prussian guard out of seemingly impregnable positions, as for example at Contalmaison.

Will the world ever forget the children of the Mother Empire who came so freely and nobly from far distant

I hear still the tramp of marching thousands in the first days of the war, as they passed through the streets of

Winchester en route to France via Southampton, singing with cheer and joy, "It is a long way to Tipperary."

Alas! It is indeed a "long, long way," and many a gallant English boy has fallen in that way of glory.

Today, from the Channel to the Vosges, there are hundreds of thousands of graves where British soldiers

keep the ghostly bivouac of the dead. They gave their young lives on the soil of France to save France, and

when the great result is finally accomplished, a grateful world will never forget that "fidelity even unto death"

What just man can fail to appreciate the work of the English sailor? It has been said by Lord Curzon, that

never has an English mariner in this war refused to accept the arduous and most dangerous service of

patrolling the great highways of the deep. No soldier can surpass in courage or fortitude the mine sweepers,

who have braved the elemental forces of nature, and the most cruel forces of the Terror, which lurks under

The spirit of Nelson still inspires them, for every mariner of England has done his duty in this greatest crisis

And how can words pay due tribute to the work and sacrifices of the women and children of England? They

have endured hardships with masculine strength, and have accepted irreparable sacrifices with infinite

When the three British cruisers were sunk early in the war by a single submarine, and many thousand British

sailors perished, the news was conveyed to a seaport town in England, from which many of them had been

recruited, by posting upon a screen the names of the pitifully few men who had survived that terrible disaster.

Thousands of women, the wives and daughters of those who had perished, waited in the open square in the

hope, in most cases in vain, to see the name of some one who was dear to them posted among the survivors;

and yet when the last names of the rescued were finally posted, and thousands of English women, there

assembled, realized that those who were nearest and dearest to them had perished beneath the waves, these

women of England, instead of lamentations or tears, in the spirit of loftiest and most sacred patriotism united

their voices and sang "Britannia Rules the Waves," and reaffirmed their belief that, notwithstanding all the

Who shall then question England's right to a conspicuous place in this worldwide tournament of Fame? In all

her past history, there has never been any page more glorious. Without her, as without France, civilization

The spirit of Shakespeare has animated his people, and that mighty spirit still says to them in his own flaming

"In God's name, cheerily on, courageous friends, To reap the harvest of perpetual peace By this one bloody

Great Britain and the United States were politically separated nearly a century and a half ago, because Britain

was not in those days governed by the will of the people as she has been for the last eighty years and more.

But the ideals of the two nations have been for many generations substantially the same. Both have loved

Liberty ever since the time when their common ancestors wrested it from feudal monarchs. A time has now

come when both nations are called to defend, and to extend in the world at large, the freedom they won

within their own countries. America has harkened to the call. Renouncing her former isolation, she has felt

that duty to mankind requires her to contend in arms for the freedom she has illustrated by her example. The

soldiers of Britain and France welcome the stalwart sons of America as their comrades in this great struggle

for Democracy and Humanity. With their help, they look forward confidently to a decisive victory, a victory

"Here was a great British statesman equal to his place and fame. He will long be remembered in America. He

has done a high service to Great Britain and all democracies." New York Times (Editorial)

Not very long ago I happened to be dining in The Savoy Restaurant in London one evening at a table close to

the screen, when suddenly there was a stir. People looked away from their dinners. The band abruptly

stopped the air it was playing, and after an instant's pause struck up another. Every one in the crowded

restaurant stood up. And then there came in slowly from the outer hall a procession of serious looking men in

uniform, who, walking in couples, made their way to a large table almost in the middle of the room. They

gained their places. The air ceased. The new comers sat down. And we all went on with our dinners and our

What did we talk about? Well, I will dare forswear that at all the tables the same subject was discussed. And

that subject wasAmerica. For the air we had heard was "The Star Spangled Banner," and the men we had

seen were General Pershing, commanding the first American contingent to France, and his Staff, who had

landed that day in England. It was a great moment for Britishers, and those of us who were there will

probably never forget it. For it meant the beginning of a New Era, and, let us hope, of a new sympathy and a

Since then we have learnt something of what America is doing. We know that ten millions of men have

registered as material for the American army, that a gigantic aircraft scheme and a huge shipbuilding program

are in process of realization; that enormous camps and cantonments have been established for the training of

officers and men, that American women have crossed the Atlantic, in spite of the great danger from

submarines, to act as nurses at the front, that the regular army has been increased to thrice its former size, that

the volunteer militia has been doubled through voluntary enlistment, and that an immense expenditure has

been voted for war purposes. We know all this and we are glad, and thankful that hands have been held out to

True sympathy and true understanding are very rare in this world. Even between individuals they are not easy

to bring about, and between nations they are practically unknown. Diversity of tongues builds up walls

between the peoples. But the Americans and the British ought to learn to draw near to each other, and surely

the end of this war, whenever it comes, will find them more inclined for true friendship, for frank

understanding, than they have ever been yet, less critical of national failings, less clearsighted for national

faults. The brotherhood of man, which the idealistic Russian sighs for, may only be a far away dream, but the

brotherhood of those who speak one language, have one great aim, and fight side by side for freedom against

force, law against lawlessness, justice against persecution, right against evil, is a reality, and must surely

endure long after the smoke of the world war has faded into the blue sky of peace, and the roar of the guns

The happy warriors lead us. Let us follow them and we shall attain a goodly heritage.

The blow fell without warning, and a typewritten notice informed the Poet that the Cabinet Committee on

Accommodation required the tiny, threadbare chambers in Stafford's Inn, where he had lived unobtrusively

"'There was no worth in the fashion; there was no wit in the plan,'" murmured the Poet. The rooms were too

small even for a DeputyDirectorGeneral, and he knew that not one of the silkstockinged, shortskirted,

starlingvoiced young women with bare arms and regimental badges, who acted as secretaries to

DeputyDirectorGenerals, would consent to walk up four flights of creaking, uncarpeted stairs to the dusty

For a while he scented a vendetta, butdeleterious poetry aparthe had injured no man, and the personnel

of the Cabinet Committee was as little known to him as his poetry to the Cabinet Committee. In general, too,

he was the object of a certain popularity and pitying regard; the Millionaire sent him presents of superfluous

game each year, the Iron King invited him at short notice to make a fourteenth at dinner and the Official

Receiver unloaded six bottles of sample port wine when the Poet succumbed to his annual bronchitis. Even

the notice of eviction was politely worded and regretful; it was also uncompromising in spirit, and the Poet

made his hurried way to four houseagents. No sooner had he started his requirements to be a

bedsittingroom (with use of bath) within the fourmile radius than all four agents offered him a Tudor

manor house in Westmoreland; further, they refused to offer him anything else, but on his own initiative he

"I saw in the paper that you'd been turned out," said the Millionaire that night, when the Poet trudged home,

footsore and fretful, to find his chambers occupied by the Iron King, the Private Secretary, the Lexicographer,

the Military Attache and their friends. "What are you going to do about it?" he continued with the

relentlessness of a man who likes a prompt decision, even if it be a wrong one. "You know nothing about

business, I'm sure; leases, premiums, insurance, all that sort of thing. You're in a hole; I don't see what more

So far the Poet, his mind wavering wearily between Glebe Place and Victoria Street, had said nothing; he

turned silently to the Iron King, wondering how, without being rude, to indicate his desire for bed.

"I saw rather a decent place that might suit you," drawled the Private Secretary, smoothing a wrinkle out of

his shapely silk socks. "It's next to my Chief's in Belgrave Square. Of course, I don't know what rent they

"He couldn't afford it," he said, speaking through and around and over the Poet. "Now I'm told that there are

some very comfortable and cheap boardinghouses near Kensington Palace Gardens...."

The Poet drew the cork of a fresh bottle of whisky and collected four unbroken tumblers, a pewter mug and

two breakfast cups without handles. As so often before, his destiny seemed to be slipping out of his control

into the hands of the practical, strongvoiced men who filled his sittingroom to overflowing and would not

let him go to bed. The Military Attache knew of a maisonnette in Albemarle Street; the Official Receiver had

been recently brought into professional contact with a fine Georgian property in Buckinghamshire, where

they could all meet for a weekend game of golf at Stoke Pogis. Somewhere in Chelseanot Glebe

Placethe Lexicographer had seen just the thing, if only he could be quite sure about the drains.... With loud

cheerfulness they accepted the Millionaire's postulate that the Poet knew nothing of business; unselfishly they

"Of course, there's the servant problem," an undistinguished voice remarked two hours later; and the Poet,

settling to an uneasy sleep in his chair, mentally ruled out the Chelsea studio.

"The ordinary surveyor's no use," broke in the Lexicographer, pursuing his own line of thought. "What you

"I know these good, honest, middleaged couples," cried the Iron King with the bitterness of an

oftdefrauded widower. "The woman always drinks, and them man always steals the cigars..."

"I have nothing but gas in my place," said the decorous voice of the Private Secretary, "and I have it on pretty

good authority that there'll be a great coal shortage this winter. I don't want that to go any further, though..."

"He must get an experienced womanfriend to help him with things like carpets and curtains," he ordained

with mellow benevolence. "When my wife comes back from Wales.... How soon do you have to turn out,

The Poet woke with a start and looked at the clock. The time was a quarter to two, and he still wanted to go to

"Jove! You haven't much time," said the Millionaire. "Now, look here; the one thing NOT to do is to be in a

hurry. Any place you take now will probably have to serve you for several years, and you'll find moving a lot

more expensive than you think. If you can get some kind of shakedown for a few days," he turned

"Do I understand that you're offering me a bed until you find me permanent quarters?" he enquired with slow

"Thank you," answered the Poet simply. "I say, d'you men mind if I turn you out now? It's rather late, and I

A week later the Poet walked up Park Lane, followed by an elderly man trundling two compressed cane

trunks on a barrow with a loose wheel. It was a radiant summer afternoon, and taxis stood idle in long ranks,

when they were not drawing in to the curb with winning gestures. The Poet, however, wished to make his

arrival dramatic, and it was dramatic enough to make the Millionaire's butler direct him to the tradesman's

entrance, while the Millionaire, remembering little but suspecting all, hurried away by a side door, leaving a

message that he was out of England for the duration of the war. The lot fell on the Millionaire's wife to invent

such excuses as would rid the house of the Poet's presence before dinner. The Millionaire's instincts were

entirely hospitable, but that night's party had been arranged for the entertainment and subsequent destruction

of four men with money to invest and, like the Poet, "no knowledge of business, investments, all that sort of

"No, we have not met before," explained the Poet coldly and uncompromisingly, abandoning the rather gentle

voice and caressing manners which caused women to invite him to dinner when they could think of no one

else. "Your husband and one or two of our common friends have kindly undertaken to find me new quarters,

There was silence for a few moments, and the Millionaire's wife looked apprehensively at the clock, while

"Your husband told me to leave it to him," answered the Poet, "and I've left it to him. There was a general

feeling that I didn't know what I wantedhouse or flat, north or south of the Park, all the rest of it; they

said there would be a scandal if I employed a young maid, I couldn't afford two, and an old one would pawn

my clothes to buy gin. I am quoting your husband now; I know nothing of business. Every one agreed, too,

that I must have a drain of some kind. Would you say it took long to find a bedsitting room with use of

"My husband's going abroad for the duration of the war," she said in loyal explanation, "but it's just possible

The Millionaire, returning on tiptoe from the loft over the garage, had sought asylum in the library, where

he was smoking a cigar and reading the evening paper. As his wife entered he looked up with welcoming

"Have another place laid for dinner," he ordered; "book two seats for a musichall and take him out to supper

afterwards. I can't afford to be disturbed tonight. Tomorrow I must get in touch with the Iron King.... I

Four weeks later the Poet drove in a sixcylinder car from Park Lane to Eaton Square on an indeterminate

visit to the Iron King. He was looking better for the month's good wine and food, in which the Millionaire's

house abounded; but now the Millionaire, who based his fortune on knowing the right people in every walk

of life, was arranging to have his house taken over by the Red Cross authorities. In a week's time the house

was to be found unsuitable and restored to him, but henceforth the Iron King was to have the honor of

"How you ever came to make such a promise!" wailed the Millionaire's wife for the twentieth time, as they

drove to Claridge's. "London's so full that you might have known it's impossible to get ANYthing."

"I feel that we have exhausted this subject," answered the Millionaire with the bruskness of a man whose

nerves have worn thin; with the menace, too, of one who, having divorced his first wife, would divorce the

The Iron King was not at home when the Poet arrived in Eaton Squire, but a pretty, young secretary, cultured

to the point of transforming all her final "g's" into "k's" received him with every mark of welcome. She

admired the Iron King romantically and was in the habit of writing his surname after her own Christian name

to see how the combination looked; and, when he had departed each morning to contest his latest assessment

for excess profits, she would wander through the house, planning little changes in the arrangement of the

furniture and generally deploring the sober, colorless taste of the first Iron Queen. So far her employer

returned none of her admiration. He addressed her loosely as "Misser" and forgot her name; he never

noticed what clothes she was wearing or the pretty dimples that she made by holding down the inside flesh of

her cheeks between her eyeteeth; further, he criticized her spelling spitefully and, on the occasion of the

Millionaire's second marriage, had dictated a savage half sheet beginning, "A young man may marry once, as

he may get drunk once, without the world thinking much the worse of him; habitual intemperance is, on first

The pretty young secretary knew from fiction and the drama that the Iron King would never appreciate her

until he stood in danger of losing her. She welcomed the Poet as a foil and misquoted his poetry twice before

tea was over; then she invited him to accompany her to a picture palace, but the Poet, once inside the citadel,

Scarcely entrenched at Claridge's, the Millionaire telephoned derisively to the city, so that the Iron King

returned home half an hour before his usual time, prepared to deal with the Poet as he dealt with querulous or

inquisitive shareholders at General Meetings. The Poet, however, was long and painfully accustomed to

combat with enraged editors and lost no time in assuming the offensive, demanding indignantly in a high

headvoice, before the Iron King had crossed his own threshold, why no quarters had been found for him and

how much longer any one imagined that he would put up with the indignity of being bandied from one

The flushed cheeks and hysterical manner put the Iron King temporarily out of countenance.

"I'm not a business man," continued the Poet hotly. "You all of you told me that, and I'm disposed to say:

"You mustn't take it like that, old chap," he said soothingly. "Iweall of us are doing our best. Now we

won't bother about dressing; let's go straight in and thrash the thing out over a bottle of wine."

Instructing his butler very audibly to open a bottle of the 1906 Lanson, he slipped his arm through the Poet's

and led him, sullenly murmuring, into the diningroom. With the second bottle of champagne, his guest

ceased to be aggrieved and became quarrelsome; when the port wine appeared, he had the Iron King cowed

"If you find fault with everything, why do you come here, why stay here?" complained the Iron King with a

"Why don't you find me some other place to go to, as you promised?" the Poet retorted, as he made his way

to the morningroom and sat down to order a month's supply of underclothes from his hosier.

The Iron King always boasted that honesty was the best policy and that he was invariably willing to put his

cards on the table. The Millionaire had once professed himself likely to be satisfied if the Iron King would

only remove the fifth ace from his sleeve, and a certain coolness between the two men resulted. In general,

On the morrow of the Poet's arrival, he remained in bed and announced in the quavering pencilstrokes of a

sick man, that he was suffering from anthrax, which, he might add, was not only painful but infectious. The

Poet scrawled across one corner of the note that anthrax was usually fatal, but that, as he himself had twice

had it, he would risk taking it a third time in order to be with his friend. Thereupon the Iron King departed to

the city, leaving the Poet to dictate blank verse to the pretty young secretary, who curled both feet round one

leg of her chair, told him that she "loved his potry more'n anythink she'd ever read" and asked how all the

hard words like "chrysoprase" and "asphdel" were spelt. That night a telegram arrived shortly before dinner,

and the Iron King announced that the Ministry of Munitions was sending him to America to stabilize iron

"Why can't you finish one thing before starting another?" demanded the Poet hectoringly. "You haven't YET

found me any quarters, and you call yourself a business man. I shall of course stay on here till your return..."

The subject was not pursued, but at bed time the Iron King roundly asked the Poet how much he would take

"I require a home," answered the Poet frigidly, remembering the weary day spent by him in discovering the

Glebe Place studio and the weary night spent by the Iron King in recommending Kensington boarding

"We shan't fall out over a pound or two," urged the Iron King with a meaning motion of the hand towards his

"A thing is either a promise or it is not a promise," replied the Poet, as he turned on his heel. "I know nothing

Four weeks later the Poet left Eaton Square for the Private Secretary's rooms in Bury Street. He looked thin

and anemic after his month of privations, for the Iron King, improving in morale and recapturing something

of the old strikebreaking spirit, had counterattacked on the third day of the Poet's visit. The chauffeur,

butler and two footmen, all of military age, had been claimed on successive appeals as indispensable, but on

their last appearance at the Tribunal the Iron King had unprotestingly presented them to the Army. This he

followed by breakfasting in bed, lunching in the city, dining at his club and leaving neither instructions nor

money for the maintenance of the household. For a time the Poet was saved from the greater starvation by the

care of the pretty young secretary, but without an Iron King there was no need for a foil. Sharp words were

exchanged one morning over the propriety of grounds in coffee; the pretty young secretary declared that she

would "have nothink more to do with him or his old potry"; and in the afternoon he packed his trunks with his

own hands and with his own hands dragged them downstairs on to the pavement, leaving the pretty young

secretary biting viciously at the corner of a crumpled handkerchief drenched in "White Rose."

The Private Secretary received him in a manner different from that adopted by either the Millionaire or the

Iron King. The two men were of nearly the same age, but in a deferential, if misspent life the Private

Secretary had learned to be noncommittal. Well he knew that he had but one bedroom; well he knew that,

"A spare bed?" he echoed, when the Poet dragged his trunks into the middle of a tiny sitting room. "Really, I

"At least you will not deny," said the Poet with truculent emphasis, "that you undertook to find me suitable

"I must refer you to the reply given to a similar question on the twentythird ultimo," answered the Private

Secretary loftily. for a rich reward he could not have said where he had been or what he had done on the

After an awkward silence, during which neither yielded an inch of ground, the Poet dragged his trunks

destructively downstairs and drove to the flat of the Official Receiver. Glowing with the consciousness of

victory, the Private Secretary dressed for dinner and started out to his club. His goodhumor was impaired,

when he observed in his hall a pendant triangle of wallpaper flapping in the draught of the open door

through which the Poet had dragged his trunks. Further on, the paint was scarred on the stairs, and the carpet

of the main hall was rucked and disordered; there was also a lingering suggestion of escaping gas, and the

Returning to his rooms, he drawled a friendly warning by telephone to the Millionaire, who instantly gave

orders that no one of any sex or age was to be admitted. Next he called up the Iron King and repeated the

warning; then the Lexicographer, the Official Receiver and the Military Attache were similarly placed on

The Great War, which had converted staff officers into popular preachers, novelists into strategical experts

and everyone else into a Minister of the Crown, had left the Poet (in name, at least) a poet and in nothing else

anything at all. He acted precisely as the Private Secretary had intended him to act, driving first to the

Lexicographer's house, where he was greeted by a suspiciously new "TO LET" board, and thence to the

Official Receiver's flat, where a typewritten card informed him that this bell was out of order. Embarrassed

but purposeful, he directed his fourwheeler to Eaton Square, but the blinds were down, and a semblance of

mourning draped the Iron King's house. In Park Lane a twentyyard expanse of straw, nine inches thick,

"Well, I'm blest if I do," grumbled the driver. "And it's past my teatime. Doncher know where yer live?"

"Years ago I had rooms in Stafford's Inn," began the Poet. "Then the Cabinet Committee..."

"But how nice!" interrupted the Poet, wondering apprehensively whether an invitation was on its way to him.

"Not quite righ in 'is 'ead 'e ain't. THEREfore I don't want to be 'arsh with yer. Jump inside, let me drive yer

ter Stafford's Inn, pay me me legal fare and a bob ter drink yer 'ealthand we'll say no more abaht it. If yer

don't" He made a threatening gesture towards the Poet's precariously strapped trunks"I'll throw the

One hope was as forlorn as another, and the Poet was too sick with hunger to think of resistance. In time the

fourwheeler rumbled its way to think of resistance. In time the fourwheeler rumbled its way to Stafford's

Inn; in time and by force of habit the Poet was mounting the bare, creaking, wooden stairs; in time he found

Beyond an eight week's layer of dust on chairs and table, the threadbare rooms were little changed. A loaf of

bread, green and furred with mold, lay beside an empty marmalade pot from which a cloud of flies emerged

with angry buzzing; a breakfast cup without a handle completed the furniture of the table, and in the rickety

"The Cabinet Committee has neglected its opportunities," grumbled the Poet, surveying with disfavor the

Then his eye was caught by a long envelope, thrust halfway under the door, from the Cabinet Committee

itself. An indecipherable set of initials, later describing itself as his obedient servant, was directed to inform

him on a date two months earlier that it had been decided not to requisition the offices and chambers of

The Poet, who knew nothing of business, wrote instructing his solicitors to claim for two months' disturbance

from the Defense of the Realm Commission on Losses and to include all legal costs in the claim.

Three weeks later the Private Secretary was strolling across the Horse Guard's Parade on his way to luncheon,

when he caught sight of the Poet. Since their last altercation his conscience had been as uneasy as a Private

Secretary's conscience can be, and he strove to avoid the meeting. The Poet, however, was full of sunshine

"I've not seen you for weeks!" he cried welcomingly. "How's everybody and what's everybody doing? Is the

"What about the Lexicographer and the Official Receiver?" he asked. "The same? What an infernal nuisance!

"It's not the least use," he said emphatically. "None of them has been outside his front door for three weeks,

no one knows when they'll come out again, no one is allowed inside. Last night I had a box given me for the

theater, and I tried to make up a party; all their telephones were disconnected, and, when I drove round in

person, I couldn't even get the bell answered." He paused and then enquired carelessly, "By the way, have

"I haven't got any new quarters," answered the Poet. "You remember that you and the others were going to

find them for me. I know nothing of businessand I'm not likely to get new rooms until I see the Millionaire

At the steps of his club the Private Secretary paused, as though wondering whether to say that the Poet was

unlikely to see the Iron King or the Millionaire until he had got his new rooms. This prolonged voluntary

selfinternment was a source of inconvenience, for in the peaceful days before the Cabinet Committee on

Accommodation had stepped in, there were pleasant parties in Eaton Square and Park Lane. Now the Private

Secretary was reduced to paying for his own dinners more often than was agreeable. He said nothing,

"It must be simply wrecking their business," said the Poet to himself, as he walked to Bedford Row to see

how the claim for disturbance was progressing. "It serves them right, though, for talking drains when I

What made the crowds turn out in their applauding thousands in New York, Boston, Chicago, Brooklyn, and

wherever the "Kilties" from Canada appeared during their visit to the United States of America on their

Or why do the inhabitants of Paris single out the kilted regiments when a March Past of the forces of the

Allies is held on a National Fete Day, and press upon the soldiers with showers of flowers and tokens of

Is it simply because the dress worn is somewhat out of the common, giving a touch of color to these gray

times, and bringing associations of days of old, as the men swing along, with a swish of their kilts, to the skirl

Or is there not a deeper meaning in this spontaneous welcome which comes so evidently from the hearts of

the onlookers, and one which is reflected in the popularity of Colonel Walter Scott's New York kilted

Highlanders, and by the many find bodies of men turned outmostly at their own expenseby the Scottish

The truth is that deep down in the hearts of the majority of the human race there exists a profound attachment

to the ideals of gallantry and chivalry which were nourished by the stories we loved in childhood, and by the

tales of Scottish prowess, in prose and poetry, selected for the schoolbooks in use by the children of the

Scotland has indeed been blessed by the possession of poets and bards who have preserved her annals and

sung the deeds of her patriot heroes in so alluring a form, that her sons and daughters are assured of a

welcome in any part of the world, and start with the great asset of being always expected to "make good" in

every land of their adoption. Wherever they may roam, we find them occupying positions of influence, and

still cherishing and promulgating the traditions and customs of the Land of the Heather, which impel to high

thinking, resolute doing, and the upholding of old standards, such as build up the lives both of individuals and

And thus, when the moment of emergency arrives when "to every man and nation comes the moment to

decide" you will find the men and women of Scottish descent to the forefront in every fight for liberty and

And in the midst of the clash and din of arms you will catch ever and anon the sound of the uplifting

cadence of some grand old Scottish Psalm tune, bringing comfort, and courage, and clam,and then the call

of the Pipes, inspiring warworn troops to accomplish impossible tasks, such as the feats which have made

the Gordon Highlanders and their Pipers immortalas at Dargai, and have brought fresh glory to many a

Scottish Regiment in this great waraye, and to many a regiment of brother Gaels from Ireland also, of

whose exploits we have heard as they rushed into the fray, preceded by their Irish WarPipes.

A few weeks ago, a young widow with her two months' old baby in her arms, was following the remains of

her husband to his warrior's grave "somewhere in France." She was dryeyed and rebellious in her youthful

despair, as she walked at the head of the sad little procession of her husband's comrades;and then the party

met a Highland Pipe Band, whose PipeMajor, quick to understand the situation, halted his men, wheeled

At the sound of the familiar strains the founts of sorrow were unsealed, and weeping, but comforted, the

childwife mother was able to commit her dead hero's dust to the grave in sure and certain confidence of a

glorious reunion, and turned to face life again with his little son, with strength and faith renewed.

This is but a little incident, but it illustrates the hold that the music of the Gael has on the hearts of its

children, and of its power to evoke memories and associations full of inspiration both in joy and in sorrow.

In the gathering twilight a man stood at the eastern window of a room which formed the top story of one of

the houses in Peter the Great Terracethat survival from the early nineteenth century which forms a kind of

recess in the broad thoroughfare linking Waterloo Bridge with the Strand. The man's name was Shirley

Sherston, and among the happy, prosperous few who are concerned with such things, he was known for his

It was the evening of October 13, 1915, and Sherston was to be married tomorrow.

Now, for what most people would have thought a puerile reason, that with him 13 had always proved a luck

number, he had much wished that today should be his wedding day. And Helen Pomeroy, his future wife,

who never thought anything he did or desired to do puerile or unreasonable, had been quite willing to fall in

with his fancy. The lucky day had actually been chosen. Then a tiresome woman, a sister of Miss Pomeroy's

mother, had said she could not be present at the marriage if it took place on the thirteenth, as on that day her

son, who had been home on leave, was going back to the Front. She had also pointed out quite unnecessarily,

Staring out into the darkness, Sherston's stormy, eager heart began to quiver with longing, with regret, and

with the halfpainful rapture of anticipation. He had suddenly visionedand Sherston was a man given to

vivid visionswhere he would have been now, at this moment, had his marriage indeed taken place this

morning. He saw himself, on this beautiful starlit, moonless night, standing, along with his dear love, on the

platform of a medieval tower, which, together with the picturesque farmhouse which had been tacked on to

the tower about a hundred years ago, rose, close to the seashore, on a lonely stretch of the Sussex coast.

But what was not true tonight would be true tomorrow night, twentyfour hours from now.

He had bought tower and house three years ago, and he had spent there many happy holidays, boating and

fishing, alone, or in company of some man chum. Sherston had never thought to bring a woman there, for the

morrow's bridegroom, for some six to seven years past, had had an impatient contempt for, as well as fear of,

Sherston was a widower, though he never used the word, even in his innermost heart, for to him the term

Very few of the people at preset acquainted with the brilliant, pleasantly eccentric architect, knew that he had

been married before. But of course the handful of old Bohemian comrades whom he had faithfully kept from

out of the past, were well aware of the fact. They were not likely to forget it either, for whenever it was

mentioned, each of them at once remembered that which at the time it had happened, Sherston had every

reason to tell rather than to conceal, namely, that the woman who had been his wife had gone down with the

The outbreak of war, which caused so much unmerited misfortune to English artists and their like, and which

at one moment had threatened to wreck his own successful opening career, had brought to Shirley Sherston a

Early in the memorable August, 1914, at a time when the fabric of his life and work seemed shattered, and

when the lameness which he had so triumphantly coped with during his grown up life as to cause those about

him scarcely to know it was there, made it out of the question for him to respond to his country's first call for

men, the architect happened to run across James Pomeroy, a cultivated millionaire with whom he had once

had a slight business relation. Acting on a kindly impulse which even now Mr. Pomeroy hardly knew

whether to remember with pleasure or regret, the older man had pressed the younger to spend a week in a

That was now fourteen months ago, but Sherston, standing there, remembered as if it had happened

yesterday, his first sight of the girl who was to become his wife tomorrow. Helen Pomeroy had been

standing on a brick path bordered with holly hocks, and she had smiled, a little shyly and gravely, at her

father's rather eccentriclooking guest. But on that warsummer morning she had appeared to the stranger as

Up to that time Sherston had always supposed himself to be attracted to small women. He was a big, fair

man, with loosely hung limbs, and his wifepoor little baggagehad been a tiny creature, vixenish at her

worst, kittenish at her best. But Helen Pomeroy was tall, with the noble proportions and tapering limbs of a

goddess, and graduallynot for some time, for all social life was dislocated in England during that strange

summerSherston became aware, with a kind of angry revolt of soul, that he was but one of many

Following an irresistible impulse, he early in their acquaintance told Helen Pomeroy more of himself than he

had ever told any other human being; and his confidences at last included a bowdlerized account of his

wretched marriage. But though they soon became friends, and though he went on seeing a great deal of her,

all through that autumn and winter, Sherston feared to put his fate to the touch, and he was jealousGod

alone knew how hideously, intolerably jealousof the khakiclad soldiers who came and went in her

and then, one day, during the second summer of their acquaintance, a word let drop by Mr. Pomeroy, who

had become fond of the odd, restless fellow, opened a pit before Sherston's feet. It was a word implying that

now, at last, Helen's father and mother hoped she would "make up her mind." A very distinguished soldier,

whom she had refused as a girl of twenty, had come back unchanged, after six years, from India, and Helen,

Sherston had kept away. He had even left two of her lettersthe rather formal letters which had come to

mean so very much in his lifeunanswered. A fortnight had gone by, and then there had reached him a prim

little note from Mrs. Pomeroy, asking him why he had not been to see them lately. There was a postscript: "If

you do not come soon, you will not see my daughter. She has not been well, and we are thinking of sending

He had gone to Cadogan Square (it was August 13th) as quickly as a taxi could take him, and by a blessed

stroke of luck he had found Miss Pomeroy alone. In a flash all had come right between them. That had only

Sherston had been standing a long time at that casement of his which commanded the huge gray mass of

Somerset House, when at last he turned round, and went quickly across the room to the other, western,

Even in the gathering darkness what a faery view was there! Glad as he was to know that after tonight he

would never again see this living room in its present familiar guisefor he had arranged with a furniture

dealer to come and take everything left in it away, within an hour of his departurehe told himself that never

again could he hope to live with such a view as that on which he was gazing out now.

The yellowing branches of the trees which have their roots deep in the graveyard of the old Savoy Chapel

formed, even in midOctober, a delicious screen of living, moving leaves. Far below, to his left, ran the river

Thames, its rushing waters full of a mysterious, darksome beauty, and illumined, here and there, with the

quivering reflection of shadowed white, green and red lights. Sherston in his heart often blessed the Sepelin

scare which had banished the monstrous, flaring signs which, till a few months ago, had so offended his eyes

The lease of a fine old house in Cheyenne Walk had been chosen by Mr. Pomeroy as his daughter's wedding

gift, and already certain of Sherston's personal possessions had been moved there. But he was taking with

him as little as possible, and practically nothing from this memoryhaunted room.

It was the big, light, airy, loftlike apartment which had attracted him in these chambers fifteen years ago,

when he had first come to London from the Midlands, at the age of threeandtwenty. It was here, five years

later, that he had come straight back from the Soho Registry Office with the young woman whom he had

quixotically drawn up out of a worldthe nether worldwhere she had been happier than she could ever

hope to become with him. For Kitty Brawleher very surname was symbolicwas one of those doomed

creatures who love the mud, who never really wish to leave the mudwho feel scraped and sad when clean.

Unhappy Sherston! The noblest thing he had ever done, or was ever likely to do, in his life, proved, for a time

at least, his undoing. Kitty had made him from generous mean, from unsuspecting suspicious, and during the

wretched year they had spent together she had had a disastrous effect on his work. At last, acting on the

shrewd advice of one of those instinctive men of the world of which Bohemia is full, he had bought her a

billet in a theatrical touring company. There, by an extraordinary chance, Kitty made a tiny hitsufficiently

of a hit to bring her from an American impresario a creditable offer, contingent on her fare being paid to the

Gladly, how gladly only he himself had knownSherston had taken her passage in the Titanic, Kitty's own

characteristic choice of a boat. And he had done more. though short of money, he had given Kitty a hundred

Four days after their parting had come the astounding news of the sinking of the liner, followed, by Sherston,

by a period of strange, painful suspense, filled with the eager scanning of lists, cables to and from America,

finally terminated by an official intimation that poor Kitty had gone down in, and with, the ship.

Sherston's imagination was inconveniently vivid, and for a few poignant weeks his wife's horrible end

haunted him. But after a while he forced himself to take a long holiday in Greece, and from there he came

Fate, which so seldom interferes with kindly intention in the lives of men, had cut what had become a

strangling knot, and Kitty, from a dreadful, neverforgotten burden, had become a rather touching, piteous

memory, growing ever dimmer as first the months, and then the years, slipped by.

Even so, her ghost sufficiently often haunted this large room, and the other apartments which composed

Sherston's set of chambers, to make him determine that Miss Pomeroy should never come there. And she,

being in this as unlike other, commonplace, young woman as she was in everything else, had never put him to

the pain of finding an insincere excuse for his unwillingness to show her the place in which he lived and

The coming night stretched long and bleak before tomorrow's bridegroom. There were fourteen hours to live

through before he could even see Helen, for the time of the marriage had been fixed for eleven o'clock.

Sherston was not looking forward to the actual ceremonyno man ever does; and though it was to be a war

wedding, a great many people, as he was ruefully aware, had been bidden to the ceremony. But it was

comfortable to know that none of the guests had been asked to go back to the house from which he and his

bride were to start for Sussex at one o'clock, in the motor which was Mrs. Pomeroy's marriage gift to her

Suddenly Sherston discovered the he was very hungry! He had lunched at Cadogan Square at a quarter to

two, but he had felt too inwardly excited in that queer atmosphere of tears and laughter, of trousseau and

Even the least earthly of Romantics cannot forget for long the claims of the flesh, and so, smiling a little

wryly in the darkness, he now told himself that the best thing he could do was to go out and get some supper.

Acquainted with all the eating houses in the region, he was glad indeed that after tonight he would never

Pulling down the green blind in front of him, Sherston walked across the room and pulled down the blind of

the other window, for the London lighting orders had become much stricter of late. Then he turned on the

electric light switch, took up his hat and stick, and went out into the little lobby.

Before him was a narrow aperture which opened straight on to the steep, short flight of steps connecting his

chambers with the stone staircase of the big old house. This latterlike set of steps had a door top and bottom,

but the lower door, which gave on to the landing, was generally left open. Turning out the light in the lobby,

Sherston put his left hand on the banister and slid down in the darkness, taking the dozen steps as it were in

As he reached the bottom he suddenly became aware that the door before him, that giving on the landing, was

shut, and that some one, almost certainly a childfor there was not room on the mat for a fullgrown

Sherston felt sharply, perhaps unreasonably, irritated. Known in the neighborhood as openhanded and

kindly, it had sometimes happened, but generally only in wintry weather, that he had come home to find

some poor waif lying in wait for him. Man, woman or child who had wandered in, maybe, before the big door

downstairs was closed, or who, if still blessed with some outer semblance of gentility, had managed

cunningly to get past the Cerberus who lived in the basement, and whose duty it was to open the front door,

He felt in his pocket for a halfacrown, and then, pretending still to be unaware that there was any one

The door burst openhe saw before him the shaft of glimmering whiteness shed by the skylight, for since

the Zeppelin raid of the month before, the staircase was always left in darknessand the figure of his

unknown guest rolled over, picked itself up, and stood revealed, a woman, not a child, as he had at first

thought. And then a feeling of sick, shrinking fear came over Sherston, for there fell on his ears the once

horribly familiar accentsplaintive, wheedling, falsely timorousof his dead wife's voice....

"Is that you, Shirley? I didn't know that you was at home. The windows were all dark, and" In an injured

The wraithlike figure before him was only too clearly flesh and blood, and, as he stepped forward, it moved

quickly across, and stood, barring his way, on the top stone step of the big staircase.

Sherston remained silent. He could think of nothing to say. But his mind began to work with extraordinary

There was only one thing to do, here and now. That was to give the woman standing there a little

moneynot muchand tell her to come back again the next day. Having thus got rid of herhe knew that

on no account must she be allowed to stay here the nighthe must go at once to Mr. Pomeroy and tell him of

this terrible, hitherto unimaginable, calamity. He told himself that it would be, if not exactly easy, then

Determinedly, in these tense, terrible moments, he refused to let himself face the coming anguish and dismay

of the morrow. It was just a blow, straight between the eyes from fatethat fate who he had foolishly

"No, of course not. Wait a minuteI'm thinking." He spoke in a quick, hoarse tone, a tone alas! which Kitty

at one time in their joint lives had come to associate with deep feeling on his part, in those days when she

used to come and tell the lonely man of her sorrows, of her temptations, and of her vague, upward

She lurched a little towards him. Everything was going far better than she could have hoped; why, Sherston

Suddenly he felt her thin, strong arms closing round his body, in a horrible vicelike grip

"Don't touch me!" he cried fiercely; and making a greater physical effort than he would have thought himself

He saw her reel backwards and fall, with a queer grotesque movement, head over heels down the stone steps.

The dull thud her body made as she fell on the half landing echoed up and down the bare well of the staircase.

Sherston's heart smote him. He had not meant to do THAT. Then he reminded himself bitterly that drunkards

always fall soft. She could not have hurt herself much, falling that little way.

He waited a few moments; then, as she made no effort to raise herself, he walked down, slowly, unwillingly,

towards her. From the little he could see in the dim light cast from above, Kitty was lying very oddly, all in a

"Kitty," he said quietly. "Try and get up. I'm sorry if I hurt you, but you took me by surprise. II"

He felt for her limp hand, and held it a moment, but it lay in his, inertly. Filled with a queer, growing fear, he

struck a match, bent down, and saw, for the first time that night, her face. It looked older, incredibly older,

than when he had last seen it, five years ago! The hair near the temples had turned gray. Her eyes were wide

openand even as he looked earnestly into her face, her jaw suddenly dropped. He started back with an

Striking match after match as he went, he rushed up again into his chambers, and looked about for a hand

mirror.... He failed to find one, and at last he brought down his shaving glass.

With shaking hands he laid it close against that hideous, gaping mouth, for five long dragging minutes. The

Putting a great constraint on himself, he forced himself to move her head. And the truth came to him! In that

strange short fall Kitty had broken her neck. For the second time he was free. But this time her death, instead

of cutting a knot, bound him as with cords of twisted steel to shame, and yes, to deadly peril.

Slowly he got up from his knees. Unless he went and jumped over the parapet of the Embankment into the

rivera possibility which he grimly envisaged for a few momentshe knew that the only thing to do was to

go off at once for the police, and make, as the saying is, a clean breast of it. After all he was

innocentinnocent of even a secret desire of encompassing Kitty's death. But would it be possible to make

even the indifferent, when aware of all the circumstances, believe that? Yes, there was one such human

beingand as he thought of her his heart glowed with gratitude to God for having made her known to him.

Helen would believe him, Helen would understand everythingand nothing else really mattered. It was

curious how the thought of Helen, which had been agony an hour ago, now filled him with a kind of steadfast

As Sherston turned to go down the staircase, there came the distant sound of the bursting of a motor tire, and

the unhappy man started violently. His nerves were now in pieces, but he remembered, as he went down the

stone steps, to feel in one of his pockets, to be sure he had what he so seldom used, a cardcase on him.

On reaching the front door he was surprised to find it open, and to see just within the hall, their white caps

and pale faces dimly illumined by the little light that glimmered in from outside, two trained nurses with bags

in their hands. They were talking eagerly, and took no notice of him as he passed.

For a moment Sherston wondered whether he ought to tell them of the terrible accident which had just

happened upstairsbut after a momentary hesitation he decided that it would be better to go straight off to

the Police Station. Already his excited brain saw a nurse standing in the witnessbox at a trial where he

himself stood in the dock on a charge of murder. So, past the two whispering women, he hurried out into the

Even in the grievous state of mental distress in which he now found himself, Sherston noticed that the street

lamps were turned so low that there only shone out, under their green shades, pallid spots of light. And as he

stumbled across the curb of the pavement, he told himself, with irritation, that that was really rather absurd!

More accidents proceeded from the absence of light than were ever likely to be caused by the Zeppelins.

Perforce walking warily, he hastened towards the Strand. There was less traffic than usual, fewer people, too,

on the pavement, but it was just after nine o'clock, the quietest time of the evening.

Suddenly a huge column of flame shot up some thirty yards in front of him, and then (it seemed to all to

happen in a moment) a line of men, police, and special constables, spread across the thoroughfare in which he

Sherston quickened his footsteps. For a moment his own disturbed and fearsome thoughts were banished by

the extraordinary and exciting sight before him. Higher and higher mounted the pillar of fire, throwing a

sinister glare on the buildings, high and low, new and old, round about it. "Good Heavens!" he exclaimed

involuntarily. "Is that the Lyceum on fire?" A policeman near whom he was now standing, turned round and

He witnessed in the next few minutes a strange scene of confusion, of hurrying and scurrying hither and

thither. Where there had been almost pitch darkness, was now a glittering, brilliant bath of light, in which the

figures of men and women, moving swiftly to and fro, appeared like animated silhouettes. But even as he

stared before him at the extraordinary Hogarthian vision, the roadway and the pavements of the Strand

became strangely and suddenly deserted, while he began to hear the hoot, hoot of the fireengines galloping

to the scene of the disaster. Before him the line of police and of special constables remained unbroken, and

"I don't want to go past the theater," he whispered urgently. "I only want to get to Bow Street, as quickly as

possible, on a very important matter." He slipped the halfcrown he had meant to give the waif he had taken

Kitty to be, into a policeman's hand, and though the man shook his head he let him through.

Sherston shot down the Strand, to his left. Almost filling up the steep, lanelike street which leads down to

the Savoy Hotel, were rows of ambulances, groups of nurses, and Red Cross men, and absorbed though he

was once more in his own sensations, and the thought of the terrible ordeal that lay in front of him, Sherston

yet found himself admiring the quickness with which they had been rushed hither.

On he went, and crossed the empty roadway. How strange that so little attention was being paid to the fire!

Instead of a hurrying mob of men and women, the Strand was now extraordinarily empty, both of people and

of vehicles, and now and again he could hear the sound of knocking, of urgent knocking, as if some one who

He strode quickly along, feeling his way somewhat, for apart from the reflection of the red sky, it was pitch

dark in the side streets, and soon he stood before the Police Station. The big oldfashioned building was just

within the outer circle of light cast by the huge fire whose fierceness seemed to increase rather than diminish,

and Sherston suddenly espied an Inspector standing half in the open door. "I've some very urgent business,"

he said hurriedly. "Could you come inside for a moment, and take down a statement?"

"What's your business about?" said the man sharply, and in the wavering light Sherston thought his face

"There's a woman lying dead at No. 19 Peter the Great Terrace," began Sherston curtly

The man bent forward. "There's many women already lying dead about here, sir, and likely to be

morebabies and children toobefore we're through with this hellish business!" he said grimly. "If she's

dead, poor thing, we can do nothing for her. But if you think there's any life left in herwell, you'll find

plenty of ambulances, as well as doctors and nurses, down Strand way. But if I was you, I'd wait a bit before

going back. They're still about" and even as he uttered the word "about" he started back into the shelter of

the building, pulling Sherston roughly in with him as he did so, and there came a loud, dull report, curiously

analogous to that which a quarter of an hour agoit seemed hours rather than minutesSherston had taken

for the bursting of a motor tire. But this time the sound was at once followed by that of shattered glass, and of

"A goodish lot of damage this time, I should think," said the Inspector thoughtfully. "Though they're doing

"Zeppelins, of course, sir! Why didn't you guess that? They say there're two over us if not three." Then in a

voice, so changed, so charged with relief, that his own mother would not have known it for the same, the man

exclaimed, "Look up, sirthere they are! And they're offthe hellish things!" And Sherston throwing up

his head, did indeed see what looked to his astonished eyes like two beautiful golden trout swimming across

As he stood awestruck, fascinated at the astounding sight, he also saw what looked like a falling star shoot

down from one of the Zeppelins, and again there fell on his ears that strange explosive thud.

The man by his side uttered a stifled oath. "There's anotherlet's hope it's the last in this district!" he

Even as he said the words the space in front of the Police Station was suddenly filled with a surging mass of

people, men, women, even children, making their way Strandward, to see all that there was to see, now that

"If I were you, sir, I think I'd stay here quietly a bit, till the crowd has thinned, and been driven back. I take it

you can't do that poor woman of whom you spoke just now any goodI take it she's dead, sir?" the Inspector

"Well, I must be going now, but if you like to stay here a while, I'm sure you're welcome, sir."

"No," said Sherston. "I think I'll go out and see whether I can do anything to help."

The two passed out into the roadway, and took their place among the slowly moving people there, the

Inspector make a way for himself and his companion through the excited, talkative, goodhumored Cockney

crowd. "There it is! Can't you see it? Up there just like a little yellow worm." "There's naught at all! You've

Sherston was borne along with the human stream, and with that stream he suddenly found himself stopped at

the westward end of Wellington Street. Over the heads of the people before himthey were, oddly enough,

mostly womenhe could see the column of flame still burning steadily upwards, and scarcely affected at all

It seemed to start from the ground, a massive pillar of fire, and all round it was an empty spacea zone no

human being could approach for fear of being at once roasted and shriveled up to death. "The bomb got down

to the big gas main," observed a voice close to him. "It'll be days before they get THAT fire under!"

He, Sherston, felt marvelously calm. This strange, awful visitation had made for him a breathing space in

which to reconsider what he had better do, and suddenly he decided that he would go and consult Mr.

Pomeroy. But before doing that he must force himself to go back and fetch certain documents which

He made his way, with a great deal of difficultyfor it was as if all London had by now flocked to this one

afflicted areaby a circuitous way to the Strand. Tramping through a sixinchdeep flood of broken glass

he made his way by the Embankment and the Waterloo Bridge steps to the upper level, that leading to, and

A vast host was now westward from over the river, and he felt the electric currents of joyous excitement,

retrospective fear, and, above all, of eager, almost ferocious, curiosity, linking up rapidly about him. The

rough and ready cordon of special constables seemed powerless to dam the human tide, and caught in that

"You can't get through just herethere's a house been struck in Peter the Great Terrace! 'Twas the last bomb

Sherston uttered a groanAh! If only that were true! But he had just now glanced up and seen the row of big

substantial eighteenth century houses, of which his was the end one, solidly outlined against the

Then some one turned round. "It's the corner house been struck. Bomb fell right through the skylight. They've

sent for the firemen to see what damage was done. You can't see anything from this side."

Sherston was a powerful man. He forced his way, he did not know how, blindly, to the very front of the

Yes, there were two firemen standing by the low, sunkin door, that door through which he had come and

gone hundreds, nay thousands, of times, in his life. So much was true, but everything else was as usual. "I

The fireman shook his head. "No, sir. I can't let any one through. And if I did 'twould be no good. The

staircase is clean gonea great big stone staircase, too! It's all in bits, just like a lot of rubble. The front of

the house ain't touched, but the center and behindwell, sir, you never did see such a sight!"

"Any one hurt?" asked Sherston in a strangled tone. He felt a most extraordinary physical sensation of

lightnessofofwas it dissolution?sweep over his mind and body. He heard as in a far away dream

"There was no one in the house at all, from what we can make out. The caretaker had a lucky escape, or he'd

be buried alive by now, but he and his missus had already gone out to see the sights."

A moment later the fireman was holding Sherston in his big brawny arms, and shouting, "An ambulance this

waysend a long a nurse pleasegentleman's fainted!" The crowd parted eagerly, respectfully. "Poor

feller!" exclaimed one woman in half piteous, half furious tones. "Those damned Germansthey've gone

and destroyed the poor chap's little all. I heard him explaining just now as what he lived here!"

"Is there a holiday next Thursday?" inquired a Canadian officer of an English confrere.

"I really am afraid not," replied the English Officer, convicted by the Canadian's tone of nothing less than

Then, as the light began to break in on his darkened soul, "Ah, I see, that is your Canadian National Day, is it

"Well, you see the King specially requested that there be no holiday on his birthday."

"Oh, the King's all right," continued the Canadian, answering the other's look, "we think a lot of him these

The Canadian officer had little objection to the grind nor had his men. The Canadians eat up work. But

somehow it did not seem right that the 1st of July slide past without celebration of any kind. He had

memories of that day, of its early morning hours when a kid he used to steal down stairs to let off a few

firecrackers from his precious bunch just to see how they would go. Latterly he had not cared for the

fireworks part of it except for the Kiddies. But somehow he was conscious of a new interest in Canada's

birthday. Perhaps because Canada was so far away and the Kiddies would be wanting some one to set off

their crackers. It was good to be in England, the beautiful old motherland, but it was not Canada and it did not

seem right that Canada's birthday should be allowed to pass unmarked. So too through the Commandant of

"I have arranged a Tattoo for the evening," he announced in conversation with the Canadian Officer the day

"No. At least," remembering the officer's ancestry and that he was a Canadian Highlander, "not officially,

"I think," replied the Commandant slowly with a wink in his left eye, "you might get the rope."

This was sufficient encouragement for the 43rd to go on with and so the rope was got and vaulting pole and

standards with other appurtenances of a day of sports. And the preparations went bravely on. So also went on

the Syllabus which for Dominion Day showed, Company Drill, Instruction Classes, Lectures, Physical for the

"All right, let her go," and so the fields and plains, the lanes and roads are filled with Canadian soldiers

celebrating their Dominion Day, drilling, bayonet fighting, route marching, while overhead soars thrumming

the watchful airship, Britain's eye. For Britain has a business on hand. Just yonder stretches the misty sea

where unsleeping lie Britain's men of war. Beyond the sea bleeding Belgium has bloodsoaked ground crying

to Heaven long waiting but soon at length to hear. And France fiercely, proudly proving her right to live an

independent nation. And Germany. Germany! the last word in intellectual power, in industrial achievement,

in scientific research, aye and in infamous brutality! Germany, the might modern Hun, the highly scienced

barbarian of this twentieth Century, more bloody than Attila, more ruthless than his savage hordes. Germany

doomed to destruction because freedom is man's inalienable birthright, man's undying passion. Germany!

fated to execration by future generations for that she ahs crucified the Son of God afresh and put Him to an

open shame. Germany! for the balking of whose insolent and futile ambition, and for the crushing of whose

archaic military madness we Canadians are tramping on this Dominion Day these English fields and these

sweet English lanes 5,000 miles from our Western Canada which dear land we can not ever see again if this

monstrous threatening cloud be not removed forever from our sky. For this it is that 100,000 Canadian

citizens have left their homes with 500,000 eager more to follow if needed, other sons of the Empire knit in

one firm resolve that once more Freedom shall be saved for the race as by their sires in other days.

But the Tattoo is onthe ground chosen is the little plateau within the lines of the 43rd just below the

Officer's tents, flanked on one side by a sloping grassy hill on the other by a row of ancient trees shading a

little hidden brook that gurgles softly to itself all day long. On the sloping hill the soldiers of the various

battalions lie stretched at ease in khaki colored kilts and trews, caps and bonnets, except the men of the 43rd

who wear the dark blue Glengarry. In the center of the plateau a platform invites attention and on each side

facing it rows of chairs for officers and their friends, among the latter some officers' wives, happy creatures

The Commandant has been called away on a sad business, a soldier's funeral, hence the Junior Major of the

43rd as chairman of that important and delicately organized Committee of the Bandmasters and Pipe Majors

of the various battalions is in charge of the program. Major Grassie is equal to the occasion, quiet, ready

resourceful. With him associated is Major Watts, Adjutant of the 9th, as Musical Director; in peaceful times

The drums in the distance begin to throb and from the eastern side of the plain march in the band of the 9th

playing their regimental march, "Garry Owen," none the less. From the west the band of the 11th, then that of

the 12th, finally (for the 43rd Band is away on leave, worse luck) the splendid Band of the 49th, each playing

its own Regimental march which is taken up by the bands already in position. Next comes the massed buglers

of all the regiments, their thrilling soaring notes rising above the hills, and take their stand beside the bands

already in place. Then a pause, when from round the hill shoulder rise wild and weird sounds. The music of

the evening, to Scottish hearts and ears, has begun. It is the fine pipe band of the 42nd Royal Highlanders

from Montreal, khaki clad, kilts and bonnets, and blowing proudly and defiantly their "Wha saw the

Fortytwa." Again a pause and from the other side of the hill gay with tartan and blue bonnets, their great

blooming drones gorgeous with flowing streamers and silver mountings, in march the 43rd Camerons. "Man,

would Alex Macdonald be proud of his pipes today," says a Winnipeg Highlander for these same pipes are

Ah these pipes! These Highland pipes! Truly as one of them said, "Pipers are no just like other people!"

Blowing their "Pilrock of Donald Dhu" they swing into line, mighty and magnificent. Last comes the brave

little pipe band of the 49th. This battalion has one Scotch company from Edmonton, which insisted on

bringing its pipe band along. Why not? "The Blue Bonnets" is their tune and finely they ring it out. Now they

are all in place, Bands, Bugle and Pipes. The massed Bands strike up our National Song, and all the soldiers

spring to their feet and sing "Oh, Canada." A little high but our hearts were in it. And so the program goes on.

Single bands and massed bands with solos from French Horns, Trombones and Cornets, varied delightfully

with the Highland Fling by Pipe Major Johnson of the 42nd, and the Sword Dance by Piper Reid of the 43rd

followed by an encore, the "Shean Rheubs" which I defy any mere Sassenach to pronounce or to dance, at

least as Piper Heid of the twinkling feet danced it that night. For he did it "in the style of Willie Maclennan,"

as a piper said, "the best of his day and they have not matched him yet." The massed pipe bands play "The

79th's Farewell at Gibraltar." Fortyone pipers and every man blowing his best. "Aye man, it is grand hearing

you," said a man from the north. Colonel Moore of the 9th, on a minute's warning, makes a fine speech

instinct with patriotic sentiment and calls for three cheers for Canada. He got three and a tiger and "a tiger's

pup." Major Grassie in another speech neat and to the point thanks those who had helped to celebrate our

Dominion Day and once more calls for cheers and gets them. Then the "First Post" warns us that we are

soldiers and under orders. The massed bands play "Nearer My God to Thee." Full and tender the long drawn

notes of the great hymn rise and fall on the evening air, the soldiers joining reverently. The Chaplain of the

43rd congratulates the Commandment upon the happy suggestion of a Tattoo, the Chairman upon his very

successful program and all the Company upon a very happy celebration of our national holidaythen a word

about our Day and all it stands for, a word about our Empire, our Country, our Kiddies at home, another word

of thanks to the Committee for the closing hymn so eminently appropriate to their present circumstances and

then God bless our King, God bless our Empire, God bless our Great Cause and God bless our dear Canada.

The "Last Post" sounds. Its piercing call falls sharp and startling upon the silent night. Long after we say

"Good night" that last longdrawn note high and clear with its poignant pathos lingers in our hearts. The

It was among the retorts and testtubes of his physical laboratory that we were privileged to interview the

Great Scientist. His back was towards us when we entered. With characteristic modesty he kept it so for some

time after our entry. Even when he turned round and saw us his face did not react off us as we should have

He seemed to look at us, if such a thing were possible, without seeing us, or, at least, without wishing to see

He took it, read it, dropped it into a bowlful of sulphuric acid, and then, with a quiet gesture of satisfaction,

We sat for some time behind him. "This then," we thought to ourselves (we always think to ourselves when

we are left alone) "is the man, or rather is the back of the man, who has done more" (here we consulted the

notes given us by our editor) "to revolutionize our conception of atomic dynamics than the back of any other

Presently the Great Scientist turned towards us with a sigh that seemed to our ears to have a note of weariness

"Professor," we answered, "we have called upon you in response to an overwhelming demand on the part of

"to learn something of your new researches and discoveries in" (here we consulted a minute card which

we carried in our pocket) "in radioactiveemanations which are already becoming" (we consulted our

"After all," said the Great Scientist, "helium shares in the most intimate degree the properties of radium. So,

too, for the matter of that," he added in afterthought, "do thorium, and borium!"

"Even borium!" we exclaimed, delighted, and writing rapidly in our note book. Already we saw ourselves

"Professor," we answered, "what our journal wants is a plain and simple explanation, so clear that even our

readers can understand it, of the new scientific discoveries in radium. We understand that you possess more

"and that you are able to express yourself with greater simplicity than any two men now lecturing."

"Now, then," we said, spreading our notes on our knee, "go at it. Tell us, and through us, tell a quarter of a

"The whole thing," said the Professor, warming up to his work as he perceived from the motions of our face

and ears our intelligent interest, "is simplicity itself. I can give it to you in a word"

"I must ask you first to clear your mind," the Professor continued, "of all conception of ponder able

"In fact," added the Professor, with what we thought a quiet note of warning in his voice, "I need hardly tell

you that what we are dealing with must be regarded as altogether ultramicroscopic."

We hastened to assure the professor that, in accordance with the high standards of honor represented by our

journal, we should of course regard anything that he might say as ultramicroscopic and treat it accordingly.

"You say, then," we continued, "that the essence of the problem is the resolution of the atom. Do you think

We looked back at him, openly and frankly. The moment was critical for our interview. Could he do it? Were

"I think I can," he said. "Let us begin with the assumption that the atom is an infinitesimal magnitude. Very

good. Let us grant, then, that though it is imponderable and indivisible it must have a spatial content? You

"Very well. If spatial, it must have dimension: if dimensionform: let us assume 'ex hypothesi' the form to

The professor was now intensely interested. He walked to and from in his laboratory. His features worked

"There is no other possible method in inductive science," he added, "than to embrace some hypothesis, the

We nodded. Even in our own humble life after our day's work we had found this true.

"Now," said the Professor, planting himself squarely in front of us, "assuming a spherical form, and a spatial

content, assuming the dynamic forces that are familiar to us and assumingthe thing is bold, I admit"

"What have we got? Why, the simplest matter conceivable. The forces inside our atomitself, mind you, the

"Precisely. Our conception of ultimate matter is reduced to that of an oblate spheroid described by the

"Nothing else. And in that case any further calculation becomes a mere matter of the extraction of a root."

"Is it not?" said the Professor. "In fact, I am accustomed, in talking to my class, to give them a very clear

"Do they?" we murmured. Ourselves we felt as if the Log of Infinity carried us to ground higher than what

"Of course," we said, very gravely. We felt ourselves here in the presence of something that demanded our

"But still," continued the Professor, almost jauntily, "we can handle the Unknown just as easily as anything

This puzzled us. We kept silent. We thought it wiser to move on to more general ground. In any case, our

"You have now, as we understand, got the atomhow shall we put it?got it where you want it."

"Unfortunately our analysis, perfect though it is, stops short. We have no synthesis."

"No synthesis," we moaned. We felt it was a cruel blow. But in any case our notes were now elaborate

"Synthetic dynamics," said the Professor, taking us by the coat, "is only beginning"

"We will," we said, very earnestly, "but meantime as our paper goes to press this afternoon we must go now.

"Oh, I see, I see," said the Professor, "you are writing all this for a newspaper. I see."

"And how much," said the Professor in a hesitating way, "do I have to pay you to put it in?"

"Why, Professor," we begin quickly. Then we checked ourselves. After all was it right to undeceive him, this

quiet, absorbed man of science with his ideals, his atoms and his emanations? No, a hundred times no. Let

The Professor began groping among his apparatus. We knew that he was looking for his purse.

"We should like also very much," we said, "to insert your picture along with the article"

"Would it be all right," he began, "that is, would you mind if I pay you the money now? I am apt to

"Quite all right," we answered. We said goodby very gently and passed out. We felt somehow as if we had

touched a higher life. "Such," we murmured, as we looked about the ancient campus, "are the men of science:

are there, perhaps, any others of them round this morning that we might interview?"

After more than three years of the War, we are only now beginning to see it, as it is, in its epic immensity. On

the eastern front it has been too far from us; on the western front it has been too near us, and we have been

too much a part of it, to get any sight at all of that series of monotonous and monstrous battles, a series

punctuated only by names: Liege, Antwerp, Mons, Ypres, Verdun and Arras. And if nothing had happened

besides the Titanic conflict of material armaments I believe that we should not yet be anywhere near realizing

If we are aware of it now it is because, in the last few months, three events have happened which are of

another order: the abdication of Constantine, King of Greece, the Russian Revolution, and the coming of

These three events have adjusted and cleared our vision by giving us the true perspective and the scale.

From the standpoint of individuals, even of those few who have lost nothing personally, who are alive and

safe, who have never been near the trenches, never watched an airraid, or so much as seen the inside of a

But from the epic standpoint, it would not have mattered if all the civilians in Great Britain had been starved

to death by submarines, or burned alive in our beds, so long as the freedom of one country, even a small

country like Greece, was secured forever, let alone the freedom of a great country like Russiaand let alone

Somewhere about the sad middle of the War, an American woman, who is one of the finest American poets,

discussed the War with me. She deplored America's attitude in not coming in with us.

I said, politely and arrogantly, "Why should she? It isn't HER War. She'll do us more good by keeping out of

The poetwho would not have called herself a patriotanswered, "I am not thinking of YOUR good. I am

Since August 4th, 1914, England has been energetically engaged in saving her own soul. Heaven knows we

needed salvation! But, commendable as our action was and is, the fact remains that it was our own soul that

In the beginning of the War, when it seemed certain that America would not come in, we were glad to think

that America's body was untouched, that, while all Europe rolled in blood, so vast a territory was still at

peace, and that the gulf of the Atlantic kept American men, American women and children, safe from the

Then we found that it was precisely the Atlantic that gave Americans a taste of our agony and horror. The

Atlantic was no safe place for the American men and women and children who traveled so ingenuously over

And when for a long time we wondered whether America would or would not come in, we were still glad; but

it was another gladness. We said to ourselves that we did not want America to come in. We wanted to win the

War without her, even if it took us a little longer. For by that time we had begun to look on the War as our

and our Allies' unique possession. to fight in it was a privilege and a glory that we were not inclined to share.

"America," we said, "is very much better employed in making munitions for US. Let her go on making them.

Let her help our wounded; let her feed Belgium for us; but let her not come in now and bag the glory when it

And this attitude of ours was not righteous. It was egoistic; it was selfish; it was arrogant. We handed over to

America the material role and hung on tight to the spiritual glory. It was as if we had asked ourselves, in our

arrogance, whether America was able to drink of the cup that we drank of, and to be baptized with the

We had left off thinking even of America's body, and we were not thinking at all about her soul.

Then, only a few months ago, she came in, and we were glad. Most of us were glad because we knew that her

coming in would hasten the coming of peace. But I think that some of us were glad because America had

And by our gladness we knew more about ourselves then than we had suspected. We know that, under all our

arrogance and selfishness, there was a certain soreness caused by America's neutrality.

We did not care much about Spain's or Scandinavia's or Holland's neutrality, though the Dutch and

Scandinavian navies might have helped enormously to tighten the blockade; but we felt America's neutrality

as a wrong done to our own soul. We were vulnerable where her honor was concerned. And this, though we

knew that she was justified in holding back; for her course was not a straight and simple one like ours. No

Government on earth has any right to throw prudence to the winds, and force war on a country that is both

That is why, however much we honor the men that America sends out now, and will yet sent out, to fight

with us, we honor still more her first volunteers who came in of their own accord, who threw prudence to

every wind that blows, and sent themselves out, to fight and to be wounded and to die in the ranks of the

Allies. It may be that some of them loved France more than England. No matter; they had good cause to love

her, since France stands for Freedom; and it was Freedom that they fought for, soldiers in the greatest War of

The coming in of America has not placed upon England a greater or more sacred obligation than was hers

before:to see to it that this War accomplishes the freedom, not only of Belgium and Russia and Poland and

Serbia and Roumania, but of Ireland also, and of Hungary, and, if Germany so wills it, of Germany herself. It

is inconceivable that we should fail; but, if we did fail, we should now have to answer to the soul and

Eleutherios Venizelos, the foremost statesman of Greece, the man to whom in fact she owes that growth in

territory and influence that has come as a result of the first and second Balkanic wars, continues to exert

paramount influence in the solution of the Eastern question, in spite of the we believe mistaken policy of the

Triple Entente which permitted King Constantine of Greece for so long a period of time to prevent the direct

application of the power of Greece to and in the successful termination of the war against Germany.

Venizelos has never lost faith in the mission of Greece in the eastern Mediterranean. He insists that a balance

of power in the Balkans will prevent an all powerful Bulgaria from selling herself and her neighbors to the

PanGerman octopus which has stretched its tentacles toward Constantinople and on to the Persian Gulf.

Manfully defending the rights of the Greeks in Macedonia and Asia Minor as he for long years supported

those of the Greeks in Crete, he demands no aggrandizement of territory by right of conquest, but only the

legitimate control and administration of lands that have been for ages inhabited by men of Greek blood, of

Greek religion, and (until efforts were made to enforce other speech) of Greek language. He hates as only

Greeks can hate, oppression of all sorts whether by Turk or Bulgarian or Teuton, and desires to see

democratic principles finally established the world over. Holding this attitude, he could hardly bring himself

to believe that King Constantine could really be abridging the constitutional right of the Greeks to control

their own external as well as their domestic policy. When fully convinced that this was the King's intention,

Venezelos cast the die that gave Greek freedom a new birth in Thessaloniki and the Islands. This movement

tardily supported though it was by the entente, has at last borne fruit in a United Greece which will do her

share in making the East as well as the West safe for Democracy. The people that fought so nobly in the

revolution of 1821 will know how to give a good account of itself under the leadership of a sane, courageous

The passage which I have chosen to translate is from the closing words of the speech delivered before the

Greek Chamber of Deputies October 21, 1915. In the first portion of the speech Venizelos defends the policy

of the participation in the campaign against the Dardanelles, which he had in vain advocated, and the support

of Serbia as against Bulgaria in accordance with the defensive alliance concluded with that country.

"I must now once more, and for the last time declare to the Government which today occupies these seats,

that it assumes the very heaviest of responsibilities before the Nation, in undertaking once more to

administer the Government of Greece and to direct its fortunes in this, the most critical period of its national

existence, with those antiquated conceptions which, if they had prevailed in 1912, would have kept Greece

within her old narrowly confined borders. These old ideas have been radically condemned not only by the

"It is most natural, Gentlemen, that with those conceptions under which that older political world of Greece

acted, a political world which even today by its voting majority controls these seats of Government, it is

natural, I repeat, that such a Government should be unable to adapt itself to the great, the colossal problems

which have risen since Greece, ceasing to be a small state, and enlarging its territories, has taken a position in

the Mediterranean which, while exceptionally imposing, is at the same time peculiarly subject to envy, and is

"How dare you, with those old conceptions assume the responsibility for the course which you have taken, a

course which departs widely from the truth, from the traditional policy of that older Greek Government,

which realized that it is impossible to look for any really successful Greek policy which runs counter to the

"How is it possible that you can wish to impose on the country such conceptions in the face of the repeatedly

expressed opinion of the representatives of the people, and with the actual results of the recent past before

you, a past which, with the sincerity that distinguishes you, my dear fellowcitizens, you have not hesitated

to condemn, in order to show clearly that in your heart of hearts you would regard us as better off if we were

"But, sirs, the life of individuals and the life of Nations are governed by one and the same law, the law of

perpetual struggle. This struggle, which is even keener between nations than between men, is regulated

among men by the internal laws of the country, by the penal code, the police and in general the whole

organization of the state, which, insofar as it is able, defends the weak against the strong. Although we have

to confess that this organization falls far short of perfection, it does at any rate tend gradually toward the

attainment of its ultimate ideal. But in the struggle of nations, where there exists an international law, the

pitiful failure of which you have come to know, not only in the immediate past, but especially during this

European war, you must perceive that it is impossible for small nations to progress and expand without a

perpetual struggle. May I carry this argument one step further and say that this growth and expansion of

Greece is not destined to satisfy moral requirements alone or to realize the national and patriotic desire to

fulfill obligations toward our enslaved brothers, but it is actually a necessary prerequisite to the continued

"From certain points of view I might have recognized in accordance with the conceptions of my worthy

fellowcitizen that if it had been a matter of continuing to have Turkey as our neighbor in our northern

frontier, as she formerly was, we could have continued to live on for many years, especially if we could have

brought ourselves to endure from her from time to time without complaint certain humiliations and

indignities. But now that we have expanded and become a rival to other Christian powers, against whom, in

case of defeat in war, we can expect no effective intervention on the part of other nations, from that moment,

Gentlemen, the establishment of Greece as a selfsufficing state, able to defend itself against its enemies, is

"Unfortunately, after our successful wars, while we were developing our new territories and organizing this

Greater Greece into a model new state, as far as lay within our power, we did not have time to secure at once

for the people all the advantages and all the benefits that should result from extending our frontiers. Our

unfortunate people up to the present has seen only sacrifices to which it has been subjected for the sake of

extending the boundaries of the state. It has experienced the moral satisfaction of having freed its brothers,

and the national gratification of belonging to a state which is greater than it was before. From the material

point of view however, from the point of view of economic advantage, it has not yet been able to clearly

discern what profit it has obtained from the enlargement of the state. It is natural then that today as well, we

can only hold before our people the sacrifices that are once more required of it. These sacrifices, Gentlemen,

according to my personal convictions which are as firmly held ashumanly speakingconvictions can be,

these sacrifices, as I see them, are destined to create a great and powerful Greece, which will bring about not

an extension of the state by conquest, but a natural return to those limits within which Hellenism has been

"These sacrifices are to create, I insist, a great, a powerful, a wealthy Greece, able to develop within its

boundaries a live industrialism competent, from the interests which it would represent, to enter into

commercial treaties with other states on equal terms, and able finally to protect Greek citizens anywhere on

earth: for the Greek could then proudly say, 'I am a Greek,' with the knowledge that, happen what may, the

state is ready and able to protect him, no matter where he may be, just as all other great and powerful states

do, and that he will not be subjected to prosecution and be forced to submit to, the lack of protection as is the

"When you take all these things into account, Gentlemen, you will understand why I said a few moments ago,

that I and the whole liberal party are possessed by a feeling of deepest sadness because by your policy, you

are leading Greece, involuntarily, to be sure, but none the less certainly, to her ruin. You will induce her to

carry on war perforce, under the most difficult conditions and on the most disadvantageous terms.

"The opportunity to create a great and powerful Greece, such an opportunity as comes to a race only once in

Even now, few Americans understand the great service which Italy has done to the Allied Cause. We have

expected some sensational military achievements, being ourselves unable to realize the immense difficulty of

the military tasks which confronted the Italians. The truth is that the Terrain over which they have fought is

incredibly difficult. By the sly drawing of the frontier when in 1866 Austria ceded Venetia to the Italians,

every pass, every access, from Italy into Austria was left in the hands of the Austrians. Some of those passes

are so intricate and narrow that an Austrian regiment could defend them against an army. And yet, in two

years' fighting the Italians have advanced and have astonished the world by their exploits in campaigning

above the line of perpetual snow and among crags as unpromising as church steeples.

On lower levels they have captured Gorizia, a feat unparalleled by any thus far accomplished by the English

and French on the West. The defense of Verdun remains, of course, the supreme and sublime achievement of

defensive action, but the taking of Gorizia is thus far the most splendid work of the Allied offensive.

I do not propose, however, to speak in detail of the Italians' military service. Suffice it to say that they have

proved themselves excellent fighters who combine the rare qualities of dash and endurance. I wish to speak

of the vital contribution Italy has made from the beginning of the War to the Great Causethe cause of

When Italy at the end of July, 1914, refused to join Austria and Germany she announced to the world that the

war which the Teutons planned was an aggressive war, and by this announcement she stamped on the

PanGerman crimes that verdict which every day since has confirmed and which will be indelibly written on

For Italy was a partner of Germany and Austria in the Triple Alliance and she knew from inside evidence that

the Teutonic Powers were not acting on the defensive. Accordingly, her decision had the greatest

significance, and when before the actual outbreak of the war she privately informed France that she had no

intention of attacking that country she relieved the French of great suspense. If Italy had joined the Teutons

the French would have been required to guard their southeastern frontier by a large force, perhaps not less

than a million men, which were now set free to oppose the German attack in the north.

The world did not understand why Italy waited until May, 1915, before declaring war on Austria, but the

reason was plain. Exhausted by their war in Tripoli the Italians had neither munitions nor food and their

soldiers even lacked uniforms. It took nine months, therefore, to prepare for war. Another year passed before

Italy could undertake to face Germany; for the Germans had so thoroughly honeycombed Italy's commerce,

industry and finances that it took two years for the Italians to oust the Germans and to train men to replace

By these delays, which seemed to the outside world suspicious, Italy did another service. If she had plunged

in prematurely as the Allies and her friends besought her to do she would have been speedily overwhelmed.

Imagine what a blow that would have been to the Allied Cause, especially coming so early in the War. Her

prudence saved Europe this disaster. Had Northern Italy become enslaved the Teutonic forces could have

threatened France on the southeast, and with Genoa as a port they could have made the Mediterranean much

more perilous for the Allied ships and transportation. It is not for the United States, a country of over one

hundred million population, and yet checked if not intimidated by a small body of German plotters and their

accomplices, to look scornfully on Italy's long deferred entrance into the War. The ProGerman element in

Italy was relatively stronger than here and the elements which composed itthe Blacks, the Germanized

financiers and business men, many nobles and the Vaticanopenly opposed making war on the Kaiser. In

spite of all these difficulties, in spite of the very great danger she ran, because if the Germans win they

threaten to restore the Papal temporal power, and the Austrians, Italy stood by the Allies.

For her to be untrue tot he cause of Democracy would be almost unthinkable; the great men who made her a

united nation were all in different ways apostles of Democracy. Mazzini was its preacher; Garibaldi fought

for it on many fields, in South America, in Italy and in France; Victor Emmanuel was the first democratic

sovereign in Europe in the nineteenth century; Cavour, beyond all other statesmen of his age, believed in

Liberty, religious, social and political and applied it to his vast work of transforming thirty million Italians

out of Feudalism, and the stunting effects of autocracy into a nation of democrats.

It was impossible also for Italy, the ancient home of Civilization, the mother of arts and refinement, to accept

the standard of the Huns which the Germans embraced and imposed upon their allies. The conflict between

the Germans and the Italians was instinctive, temperamental. For a thousand years it took the form of a

struggle between the German Emperors and the Italian Popes for mastery. The Germans strove for political

domination, for temporal power; the Italians strove, at least in ideal, in order that the spiritual should not be

the vassal of the physical. It was soul force against brute force. Looking at it as deeply as possible we see that

the Italians, a race sprung out of ancient culture, mightily affected but not denatured by Christianity,

repudiated the Barbarian ideals of Teutonism. Men whose ancestors had worshiped Jupiter and Apollo, and

who were themselves worshipping the Christian God, Madonna and the great saints, had no spiritual affinity

with men whose ancestors could conceive of no Deities higher than Thor, Odin and the other rough, crude,

and unmannered denizens of the Northern Walhalla. So Italy stood by Civilization. Her risk was great, but

great shall be her guerdon in the approval of her own conscience and the gratitude of posterity.

Questo che in Te si compie anno di sorte, l'Italia l'alza in cima della spada mirando al segno; e la sua rossa

strada ne brilla insino alle sue alpine porte. Tu tendi la potenza della morte come un arco tra il Vodice e

l'Hermada; varchi l'Isonzo indomito ove guada la tua Vittoria col tuo pugno forte. Giovine sei, rinato dalla

terra sitibonda, balzato su dal duro Carso col fiore dei tuio fanti imberbi. Questo, che in te si compie, anno di

This fateful year which thou fulfillest so, Our Italy, her cherisht goal in sight, Exalts upon her sword; and

gleameth bright Her ruddy pathway to the gates of snow. The power of death thou bendest like a bow 'Twixt

Vodice and bleak Hermada's height; And Victory, guided by thy hand of might, Thro' wild Isonzo forth doth

fording go. Reborn from lands of drought, a youth art thou, Upheaved by rugged Carso suddenly With all the

lads of thine advancing throng. This bloody year which thou fulfillest now, O may it, onward pressing, shine

In the great turmoil of nations it rings with a tone peculiarly true: for Italy is the country that found herself

confronted, at the outbreak of the great war, by perhaps the most perplexing situation of any of the present

allies. If she had chosen to follow the way which lay open and easy before her, the war would have long since

been decided in favor of the Central Powers. Italy had entered the Triple Alliance as a clean contract, for an

honest defensive purpose. It was never intended for a weapon of aggression. When Austria and Germany

decided upon the outrage to Serbia that was the cause of the conflagration, they did not consult Italy about it,

knowing well that Italy would not have consented; in fact, would have denounced it to the world. But they

hoped that by surprising her with the "fait accompli," she would have to yield and follow. Italy chose the long

hard trail instead, incredibly long, inconceivably hard, but morally right, and it has been made clear once

more in the history of humanity, that "Latin" and "barbaric" are two incompatible terms.

True enough, Italy felt in her own heart the cry of her longoppressed children from Istria, the Trentino and

Dalmatia ringing just as loud as that of the children of Belgium and the women of Serbia; but who can blame

her if history had it so, that the sudden outrage on other nations was but the counterpart of the longcontinued

provocation to the Italian nationality, when in the Italian provinces subject to Austrian rule, the mere singing

of a song in the motherlanguage brought women to jail and children to fustigation; and a bunch of white, red

and green flowers might cause an indictment of high treason? National aspirations and international honor

equally called forth to Italy, and Italy leaped forth in answer as soon as she could make her way clear to the

fight. She took it up where the political pressure brought to bear upon her in the name of European peace in

General Luigi Cadorna leads the offensive of 1917 where his father Count Raffaele Cadoran found it stopped

by diplomatic arrangements in 1866; Garibaldi's nephew avenges on the Col di Lana his "obbedisco" from

the Trentino; Francesco PecoriGiraldi's son repels from Asiago the sons of those Austrians who wounded

him at Montanara and imprisoned him at Mantova. Gabriele d'Annunzio, mature in years and wonderfully

youthful in spirit, takes up the national ideals of the great master Giosue Carducci (who died before he could

see the dream of his life realized with the reunion of Trento and Trieste, Istria and the Italian cities of

Dalmatia, to the Motherland); and becomes the speaker of the nation expectant in Genoa and assembled in

Rome to decree the end of the strain of Italian neutrality which has to its credit the magnificent rebellion to

the unscrupulous intrigues of Prince von Bulow, and the releasing of five hundred thousand French soldiers

In D'Annunzio's "Virgins of the Rocks" the protagonist expresses his belief that oratory is a weapon of war,

and that it should be unsheathed, so to speak, in all its brilliancy only with the definite view of rousing people

to action. Surely no man ever had a better chance of wielding the brilliant weapon than D'Annunzio, in his

triumphal progress through Italy during that fateful month of May, 1915, when he uttered against neutralism

and pacifism, germanophilism and petty parliamentarism, the "quo usque tandem" of the newest Italy.

Nor can we forget how Premier Antonio Salandra in his memorable speech from the Capitol, expressed the

living and the fighting spirit of Italy, a spirit of strength and humanity, when he said: "I cannot answer in kind

the insult that the German chancellor heaps upon us: the return to the primordial barbaric stage is so much

harder for us, who are twenty centuries ahead of them in the history of civilization." To support his, came the

quiet utterances of Sonnino (whose every word is a statement of Italian right and a crushing indictment of

AustroGerman felony) "proclaiming still once the firm resolution of Italy, to continue to fight courageously

with all her might, and at any sacrifice, until her most sacred national aspirations are fulfilled alongside with

such general conditions of independence, safety and mutual respect between nations as can alone form the

basis of a durable peace, and represent the very "raison d'etre" of the contract that binds us with our Allies."

This is the voice of right: the voice of victory which upholds it is registered frequently in the admirable

warbulletins of General Cadorna, than which nothing more Caesarian has been written in the Latin world

since the days of Caesar. The simple words follow with which the taking of Gorizia was announced to the

..."Trenches and dugouts have been found, full of enemy corpses: everywhere arms and ammunition and

material of all kinds were abandoned by the routed opponent. Toward dusk, sections of the brigades Casale

and Pavia, waded through the Isonzo, bridges having been destroyed by he enemy, and settled strongly on the

left bank. A column of cavalry and 'bersaglieri ciclisti' was forthwith started in pursuit beyond the river."

Now, the voice of Italy is thundering down from the Stelvio to the sea, echoed by forty thousand shells a day

on the contested San Gabriele: a mighty thing indeed, the voice of Italy at war; a thing of which all Italians

may well feel proud. And yet, there is another thing of which they are perhaps even prouder in the depths of

the national heart: the voice of the children of Italy "redeemed." All along the reclaimed land, from Darzo to

Gorizia, sixteen thousand children of Italian speech and of Italian blood, for whom Italian schools and Italian

teachers have been provided even under the increasing menace of the Austrian aircraft or gunfire, join daily

and enthusiastically in the refrain which the soldiers of Italy are enforcing, but a few miles ahead:

"Va fuora d'Italia, va fuora ch'e' l'ora, va fuora d'Italia, va fuora, stranier!" [From the Inno di Garibaldi: "Get

The people of the world, whether engaged in open resistance to German rapacity, or as onlookers, do well to

see, as indeed they have seen since its beginning, that modern civilization is at stake. On every continent,

Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia, and both the Americas, recognition of this great fact was instinctive. It was

obvious everywhere that, if Germany with its sinister aims, shamelessly avowed, and its terrible methods,

relentlessly carried out, was to prevail, all the progress that had been made out of her barbarism and savagery

It was clear that humanity would have to begin anew its weary struggle out of the difficulties it had slowly

overcome. Everything of a high order that had been done from the beginning, under great, devoted,

farseeing religious leaders, and by unknown millions who had fought for liberty, would have to be given up.

Recognition of the potency of peaceful methods in government and industry; the contribution of the

individual to his own progress and that of mankind; the gradual triumph of an ordered freedom over tyranny

and anarchy; all the achievements, that have gradually made the world over, would have had to be undertaken

again, and that, too, without the free contribution from every quarter, which, in the varied history of men, had

assured the one great triumph which is civilization. The dream of individual and national conquestthe

cause of so much suffering and bloodshedwas again to be repeated. This attack has demanded thus far, as

it will demand until the end, the united efforts of practically all the people of the earth in order to defeat this

the most desperate attempt at conquest, undertaken under the most favorable conditions, and after the most

perfect preparation known to history. If hesitation or treachery had arisen at any important point the welllaid

Nothing in the history of Europe, or of all the peoples that sprang from it in other parts of the world, is more

creditable to humanity than the united resistance which this attempt aroused. All that it meant was attacked

without mercy or shame. Its religious teachings and practices, the result of many centuries of growth and

experience were defied by one of the nations professing the same creed. Its political development, the result

of a struggle under which industry, family, and social growth had proceeded in regular order was defied. Its

humane policies were to be replaced by the dictates of mightmercilessly executed. Its small peoples were

to be crushed, and its greater ones reduced to the status of vassals. In a word, all its civilization was to be

But, at the first cry of alarm every threatened people rose as if by magic. No surprise was effective, no lack of

preparation deterred, no peril brought hesitation. One by one, all jealousies were dissipated, all past

differences were forgotten, the common danger was recognized, and they united, as humanity had never done

before, in that resistance to German ambitions which the world now sees as its one great event, past or

If this threat to civilization was thus met by Europe how much more serious was the aspect which it presented

to us in Japan! We were more than mere participators in this civilization. We had grafted upon our own life,

old, balanced, remote, isolated, the creator of great traditions, the newer and different ideas of Europe,

assimilating the best of them without losing these that were strong and potent among our own. They had been

fused into our life and, in the process, had enabled us to make an enlarged contribution to human progress.

We had become so much a part of the world that nothing in it was alien to us. We had always known, even

from the earliest times, what out people were, what they meant and what they could do. We were in no wise

ignorant of our own powers and achievements but this new knowledge was akin to the addition of a new

When this threat against mankind came we also saw instinctively that it was even more of a peril to us than to

Europe. We saw that civilization was not a thing of continents, or nations, or races, but of mankind, that in

the evolution of human forces, men were one in purpose and need. If Europe was to be crushed, it was only a

question of time until all that Europe had done for the world in America, or the Antipodes, or in the islands of

the sea, would follow it. Then would come our turn, then all Asia would be thrown into tyranny's crucible,

and the world must begin anew. It was not a mere diplomatic alliance that drew us into the contest. Our own

struggles had not been those of aggression; but it was easy to see what ruthless conquest meant even if it

seemed to be far away. Therefore, we acted promptly and we hope with efficiency and have since carried on

the work in the sphere allotted to us by nature with a devotion that has never flagged. It has been our duty not

to reason why, but to help in saving the world without bargains, or dickerings, or suggestions, thus bearing

As we see our duty, and the duty of the world, only one thing is left to do. It is to fight out this war which

neither we nor any other people or nation, other than the aggressors, have sought. It must be fought to the end

without wavering, without thought of national or individual advantages. The victors are to be victors for

civilization and the world, not for themselves. The contest upon which we are unitedly engaged will not only

end this war; upon its result will depend the extinction of all wars of aggression. No opportunity must ever

come again for any nation or people, or any combination of nations or peoples, however, strong or numerous,

to seek that universal domination shown by experience to be impossible, which, if it were possible, would

We are proud to be associated with America as Allies in so great a cause. Our duty thus keeps pace with our

obligation and both are guided by our highest desires. We, like you, have enlisted until the war is settled and

settled right; you, like ourselves, have no favors to ask, both merely ask that they may live their own lives,

settle their own problems, smooth out their common differences or difficulties, and do their best, along with

In the morningsOh, the tropical mornings When the bells are all so dizzily calling one to prayer! All my

thought was to watch from a nook in my window Indian girls from the river with flowers in their hair.

Some bore Fresh eggs in wicker boxes For the grocery store; Others, baskets of fruit; and some, The skins of

They all passed so stately by, they all walked so gracefully, Balancing their bodies on lithe unstable hips, As

if music moved them that swelled in their bosoms And was pizzicatti at their fingertips.

The rain, in Nicaragua, it is a witch they say; She puts the world into her bag and blows the skies away; And

so, in every home, the little children gather, Run up like little animals and kneel beside the Mother, So

"Sweet Jesu, you that stilled the storm in Galilee, Pity the homeless now, and the travelers by sea; Pity the

little birds that have no nest, that are forlorn; Pity the butterfly, pity the honey bee; Pity the roses that are so

Then, when the rain is over and the children's prayer is said, Oh, joy of swaying palmtrees with the

rainbows overhead, And the streets swollen like rivers, and the wet earth's smell, And all the ants with sudden

wings filling the heart with wonder, And, afar, the tempest vanishing with a stifled thunder In a glare of lurid

The park in Leon is but a garden Where grass and roses grow together; It has no ordinance, it has no warden

The paths are made of sand so fine That they are always smooth and neat; Sunlight and moonlight make them

Seem always to tread on magic ground That gleams, and that whispers curiously, For sand, when you tread it,

Sometimes the band, of a warm night, Makes music in that little park, And lovers haunt, beyond the bright

You can almost tell what they do and say Listening to the sound of the sand, How warm lips whisper, and

Blue, pink and yellow houses, and, afar, The cemetery, where the green trees are.

Sometimes you see a hungry dog pass by, And there are always buzzards in the sky. Sometimes you hear the

big cathedral bell, A blindman rings it; and sometimes you hear A rumbling oxcart that brings wood to sell.

Else nothing ever breaks the ancient spell That holds the town asleep, save, once a year, The Easter festival....

I come from there, And when I tire of hoping, and despair Is heavy over me, my thoughts go far, Beyond that

length of lazy street, to where The lonely green trees and the white graves are.

When the winter comes, I will take you to Nicaragua You will love it there! you will love my home, my

house in Nicaragua, So large and queenly looking, with a haughty air That seems to tell the mountains, the

It is shadowy and cool, Has a garden in the middle where fruit trees grow, And poppies, like a little army,

row on row, And jasmine bushes that will make you think of snow They are so white and light, so perfect and

The bath is in the garden, like a sort of pool, With walls of honeysuckle and orchids all around; The humming

birds are always making a sleep sound; In the night there's the Aztec nightingale; But when the moon is up, in

Nicaragua, The moon of Nicaragua and the million stars, It's the human heart that sings, and the heart of

In common with many other parts of the world, even some of those immediately involved, Latin America

received the outbreak of the European War with dismayed astonishment, with a feeling that it could not be

true, with mental confusion as to the real causes and objects of the conflict. A survey of newspapers from

Mexico to Cape Horn during August, 1914, to the end of that year shows plainly that for several months

public opinion had not cleared up, that the conflict seemed to be a frightful blunder, a terrific

misunderstanding, that might have been avoided, and for which no one nation in particular was to blame.

The deep love of Latin America for Latin Europe undoubtedly meant great sympathy for France; England,

too, the great investor in and developer of South America, was watched with good feeling; but Germany has

done much for Latin America commerce and shipping facilities, a work performed with skillfully regulated

tact, and very many sections of the southern republics were loath to believe that a nation so friendly and so

But as time went on evidence accumulated; the martyrdom of Belgium and Northern France, the use of

poisonous gas, the instigation of revolts in the colonies of the Entente Allies, the sinking of the "Lusitania,"

the shooting of Nurse Cavell, and above all the proofs of the enormous military preparations of Germany,

slowly convinced Latin America that a great scheme had long been perfected; the book of Tannenburg which

showed huge tracts of South America as part of the future world dominion of Germany was seen to be no

crazy dream of an individual but the revelation of a widely held Teutonic ideal. Many incidents occurring in

the United States and Canada, such as explosions and fires in factories of war materials, exposure of spies

and diplomatic intrigue, demonstrated a callous abuse of American hospitality which the more southerly

lands took to heart as lessons; their dawning perception of the network of German effort was further clarified

by the floods of Teutonic propaganda which covered every Latin American Republic and which was in many

Frank in their expression of opinion, no sooner had Latin Americans resolved in their own minds the

questions of responsibility for the war than they gave utterance to their opinions; journals avowed themselves

proAlly, large subscriptions were raised in many sections for the relief of the European sufferers,

particularly Belgium, and a number of young men joined the Entente armies. In Brazil, which was always

supposed to have a German bias on account of her large German colonies, some of the foremost publicists

and writers voluntarily formed the "Liga pelos Alliados" (League in favor of the Allies) with the famous

orator, Ruy Barbosa, at its head, and the prince of Brazilian poets, Olavo Bilac, as one of its most active

members; the League was organized early in 1915 and its meetings were characterized by the warmest

proAlly utterances; many members of the Brazilian Congress joined it, and I never heard any

Later in the same year Bilac, who is the object of fervent admiration, for Latin America often pays more

attention to her poets than to her politicians, showed that he foresaw the entry of his country into the conflict

by a passionate appeal to the youth of Brazil to fortify themselves with military discipline, in 1916 repeating

his "call to arms" in a tour throughout that great country. By this time the whole of Latin America was lined

up, the overwhelming mass of press and people declaring proAlly, and especially proFrench, sympathies,

while the few ranged in the opposite camp generally had special reasons for their choice, consisting of some

individual Germanic link. The fact of the prevalence of proAlly feeling, long before any of the American

countries became politically aligned is, I think, a remarkable tribute to the response of Latin America to the

weight of genuine evidence; no propaganda was made by any one of the Allied governments, and the

solidification of public opinion was due to Latin American feeling and not to outside pressure.

When, in April of this year, the United States was driven to a breach with Germany on account of the

torpedoing of her ships and loss of her citizens' lives, she was the greatest material sufferer from German

submarine aggression; if Latin America in general maintained at that date, and still in some sections

maintains, diplomatic relations with the Central Powers, it is largely because they have endured no specific

injury at German hands. Few Latin American States possess a merchant marine traversing the sea danger

zones. But the entry of the United States was regarded with warm approval; her cause was acknowledged to

be just and the Latin American press reflects nothing but admiration for her step. The Republics of Cuba,

Panama, Guatemala, Honduras, and in an informal manner, Costa Rica, as well as the more or less

Americancontrolled Nicaragua, Haiti and Santo Domingo, quickly aligned themselves with the United

Brazil, revoking her decree of neutrality in June, 1917, was perhaps influenced to some degree by the action

of the United States, but she had her own specific reason in the sinking of three of her merchant vessels by

German submarines; Brazil possesses an enterprising and good mercantile marine, has been carrying coffee

and frozen meat to Europe during the war and her ships have thus been constantly exposed to risk. The

sinking of her vessels raised a storm of anger, the popular voice warmly supporting the acts of the

government. Nor is the alignment of Brazil a mere declaration; she has taken over the fortysix German and

Austrian ships lying in her ports, and much of this tonnage, totaling 300,000 tons, is already in service after

three years' idleness, two of the vessels having been handed over to the use of the Allies. Brazil is also taking

over the patrol of a big strip of the southwestern Atlantic with fifteen units of her excellent navy.

Bolivia was another South American country which quickly followed the United States in breaking relations

with Germany, and this was done not because Bolivia had suffered at the hands of the Teutonic powers but

because she "wishes to show her sympathy with the United States and felt it the duty of every democracy to

ally itself with the cause of justice." With no coast and therefore no mercantile marine, Bolivia is however

greatly interested in the shipments of rubber and minerals which she sends abroad and some of which have

been sent to the bottom of the sea by torpedoes; her sympathies with the Entente Allies are undoubted.

On October 6 relations with Germany were broken by Peru, the determining factor being the torpedoing of

the Peruvian vessel "Lorton;" on October 7 the National Assembly of Uruguay voted for a break with

Germany, thus completing the attitude which she had frankly declared many months previously, when she

protested against Germany's methods in submarine warfare. Paraguay, although still formally neutral, has

Before I pass to a few quotations from Latin American sources on the subject of their spirit, it is well to look

across the seas to the Mother Countries, whose sentiments and actions have more effect upon Latin America

than is always remembered. There is, for instance, no doubt that the entry of Portugal into the war on the side

of her ancient ally, England, profoundly affected the Brazilian mind; the friendship between England and

Portugal dates from 1147, and an unbroken political treaty has lasted since 1386the longest in history;

[An English poet wrote in the Fourteenth Century: "Portingallers with us have troth in hand Whose

marchindise cometh much into England. They are our friends with their commodities And we English passen

Brazil as the child of Portugal inherited the English good feeling, her independence from the Mother Country

was effected without any prolonged bitterness, and with the actual assistance of England. When, then, Brazil

saw the people sprung from the cradle of her race fighting side by side with the ancient friend of both she was

deeply stirred. Portuguese merchants prosper in large numbers in Brazil, Portuguese news daily fills space in

the Brazilian newspapers; the cry of that great Portuguese, Theophilo Braga, found echoes in many a gallant

"And with what arms shall Portugal engage, So little as she is, in such great feats? They call on her to play a

In a corresponding degree there seems to be little doubt that the neutral attitude which Spain has maintained

is partly responsible for the neutrality of several South American countries; they do not forget the bloody

years of struggle before they attained independence from Spain, but they are wise enough to differentiate

between the policy of Ferdinand VII and the heart of Spain. Dr. Belisario Porras, the exPresident of

"For us of Central and South America, Iberianism is a matter of sentiment, affection and veneration, not a

matter of politics. Spain is our Mother Country, whence we came, where the names we bear are also borne,

where the memories and ashes of our ancestors are guarded, of whose deeds we are proud, whose tongue we

speak, whose religion we share, whose heroic character and customs we admire.... Spain is our pole star, the

star to which we raise our eyes when we are despairing and when we face a sacrifice for God, for a woman, a

Spain has had, of course, up to the present, no direct national injury to resent; she has on the other hand

several reasons for remaining politically neutral and can at present do so with honor; although she is weak

and poor, still exhausted by the long conflicts of her past, without resources, without any notable strength in

army or navy, she is serving as an indispensable channel of communication. She, as well as many South

American countries, can best aid the world by concentrating upon production; in addition to this, she is, in

company with Holland, rendering excellent service in feeding unhappy Belgium, replacing American

Spain is not intellectually neutral or unmindful of the effect of her attitude upon Latin America, and this is

shown by the number of newspapers on the Allies' side, as "La Epoca" and "La Correspondencia de Espana."

An immediate response was given to the proAlly utterances of the Conde de Romanones, who said on April

"Spain is the depository of the spiritual patrimony of a great race. She has historical aspirations to preside

over the moral confederation of all the nations of our blood, and this hope will be definitely destroyed if, at a

moment so decisive for the future as this, Spain and her children are shown to be spiritually divorced."

If Spain fails in leadership the love of Latin America for France will be the more emphasized, is the

conclusion one draws from the speeches and writings of IberoAmerica. The degree to which South America

feels herself involved in the fate of France is displayed in such dicta as this of Victor Viana, a Brazilian

"In the great Latin family, France is the educator, the leader, the example, the pride. Thus Brazil, in common

with all Latin countries, seeing in France the reservoir of mental energy, constantly renewed by her splendid

intellectuals, has as much interest in the victory of French arms as France herself. The overthrow of France

would have produced a generation of unbelievers and skeptics, and we, in another clime and a new country,

should not have been able to escape this influence, because we share all the movements of French thought.

The reaction of French energy which created the present generation spread throughout Brazil new sentiments

of patriotism.... The entire world, except naturally the combatants on the other side, recognize the justice of

the cause of France, which is the cause of all the other Allies, of Belgium which sacrificed herself, of

England which pledges her all to save the right, of the United States, of the entire Americas."

While I have been writing these notes the political situation of Argentina in regard to the war has suddenly

crystallized; extending over several months there has been a series of submarine attacks upon vessels of

Argentina, indignant protests in each case being met by apologies and promises of indemnity on the part of

Germany. There has been much irritation in spite of these promises, cumulative irritation, which however

might have remained submerged had it not been for the revelations of the acts of Count Luxburg, which have

made the expression "spurlos versekt" a byword. This exhibition of callous plotting against Argentine lives

immediately resulted in the handing of passports to the German Ambassador to Argentina, and during the

third week in September both houses of Congress voted by large majorities for a severance of relations with

Germany. That this step was not, at the moment, consummated, was due to President Irigoyen's wish to

accept the satisfaction offered by Germany; but the sentiments of Argentina as a whole have been fully

Their action plainly showed the temper of the Argentine people, who have certainly never been

unsympathetic to the Entente Allies' cause although they have shown some restiveness under rather tactless

attempts on the part of a section of the United States press to tutor them into line. The best thought of

Argentina has all along been with the Allies and this is exemplified by an article, "Neutrality Impossible,"

widely published and applauded in June of this year by the brilliant Argentine writer and poet Leopoldo

"Inevitably War knocks at our door. We are compelled to make a decision. Either we must respect the

integrity of our past in the name of the American solidarity which is the law of life and honor for all the

nations of the continent, revealing at the same time intelligence with regard to our own future, or we must

The United States broke relations with Germany on April 6. On April 7 Dr. Jose Manuel Cortina, speaking

before the Cuban House of Representatives, when the decree of war against Germany was passed, said:

"We have resolved to give our unanimous and definite consent to the proposition submitted to the House to

declare a state of war between the Republic of Cuba and the German Empire, and to join, in this great

conflagration of the world, our efforts to those of the United States of North America. We fight in this

conflict, which will decide the trend of all morality and civilization in the universe, united tot he great

republic which in a day not long distant drew her sword and fired her guns over Cuban fields and seas in

battle for our liberty and sovereignty. We go to fight as brothers beside that great people who have been ever

the friends and protectors of Cuba, who aided us during the darkest days of our tragic history, in moments

when opposed by enormous strength, we had nearly disappeared from the face of the earth, when we had no

other refuge, no other loyal and magnanimous friend than the great North American people."

Speech of the President of Haiti, M. Philippe Sudre Dartiguenave, on May 12, previous to Haiti's breach with

"What cause could be more holy than that defended at this moment, with unanimous and admirable

enthusiasm by the people of the United States, by Cuba, by a great deal of Latin America, in moral

cooperation with the Entente Powers! At Savannah, we fought with the soldiers of Washington for the

independence of the country of Franklin, of Lincoln, of John Brown.... At the cry of distress of Bolivar, did

we not throw ourselves into the South America's struggle for independence? The task before us in this

supreme moment is worthy, glorious, because it is that of international justice, the liberty of nations, of

As we have seen above, four of the Central American Republics have aligned themselves with the United

States since her entry into the war, Guatemala, Nicaragua and Honduras breaking off diplomatic relations

with Germany very shortly after the definite action of the United States was known, the statement of Don

Joaquin Mendez representing the prevalent feeling: "The rupture has aligned Guatemala 'ipso facto' with

those who are the defenders of the modern ideas of democracy and freedom." Small in size and limited in

resources, it is not likely that any active part will be taken by Central America in the war; she is removed

from the most dangerous zones and will not suffer, it is to be hoped, more than the inevitable and temporary

economic embarrassments due to dislocation of the world's industrial systems. But her spirit is reflected in

such announcements as this notice from the front page of a little daily paper published in S. Pedro Sula,

"This periodical is Latin and as such professes its sympathy in favor of the Allied nations now struggling so

nobly in defense of Liberty with, as their aim, the establishment of a lasting peace which will render

The position of Costa Rica, informally aligned with the Allies and the United States, is peculiar in that she

cannot formalize her position until her new government has received the recognition of these countries. Don

Ricardo Fernandez Guardia, the foremost writer of Costa Rica, says that, "The fact that we have offered the

use of our ports, since April 9, 1917, to the navy of the United States, undoubtedly constitutes a breach of

neutrality, and in consequence Costa Rica considers herself as enlisted in the ranks of the Allies 'de facto.'

There is an overwhelming sentiment of sympathy with the Allies both on the part of the government and the

Panama, immediately following the news of the United States' breach with Germany, declared herself "ready

to do all within her power to protect the Panama Canal"; Uruguay, although making no breach of relations

with the Central Powers, supported United States action and denounced submarine warfare as carried on by

Germany; Paraguay, too, expressed her sympathy with the United States which she said "was forced to enter

Thus the only Latin American nations which have rigidly preserved a neutral attitude are Mexico, whose own

internal problems form an entirely sufficient reason; Ecuador, Venezuala and Colombia. They are still

political neutrals, but no one who knows the Latin soul can doubt that there is in each of these lands a strong

feeling of admiration for the vindication of Latin elasticity which France and Italy and Portugal have show,

and for the dogged might of England whose naval skill has prevented the strangulation of the commerce of

the world; in this matter all these lands are interested, since all are rawmaterial producers shipping their

products abroad. This sentiment was concisely expressed by Ruy Barbosa, the Brazilian orator, when on

August 5 the "Liga pelos Alliados" held a meeting of "homage to England" on the third anniversary of her

entry into the war, and he declared it "an honor and pleasure to salute the great English nation to whom we

owe in this war the liberty of the seas and the annihilation of German methods upon the ocean, without which

European resistance to the German attack and the preservation of the independence of the American continent

Nothing would, I think, be more improper than that any nation should be urged to enter the war against her

own feelings; but for those who have taken or may yet take that step there is one very high consideration

which cannot be forgottenthe effect upon the national spirit of Tomorrow of a gallant and decisive

attitude Today. Who has more finely expressed this sense of the formation of the heritage of ideas than the

Even as the winds the pinewood cones down cast Upon the ground and scatter by their blowing And one by

one, down to the very last, The seeds along the mountain ridge are sowing. Even so, by winds of time, ideas

are strewn Little by little, though none see them fly And thus in all the fields of life are sown The vast

One! two, three, four! One! two, three, four! One, two!... It is hard to keep in time Marching through The

rutted slime With no drum to play for you. One! two, three, four! And the shuffle of five hundred feet Till the

Then the wet New England valley With the purple hills around Takes us gently, musically, With a kindly

Battle fields are far away. All the world about me seems The fulfillment of my dreams. God, how good it is

Now, as never before, From the vastness of the sky, Falls on me the sense of war. Now, as never before,

Comes the feeling that to die Is no duty vain and sore. Something calls and speaks to me: Cloud and hill and

stream and tree; Something calls and speaks to me, From the earth, familiarly. I will rise and I will go, As the

rivers flow to sea, As the sap mounts up the tree That the flowers may blow God, my God, All my soul is

God, my God, Your world is much too beautiful! I feel My senses melt and reel, And my heart aches as if a

sudden steel Had pierced me through and through. I cannot bear This vigorous sweetness in your air; The

sunlight smites me heavy blow on blow, My soul is black and blue And blind and dizzy. God, my mortal eyes

Cannot resist the onslaught of your skies! I am no wind, I cannot rise and go Tearing in madness to the woods

and sea; I am no tree, I cannot push the earth and lift and grow; I am no rock To stand unmovable against this

shock. Behold me now, a too desirous thing, Passionate lover of your ardent Spring, Held in her arms too

fast, too fiercely pressed Against her thundering breast That leaps and crushes me!

So it shall be In Flanders or in France. After a long Winter of heavy burdens and loud war, I will forget, as I

do now, all things Except the perfect beauty of the earth. Strangely familiar, I will hear a song, As I do now,

above the battle roar, That will set free my pent imaginings And quiet all surprise. My body will seem lighter

than the air, Easier to sway than a green stalk of corn; Heaven shall bend above me in its mirth With flutter of

blue wings; And singing, singing, as today it sings, The earth will call to me, will call and rise And take me

to its bosom there to bear My mortalfeeble being to new birth Upon a world, this world, like me reborn,

"Portugal is going solemnly to affirm on the field of battle her adhesion to this precept, though uttered by

German lips. In defense of it, Portuguese will fight side by side with Englishmen, as they fought with them at

Aljubarrota, side by side with Frenchmen, who fought with them at Montes Claros. Were it necessary to

appeal to a motive less disinterested than the noble ideal proclaimed by Schiller, we have this: the payment of

an ancient debt to which our honor binds us. Let us go forward to defend territories of those who defended

ours, let us maintain the independence of nations who contributed to the salvation of our own independence.

"But the objective is a higher one, I repeat. This has been made quite clear within the last few months,

through the revolution in Russia, the participation of the United States, and the solidarity, more or less

effective, of all the democracies. It is the people's struggle for right, for liberty, for civilization against the

dark forces of despotism and barbarism. Portugal would betray her historic mission were she now to fold her

arms, the arms which discovered worlds. When the earth was given to man, it was not that it should be

peopled by slaves. The sails of Portuguese ships surrounded the globe like a diadem of stars, not as a collar of

I have received your letter of August 2nd, in which you ask me, as representing Portugal, to send a message

to the American people to be printed in the book "Defenders of Democracy," and state that a distinguished

Portuguese official has been good enough to mention my name to you as that of "an authoritative writer on

I am sensible of the honor done me, but not being a citizen of Portugal, I dare not presume to speak for that

A foreigner however, with friends in both the camps in which Portuguese society is divided, may perhaps be

able to state some facts unknown to the American public and of interest at the present time.

And first let me remark that the entry of America into the war, which is a pledge of victory for the Allies, has

been a surprise and a relief to the Portuguese, who are by nature pessimists. We AngloSaxons are

considered to be mainly guided in our conduct by material considerationsdid not Napoleon call the English

"a nation of shopkeepers"?and the saying "Time is money" is frequently quoted against us; hence hardly

any Portuguese imagined that America would abandon the neutrality which seemed commercially profitable,

and even after the decision had been taken, few though that the United States were capable of raising a large

Now that America and Portugal are fighting side by side, in a common cause, it is well that they should

understand one another. For all their differences of race, religion and language, their ideas are similar. The

Portuguese being kindly, easygoing folk, hate militarism and the reign of brute force which is identified

with German "Kultur." As they prize their independence and know their weakness, both inclination and

necessity lead them to the side of the powers who may be supposed to favor the continuance of their separate

existence and the retention by them of their colonies; as they have a keen sense of justice, and respect their

engagements, they feel and have shown their sympathy with violated and outraged Belgium and with the

other victims of German aggression. Why then, it may be asked, did they not support wholeheartedly the

Government of the Republic when it determined to take part in the war? The answer is simple.

They felt that their first duty was to protect their colonies, threatened by the enemy, and that in a war where

the combatants are counted by millions, the small contingent that Portugal could furnish would be of little

weight on the battlefields of Europe. Unless treaty obligations and considerations of honor forced them to be

belligerents, they considered that as Portugal was poor and had relatively to population almost the heaviest

public debt of any European Country, they ought to remain neutralthat this view was mistaken is daily

becoming clearer to them, thanks in part to the propaganda of the Catholic paper "Ordem" and the official

Monarchist journal "Diario Nacional," which have insisted as strongly as the Republican press on the

necessity of Portuguese participation in the war, in accord with her ancient traditions. He who risks nothing,

gains nothing. By her present heavy sacrifices for a great ideal, Portugal wins a fresh title to universal

consideration, and by helping to vanquish Germany she defends her oversea patrimony, which the Germans

I have said that the ideas of the United States and Portugal are similar. But the pressing needs of Portugal are

a competent administration, public order and social discipline, which Germany possesses to a remarkable

degree, and admiration of these has laid Portuguese Conservatives open to the charge of being proGerman.

Many of them judge from experience that the desiderata I refer to cannot be secured in a democracy, while a

few of them have gone so far as to desire a German triumph, because they foolishly thought that the Kaiser

would restore the monarchy. None of them, I think, sympathize with German methods; but they have suffered

from a century of revolutions, dating from 1820, and attribute these disasters to the antiChristian ideas of

the French Revolution. In America that great movement had beneficent results, as I understand, which only

Divergent ideals and other considerations led Portuguese Conservatives to throw their influence into the scale

in favor of neutrality, but now that their country is at war they have accepted the fact and can be trusted to do

their duty. At the front political and other differences are forgotten and the soldiers, whatever their creed, are

honoring the warlike traditions of their race and reminding us of the days when Wellington spoke of

By organizing with great efforts and sending a properly trained and equipped expeditionary force to France,

the Government of the Republic has deserved well of the country and the Allies, and I believe that it has

unconsciously been the agent of Divine Providence. The men, when they return will bring with them a firmer

religious faith, the foundation of national wellbeing, and a higher standard of conduct than prevails here at

present; they may well prove the regenerators of a land which all who know it learn to love, a land, the past

achievements of whose sons in the cause of Christianity and civilization are inscribed on the ample page of

history. Portugal which produced so many saints and heroes, which founded the sea road to India and

discovered and colonized Brazil, cannot be allowed longer to vegetate, for this in the case of a country means

A Serbian politician, conversing with a traveler from Western Europe, mentioned the words "a nice national

balance;" and when the other, bored to death with the everlasting wrangle of the turbulent Balkans, tried to

lead the conversation to Shakespeare and the Musical Glasses, away from Macedonia and Albania and

"komitadjis" and KotzoVlachs, the Serbian remarked with a laugh that the nice national balance of which he

"You see," he said, "we Serbians are born peasants, born agriculturists, men of the glebe and the plow. The

Roumanian, on the other hand, is a born financier. Gold comes to his hand like fish to bait. He comes to

"No! Not a bit! For it is the young Serbian who marries the Roumanian's daughter, and the young Serbian girl

who marries the Roumanian's son. Thus the Serbian money, earned by the Roumanian, is still kept in the

country. You know," he added musingly, "the Roumanians are a singularly handsome, a singularly engaging

For, clear away from the days when the Slavs made their first appearance in Southern Europe and, crossing

the Danube, came to settle on the great, green, rolling plain between the river and the jagged frowning Balkan

Mountains, the proceeded southwards and formed colonies among the ThracoIllyrians, the Roumanians, and

the Greeks, to the days of Michael the Brave who drove the Turks to the spiked gates of Adrianople and freed

half the peninsula for a span of years; from the days when gallant King Mirtsched went down to glorious

defeat amongst the Osmanli yataghans to the final day when the Russian Slav liberated the Roumanian Latin

from the Turkish yoke, the Roumanian has held high the torch of civilization and culture.

For he stood in the path of the most gigantic racial movements of the world. His land was the scene of savage

racial struggles. His rivers ran red with the blood of Hun and Slav, of Greek and Albanian, of Osmanli and

Seljuk. His fields and pastures became the dumpingground of residual shreds of a dozen and one nations

surviving from great defeats or Pyrrhic victories and nursing irreconcilable mutual racial hatreds.

But the old Latin spirit proved stronger than Fate, stronger than numbers, stronger than brute force. It proved

strong enough to assimilate the foreign barbarians, instead of becoming assimilated by them. It was strong

enough to wipe out every trace of Asian and Slavic taint. It was strong enough to keep intact the Latin idea

against the steely shock of Asian hordes, the immense, crushing weight of Slave fatalism, the subtleties of

His cultural ideal was, and is, of the West, of Rome of FranceAND of Himself; and he has kept it inviolate

Roumania has remained a window of Europe looking toward Asia as surely and as steadily as Petrograd was

The Roumanian is proud of his Latin descent; and he shows his ancestry not only in his literature, his art, and

his every day life, but also, perhaps chiefly, in his government which is practically a safe and sane oligarchy,

modeled on that of ancient Florence, and, be it said, fully as successful as that of the Florentine Republic.

Latin, too, is his diplomacy. It is cleanAND clever. It is the big stick held in a velvet glove. It is supremely

able. He seeks a great advantage with a modest air, in contrast to the Greek who seeks a modest advantage

He seeks no "reclame," but goes ahead serenely, unfalteringly, sure in his knowledge that he is the

There is a strange saying in Russia that no matter what happens to a man, good results to him thereby. No

matter what hairbreadth escapes he has, what calamities he faces, what hardships he undergoes, he emerges

more powerful, more experienced from the ordeal. Danger and privation are more beneficial in the long run

than peace and joy. A nation of some fifty different races gradually melting into one, a country covering a

territory of onesixth of the surface of the earth and a population of 185,000,000, the Russians have remained

to the outside world the apaches of Europe, wild tribes of the steppes. In the imagination of an average

American or Englishman, Russia was something Asiatic, something connected with the barbaric East, a

country beyond the horizon. It was considered as lacking in culture and civilization, and as a menace to the

West. "Nichevo, sudiba!"(It doesn't matter, everything is fate) replies a Russian, crossing himself. The

whole psychology of the Slavic race is crystallized in these two impressionistic words.

What John Ruskin said in his famous historic essay applies to Russia: "I found that all the great nations

learned their truth of word and strength of thought in war." Every great Russian reform has taken place

suddenly as a consequence of some nationwide calamity. The Tartar invasion united Russia into one

powerful nation; the Crimean War abolished the feudal system; the RussoTurkish War gave the judicial

reforms and abolished capital punishment; the RussoJapanese War gave the preliminary form of

Constitutional government in the Duma; the present war is opening the soul of Russia to the world by giving

an absolute democratic form of government to the united Slavic race. The present war will reveal that Russia

The outside world is wondering how the Russian character will fit in with the aspirations of democracy. They

cannot reconcile the Russia of pogroms and Serbia with the Russia of wonderful municipal theaters, great

artists, writers, musicians and lovers of humanity. The world has known the tyrants like Plehve, Trepoff,

Orloff and Stolypin, or others like Rasputin, Protopopoff and forgets that Russia has also produced geniuses

like Dostoyewsky, Turgenieff, Tchaikowsky, Tolstoy, Moussorgsky, RimskyKorsakoff, Mendeleyeff and

Metchnikoff. The world has looked at Russia as a land of uncultivated steppes, of frozen ground, hungry

bears and desperate Cossacks, and forgets that in actuality this is the Russia of the past very extreme surface

and next to it is a Russia of great civilization and the highest art, unknown yet to the West generally.

One of the strangest peculiarities of Russian life is that you will find the greatest contrasts everywhere. Here

you will see the most luxurious castles, cathedrals, convents, villas and estates; there you will find the most

desolate huts of the moujiks and lonely hermit caves in the wilds of Siberia. Here you will meet the most

selfish chinovnik, the most fanatic desperado or reckless bureaucrat; there you face the noblest men and

women, supermen, physically and mentally. You will find that all Russian life is full of such mental and

This is the dualism that confronts like a sphinx the foreigners. In the same way you will find that the Russian

homes are full of contrasting colors, bright red and yellow, white and blue. The Russian music is the most

dramatic phonetic art ever created; it reaches the deepest sorrow and the gayest hilarity and joy. Dreamy,

romantic, imaginary, simple, hospitable and childlike as an average moujik, is the soul of the people.

Nowhere is there a hint of those qualities which are thrown up as dark shadows on the canvas of his horizon.

While with one hand Russia has been conquering the world, with the other she has been creating the most

magnificent masterpieces of humanity. In the same generation she produces a Plehve and a Tolstoy, both in a

In the popular American imagination, which invariably seizes upon a single point, three things stand out as

representative of Russia: the moujiks, the Cossacks and the Siberian penal system. The vast unknown spaces

between these three have been filled in with the dark colors of poverty and oppression, so that a Russian is

the Russia of the dark powers is past; thus soon will pass the Russian chinovnik, the Russian spy and the

Russian gloom, who have been a shadow of the Slavic race. From now all the world will listen to the majestic

masterpieces of the Russian composers, see the infinite beauty of the Russian life and feel the greatness of the

Russian soul. Not only has Russia her peculiar racial civilization, her unique art and literature, and national

traditions, but she has riches of which the outside world knows little, riches that are still buried. The Russian

stage, art galleries, archives, monastery treasuries and romantic traits of life remain still a sealed book to the

outsiders. Take for instance, Russian music, the operas of RimskyKorsakoff, the plays of Ostrowsky and the

symphonies of Reinhold Gliere or Spendiarov and you will have eloquent chapters of a modern living Bible.

No music of another country is such a true mirror of a nation's racial character, life, passion, blood, struggle,

despair and agony, as the Russian. One can almost see in its turbulentlugubrious or buoyanthilarious

chords the rich colors of the Byzantine style, the half Oriental atmosphere that surrounds everything with a

The fundamental purpose of the pathfinders of Russian art, music, literature and poetry was to create beauties

that emanated, not from a certain class or school, but directly from the souls of the people. Their ideal was to

create life from life. Though profound melancholy seems to be the dominant note in Russian music and art,

yet along with the dramatic gloom go also reckless hilarity and boisterous humor, which often whirl one off

one's feet. This is explained by the fact that the average Russian is extremely emotional and consequently

dramatic in his artistic expressions. Late Leo Tolstoy said to me on one occasion: "In our folksong and folk

art is evidently yearning without end, without hope, also power invisible, the fateful stamp of destiny, and the

fate in preordination, one of the fundamental principles of our race, which explains much that in Russian life

Thus the Russian art and soul in their very foundations are already democratic, simple, direct and true to the

ethnographic traits of the race. In the same way you will find the Russian home life, the peasant communities,

the zemstvoe institutions, offsprings of an extremely democratic tendency, perhaps far more than any such

institution of the West. Instead of the rich or noblemen absorbing the land of the peasants, we find in Russia

the peasant commune succeeding tot he property of the baron. An average Russian peasant is by far more

democratic and educated, irrespective of his illiteracy than an average farmer of the New World. He has the

culture of the ages in his traditions, religion and national folkarts. Russia has more than a thousand

municipal theaters, more than a hundred grand operas, more than a hundred colleges and universities or

musical conservatories. Russia has a wellorganized system of cooperative banks and stores and a marvelous

artelsystem of the working professional classes which in its democratic principles surpasses by far the labor

union systems of the West. Herr von Bruggen, the eminent German historian writes of the Russian tendency

as follows: "Wherever the Russian finds a native population in a low state of civilization, he knows how to

settle down with it without driving it out or crushing it; he is hailed by the natives as the bringer of order, as a

I have always preached and continue to do so in the future, that Russia and the United States should join

hands, know and love each other, the sooner the better. Russia needs the active spirit, the practical grasp of

the things, which the people of the United States possess. Nothing will help and inspire an average Russian

more than the sincere democratic hand of an American. A dose of American optimism and active spirit is the

best toxin for free Russia. On the other hand, the American needs just as much Russian emotionalism,

aesthetic culture and mystic romanticism, as he can give of his racial qualities.

The old system having gone, Russia is free to open her national, spiritual and physical treasures. For some

time to come neither Germany nor other European countries, will be able to go to Russia, for even if the war

does not last long, its havoc will take years to repair. Endless readjustments will have to take place in each

country affected by the war. Russia, being more an agricultural, intellectualaristocratical country, will fell

least of all the after effects of the past horrors, therefore has the greatest potentialities. There is not only a

great work, adventure and romance that waits an American pioneer in Russia, but a great mission which will

ultimately benefit both nations. It should be understood that the Russian democracy will not be based upon

the economicindustrial, but aestheticintellectual principles of life. It is not the money, the financial power

that will play the dominant role in free Russia, but the ideal, the dramatic, the romantic or mystic tendency.

Money will never have that meaning in Russia which it has in the West. It will be the individual, the

emotional, the great symbol of the mystic beyond, that will speak from future democratic Russia only in a

As Lincoln is the living voice of the American people, thus Tolstoy is and remains the glorified Russian

peasant uttering his heart to the world. The voice of this man alone is sufficient to tell the outside world that

the Russian democracy is a creation not of form and economics but of spirit and aesthetics.

Petka had been for years a village tailor but he had never been able to save enough money to open a

grocerystore. He hated his profession and hated to think that he could never get anything higher in the social

rank of the place than what he was. While the name of a tailor sounded to him so cheap, that of a merchant

flattered his ambition immensely. But there was no chance to earn the five hundred rubles, which, he thought,

"If I marry a poor peasant girl like Tina or Vera, I'll never get anywhere," soliloquized Petka and made plans

Petka knew a girl with two hundred rubledowry, but she was awfully homely and deaf; and he knew a

widow with three hundred rubles, but she was twenty years older than himself. It was a critical situation.

One day Petka heard that the daughter of an old peddler had a dowry of five hundred rubles, exactly the

amount he needed. After careful planning of the undertaking he hired a horse and drove to the lonely cottage

of the rag peddler to whom he explained as clearly as he could, the purpose of his visit.

"My Liz ain't at home," the old man replied. "She is in that distant country called America. Good Lord, Liza

is a lady of some distinction. If you should see her on the street you would never take her for my daughter.

She wears patentleather shoes, kidgloves, corsets and such finery. Why, I suppose she has a proposal for

Petka listened with throbbing heart to the thrilling story of the old man, scratched his head and said:

"I suppose that she is employed in some high class establishment or something like that?"

"Of course, she is," grunted the peddler proudly. "She might be employed or she might not. She has written to

"She is employed as the waitress in a lunchroom on the so called Second Avenue corner at New York. And

her salary reaches often thirty dollars a month, which represents a value in our money of something over sixty

rubles. Now that is not a joke. She has all the food and lodging free. Why, it's a real goldmine."

"She has five hundred dollars in the savings bank, and she has all the hats and shoes, and gloves and such

The happy father pulled the daughter's letter from the bottom of his bed and reached it over to the visitor.

Petka read and reread the letter with breathless curiosity. In the letter which was also a small snapshot

picture of the girl. Petka looked at the picture and did not know what to say. To judge from her photograph,

she was a frail spinster, with high cheekbones, a long neck and a nose like a frozen potato. But the trimming

of her hair, her city hat with flowers, and her whole American bearing made her interesting enough to the

"Do you think that Liza would marry a man like me? I am a well known tailor. But I have now a chance to

become a merchant in our village. I need some money to make up the difference, and why not try the luck?

Liza might be a well known waitress in New York, but to be a merchant's wife is a different thing. Don't you

The old peddler puffed at his pipe, walked to the window and back as if measuring the matter most seriously.

"It all dependsyou know Liza is a queer girlit all depends on how you strike her with a strong letter.

You could not go to New York and make the proposal personally. It has to be done by mail. It all depends

how well the letter is written, how everything is explained and how the idea of being a merchant's wife strikes

"Of course, she can. Liza is a lady of some standing. She can write and read like our priest. She is a highly

Petka took Liza's address, drank a glass of vodka to the success of the plan and left the old peddler still

harping on his daughter. All the way home and many days afterwards Petka could think of nothing else. It

seemed to him the greatest opportunity in the world to marry a girl from America. But now and then he got

skeptical of his ability to get such a prize. However, he decided to try. He admitted that the whole success lay

in the shaping of a strong and convincing letter and sending it to her properly. Petka knew how to write

letters, but the question was would his style be impressive enough to influence a girl in America to come to

Russia and marry a man whom she had never seen? However, Petka knew Platon, the village saloonkeeper,

as the most gifted man for that purpose. But in a case like this he hated to take anybody into his confidence.

After arriving home Petka began to practice, writing a love letter every day. But nothing came of it. One

letter was too mild, the other too extravagant. Finally he gave it up, and whispered his secret to the

"Now, old man, do me the great favor and I'll fix you up when I get her dowry. I want the letter to be strong

The innkeeper consented. But Petka had to tell all the details and the specifications. Evan Platon admitted

that it required some skill to write the letter. When he had thought the matter over carefully, made some notes

and discussed the subject with Petka from every angle, he took a long sheet of paper, glued a rose in the

"Highly respected Mademoiselle Liza:You have never been in our village, but it is a peach. I am the cream

of the place. I have here all the girls I need. I have a house and my business. But the point is I want to open a

store and need a wife with experience. We have all the money. But I need some capital to begin. As you have

all that and besides, I have fallen in love with you, I lay the offer before your tender feet. Your beautiful

image has haunted me day and night, and your wonderful eyes follow me in my dreams, oh, you lovely rose!

If you are ready to marry a merchant like myself, do not waste any time, but come over and let's have a

marriage ceremony as the world has never seen here. However, before you do come, send me an early reply

"It's bully, it's superb," praised the tailor. "But it lacks the tender touch. It lacks that style which the city

"I put in the punch, but you can add a love poem from some schoolbook if you like," protested the

innkeeper. "The city girls are funny creatures. Sometimes they like the finger, other times the fist. Who

knows the taste of your Liza! The waitresses of big cities are usually broadminded and highly educated."

After the poem was added and another rose glued on the corner of the letter, it was mailed, registered, with a

note "highly urgent," and Petka breathed freely, like one who had survived a great ordeal.

Two months of heavy waiting passed and still no reply from Liza. Petka was like one on thorns. His strange

romance was already known to his neighbors and now everybody was expecting the letter from America to

One afternoon as the tailor was sewing a pair of trousers the alderman of the village brought him a registered

letter from America. Nearly half the village population had gathered outside, curious to hear the content of

the letter. Petka took tremblingly and greatly excited the letter and rushed to Platon, the innkeeper, all the

time followed by the crowd. All the audience gathered in the inn and Platon was instructed to read it aloud to

the gathering. As it was a ceremonial event of rare occasion, the innkeeper stood up, and began in a solemn

"My dear Petka: I am most happy to reply to your valued letter of the fifteenth of July, that I am glad to

accept your proposal. But everything must be all right. I can marry only a man of the merchant class. I know

the business and I can supply you with the capital you need. But you must remember that I do not like to be

fooled and marry a man beneath me. No peasant or tailor for me. I stand here very high and cannot ruin my

name. You have not told me your age, but I suppose you are not an old fogey. I will follow this letter next

month, so you fix the wedding ceremony, secure all the musicians and manage the meals, drinks and such

While Platon was reading the letter Petka gazed dreamily out of the window and built, not an air castle, but a

large grocery store, with showy windows. It seemed as if he saw his store already opened, the people going

and coming, the shelves filled with cans and packages. The sign "Merchant Petka" hung in his eyes.

The letter was like a bomb in the idyllic village. Plans were made of the wedding date and elaborate

ceremony. The village Luga had never witnessed yet a marriage ceremony of this magnitude. The American

bride was like a fairy princess of some ancient times. Petka was like one in a trance. But Vasska, the

blacksmith, opposed to the idea of such a strange marriage, pounded his hand against the bar, exclaiming:

"Liza may be all right, but Petka should not marry her. What do we know about an American woman? What

do we know about her habits? I've been told funny stories about such strange women. I've heard that nearly

every American woman paints her cheeks, dyes her hair, wears false teeth, puts up bluffs and does everything

to deceive a man. Spit at her capital. Besides, this American Liza is a woman whom nobody here knows."

The blacksmith's arguments were taken seriously by the others and a gloom came over the gathered gossips.

"American Liza must be a refined girl, and she has the money. That's what Petka wants, and that's what he

will get. So we better let the wedding take place and see what will happen. I've heard that an American

woman looks at the marriage as a business proposition, so we let her do what she pleases."

"Business or no business, but we take the marriage seriously. If a man makes up his mind that he likes a

woman, he must marry her, and once he has married her, no ax or pike shall separate them. No monkeying

Petka turned the conversation to the subject of the wedding meals and music. The whole program of the

ceremony was analyzed and discussed in detail, some maintaining that the American custom was to eat with

forks and knives from the plates, others that only uncooked meat was eaten and frogs served as delicacies.

"All city women like fun and don't care about serious affairs. They have the theaters and operas for

amusements, so we better get a real amusement for American Liza. The best fun would be a huge

hurdygurdy or something of that kind, an instrument with sensation. Our village violins and harps are too

After discussing the matter at length, the innkeeper agreed to take care of the entertainment. A short cable

was composed and sent to Liza and the wedding date clearly explained. All the village got alive with the

The three weeks of preparation for the wedding festival passed like a dream. The Sunday, that was to be the

final date, began bright and cheerful. Petka was hustling to and fro in his newly rented house, the front of

which was to be arranged for the grocery store, strutted like a big rooster preparing the affairs of his flock. At

the entrance of the house was hung a big flag. Long tables were arranged in all the rooms, covered with

meats, drinks and delicacies, all prepared in the village. Women were still busy baking other foods, frying

meats and boiling water for tea or drinks. Everybody was busy and everything looked most solemn and

impressive. The host was dressed in a picturesque new suit of clothes with a silk scarf around his neck.

While the groom was busy with preparing his heart for joy, the innkeeper was solving the problem of the

entertainment. He had constructed, what he thought to be distinctly American, a huge musicbox, which was

to produce the most wonderful tones ever heard. This instrument had the appearance of a big winecask and

yet a streetorgan at the same time, and was an invention of the ingenious innkeeper. It was practically a

barrel, covered with illustrations of old Sunday newspapers and countyfair posters. To its side was fastened

an improvised lever, made from a broken cartwheel. Under this barrel, concealed so that no one could see

within, were placed three most prominent musicians of the village, Ivan with his violin, Semen with his

concertina and Nicholas with his drum. As soon as the conductor outside pulled a string, the lever began to

turn around and the musicians in the barrel had to start to play. In the corner of the house this strange

instrument looked like a mysterious engine, one knew not whether to expect it to develop into a flying or

At last everything was ready. The guests began to arrive and the carriage was sent to the town to bring the

bride. Everybody was in festival attire and all tuned to expect the utmost excitements the village had ever

had. One could see the people in groups of three or four, discussing in a high pitch of voice the wonders of

the wedding festival or venturing various guesses about the American bride. The village girls, who were not a

little jealous, nudged each other and exchanged meaning glances, that Petka was to get in a fix he had never

been before. All were anxious to see the arrival of the two thousandruble bride. The blacksmith and the

"Say what you want, but this kind of matrimonial affair is the limit," argued the blacksmith, pushing back his

hat. "I can't see how a woman comes such a distance and so many weeks to marry Petka, whom she has never

seen, and how Petka gets the crazy thought to marry a city woman whom he does not know. Something is

"My dear Vasska, it's the education, the refinement and all that which I and you can do without," grunted the

Vasska rubbed his fists and spat vigorously. The innkeeper tried to mollify him by saying that he should not

All the guests rushed out to see her. And there she was, in a big flowertrimmed hat, with a silk parasol, and

all the wonderful fineries. She looked so elegant, so superior that the village women, accustomed to their

rural simplicity, felt overawed. The groom hurrying with throbbing heart to open the gates of the frontyard

bowed almost to the ground to the dazzling reality of his romantic dreams. He was so confused by this

"Yes, mademoiselle, gracious yes," stammered the groom nervously, wiping the tears of joy from his eyes.

"Gee, Petka, you are a nice boy!" gushed the bride, trying to show the quality of her refinement.

She took his both hands and whispered that he should kiss them gracefully in the American manner. Then she

leaned her head on his shoulder and sighed. These American manners so embarrassed the groom that he

blushed and dropped his eyes. But after all, was she not a highly educated American lady? And of course, she

Though Liza looked ten years older than Petka, yet she had all the city air, the American manners and style,

and most important of all, she had the capital. The first question Liza asked was whether they had a manicure,

hairdresser and bootblack in the village. No one had ever heard that such functionaries existed, so the

groom explained excitedly that he would take her after the wedding to the town where she could get what she

wanted. Petka carried the trunk and the five suitcases into he house, implements which on one had ever

seen. All the novelties and sensations were so great that the guests and the groom felt dazed for a moment.

"We do not have such American drinks. We have kvas, beer, vodka and all the homemade cordials,"

"But you must have some highballs or cocktails at least," went on the bride with an affected gesture.

"My gracious, there we are!" groaned the groom, and shrugged denyingly his shoulders. "We've never

"Mademoiselle Liza, I beg your pardon," interrupted the innkeeper seriously. "We can arrange the balls and

the tails, but you see we are simply country people and keep our bowels in order. City amusements put our

The groom felt embarrassed and did not know what to do. He bowed apologetically before his bride and tried

to please her in every possible way. He imitated her gestures and manners, her shrugs and voice. He even

kept his hands on his breast, as was Liza's manner. Finally the bride asked whether there was any

entertainment prepared as she had asked. The groom gave the innkeeper a hint and the latter said that he

would do his best. The three musicians were already concealed with their instruments in a big barrel and the

imposing organist began his function. Strains of an unique music issued from the decorated musicbox.

Everybody at once rushed into the room. All stared amazed at the strange contrivance which played at one

and the same time concertina, violin and drum. It was like a miracle, gripping and inspiring.

"I bet you this would interest your American audiences," remarked the innkeeper to the bride.

"It beats the Coney Island noise," stammered Liza, and took up the conversation with a village woman.

All the house now was jollity. The room was bursting of the powerful music, the laughter and the loud

conversation of the guests. How it happened no one knows, but one of the women had placed a bowl with hot

punch on the music box. Whether through an accident, or the excitement of the organist, the vessel broke, and

the punch leaked through the cracks and holes into the instrument. Suddenly the music stopped, although the

conductor was still industriously turning the lever. Then were heard mysterious voices and sounds as if of

muffled exclamations. Everybody looked at the musicbox, which began to quake and tremble as if a ghost

were within. Then arose fierce yells and agonizing cries, mixed with loud curses. Before anybody could

realize what had happened, three angry musicians leaped from the music instrument, the steaming punch

"Good Lord, what's this?" gasped the men while the women shrieked and fled. One of the musicians put his

"Semen, don't be a fool. I didn't do it. By Jove, I didn't do it," exclaimed apologetically the organist,

No one replied. And when the people realized what had happened, everybody roared. No one who glanced at

the overturned music instrument and at the musicians, with their punchdropping heads could restrain their

laughter. Even the pompous bride found it so funny that she laughed with the rest.

When the excitement was over and the dessert was ready the wedding guests once more took their seats at the

table. The innkeeper, thinking that this was the moment to settle the matter of dowry, before the actual

marriage act could be performed by the priest, knocked on the table for quiet. Then he arose, wiped his beard

"Friends, this is a very unusual ceremony, our best known citizen and friend Petka, marrying a girl from

America. Petka loves Liza, it is all right. But I know and so all our guests know, that Petka expected the bride

to bring a fat dowry. Now we all would like to see the bride place her dowry upon the table before she is

declared the wife of our friend, Petka. We think that in justice to the guests she ought to do that, because it

was understood that she bring the money and we give her the husband. Don't you think, friends and guests,

Everybody shouted "Bravo, innkeeper," only the groom and the bride sat silent with downcast eyes. Finally

the bride glanced at Petka, pulled a bag from her dress, opened it and laid a bunch of green bills on the table.

All eyes stared in awe at the money, and the guests were so silent that one could hear the beating of their

hearts. Only the purring of the cats, looking curiously down from the big stove, was to be heard.

"Here is the dowry, right here. It is in American money, one thousand dollars, which is equal to two thousand

The innkeeper took the bills, looked at them curiously, turned them over and over and shook his head. The

blacksmith took one bill after the other, and did the same. For several minutes everybody was quiet. The

"organist" who sat next to the innkeeper, took the money, looked at it still more closely and then smelled it.

Taking one of the bills in his hand, he rose and showed it to all the guests and asked:

"The money is all right. I rushed to reach the train so I had no time to exchange it into your rubles," replied

"It might be all right," replied the innkeeper, "but what do we know about the American money and its

value? I've been told many stories of American girls boasting they have money enough to buy their husband,

but heaven knows. It's a country too far away and a language too complicated for us to understand. We like to

The bride glanced at the groom. The groom took silently her hand, assuring her that he cared nothing for what

"What nonsense! I came on Petka's invitation, and I'll stay with him, do you let the priest marry us or not. We

can go both to America and marry there, but never here," exclaimed the bride, tossing her head and snorting

her indignation. As she rose, she took Petka by his hand and gave this parting thrust:

"Do you want or not, but I'll stay with Petka here. We don't care for your priest. I keep the American law and

"Liza, Liza, listen. Don't make a scandal like that here. Let's better harness our horses and get to the priest as

Note: To this poem Mr. Reinhold Gliere has composed a magnificent musical setting with piano and

One sorrow awakes us at dawn like an executioner, One sorrow is persecuting us ceaselessly, One sorrow is

A longing awakes us at daybreak, A longing is continually hidden in our heart, A longing is burning at night

A fear awakes us early like a funeral mass, A fear persecutes us and darkens our eyes, A fear fills at night our

A pain awakens us in the morning like a trumpet, With pain is filled every glass we drink With pain is

...Only one way will give an answer: Through a river of blood and over a bridge of dead! Woe! you will

reach your home where the mother, who died of sorrow, Does not wait for her son any more.

Note: M. Boich is a young Serbian poet, now about twentysix years old, who already has a recognized place

in modern Serbian Literature. The poem "Without a Country" was written after the wellknown Serbian

tragedy of 1915, and was published last year (March 28) in the official Serbian journal "Srpske Novine,"

Lord of the Mountain, Reared within the Mountain Young Man, Chieftain, Hear a young man's prayer!

Hear a prayer for cleanness. Keeper of the strong rain, Drumming on the mountain; Lord of the small rain

That restores the earth in newness; Keeper of the clean rain, Hear a prayer for wholeness.

Young Man, Chieftain. Hear a prayer for fleetness. Keeper of the deer's way, Reared among the eagles, Clear

my feet of slothness. Keeper of the paths of men, Hear a prayer for straightness.

Hear a prayer for braveness. Lord of the thin peaks, Reared amid the thunders; Keeper of the headlands

Holding up the harvest, Keeper of the strong rocks Hear a prayer for staunchness.

When England's king put English to the horn[1], To England thus spake England over sea, "In peace be

friend, in war my enemy"; Then countering pride with pride, and lies with scorn, Broke with the man[2]

whose ancestor had borne A sharper pain for no more injury. How otherwise should free men deal and be,

With patience frayed and loyalty outworn? No act of England's shone more generous gules Than that which

sever'd once for all the strands Which bound you English. You may search the lands In vain, and vainly

rummage in the schools, To find a deed more English, or a shame On England with more honor to her name.

[1] To "put to the horn" was to declare an outlawry. [2] The "man" is George III, his "ancestor," Charles I.

Must, then, gentle and reasonable men and women give over their sons to the National Government to be

trained for the devilish work of war? Must civilized society continue to fight war with war? Is not the process

a complete failure? Shall we not henceforth contend against evildoing by gooddoing, against brutality by

There are many sound answers to these insistent queries. One is the policeman, usually a protective and

adjusting force, but armed and trained to hurt and kill in defense of society against criminals and lunatics.

Another is the mother who blazes into violence, with all her might, in defense of her child. Even the little

birds do that. Another is the instinctive forcible resistance of any natural man to insult or injury committed or

threatened against his mother, wife, or daughter. The lions and tigers do as much. A moving answer of a

different sort is found in words written by Mme. le Verrier to the parents of Victor Chapman on her return

from his funeral in the American Church in Paris"It...has brought home to me the beauty of heroic death

The answer from history is that primitive Governments were despotic, and in barbarous societies might

makes right; but that liberty under law has been wrung from authority and might by strenuous resistance,

physical as well as moral, and not by yielding to injustice and practising nonresistance. The Dutch Republic,

the British Commonwealth, the French Republic, the Italian and Scandinavian constitutional monarchies, and

the American republics have all been developed by generations of men ready to fight and fighting.

So long as there are wolves, sheep cannot form a safe community. The precious liberties which a few more

fortunate or more vigorous nations have won by fighting for them generation after generation, those nations

The only complete answer to these arguments in favor of using force in defense of liberty is that liberty is not

Woman and Mercyto think of one is to think of the other, and yet the suggestion of ideas is purely

Christian. The ancient world knew of a few great women who transcended the conditions of society in those

days and helped, each one her country, in some extraordinary way. Thus Deborah helped the people of God

in a time of terrible difficulty. And even the Pagan world was not without its Semiramis and its Portia. When

mercy came into the world with Christianity the dispensation of it was largely committed to the gentle hands

of women, for since men have believed that God has taken a woman to be His human mother, the position of

every woman has been that of a mother and of a queen. The wife has become the guardian of the internal

Whenever women have acted up to the noble ideals of womanhood preached by the Christian religion, they

It gives me great pleasure to think that in our own country so many women have banded themselves together

for such a noble ideal as that embodied in the very name of "The Militia of Mercy." Here in her true sphere,

as nurse, woman will shed the gentle light of mercy over the gory battle field and amid the pain and wounds

of the hospital wards; or, if she is not called to such active participation she will find means to hold up the

hands of those more actively engaged, and in countless ways will she be able to mitigate the evils of this most

terrible of all wars, and not least of all because of the gift of piety with which Almighty God has so

generously endowed her. Her unceasing prayers will ascend to the throne of God for those engaged in this

terrible struggle, and mercies and blessings will be drawn down upon multitudes of people whom she has

I bid Godspeed to The Militia of Mercy, and I hope that every American woman who can will take part in

I saw in Orleans three years ago the celebration of the 487th Anniversary of the deliverance of the ancient

The flower of the French army passed before me, the glorious sunlight touching sword and lance and bayonet

tip until they formed a shimmering fretwork of steel. Then came the City Fathers in democratic dressand

following them, the dignitaries of the Church, in purple and crimson and old lace, and a host of choir boys

singing Glory to God in the Highest, and finally in his splendid scarlet robe, a cardinal symbolical of power

In whose honor was all this gorgeous pageantry? In honor of a simple peasant girl, who saw or thought she

saw visionsit is perfectly immaterial whether she did or notand who heard or fancied she heardit

matters notvoices calling to her out of the silences of the night to go forth and save France. Soldiers and

clergy and populace, Catholics and Protestants and pagans united in paying homage to the courage of a

woman. And I thought as I watched the brilliant spectacle in the shadow of the old cathedral, that thousands

of women in the twentieth century in England and America, and France and Germany and all the Nations are

serving in a different way, it is true, from the way in which Joan of Arc served France, but none the less

effectively. Aye, even more so, as they go forth clad not in mail, but in Christian love to help mankind. In the

very forefront of this shining host are the trained nurses, following the standard uplifted by Florence

When I see a trained nurse in her attractive cap and gown I always feel that a richer memory, a finer intention

To maintain this army of militant good will and helpfulness, and to increase it as occasion requires is an

Never was it as urgent as it is today, that there should be generous response to the appeal for nurses.

If we are often discouraged in our philanthropic work, it is not because we consider what we are doing in a

detached way, independent of its world relationships. If we could only realize that we are part of the mighty

army composed of all nationalities and races and creeds, an army of life, not of death, marching past disease

and suffering and misery and sin, we would be inspired to wage the conflict with greater vigor, until our

When the realization comes, it will not come with shouting and tumult, but will come quietly and beautifully

as the sun makes its triumphant progress through the heavens, gradually conquering the night until at last the

earth is flooded with glorious warmth and light and all the formless shapes that loved darkness rather than

Note: Although the above selection was part of an address delivered in London in 1911, its truth is more

There are season in life when everything seems to be shaking. Old landmarks are crumbling. Venerable

foundations are upheaved in a night, and are scattered abroad as dust. Guiding buoys snap their moorings,

and go drifting down the channel. Institutions which promised to outlast the hills collapse like a stricken tent.

Assumptions in which everybody trusted burst like airballoons. Everything seems to lose its base, and

Such seasons are known in our personal life. One day our circumstances appear to share the unshaken solidity

of the planet, and our security is complete. And then some undreamedof antagonism assaults our life. We

speak of it as a bolt from the blue! Perhaps it is some stunning disaster in business. Or perhaps death has

leaped into our quiet meadows. Or perhaps some presumptuous sin has suddenly revealed its foul face in the

life of one of our children. And we are "all at sea!" Our little, neat hypotheses crumple like withered leaves.

Our accustomed roads are all broken up, our conventional ways of thinking and feeling, and the sure

sequences on which we have depended vanish in a night. It is experiences like these which make the soul cry

out with the psalmist, in bewilderment and fear,"My foot slippeth!" His customary foothold had given

And such seasons are known in the life of nations. An easygoing traditionalism can be overturned in a

single blast. Conventional standards, which seemed to have the fixedness of the stars are blown to the winds.

Political and economic safeguards go down like wooden fences before an angry sea. The customary

foundations of society are shaken. We must surely have had such experiences as these during the past weeks

and months. What was unthinkable has become a commonplace. The impossible has happened. Our working

assumptions are in ruins. Common securities have vanished. And on every side men and women are

whispering the question,Where are we? We are all staggered! And everywhere men and women, in their

Well, where are we? Amid all these violations of our ideals, and the quenching of our hopes, in this riot of

barbarism and unutterable sorrow, where are we? Where can we find a footing? Where can we stay our souls?

Where can we set our feet as upon solid rock? Amid the many things which are shaking what things are there

"Things which cannot be shaken." Let us begin here: THE SUPREMACY OF SPIRITUAL FORCES

CANNOT BE SHAKEN. The obtrusive circumstances of the hour shriek against that creed. Spiritual forces

seem to be overwhelmed. We are witnessing a perfect carnival of insensate materialism. The narratives which

fill the columns of the daily press reek with the fierce spectacle of labor and achievement. And yet, in spite of

all this appalling outrage upon the sense, we must steadily beware of becoming the victims of the apparent

and the transient. Behind the uncharted riot there hides a power whose invisible energy is the real master of

the field. The ocean can be lashed by the winds into indescribable fury, and the breakers may rise and fall in

crushing weight and disaster; and yet behind and beneath all the wild phenomena there is a subtle, mystical

force which is exerting its silent mastery even at the very height of the storm. We must discriminate between

the phenomenal and the spiritual, between the event of the hour and the drift of the year, between the issue of

a battle and the tendency of a campaign. All of which means that "While we look at the things which are

seen, we are also to look at the things which are not seen." Well, look at them.

THE POWER OF TRUTH can never be shaken. The force of disloyalty may have its hour of triumph, and

treachery may march for a season to victory after victory; but all the while truth is secretly exercising her

mastery, and in the long run the labor of falsehood will crumble into ruin. There is no permanent conquest for

a lie. You can no more keep the truth interred than you could keep the Lord interred in Joseph's tomb. You

cannot bury the truth, you cannot strangle her, you cannot even shake her! You may burn up the records of

the truth, but you cannot impair the truth itself! When the records are reduced to ashes truth shall walk abroad

as an indestructible angel and minister of the Lord! "He shall give His angels charge over thee," and truth is

There was a people in the olden days who sought to find security in falsehood, and to construct a sovereignty

by the aid of broken covenants. Let me read to you their boasts as it is recorded by the prophet Isaiah: "We

have made a covenant with death, and with hell are we at agreement: when the overflowing scourge shall

pass through, it shall not come unto us, for we have made lies our refuge, and under falsehood have we hid

ourselves." And so they banished truth. But banished truth is not vanquished truth. Truth is never idle; she is

ever active and ubiquitous, she is forever and forever our antagonist or our friend. "Therefore thus saith the

Lord God...your covenant with death shall be disannulled, and your agreement with hell shall not stand...and

the hail shall sweep away the refuge of lies, and the waters shall overflow the hidingplaces." Thus said the

Lord! We may silence a fort, but we cannot paralyze the truth. Amid all the material convulsions of the day

the supremacy of truth remains unshaken. "The mouth of the Lord hath spoken it."

"Things which cannot be shaken!" What is there which cannot be shaken? THE PASSION OF FREEDOM is

one of the rarest of spiritual flames, and it can not be quenched. Make your appeal to history. Again and again

militarism has sought to crush it, but it has seemed to share the very life of God. Brutal inspirations have tried

to smother it, but it has breathed an indestructible life. Study its energy in the historical records of the Book

or in annals of a wider field. Study the passion of freedom amid the oppressions of Egypt, or in the captivity

of Babylon, or in the servitude of Rome. How does the passion express itself? "If I forget thee, O Jerusalem,

may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, and may my right hand forget her cunning!" Study it in the

glowing pages of the history of this country, that breath of free aspiration which no power of armament, and

no menace of material strength was ever able to destroy. The mightiest force in all those days was not the

power of threat, and powder, and sword, but that breath of invincible aspiration which was the very breath of

God. And when we gaze upon stricken Belgium today, and look upon her sorrows, and her smitten fields,

and her ruined cities, and her desolate homes, we can firmly and confidently proclaim that the breath of that

divinely planted aspiration, her passion of freedom, will prove to be mightier than all the materialistic

strength and all the prodigious armaments which seem to have laid her low. It is a reality which cannot be

There are other spiritual forces which we might have named, and which would have manifested the same

incontestable supremacy: there is the energy of meekness, that spirit of docility which communes with the

Almighty in hallowed and receptive awe: there is the boundless vitality of love which lives on through

midnight after midnight, unfainting and unspent: there is the inexhaustible energy of faith which hold on and

out amid the massed hostilities of all its foes. You cannot defeat spirits like these, you cannot crush and

destroy them. You cannot hold them under, for their supremacy shares the holy sovereignty of the eternal

God. "Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord;" and these spirits, the spirit of truth, the

spirit of freedom, the spirit of meekness and love, are in fellowship with the divine Spirit, and therefore shall

"Somewhere in France"the day is tranquil, the sky unvexed, the green earth without a wound as I write; yet

"somewhere in France" the day is torn with clamors, the sky is soiled with man's mounting hatred of man,

and long, open wounds lie cruelly across the disputed earth. "Somewhere in France"my mind goes back to

remembered scenes: the crowd blocking the approach to a depot; white faces and staring eyes, eyes that

alternately fear and hope, and in the crush a tickling gray line of returning PERMISSIONAIRES.

"Somewhere in France"on such a perfect day as this I see a little village street nestled among the trees, and

hear the sound of the postman's reluctant feet tapping over the cobblestonesthe postman that comes with

the relentlessness of Fateand at every house the horror of the black envelope. "Somewhere in France" the

great immemorial cathedrals and the dotted, cool, mosscovered churches are filled with supplicating women

and the blackframed, golden locks of children lifting their eyes before the Great Consoler as the sun breaks

through the paling candleflames. "Somewhere in France"in its crowded stations I remember a proud

womanhood, gray in the knowledge of sorrow, speeding its young sons and speaking the Spartan words.

"Somewhere in France," in its thousand hospitals, the ministering whiteclad angels are moving in their long

vigils, calm, smiling, inspired. "Somewhere in France"I see again imperishable fragments of remembered

emotions; the women working in the vineyards of Champagne, careless of fate or the passing shells; the

orphan children playing in the ruins of Rheims; a laughing child in bombarded Arras running out to pick up

an exploded shell, a child in whom daily habits has brought fear into contempt; a skeleton of a church in

farflung Bethany, that still lives in a sea of fire, where a blackcoated priest of the unflinching faith was

holding his mass among kneeling men before an altar hidden in the last standing corner from which the

"Somewhere in France"I remember the volcanic earth, the strewn ruin of all things, the prostrate

handiwork of man mingled with the indignant bowels of the earth, and from a burrowed hole a POILU

laughing out at us in impertinent greeting, with a gaiety which is more difficult than courage.

"Somewhere in France"in bombarded Arras, was it not?I remember an old woman, a very old woman,

leaning on her cane as she peered from her cellar door within a hundred yards of the smoldering cathedral. I

"Somewhere in France"what thronged memories troop at these liberating words! And yet, through all the

passing drama of remembered little things, what I see always before my eyes is the spiritual rise of Verdun.

Verdun, heroic sister of the Marne; Verdun, the battling heart of Francewhose stained slopes are anointed

by the blood of a million men. Verdun! The very name has the upward fury and descending shock of an

attacking wave dying against an immemorial shore. To have seen it as I was privileged to see it in that

historic first week of August, 1915, at the turning of the tide, at the moment of the retaking of Fleury and

Thiaumont, was to have stood between two great spectacles: the written page of a defense such as history has

never seen, and the future, glowing with the unquenchable fire of undying France. When I think of the

flaming courage of that heroic race, my imagination returns always to the vision of that defensenot the

patient fortitude before famine of Paris, Sebastopol or Mafeking, but that miracle of patience and calm in the

face of torrential rains of steel which for months swept the human earth in such a deluge as never before had

been sent in punishment upon the world. This was no adventure such as that gambling with fate which in all

times and in all forms has stirred the spirit of man. Regiment after regiment marched down into the maw of

hell, into the certainty of death. They went forward, not to dare, but to die, in that sublimest spirit of

exultation and sacrifice of which humanity is capable, that the children of France might live free and

unafraid, Frenchmen in a French land. They went in regiment after regiment, division after divisionliving

armies to replace the ghostly armies that had held until they died. Days without nights, weeks without a

breathing spellfive months and more. They lie there now, the human wall of France, that no artillery has

ever mastered or ever will, to prove that greater than all the imagined horror of man's instinct of destruction,

undaunted before the new death that rocks the earth beneath him and pollutes the fair vision of the sky above,

the spirit of man abides superior. Death is but a material horror; the will to live free is the immortal thing.

It is worth while to explain how the world's news is gathered and furnished in a newspaper issued at one cent

a copy. First, as to the foreign news, which is, of course, the most difficult to obtain and the most expensive.

In normal times there are the four great agencies which, with many smaller and tributary agencies, are

covering the whole world. These four agencies are, as above noted, the Reuter Telegram Company, Ltd., of

London, which assumes responsibility for the news of the great British Empire, including the home land,

every colony except Canada, and the Suzerain, or allied countries, as Egypt, Turkey, and even China and

Japan; and the Agency Havas of Paris, taking care of the Latin countries, France, Italy, Spain, Portugal,

Belgium, Switzerland and South America as well as Northern Africa; and the Wolff Agency of Berlin,

reporting the happening in the Teutonic, Scandinavian, and Slav nations. These three organizations are allied

with The Associated Press in an exclusive exchange arrangement. Subordinate to these agencies is a smaller

one in almost every nation, having like exchange agreements with the larger companies.

Thus it happens that there is not a place of moment in the habitable globe that is not provided for. Moreover,

there is scarcely a reporter on any paper in the world who does not, in a sense, become a representative of all

these four agencies. Not only are there these alliances, but in every important capital of every country, and in

a great many of the other larger cities abroad there are "A.P." men, trained by long experience in its offices in

this country. This is done because, first, the organization is naturally anxious to view every country with

American eyes; and, second, because a number of the agencies spoken of are under the influence of their

Governments and, therefore, not always trustworthy. They are relied upon for a certain class of news, as for

instance, accidents by flood and field, where there is no reason for any misrepresentation on their part. But

where it is a question which may involve national pride or interest, or where there is a possibility of

Now, assume that a fire has broken out in Benares, the sacred city of the Hindus, on the banks of the Ganges,

and a hundred or a thousand people have lost their lives. Not far away, at Allahabad or at Calcutta, is a daily

paper, having a correspondent at Benares, who reports the disaster fully. Some one on this paper sends the

story, or as much of it as is of general rather than local interest, to the agent of the Reuter Company at

Calcutta, Bombay, or Madras; and thence it is cabled to London and Hongkong, and Sydney and Tokio. At

each of these places there are Associated Press men, one of whom picks it up and forwards it to New York.

The wide world is combed for news, and an incredibly short time is delivered and printed everywhere. When

Pope [Leo] XIII died in Rome the fact was announced by an Associated Press dispatch in the columns of a

San Francisco paper in nine minutes from the instant when he breathed his last. And this message was

repeated back to London, Paris, and Rome, and gave those cities the first information of the event. When Port

Arthur was taken by the Japanese in the war of 1896 it came to us in New York in fifty minutes, although it

passed through twentyseven relay offices. Few of the operators transmitting it knew what the dispatch

meant. But they understood the Latin letters, and sent it on from station to station, letter by letter.

When Peary came back from his great discovery in the Arctic Sea he reached Winter Harbor, on the coast of

Labrador, and from there sent me a wireless message that he had nailed the Stars and Stripes to the North

Pole. This went to Sydney, on Cape Breton Island, and was forwarded thence by cable and telegraph to New

The organization is cooperative in its character. As a condition of membership, each one belonging agrees to

furnish to his fellowmembers, either directly or through the Association, and to them exclusively, the news

of his vicinage, as gathered by him for his own paper. This constitutes the large fountain from which our

American news supply is drawn. But, as in the case of the foreign official agencies, if there be danger that an

individual member is biased, or if the matter be one of high importance, our own trained and salaried staff

men do the reporting. For this purpose, as well as for administrative work, there is a bureau in every leading

For the collection and interchange of this information we lease from the various telephone and telegraph

companies, and operate with our own employees, something like fifty thousand miles of wires, stretching out

in every direction through the country and touching every important center. To reach smaller cities, the

telephone is employed. Everywhere in every land, and every moment of every day, there is ceaseless vigil for

People frequently ask what it costs thus to collect the news of the world. And we cannot answer. Our annual

budget is between three and four million dollars. But this makes no account of the work done by the

individual papers all over the world in reporting the matters and handling the news over to the agencies.

Neither can we estimate the number of men and women engaged in this fashion. It is easy to measure the cost

of certain specific events; as, for instance, we expended twentyeight thousand dollars to report the

Martinique disaster. And the RussoJapanese war cost us over three hundred thousand dollars.

Such is an outline of our activities in what we call normal times. But these are not normal times. When the

great European war broke on us, eighteen months ago, all of the processes of civilization seemed to go down

in an hour. And we suffered in common with others. Our international relations for the exchange of news

were instantly dislocated. We had been able to impress the governments abroad with the value of an impartial

and unpurchasable news service, as opposed to the venal type of journalism, which was too common on the

European continent. And in our behalf they had abolished their censorships. They had accorded us rules

assuring us great rapidity in the transmission of our messages over their government telegraph lines. They

had opened the doors of their chancelleries to our correspondents, and told them freely the news as it

All the advantages ceased. The German news agency was prohibited from holding any intercourse with the

English, French, or Russian organizations. Simultaneously, like commerce was interdicted in the other

countries. The virtue of impartial newsgathering at once ceased to be quoted at par. Everywhere, in all of

the warring lands the Biblical rule that "he that is not with me is against me," became the controlling view.

Government telegrams were obviously very important and there was no time to consider anywhere any of the

promised speed in sending our dispatches. Finally, censorships were imposed. This was quite proper in

principle. Censorships are always necessary in time of war. But it is desirable, from every point of view, that

Nevertheless, we have fared pretty well in the business of reporting this war. We have made distinct progress

in teaching the belligerents that we hold no brief for any one of them, and, while each would much rather

have us plead his cause, they are coming to see why we cannot and ought not do so. And our men are

everywhere respected and accorded as large privileges as, perhaps, in the light of the tension of the hour,

They are not many who are privileged to learn that the forces of the Wilderness are as gods, distributing

benefits, and, from such as have earned them, taking even handed reprisals. Only the Greeks of all peoples

realized this in its entirety, and them the gods repaid with the pure joy of creation which is the special

But Greenhow had heard nothing of the Greeks save as a symbol of all unintelligibility, and of the gods not at

all. His stock was out of England by way of the Tennessee mountains, drifting Pacific coastward after the war

of the Rebellion, and he was a Pot Hunter by occasion and inclination. The occasion he owned to being born

in one of the bays of the southerly Sierras where the plentitude of wild life reduced pot hunting to the degree

A Pot Hunter, you understand, is a business man. He is out for what he can get, and regards game laws as an

interference with the healthful interactions of competition. Greenhow potted quail in the Temblors where by

simply rolling out of his blanket he could bag two score at a shot as they flocked, sleek and stately blue,

down the runways to the drinking places. He took pronghorn at Castac with a repeating rifle and a lure of his

red necktie held aloft on a cleaning rod, and packed them four to a muleback down the Tejon to

Summerfield. He shot farrow does and fished out of season, and had never heard of the sportsmanly

obligation to throw back the fingerlings. Anything that made gunning worth while to the man who came after

There were Indians in those parts who could have told him betternotable hunters who never shot

swimming deer nor does with fawn nor any game unaware; who prayed permission of the Wuld before they

went to hunt, and left offal for their little brothers of the Wilderness. Indians know. But Greenhow, being a

business man, opined that Indians were improvident, and not being even good at his business, fouled the

waters where he camped, left man traces in his trails and neglected to put out his fires properly.

Whole hillsides where the deer had browsed were burnt off bare as your hand in the wake of the pot hunter.

Thus in due course, though Greenhow laid it to the increasing severity of game laws framed in the interests of

city sportsmen, who preferred working hard for their venison to buying it comfortably in the open market, pot

hunting grew so little profitable that he determined to leave it off altogether an become a Settler. Not however

until he had earned the reprisal of the gods, of whom in a dozen years he had not even become aware.

In the Spring of the year the Tonkawanda irrigation district was opened, he settled himself on a spur of San

Jacinto where it plunges like a great dolphin in the green swell of the camissal, and throws up a lacy foam of

chaparral along its sides. Below him, dotted over the flat reach of the mesa, the four square clearings of the

Homesteaders showed along the line of the great canal, keen and blue as the cutting edge of civilization.

There was a deepsoil level under the nose of San Jacintorabbits used to play there until Greenhow took to

potting them for his breakfastand a stream bubbled from under the hill to waste in the meadow.

Greenhow built a shack under a live oak there and fancied himself in the character of a proprietor. He

reckoned that in the three years before his vineyard came into bearing, he could pothunt in the hills behind

It was altogether a lovely habitation. Camise grew flush with the meadow and the flanks of San Jacinto

shivered and sparkled with the wind that turned the thousand leaves of the chaparral. Under the wind one

caught at times the slow deep chuckle of the water. Greenhow should have been warned by that. In just such

tones the ancient Greeks had heard the great god Pan laughing in the woods under Parnassus,which was

Greenhow was thirtyfour when he took out his preemption papers and planted his first acre of vines. For

reasons best known to the gods, the deer kept well away from that side of the San Jacinto that year.

Greenhow enlarged the meadow and turned up ground for a garden; he became acquainted with his neighbors

and learned that they had prejudices in favor of game regulations, also that one of them had a daughter. She

had white, even teeth that flashed when she laughed; the whole effect of her was as sound and as appetizing

as a piece of ripe fruit. Greenhow told her that the prospect of having a home of his own was an incentive

such as pothunting held out to no man. He looked as he said it, a very brother to Nimrod, for as yet the Pot

He stood straight; his eyes had the deep, varying blueness of lake water. Little wisps and burrs, odors of the

forest clung about his clothing; a beard covered his slack, formless mouth. When he told the Homesteader's

daughter how the stars went by on heather planted headlands and how the bucks belled the does at the bottom

of deep canons in October, she heard in it the call of the trail and young Adventure. Times when she would

see from the level of her father's quarter section the smoke of the Pot Hunter's cabin rising blue against the

glistening green of the live oak, she thought that life might have a wilder, sweeter tang there about the roots

In his second Spring when the camissal foamed all white with bloom and the welter of yellow violets ran in

the grass under it like fire, Greenhow built a leanto to his house and made the discovery that the oak which

jutted out from the barranca behind it was of just the right height from the ground to make a swing for a child,

"Look kind o' nice to see a little feller playin' round," he admitted to himself, and the same evening went

That night the watchful guardians of the Wild sent the muledeer to Harry the man who had been a

pothunter. A buck of three years came down the draw by the watercourse and nibbled the young shoots of

the vines where he could reach them across the rabbit proof fencing that the settler had drawn about his

planted acres. Not that the wire netting would have stopped him; this was merely the opening of the game.

Three days later he spent the night in the kitchen garden and cropped the tips of the newly planted orchard.

After that the two of them put in nearly the whole of the growing season dodging one another through the

close twigged manzanita, lilac, laurel and mahogany that broke upward along the shining bouldered coasts of

San Jacinto. the chaparral at this season took all the changes of the incoming surf, blue in the shadows,

darkling green about the heads of the gulches, or riffling with the white under side of windlifted leaves.

Once its murmurous swell had closed over them, the muledeer would have his own way with the Pot

Hunter. Often after laborious hours spent in repairing the garden, the man would hear his enemy coughing in

the gully behind the house, and take up his rifle to put in the rest of the day snaking through the breathless

fifteen foot cover, only to have a glimpse of the buck at last dashing back the late light from glittering antlers

as he bounded up inaccessible rocky stairs. This was the more exasperating since Greenhow had promised the

When the surface of the camissal had taken on the brown tones of weed under sea water and the young

clusters of the grapes were setfor this was the year the vineyard was expected to come into bearingthe

muledeer disappeared altogether from that district, and Greenhow went back hopefully to rooting the joint

grass out of the garden. But about the time he should have been rubbing the velvet off his horns among the

junipers of the high ridges, the muledeer came back with two of his companions and fattened on the fruit of

the vineyard. They went up and down the rows ruining with selective bites the finest clusters. During the day

they lay up like cattle under the quaking aspens beyond the highest, windwhitened spay of the chaparral,

and came down to feast day by day as the sun ripened the swelling amber globules. They slipped between the

barbs of the fine wired fence without so much as changing a leg or altering their long, loping stride; and what

In pattering droves of hundreds they trekked in from the camise before there was light enough to shoot by,

and nipped once and with precision at the ripest in every bunch. Afterward they dusted themselves in the

chaparral and twitted the proprietor with soft contented noises. At the end of the October rut the deer came

back plentifully to the Tonkawanda District, and Greenhow gave up the greater part of the rainy season to

auditing his account with them. He spent whole days scanning the winter colored slope for the flicker and

slide of light on a hairy flank that betrayed his enemy, or, rifle in hand, stalking a patch of choke cherry and

manzanita within which the muledeer could snake and crawl for hours by intricacies of doubling and back

tracking that yielded not a square inch of target and no more than the dust of his final disappearance. Wood

gatherers heard at times above their heads the discontented whine of deflected bullets. Windy mornings the

quarry would signal from the high barrens by slow stiff legged bounds that seemed to invite the Pot Hunter's

fire, and at the end of a day's tracking among the punishing stubs of the burnt district, Greenhow returning

would hear the whistling cough of the muledeer in the ravine not a rifle shot from the house.

In the meantime rabbits burrowed under the wire netting to bark his young trees, and an orchardist who held

the job of ditch tender along the Tonkawanda, began to take an interest in the Homesteader's daughter.

Seldom any smoke went up now from the cabin under the Dolphin's nose. Occasionally there rose a blue

thread of it far up on the thinly forested crest of San Jacinto where the buck, bedded in the low brush between

the bosses of the hills, kept a look out across the gullies from which Greenhow attempted to ambuscade him.

Day by day the man would vary the method of approach until almost within rifle range, and then the wind

would change or there would be the click of gravel underfoot, or the scrape of a twig on stiff overalls, and

suddenly the long oval ears would slope forward, the angular lines flow into grace and motion and the game

Greenhow killed many deer that season and got himself under suspicion of the game warden, but never THE

deer; and a very subtle change came over him, such a change as marks the point at which a man leaves off

being hunter to become the hunted. He began to sense, with vague reactions of resentment, the personality of

It was about the end of the rains that the DITCH TENDER who was also an orchardist, took the

Homesteader's daughter to ride on his unoccupied Sunday afternoon. He had something to say to her which

demanded the wide, uninterrupted space of day. They went up toward the roots of the mountain between the

green dikes of the chaparral, and he was so occupied with watching the pomegranate color of her cheeks and

the nape of her neck where the sun touched it, that he failed to observe that it was she who turned the horses

into the trail that led off the main road toward the shack of the Pot Hunter. The same change that had come

over the man had fallen on his habitation. through the uncurtained window they saw heaps of unwashed

dishes and the rusty stove, and along the eaves of the leanto, a row of antlers bleaching.

"There's really no hope for a man," said the ditch tender, "once he gets THAT habit. It's worse than drink."

"Perhaps," said the Homesteader's daughter, "if he had any one at home who cared..." She was looking down

at the bindweed that had crept about the roots of a banksia rose she had once given the Pot Hunter out of her

own garden, and she sighed, but the ditch tender did not notice that either. He was thinking this was so good

an opportunity for what he had to say that he drew the horses toward the end of the meadow where the stream

came in, and explained to her particularly just what it meant to a man to have somebody at home who cared.

The Homesteader's daughter leaned against the oak as she listened, and lifted up her clear eyes with a light in

them that was like a flash out of the deep, luminous eye of day, which caused the ditch tender the greatest

possible satisfaction. He did not think it strange, immediately he had her answer, to hear the titter of the

"I am so happy," laughed the ditch tender, "that I fancy the whole world is laughing with me."

All this was not so long as you would imagine to look at the Pot Hunter. As time went on the marking of the

pot came out on him very plainly. He acquired the shifty, sidelong gait of the meaner sort of predatory

creatures. His clothes, his beard, his very features have much the appearance that his house has, as if the

owner of it were distant on another occupation, and the camise has regained a considerable portion of his

clearing. Owing to the vigilance of the game warden his is not a profitable business; also he is in disfavor

with the homesteaders along the Tonkawanda who credit him with the disappearance of the muledeer, once

plentiful in that district. A solitary specimen is occasionally met by sportsmen along the back of San Jacinto,

exceedingly gun wary. But if Greenhow had known a little more about the Greeks it might all have turned out

The afternoon sun etched our shadows on the whitewashed wall behind us. Acres of grain and gorse turned

the moorland golden under a windy blue sky. In front of us the Bay of Biscay burned sapphire to the horizon.

"You men of the sea," I said, "attain a greater growth of soul than do we whose roots are in the land. You are

"How can that be, Monsieur? Our sins stalk us like vast red shadows. We live violently, we men of the sea."

"But you really LIVEspiritually and physically. You attain a spiritual growth, a vision, an understanding, a

depth seldom reached by us:a wide kindness, a charity, a noble humanity outside the circumference of our

He said, looking seaward out of vague, seagray eyes: "We drink too deeply. We love too often. We men of

"There was a girl at Rosporden.... And one at Bannalec.... And others...from the ends of the earth to the ends

His gray Breton eyes brooded on the flowing sapphire of the sea; the low sun painted his furrowed face red.

"Not one among you but lays down his life for others as quietly and simply as he fills his pipe. From the

rocking mizzen you look down calmly upon the world of men tossing with petty and complex

passionslook down with the calm, kindly comprehension of a mature soul which has learned something of

Immortal toleration. The scheme of things is clearer to you than to us; your pity, wiser; our faith more

My dog looked up at me, then with a slight sigh settled himself again beside the game bag and tucked his

nose under his flank. On the whitewashed walls of the ancient, ruined fort behind us our shadows towered in

I turned and looked at the roofless, crumbling walls, then at the coast where jeweled surf tumbled, stained

These shores had been washed with a redder stain in years gone by: these people were forever stamped with

the eradicable scar of suffering borne by generations dead. The centuries had never spared them.

And, as I brooded there, watching two peasants, father and son, grubbing out the gorse below us to make a

place for future wheat, the rose surf beyond seemed full of little rosy children and showy women, species of

"Oh, poor ca"he made a vague gesture. "The dead are dead," he said, leaning over and opening my game

bag to look into it and sort and count the few braces of partridge, snipe and widgeon.

Presently, from below, the peasants at work in the gorse, shouted up to us something that I did not

They were standing close together, leaning on mattock and spade, grouped around something in the gorse.

"Long dead, Monsieur. The skeleton of one of these who scourged this coast in the old days."

He rose and started leisurely down through the flowering gorse. I followed, and my dog followed me.

In the shallow excavation there lay a few bones and shreds and bits of tarnished metal.

I stooped and picked up a button and a belt buckle. The royal arms and the Regimental number were

"In Quimper lives a rich man who pays for relics. God, in his compassion, sends us poor men these bones."

The coastguard said: "God sends them to you for decent internment. Not to sell."

"But," retorted the peasant, "these bones and bits of brass belonged to one of those who came here with fire

and sword. Need we respect our enemies who slew without pity young and old? And these bones are very

"I am poor," muttered Le Locard. "We Bretons are born to misery and sorrow. Life is very hard. Is it any

harm if I sell these bones and brasses to a rich man, and buy a little bread for my wife and little ones?"

The coastguard shook his head gravely: "We Bretons may go hungry and naked, but we cannot traffic in

death. Here lies a soldier, a hundred years hidden under the gorse. Nevertheless"

He touched his cap in salute. Slowly the peasants lifted their caps and stood staring down at the bones,

"Make a grave," said the coastguard simply. He pointed up at the old graveyard on the cliff above us. Then,

touching my elbow, he turned away with me toward the little hamlet across the moors.

"Let us find the Cure," he murmured. "We men of the sea should salute the death God sends with the respect

Our three gigantic shadows led us back across the moor,my dog, myself, and the grayeyed silent man

who knew the sea,and something perhaps, of the sea's Creator:and much of his fellow men.

We were machine gunners of the British Army stationed "Somewhere in France" and had just arrived at our

The stable we had to sleep in was an old, ramshackle affair, absolutely overrun with rats. Great, big, black

fellows, who used to chew up our leather equipment, eat our rations, and run over out bodies at night.

German gas had no effect on these rodents; in fact, they seemed to thrive on it.

The floor space would comfortably accommodate about twenty men lying down, but when thirtythree,

The roof and walls were full of shell holes. When it rained, a constant drip, drip, drip was in order. We were

so crowded that if a fellow was unlucky enough (and nearly all of us in this instance were unlucky) to sleep

under a hole, he had to grin and bear it. It was like sleeping beneath a shower bath.

At one end of the billet, with a ladder leading up to it, was a sort of grain bin, with a door in it. This place was

the headquarters of our guests, the rats. Many a stormy cabinet meeting was held there by them. Many a boot

was thrown at it during the night to let them know that Tommy Atkins objected to the matter under

discussion. Sometimes one of these missiles would ricochet, and land on the upturned countenance of a

snoring Tommy, and for about half an hour even the rats would pause in admiration of his flow of language.

On the night in question we flopped down in our wet clothes, and were soon asleep. As was usual, No. 2

The last time we had rested in this particular village, it was inhabited by civilians, but now it was deserted.

An order had been issued, two days previous to our arrival, that all civilians should move farther back of the

I had been asleep about two hours when I was awakened by Sailor Bill shaking me by the shoulder. He was

"Wake up, Yank, this ship's haunted. There's some one aloft who's been moaning for the last hour. Sounds

like the wind in the rigging. I ain't scared of humans or Germans, but when it comes to messin' in with spirits

it's time for me to go below. Lend your ear and cast your deadlights on that grain locker, and listen."

I listened sleepily for a minute or so, but could hear nothing. Coming to the conclusion that Sailor Bill was

"Yank, for God's sake, come aboard and listen!" I listened and sure enough, right out of that grain bin

overhead came a moaning and whimpering, and then a scratching against the door. My hair stood on end.

Blended with the drip, drip of the rain, and the occasional scurrying of a rat overhead, that noise had a

supernatural sound. I was really frightened; perhaps my nerves were a trifle unstrung from our recent tour in

I awakened "Ikey" Honney, while Sailor Bill roused "Happy" Houghton and "Hungry" Foxcroft.

In as few words as possible, we told them what had happened. By the light of the candle I had lighted, their

faces appeared as white as chalk. Just then the whimpering started again, and we were frozen with terror. The

"I admint I'm afraid of ghosts, but that sounds like a dog to me. Who's going up the ladder to investigate?"

I had an old deck of cards in my pocket. Taking them out, I suggested cutting, the low man to go up the

ladder. They agreed. I was the last to cut. I got the ace of clubs. Sailor Bill was stuck with the five of

diamonds. Upon this, he insisted that it should be the best two out of three cuts, but we overruled him, and he

With a "So long, mates, I'm going aloft," he started toward the ladder, with the candle in his hand, stumbling

over the sleeping forms of many. Sundry grunts, moans, and curses followed in his wake.

As soon as he started to ascend the ladder, a "taptaptap" could be heard from the grain bin. We waited in

fear and trembling the result of his mission. Hungry was encouraging him with "Cheero, mate, the worst is

After many pauses, Bill reached the top of the ladder and opened the door. We listened with bated breath.

"Blast my deadlights, if it ain't a poor dog! Come alongside mate, you're on a lee shore, and in a sorry plight."

With the candle in one hand and a dark object under his arm, Bill returned and deposited in our midst the

sorriestlooking specimen of a cur dog you ever set eyes on. It was so weak it couldn't stand. But that look in

its eyesjust gratitude, plain gratitude. Its stump of a tail was pounding against my mess tin and sounded

We were a lot of school children, every one wanting to help and making suggestions at the same time.

Hungry suggested giving it something to eat, while Ikey wanted to play on his infernal jew's harp, claiming it

was a musical dog. Hungry's suggestion met our approval, and there was a general scramble for haversacks.

His nibs wouldn't eat bread, and also refused the cheese, but not before sniffling it for a couple of minutes. I

was going to throw the cheese away, but Hungry said he would take it. I gave it to him.

We were in a quandary. It was evident that the dog was starving and in a very weak condition. Its coat was

lacerated all over, probably from the bites of rats. That stump of a tail kept sending S O S against my mess

tin. Every tap went straight to our hearts. We would get something to eat for that mutt if we were shot for it.

Sailor Bill volunteered to burglarize the quartermaster's stores for a can of unsweetened condensed milk, and

left on his perilous venture. He was gone about twenty minutes. During his absence, with the help of a

bandage and a capsule of iodine, we cleaned the wounds made by the rats. I have bandaged many a wounded

Tommy, but never received the amount of thanks that that dog gave with its eyes.

Then the billet door opened and Sailor Bill appeared. He looked like the wreck of the HESPERUS, uniform

torn, covered with dirt and flour, and a beautiful black eye, but he was smiling, and in his hand he carried the

We asked no questions, but opened the can. Just as we were going to pour it out, Happy butted in and said it

should be mixed with water; he ought to know, because his sister back in Blighty had a baby, and she always

mixed water with its milk. We could not dispute this evidence, so water was demanded. We could not use the

water in our water bottles, as it was not fresh enough for our new mate. Happy volunteered to get some from

the wellthat is, if we would promise not to feed his royal highness until he returned. We promised, because

Happy had proved that he was an authority on the feeding of babies. By this time the rest of the section were

awake and were crowding around us, asking numerous questions, and admiring our newly found friend.

Sailor Bill took this opportunity to tell of his adventures while in quest of the milk.

"I had a fair wind, and the passage was good until I came alongside the quartermaster's shack, then the sea

got rough. The porthole was battened down, and I had to cast it loose. When I got aboard, I could hear the

wind blowing through the rigging of the supercargo (quartermaster sergeant snoring), so I was safe. I set my

course due north to the ration hold, and got my grappling irons on a cask of milk, and came about on my

homewardbound passage, but something was amiss with my wheel, because I ran nose on into him, caught

him on the rail, amidships. Then it was repel boarders, and it started to blow big guns. His first shot put out

my starboard light, and I keeled over. I was in the trough of the sea, but soon righted, and then it was a stern

chase, with me in the lead. Getting into the open sea, I made a port tack and have to in this cove with the milk

Most of us didn't know what he was talking about, but surmised that he had gotten into a mixup with the

Just as Bill finished his narration, a loud splash was heard, and Happy's voice came to us. It sounded very far

"Help, I'm in the well! Hurry up, I can't swim!" Then a few unintelligible words intermixed with blub! blub!

We ran to the well, and way down we could hear an awful splashing. Sailor Bill yelled down, "Look out

below; stand from under; bucket coming!" With that he loosed the windlass. In a few seconds a spluttering

It was hard work, hauling him up. We had raised him about ten feet from the water, when the handle of the

windlass got loose from our grip, and down went the bucket and Happy. A loud splash came to us, and

grabbing the handle again, we worked like Trojans. A volley of curses came from that well which would have

When we got Happy safely out, he was a sight worth seeing. He did not even notice us. Never said a word,

just filled his water bottle from the water in the bucket, and went back to the billet. We followed. My mess tin

Happy, though dripping wet, silently fixed up the milk for the dog. In appetite, the canine was close second to

Hungry Foxcroft. After lapping up all he could hold, our mascot closed his eyes and his tail ceased wagging.

Sailor Bill took a dry flannel shirt from his pack, wrapped the dog in it, and informed us:

"Me and my mate are going below, so the rest of you lubbers batten down and turn in."

We all wanted the honor of sleeping with the dog, but did not dispute Sailor Bill's right to the privilege. By

this time the bunch were pretty sleepy and tired, and turned in without much coaxing, as it was pretty near

Next day we figured out that perhaps one of the French kiddies had put the dog in the grain bin, and, in the

Sailor Bill was given the right to christen our new mate. He called him "Jim." In a couple of days Jim came

Sailor Bill was courtmartialed for his mixup with the quartermaster sergeant, and got seven days field

punishment No. 1. This meant that two hours each day for a week he would be tied to the wheel of a limber.

During those twohour periods Jim would be at Bill's feet, and no matter how much we coaxed him with

choice morsels of food, he would not leave until Bill was untied. When Bill was loosed, Jim would have

nothing to do with himjust walked away in contempt. Jim respected the king's regulations, and had no use

At a special meeting held by the section, Jim had the oath of allegiance read to him. He barked his consent, so

we solemnly swore him in as a soldier of the Imperial British Army, fighting for king and country. Jim made

a better soldier than any one of us, and died for his king and country. Died without a whimper of complaint.

From the village we made several trips to the trenches; each time Jim accompanied us. The first time under

fire he put the stump of his tail between his legs, but stuck to his post. When "carrying in" if we neglected to

give Jim something to carry, he would make such a noise barking that we soon fixed him up.

Each day Jim would pick out a different man of the section to follow. He would stick to the man, eating and

sleeping with him until the next day, and then it would be some one's else turn. When a man had Jim with

him, it seemed as if his life were charmed. No matter what he went through, he would come out safely. We

Whenever it came Ikey Honney's turn for Jim's company, he was overjoyed, because Jim would sit in

dignified silence, listening to the jew'sharp. Honney claimed that Jim had a soul for music, which was more

Once, at daybreak, we had to go over the top in an attack. A man in the section named Dalton was selected by

The crew of gun No. 2 were to stay in the trench for overhead fire purposes, and, if necessary, to help repel

a probably counterattack by the enemy. Dalton was very merry, and hadn't the least fear or misgiving as to

In the attack, Dalton, closely followed by Jim, had gotten about sixty yards into No Man's Land, when Jim

was hit in the stomach by a bullet. Poor old Jim toppled over, and lay still. Dalton turned around, and, just as

Ikey Honney, who was No. 3 on our gun, seeing Jim fall, scrambled over the parapet, and through that rain of

shells and bullets, raced to where Jim was, picked him up, and, tucking him under his arm, returned to our

trench in safety. If he had gone to rescue a wounded man in this way he would have no doubt been awarded

Ikey laid him on the fire step alongside of our gun, but we could not attend to him, because we had important

work to do. So he died like a soldier, without a look of reproach for our heartless treatment. Just watched our

every movement until his lights burned out. After the attack, what was left of our section gathered around

Next day, we wrapped him in a small Union Jack belonging to Happy, and laid him to rest, a soldier of the

That manit could only have been a manwho invented the Klinger darning and mending machine struck

a blow at marriage. Martha Eggers, bending over her work in the window of the Elite Hand Laundry

(washing delivered same day if left before 8 A.M.) never quite evolved this thought in her mind. When one's

job is that of darning six bushels of socks a day, not to speak of drifts of pajamas and shirts, there remains

The window of the Elite Hand Laundry was a boast. On a line strung from side to side hung snowy,

creaseless examples of the ironer's art. Pale blue tissue paper, stuffed into the sleeves and front of lace and

embroidery blouses cunningly enhanced their immaculate virginity. White pique skirts, destined to be grimed

by the sands of beach and tee, dangled like innocent lambs before the slaughter. Just behind this starched and

glistening ambush one glimpsed the bent head and the nimble fingers of Martha Eggers, first aid to the

As she sat weaving, in and out, in and out, she was a twentieth century version of any one of the Fates, with

the Klinger darner and mender substituted for distaff and spindle. There was something almost humanly

intelligent in the workings of Martha's machine. Under its glittering needle she would shove a sock whose

heel bore a great, jagged, gaping wound. Your home darner, equipped only with mending egg, needle, and

cotton, would have pronounced it fatal. But Martha's modern methods of sock surgery always saved its life.

In and out, back and forth, moved the fabric under the needle. And slowly, the wound began to heal. Tack,

"If I see you many more Mondays," Martha would say, grimly, tossing it into the heap at her side, "there

won't be anything left of the original cloth. I should think people would realize that this laundry darns socks,

Before the advent of the ingenious mending machine I suppose more men than would care to admit it married

largely because they grew so tired of seeing those eternal holes grinning back at them from heel and toe, and

of feeling for absent buttons in a hastily donned shirt. The Elite laundry owed much of its success to the fact

If you had known Martha as I know her you would have found a certain pathos in the thought of this spare

spinster performing for legions of unknown unseen men those homely, intimate tasks that have long been the

duty of wife or mother. For Martha had no menfolks. Martha was one of those fatherless, brotherless,

husbandless women who, because of their state, can retain their illusions about men. She had never known

the tragedy of setting forth a dinner only to have hurled at her that hateful speech beginning with, "I had that

for lunch." She had never seen a male, collarless, bellowing about the house for his laundry. She had never

beheld that soulsearing sighta man in his trousers and shirt, his suspenders dangling, his face lathered,

Her knowledge of the home habits of the male biped she gleaned from the telltale hints of the inanimate

garments that passed through her nimble hands. She could even tell character and personality from

deductions gathered at heel and toe. She knew, for example, that F.C. (in black ink) was an indefatigable fox

trotter and she dubbed him Ferdy Cahn, though his name, for all she knew, might have been Frank Callahan.

The dancing craze, incidentally, had added mountainous stacks to Martha's already heaped up bins.

The Elite Laundry served every age and sex. But Martha's department was, perforce, the unwed male section.

No selfrespecting wife or mother would allow laundrydarned hose or shirts to reflect on her housekeeping

habits. And what woman, ultramodern though she be, would permit machinemended stockings to desecrate

her bureau drawers? So it was that Martha ministered, for the most part, to those boarding house bachelors

It was early in May that Martha first began to notice the white lisle socks marked E.G. She picked them from

among the great heap at her work table because of the exquisite fineness of the darning that adorned them. It

wasn't merely darning. It was embroidery. It was weaving. It was cobweb tapestry. It blended in with the

original fabric so intimately that it required an expert eye to mark where darning finished and cloth began.

Martha regarded it with appreciation unmarred by envy, as the artisan eye regards the work of the artist.

"That's his mother's darning," she thought, as she smoothed it with one workscarred finger. "And she doesn't

live here in Chicago. No, sir! It takes a small town mother to have the time and patience for that kind of work.

She's the kind whose kitchen smells of ginger cookies on Saturday mornings. And I'll bet if she ever found a

moth in the attic she'd call the fire department. He's her only son. And he's come to the city to work. And his

Now, there was nothing uncanny in Martha Eggers' deduction that a young man who wears white hose,

miraculously darned, is a selfrespecting young man, brought up by a worshiping mother who knows about

ginger cookies and winter underwear, and whose Monday washing is fragrant with the cleansmelling scent

of green grass and sunshine. But it was remarkable that she could pick this one needle from the haystack of

socks and shirts that towered above her. She ran her hand through hundreds of garments in the day's work.

Some required her attention. Some were guiltless of rent or hole. She never thought of mating them. That was

the sorter's work. But with Eddie's socks it was different. They had not, as yet, required the work of her

machine needle. She told her self, whimsically, that when the time came to set her crude work next to the

masterly effects produced by the needle of Eddie's ma every fiber in her would shrink from the task. Of

course Martha did not put it in just that way. But the thought was there. And bit by bit, week by week, month

by month, the life, and aims, and ambitions, and good luck and misfortunes of this country boy who had

come to the call of the city, were unfolded before the keen eye of the sparse spinster who sat stitching away

For a long, long time the white hose lacked reinforcements, so that they began to grow thin from top to toe.

Martha feared that they would go to pieces in one irremediable catastrophe, like the onehoss shay. Evidently

Eddie's job did not warrant unnecessary expenditures. Then the holes began to appear. Martha tucked them

grimly under the glittering needle of the Klinger darner and mender but at the first incision she snapped the

"His ma'd have a fit. I'll just roll 'em up, and take 'em home with me tonight and darn 'em by hand." She

She did darn them that night, in the twilight, and in the face of the wondering contempt of Myrt. Myrt dwelt

across the hall in fiveroomed affluence with her father and mother. She was one of the ten stenographers

employed by the Slezak Film Company. There existed between the two women an attraction due to the law of

opposites. Myrt was nineteen. She earned twelve dollars a week. She knew all the secrets of the moving

picture business, but even that hideous knowledge had left her face unscarred. Myrt's twelve was expended

wholly upon the embellishment of Myrt. Myrt was one of those asbestos young women upon whom the fires

of life leave no mark. She regarded Martha Eggers, who dwelt in one room, in the rear, across the hall, with

that friendly contempt which nineteen, cruelly conscious of its charms, bestows upon plain forty.

She strolled into Martha Eggers' room now to find that lady intent upon a white sock, darning needle in hand.

She was working in the fastfading light that came through her one window. Myrt, kimonoclad, stared at

"Well, I've heard that when actors get a day off they go to the theater. I suppose it's the same idea. I should

think you'd get enough darning and mending from eight A. M. to six P. M. without dragging it home with

At the end of the next six weeks every pair of Eddie Grant's hose, heel and toe, bore the marks of Martha's

workmanship. Then, quite suddenly, they ceased to appear. Had he gone back home, defeated? Had he moved

to another neighborhood? Had he invested in a fresh supply of haberdashery? On Tuesday of the seventh

week E. G.'s white hose appeared once more. Martha picked them from among the heap. Instantly she knew.

Clumsily, painstakingly, they had been darned by a hand all unaccustomed to such work. A masculine hand,

"Why, the poor kid! The poor little kid! Lost his job for six weeks, and did his own washing and mending."

That night she picked out the painfully woven stitches and replaced them with her own exquisite

Eddie's new job was evidently a distinct advance. The old socks disappeared altogether. They had been

darned until each one resembled a mosaic. In their place appeared an entirely new set, with nothing but the E.

G. inked upon them by the laundry to distinguish them from hundreds of others. Sometimes Martha missed

them entirely. then, suddenly, E. G. blossomed into silk, with clocking up the side, and Martha knew that he

was in love. She found herself wondering what kind of girl she was, and whether the woman in the little town

that was Back Home to Eddie would have approved of her. One day there appeared a pair of lovesick

lavenders, but they never again bloomed. Evidently she was the kind of a girl who would be firm about those.

Then, for a timefor two long weeksE. G.'s hose were black; somber, mournful, unrelieved black. They

had quarreled. After that they brightened. They became numerous, and varied. There was about them

"They're engaged," Martha told herself. "I hope she's the right kind of a girl for Eddie."

Then, as they sobered down and even began to require some of Martha's expert workmanship she knew that it

Myrt, strolling into Martha's room one evening, as was her wont, found that severefaced lady suspiciously

redeyed. Even Myrt, the unimaginative, sensed that some unhappiness had Martha in its grip.

"Oh, I don't know. Kinda lonesome, I guess. What's the news down at your place?"

"News! Nothing ever happens in our office. Honestly, some days I think I'll just drop dead, it's so slow. I took

three hours dictation from Hubbell this morning. He's writing the 'Dangers of Dora' series, and I almost go to

sleep over it. He's got her now where she's chained in the cave with the tide coming up, on a deserted coast,

and nobody for miles around. I was tickled to death when old Slezak called me away to fill out the contract

blanks for him and Willie Kaplan. Kaplan's signed up with the Slezak's for three years at a million and a half

a year. He stood over me while I was filling it outhim and his brother Gusas if I was going to put

"I don't see anything exciting about it. Of course it isn't as bad as your job, sitting there all day, sewing and

mending. It isn't even as if you were sewing on new stuff, like a dressmaker, and really making something out

Martha turned to the window, so that her face was hidden from Myrt. "Oh, I don't know. Darning socks isn't

"See in 'em!" echoed Miss Myrtle Halperin. "See! Well for the love of heaven what can you see in mending

Martha didn't answer. Myrt, finding things dull, took herself off, languidly. At the door she turned and looked

back on the stiff little figure seated in the window with its face to the gray twilight.

"What's become of your friend What'shisname that you used to darn socks for at home? Grant, wasn't it?

"That was it," answered Martha. "He's married. He and his wife, they've got to visit Eddie's folks back home,

on their wedding trip. I miss him something terrible. He was just like a son to me."

This was no call that sounded at their door, No wild torch flaming in their window space, yet the quick

answer went from shore to shore, The swift feet hastened to the trysting place, Laughing, they turned to death

High heartsgreat heartswhose valor strikes for us Out of the awful Dissonance of war This perfect

note,in you the chivalrous YOUNG SEEKERS OF THE GRAIL RELIVE ONCE MORE, Acclaimed

Once I wrote a story of a woman's day in Paris, a Perfect Day. It had to do with the buying of all the lovely

trappings that are the entrappings of the animal which Mr. Shaw believes woman endlessly pursues. One of

the animals was in the story, and there was food and moonlight, music and adventure.

I never sold that marvelous tale. For years it has peeked out at me from a certain pigeon hole in my desk with

the anguish of a prisoner in the Black Hole of Calcutta, and with as little hope for its liberation into the glad

air of a free press. Yet it is with me now in Paris. In that last distracted moment of packing, when all sense of

what is needed has left one, it was thrust into a glove case like contraband cigarettes. There may have been

some idea of remolding it with a few deceiving touchesmake a soldier of the hero probablybut with the

"love interest" firmly remaining. There was only one Perfect Day to a woman, I thought.

That was some weeks ago. I am now writing on the back of that romance for lack of paper, writing of another

day, wondering as I work if the present day's adventures will have any quality that might hold the reader's

eye. I dare not ask for the reader's heart when love does not stalk through the pages.

Paris is now an entrenched camp but one is not awakened by bugles, and the beat of drums is unheard as the

troops march through the city. It was the regular "blumpblump" of military boots past my window which

possibly aroused me into activity, although the companies crossing from station to cantonment no longer turn

the head of the small boy as he rolls his hoop along the Champs Elysees. This troubles me, and I always go to

There was an instant's hesitation before I pulled up the refractory Venetian blindthe right rope so eager to

rise, the left so indifferent to its improvementan instant's dread. I was afraid "they" would be hopping

about even this early in the morning, hopping, hoppingthe jerking gait of the mutilatedthe little broken

waves of a sea of "horizon blue." But they must have been just getting their faces washed at the Salon, where

once we went to see pictures and now find compositions more dire than the newest schools of painting.

On the other side the stretch of chestnuts, the taxicabs, returned to their original mission, were already

weaving about in their effort to exterminate each other. Battling at the Marne had been but a slight deviation

in their mode of procedure, yet when a cab recently ran down and killed a bewildered soldier impeded by a

crutch strange to him, Paris raised its voice in a new cry of rage. Beyond the Champs Elysees, far beyond,

rose the Eiffel tower. Capable, immune so far from the attacks of the enemy, its very outlines seem to have

taken on a great importance. Once the giant toy of a people who frolicked, it now serves in its swift mission

It is not a relieving thought to such of us as still can play, that spirit, whether in the bosom of the boulevardier

or his country cousin playing bowls in the cool of the evening, is the same that projects itself brilliantly

across the battlefield; that the flash of a woman's eye as she invites a conquest is the flame upon the alter

when sacrifice is needed; that the very gaiety which makes one laugh is a force to endure the deepest pits that

have been dug for mankind. Even as I continually struggle with a lump in my throat which I often think

should remain with me forever, I dare claim that of all the necessitous qualities in life the spirit of play must

be the last to leave a race. Its translation to the gravities of living needs no bellows for the coaxing of the fire.

The gilded statuary of the bridge of Alexander III, like flaming beacons in the sun's rays, waved us out and on

to the Invalides to see the weekly awarding of medals. It is presumably the gay event of the week as the band

plays, and there is some color in the throngs who surge along the colonnades to look into the court of honor.

A portion of the great space is now accommodating huge shattered cannon and air craft of the enemy, their

massiveness suggesting, as the little glittering medals are pinned upon the soldiers' breasts, that it is not so

By the judicious wavings of famous autographs we were permitted the upper balcony to sketch the heroic

ones within the hollow square formed by soldiers and marines. Directly beneath us stood the band with the

brassard of the red cross on their arms, for they are still the stretcher bearers at the front. In the center of the

square was a little group of men, seventy perhaps but the space was vast. Some were standing, some seated

with stiff stumps of legs sticking out queerly. Here and there a nurse stood by a blind man, and there were

I had set my teeth and said that I must stand it when across the courtyard like a liquid stream of some spilled

black portion came the mothers and the wives, who were to wear the ribbon their soldiers had earned in

exchange for their lives. Or should there be little sons or daughters they received this wondrous emblem of

their fathers' sacrifice. We could see the concerted white lift of handkerchiefs to the eyes of the black line of

women as the general bestowed the honors. But the little children were tranquil.

With the beginning of the distribution the band, for which I had longed that it might give a glow to the war,

swung into a blare of triumph. It was the first note of music we had heard in France. And as we all expressed

our emotion with abandonment throughout the enlivening strains of "The Washington Post," I appreciated the

infinite wisdom of marching drumless through the streetsof the divine lack of the bugles' song. For music,

no matter its theme, makes happy only those who are already happy. To those who suffer it urges an

There was an end to the drama. The guard of honor marched through the porte, banners flying. It was a happy

ending, I suppose, though one might not think so by the triumphal chariots that entered the court to bear away

the heroeschariots with that red emblem emblazoned upon a white disc which would have mystified an

early Caesar. But my thoughts were not entirely with the chief actors in the play, rather with the squad of

soldiers who had surrounded them, the supers who would have enjoyed medals, too, and upon whom

opportunity had not smiled; whose epic of brave deeds may never be read, and who, by chance, may go

"They" were hopping up the Avenue when we crossed it again, yet we all went on about our daily tasks as

one passes the blind man on the corner of Sixth Avenue and Thirtythird Street. He may receive a penny, a

twang of the heart strings, but he must be passed to go into the shop. My list was in my purse bearing but a

faint resemblance to the demands of other years. I thought as I took it out what confusion of mind would have

been my portion had I found it in my purse three summers ago, in what state of madness could any one

prepare for a day in Paris such a program as: "Gloves, Hospital 232, furs, workshop for blind, shell combs,

see my baby at Orphelinat, hair nets, cigarettes to my soldier, try on gowns, funeral of Am. airman," and on

Yet to buy freely and even frivolously in France need harass nothing more soulful than a letter of credit, and

it was with less of guilt than of fear that I entered the courtyard of my furrier. I turned the button ever so

gently with the same dread in my heart that I had suffered in going back to all of my shop keepers of previous

summers. Would he still be there? Two years is a long time, and he was a young man. But he was there,

wounded in the chest but at work in the expectation of being recalled. He did not want to go back, but of

And I must lay stress on the magnificence of this hope that he might not have to return to the trenches. I have

found many who do not want to go back. Fierce partisans of French courage deny this, reading in my

contention a lack of bravery, but to me it is valor of a glorious color. For they do return without resentment,

and, what is more difficult in this day of monumental deeds and minute bickerings, without criticism.

Like most of the men who came out of the trenches he had very little to say about them. It amused him to

hear that my new fur coat purchased in America is of so fleeting a dye that I must dart into the subway

whenever the sun shines. He was laughing quietly as he wished me a cloudy winter upon my descending the

broad stone steps into the empty, echoing courtyard. The unexpected appreciation of my doubtful humor set

me musing over the possibility of a duty new to Americans. It is the French who have stood for gaiety. We

have warmed ourselves in their quick wit. Perhaps it is time for us to do our little clownish best to set them

Having made the resolve I failed meanly to put it into execution. I knew I was going to fail as the motor

stopped before the great house in the rue Daruthe lordly house of exquisitely tinted walls although the

colors are not seen by those who dwell within. There is a paved COUR beyond the high wall with great steps

leading up to the hotel. At the right are the stables, where delicate fabrics are woventhe workmen with

heads erect; where are special looms for those who, by the sad demands of this war, are denied hands as well

as their two eyes. At the left is another building and here the men play in a gymnasium, even fence with

confidence. In an anteroom is a curious lay figure that the most sensitive of the students may learn

massageit is the blind in Japan who give their understanding fingers to this workand in the rooms above

is a printing press, silent for lack of funds, but ready to give a paper of his own to the sightless. Only, at "The

Light House" they will not accept that a single one of their guests is without vision. "Ah GUARDIENNE,"

cried one of the students to the American woman who has established our Light House methods over there,

I was standing in the room where the plan of the house is set upon a table. It is the soldier's first lesson that he

may know the turns and steps, and run about without the pitiful outstretching of arms. There were other

callers upon the GUARDIENNE. A blind graduate who had learned to live (which means to work) had

returned with his little old father, and both were telling her that he had enough orders for his sweaters from

the "Trois Quartiers" to keep him occupied for two years. The family felt that he was establishedso there

was nothing more to fear. And then because we were all happy over it the old man and the woman and myself

began to cry noiselessly. Only the blind boy remained smiling through the choking silence.

I went to the window and glared down into the gardens where other soldiers were studying at little tables with

a professor for each, and I asked myself why, in this great exigency, I was not being funny and paying my

debt to France. But there was nothing to be funny about. The thing that dried my tears was the recollection of

the blind asylum of my youth, where the "inmates" never learned to walk without groping, where we were

shown hideous bead furniture, too small for dolls, which was the result of their eager but misspent lives.

There was a gown to be ordered before noon and as I drove back through the Faubourg St. Honore I found

myself looking fondly, thirstily into the shop windows, lifting my free eyes to the charming vagaries of old

buildings, and again I made a vow although it had nothing to do with humor. On my dressing table rests a

cushion of brocade and I shall carry it about as one who may yield to temptation carries a pledge, for the card

which is attached chants out to me whenever my eyes rest upon it: "Soldat Pierre. Aveugle de la guerre.

Blesse a Verdun." And as long as Soldier Pierre. Blind from the war. Wounded at Verdun can go on weaving

his fabrics I pray that I may carry whatever burden may be mine with the unrebellious spirit.

Ah well! The robe took its place in the curriculum of my new Parisian day. It was to be a replica in color of

that worn by the head of the househer one of mourning was so bravely smartfor the business must go on

and only the black badge of glory in fashionable form show itself in the gay salon. "Yes, we must go on," she

said, "though every wife may give her mate. It is of an enormity to realize before one dies that he can be done

withoutthat there are enough little ones to keep France alive and we women in the meantime can care for

the country. Our men may die glad in that thought, but I think there must be a little of grief, too. It is sad not

to be needed. Yes, Madame, blue for you where mine is black, and in place of the crepe something very

brilliant. It is only Americans that we can make gay now, and it keeps the women in the sewing room of good

cheer to work in colors. Too dear you think? Ah, no, Madame, observe the model!"

Conscious that she had taken the basest advantage of my sympathy, and glad that she had done so I went to

dejeuner with a feeling that I had deserved it which I might not otherwise have enjoyed. We were lunching at

the restaurant on the Seine which felt for a short time the upheaval of war. Among the first called to the front

had been the proprietor, and the august deputies whose custom it was to take their midday meal at this

famous eating place had suffered from an unevenness of the cuisine. He is back at his establishment now, an

ammunition maker on the night shift and the excellent and watchful patron at noon.

Our guests came promptly, for France still eats, although, if I can say anything so anomalous, does not stop to

do so. The war talk continues albeit one carries it more lightly through a meal. A French officer arrived in the

only automobile of his garage which the government had not commandeered. We looked down upon it

stealthily that we might not give offense to his chauffeur, for the car is a Panhard in the last of its

teenswhich holds no terrors to a woman but is a gloomy age for a motor. An American architect from our

Clearing House bowed over my hand a little more Gallic in these days than the Gaul himself. He has a right

to the manners of the country. He had come over at the beginning of the war for a month and is determined to

stick it out if he never builds another railway station. "To see the troops march through the Arc de

Triomphe!" is the cry of the Americans, but the French do not express themselves so dramatically.

There is drama enough, though, even in the filing of papers at every American relief society. That and the

new sensation of work serves to hold the dilettante of our country to his long task. "This is the president's

office," you will be told in a hushed voice outside some stately door. Then one discovers in Mr. President a

playmate of Mayfair or Monte Carlo or Taormina who may never previously have used a desk except as a

Our friend had been engaged that morning upon the reticketing of the Lafayette Kits which had come back

from the front because there was no longer a Gaspard to receive them. I put this down that any young girl of

our country who does not hear from "her soldier" may understand the silence. And sometimes the poilu is a

little confused, writing a charming letter of thanks to "Monsieur Lafayette" himself.

A man takes coffee at dejeuner but finishes his cigar en route to work. We were at the edge of Paris before

the Illustrator had thrown his away. We were not in the car of ancient lineage but in that relic of other days a

real automobile without the great white letters of the army upon its sides and bonnet. Yet we were going into

the heart of the Army. We would not be among the derelicts of battle that afternoon but with men sound of

mind and body, and the thought was grateful that there would be nothing to anguish over. We were to visit

two cantonments, rough barracks, in one of which the men gathered after their "permission" for a

reequipment; while at the second one were those soldiers who had become separated from their regiments,

and who were sent there until the companiesif they existedcould be found, and the "isolated" again

I had anticipated a very relieving afternoon. The sun shone, the long road led to open country, and many

circling aeroplanes over an aviation field nearby gave the air of a fete. Only the uniforms of the English and

American women who are attached to each of these many cantonments suggested any necessitous combating

Yet they are not nurses of the body but of the spirit. From modest little vine covered sheds erected in each

ugly open space they disperse good cheer augmented by coffee and cigarettes (and such small comforts as we

Americans send them) after the regulation army rations are served by the commissary. They hear the men's

stores, comfort the unhappy ones, chaff the gloomy ones, and when they have a moment's breathing space

One of these womenan Americanwas intent upon this occupation at the first canteen we visited. She

admitted that she was tired but she must answer her letters. She was rather grave about it, "I write to

sixtyeight," she said, "and I'll tell you why. At least I will tell you a little of it and you can read the rest. I

was on night duty. There is always one of us here. The men have just come from visiting their homes and

some of them are blue and cannot sleep. Rude to us? Oh, never! I had written letters almost all night and it

was time to make the morning coffee, yet there was still one to do. I was tempted to put it aside. I didn't

remember the man, but he had sent me a word of thanks. Well, somehow I did answer it between the moment

of filling the cauldron and getting ready for the day. Here is his replyit came this morning"

Translating crudely from the letter I read aloud to our little circle: "Dear Madame, you have saved my life. I

have no friends and no people left for I am from the invaded districts, so on one writes me. Today I was on

duty as the officer came into our trench with the mail. He called my name. He gave me permission to leave

the listening post to receive your valued letter. While at his side a shell tore up entirely my post. I think you,

I regarded her with longing. She had been the controller of a destiny. I suppose we are all that when we bend

our best efforts, but seldom are we so definitely apprised of the reward of untiring duty.

A petty officer passed by the shack with a paper in his hands. There were no sounding trumpets, but the men

recognized the paper and rose from the ground where they had been lounging to hear him read the list of

those who were to return immediately to the front. As the names were called each one summoned turned

without comment or exclamation or expletive, picked up his kit dumped in a corner, slung on the heavy

equipment, saw that the huge loaf of bread was securethe extra shoesrefilled his canteen and moved

over to the barred gate. Occasionally one shook hands with a comrade and all saluted the women of the little

flowerbedecked hut. An order was given and the gate was opened. They filed out into the dusty road on

their march to the railway station. The gate was closed. A little hill rose higher than the ground of the

barracks and we could see them once againstout little men in patched uniformsbending unresistingly

under their burdens, the heavy steel helmets gleaming but faintly in the sun. Another detachment entered the

It was coffee time now. The soldiers were lingering politely about with their tin cups in handnot too

expectantly, so as to assure the ladies that if by any chance there was no coffee they would not be

disappointed. The gentlewoman in attendance had recently come from a canteen near the front where soup is

made and often eight thousand bowls of it served in a day. The skin of her arms and hands is, I fear,

permanently unlovely from the steam of the great kettlesor perhaps I should say permanently lovely now

that one knows the cause of the branding. I offered to pour in her place and she assented.

The men came up to the little bar. I began to pour. I had thought I was about to do them a service. I knew

with the first cup that it was they who were doing me one. All the unrest and misery of my idle if observing

days in France was leaving me. I was pushing back the recollection with the sweetness of physical effort. I

was at work. There is no living in Franceor anywhere nowunless one is at work. I served and served and

urged fresh cups upon them. They thought I was generousI could not tell them that I had not known a

happy instant till this coffee pouring time. I had not recognized that it was toiling with the hands that would

bring a surcease to the beating of queries at my bewildered brain. There are no answers to this war. One can

Late that afternoon I had a cup of tea in a ground floor room of a big Parisian hotel which has been freely

assigned to an American woman for the least known of all our relief work. I had come that I might argue with

her into giving up her long task for a brief rest. My contention was to have been that she could stop at any

time as her work is never recognized. I found her doing up a parcel of excellent garments for a man and three

women. They were to be assigned to the family of a respected painter of the Latin Quarter. They will never

know who is the middleman, and it has chanced that she has dined in company with her day's donation.

As I observed her tired tranquility I felt my argument growing pointless. Whether it was coffee or the

unacknowledged dispenser of clothing to the uncrying needy it was service, and though my arm muscles

ached I could understand that it is the idle boy in Paris which does not rest at night.

And so I come tot he last sheet of the romance which is serving so humbly my wartime needs. There is

space for the dinner and the closing in of the gentle night thanks to the repeated, fervid declarations of the

lovers on the other side of the paper. We had been with the men that afternoon. We were among the officers

that evening. We dined at one of the great restaurants which has timorously reopened its doors to find eager

families ready to feast honored sons. At one table sat three generations, the father of the boy concealing his

pride with a Gallic interest in the menu, but the grandfather futilely stabbed the snails as his gleaming old

eyes kept at attention upon the bemedalled lad. Pretty women, too, were there, subdued in costuming but

with that amiable acceptance of their position which is not to be found among the more eager "lost ones" of

other countries. And I enjoyed some relief in their evidence once more, and some inward and scarcely

tobeexpressed solace in the thought that those soldiers who henceforth must go disfigured through a

There was a theater attached to the restaurant. Through the glass doors we could see an iridescence of scant

costumes, but the audience was light, and we ourselves preferred, as a more satisfactory ending to our day, to

walk quietly toward the Arc de Triomphe which is waiting, waiting for fresh glories. On the other side of this

last sheet of paper my lovers had so walked together. But upon looking over their passionate adventures I

have discovered, at last, why the romance has never found a market. On one side and then on the other I have

read and reread the two experiences. Yes, I find the LOVEstory curiously lacking in love.

This, unborn generations, is your war, Although it is our blood that pays the price. Be worthy, children, of

We give up all we love that you may loathe Intrigue and darkness, that you may disperse The ranks of ugly

Do not betray us, then, but come to be Creation's crowning splendor, not its slave; Knowing our lives were

Where the torrent of Broadway leaps highest in folly and the nights are riddled with incandescent tire and

chewing gum signs; jazz bands and musical comedies to the ticket speculators' tune of five dollars a seat, My

KhakiBoy, covered with the golden hoar of three hundred Metropolitan nights rose to the slightly off key

grand finale of its eightyfirst matinee, curtain slithering down to the rubaduddub of a score of pink satin

drummer boys with slim ankles and curls; a Military Sextette of the most blooded of Broadway ponies; a

back ground of purple eyelidded privates enlisted from the ranks of FortySecond Street; a three hundred

and fifty dollar a week sartorial sergeant in khaki and spotlight, embracing a ninety pound ingenue in

rhinestone shoulderstraps. The tired business man and his lady friend, the Bronx and his wife, Adelia Ohio,

Dead heads, Bald heads, Sore heads, Suburbanites, Sybarites; the poor dear public making exit sadder than

On the unpainted side of the down slithering curtain, a canvas mountainside was already rumbling rearward

on castors. An overhead of foliage jerked suddenly higher, revealed a vista of brick wall. A soldiers'

encampment, tents and all, rolled up like a window shade. The ninety pound ingenue, withholding her

silverlace flouncings from the raw edges of moving landscape, highstepped to a rearward dressing room;

the khaki clad hero brushing past her and the pink satin drummer boys for first place down a spiral staircase.

Miss Blossom De Voe, pinkest of satin drummer boys, withdrew an affronted elbow, the corners of her

mouth quivering slightly, possibly of their own richness. They were dewy, fruitlike lips, as if Nature were

"Say, somebody around here better look where he's going or mama's khakiboy will be calling for an arnica

Miss Elaine Vavasour wound down the spiral ahead of Miss De Voe, the pink satin blouse already in the

"If you was any funnier, Elaine, you'd float," said Miss De Voe withdrawing a hair pin as she wound

Beneath the stage of the Gotham Theater a corridor of dressing rooms ran the musty subterranean length of

the sub cellar. A gaseous gloomy dampness here; this cave of the purple lidded, so far below the level of

At the door of Miss De Voe's eight by ten, shared by four, dressing room, one of the back drop of privates,

erect, squarebacked, head thrown up by the deepdipping cap vizor, emerged at sight of her, lifted hat

"Yeh, you look like you got the double pneumonia and each one of the pneumonia's got the tooth ache. Who

Mr. Hal Sanderson flung up a fine impatient head, the permanent hairwave lifting,

"Migaw, I am now in the act of dropping thirty cents and ten cents tip into my Pig Bank. Will I go to supper

with him? Say, darling, will the Hudson flow by Grant's monument tonight at twelve? On a Saturday

She sobered at that, leaning against the cold plastered wall, winding one of the shining curls about her fore

The voice of a soubrette trilling snatches of her topical song as she creamed off her makeup, came to them

through the sulky gloom of the corridor. Behind the closed door of Miss De Voe's dressing room, the gabble

of the pink satin ponies was like hash in the chopping. Overhead, moving scenery created a remote sort of

He stepped closer, the pallor coming out stronger in his face, enclosed her wrist, pressing it.

"Well, whatta you know about that? Grover White, the world's dancing tenor, and Hal Sanderson the world

dancing tenor's understudy, drafted! The little tin soldiers are covered with rust and Uncle Sam is going to"

"Hurry, Bloss, get into your duds. I want to talk. Hurry. We'll eat over at Ramy's."

The door opened to a slit enclosing her. In his imitation uniform, hand on empty carriage belt, Mr. Hal

In Ramy's glorified basement, situated in one of the Forties which flow like tributaries into the heady waters

of Broadway, one may dine from soup to nuts, raisins and regrest for one hour and sixty cents. In Ramy's,

courses may come and courses may go, but the initiated one holds on to his fork forever. Here red wine flows

Across a water tumbler of ruby contents, Miss Blossom De Voe, the turbulent curls all piled up beneath a

slightly dusty but highly effective amethyst velvet hat, regarded Mr. Sanderson, her perfect lips trembling as

"Whadda you putting things up to me for, Hal? You're old enough to know your own business."

Blue shaved, too correct in one of Broadway's black and white checked Campus Suits, his face as cleanly

chiseled and thrust forward as a Discobolus, Mr. Sanderson patted an open letter spread out on the table cloth

"There's fellows claiming exemption every hour of the day that ain't got this much to show, Bloss. I was just

"You ain't your mother's sole support. What about them snapshots of the two farms of hers out in Ohio you

"But I got to be in this country to take charge of her affairs for hermy mother's old, honeyain't I the one

to manager for her? Only child and all that. Honest, Bloss, you need a brick house."

"Well, that old lawyer that wrote that letter has been doing it all the time, why all of a sudden should you"

He cast his eyes ceilingward, flopping his hands down loosely to the table in an attitude of mock exhaustion.

"Oh, Lord, Bloss, lemme whistle it, maybe you can catch on the. Brains, honey, little Hal's brains is what got

that letter there written. I seen this coming from the minute conscription was in the air. Little Hal seen it

coming, and got out his little hatchet. Try to prove that I ain't the sole one to take charge of my mother's

affairs. Try to prove it. That's what I been fixing for myself these two months, try to"

"Brains is what done it,every little thing of my mother's is in my care. I fixed it. Now little

He regarded her with cocked head and face receptive for her approval. "Now will you be good!"

She sat loosely, meeting his gaze, but her face as relaxed as her attitude. A wintry stare had set in.

He reached closer across the table, regardless of the conglomerate diners about, felt for her hand which lay

"Darling, don't you see? It's fate knocking at our door. There's not a chance rover can get exemption. He ain't

"I'm serious, honey. It's going to be one of those cases where an understudy wakes up to find himself famous.

I can't fail if I get this chance, Bloss. It's the moment I have been drudging for, for five solid years. I never

was in such voice as now, I never was so fit. Not an ounce of fat. Not a song in the part I don't know

backwards. I tell you it's the hand of fate, Bloss, giving us a handout. I can afford now, darling, to make

good with you. On three fifty a week I can ask a little queen like you to double up with me. From thirtyfive

to three fifty! I tell you honey, we're made. I'm going to dress my little dolly in cloth of gold and silver fox.

"Don't talk to me for a minute," she said, still in profile; "I'll be all right, only don't talk."

"I dunno. I dunno. Idon't want nothing. That's all, nothing but to be left alone."

"Don'tdon't think I ain't noticed, Bloss, that youyou ain't been the samethat you been differentfor

weeks. Sometimes I think maybe you're going cold onon this long engagement stuff. That's why this thing

is breaking just right for us, honey. I felt you slippin' a little. I'm ready now, Peaches, we can't go

Suddenly she faced him, her hands both fists now, and coming down with a force that shivered the china.

"Youyou ain't a man, you ain't. You ain't a man, youyou're a slacker! You're a slacker, that's what you

"Oh, I've known it. Deep down inside of me I've known it since the day we found ourselves in the mess of

this war. I knew it, and all those months kept kidding myself that maybeyouwasn't."

"Thought maybe when you'd read the newspapers enough and heard the khakiboys on the street corners

enough, and listened toto your country pleading enough thatthat you'd rise up to show you was a man. I

knew all these months down inside of me that you was a slacker, but I kept hopin'. Gawd how I kept hopin'."

"Can't I! Ha! Anybody can talk any old way to a slacker he wants to and then not say enough. You ain't got

"You, sneaking up to me with trumped up exemption stuff when your country's talking her great heart out for

men to stand by 'er! Gawd! If I was a manIf was a man she wouldn't have to ask me twice, but before I

went marching off I'd take time off to help the street cleaning department wipe up a few streets with the

slackers I found loafing around under a government they were afraid to fight for. I'd show 'em. I'd show 'em if

a government is good enough to live under it's good enough to fight under. I'd show 'em."

"If you was a man, Blossum, you'd eat those words. By God, you'd eat 'em. I'm no cowardI"

"I got the right to decide for myself if I want to fight when I don't know what I'm fighting for. This ain't my

war, this ain't America's war. Before I fight in it I want a darn sight to know what I'm fighting for, and not all

the street corner rah rah stuff has told me yet. I ain't a bull to go crazy with a lot of red waved in my face. I've

"I'm at a point in my life that I've worked like a dog to reach. Let the fellows that love the hero stuff give up

their arms and their legs and the breath that's in them for something they don't know the meaning of. Because

some biggun of a Emperor out in Austria was assassinated, I ain't going to bleed to death for it. It's us poor

devils that get the least out of the government that right away are called on to give the most, it's us"

"No. I ain't ashamed and I ain't afraid. You know it ain't because I'm afraid. I've licked more fellows in my

time than most fellows can boast. II got the Fiftyfifth Street fire rescue medal to my credit if anybody

should ask you. IIask anybody from my town if any kid in it ever licked me. But I ain't going to fight

when I ain't got a grudge against no man. Call that being a coward if you like, but then you and me don't

"That's what they all say," she said. "It's like hiding behind a petticoat, hiding behind a defense like that. Sure

you ain't got a grudge. Maybe you don't know what it's all aboutGod knows who does. Nobody can deny

that. There ain't nothing reasonable about war, if there was there wouldn't be none. That talk don't get you

nowheres. The proposition is that we're at war, whatever you or anybody else may think of it."

"Just the same, Hal Sanderson, this great big grand country of ours is at war, and needs you. It ain't what you

think any more that counts. Before we was in war you could talk all you wanted, but now that we're IN,

there's only one thing to do, only one, and not all your fine talk about peace can change it. One thing to do.

"If you want peace now it's up to you to help make it, a new peace and a grander peace, not go baying at the

"You better get a soap box. If this is the way you got of trying to get out of something you're sorry for, I'll let

She regarded him with her lips quivering, a quick layer of tears forming, trembling and venturing to the edge

"HalHalaa fellow that I've banked on like I have you! It ain't thatyou know it ain't. I could have

waited for ten times this long. It's only II'm ashamed, Hal. Ashamed. there ain't been a single gap in the

chorus from one of the men enlisting that my heart ain't just dropped in my shoes like dough. I never envied a

girl on my life the way I did Elaine Vavasour when she stood on the curb at the Battery the other day crying

and watching Charlie Kirkpatrick go marching off. Charlie was a pacifist, too, as long as the country was out

of war, and there was something to argue about. The minute the question was settled, he shut up, buckled on

his belt and went! That's the kind of a pacifist to be. The kind of fellow that when he sees peace slipping,

buckles on and starts out for a new peace; a realer peace. That's the kind of a fellow I thought youyou"

Her voice broke then abruptly, in a rain of tears, and she raised the crook of her arm to her face with the

His cigarette discarded and curling up in a little column of smoke between them, he sat regarding her, a heave

surge of red rising above the impeccable white of his collar into the roots of his hair. It was as if her

"Nobody evernobody ever dared to talk like this to me before. Nobody ever dared to call me a coward.

"I know it ain't, Hal. If it was could I have been so strong for you all these months? I knew the way you

showed yourself in the Fiftyfifth Street fire. I read about it in the papers before I ever knew you. II know

the way you mauled Ed Stein, twice your size, the night he tried toto get fresh with me. I know you ain't a

slacker in your heart, Hal, but II couldn't marry a man that got fake exemption. Couldn't, no matter how it

"I know it, but howhow could I marry a man that wasn't fit to war his country's uniform even in a show.

II couldn't marry a man like that if it meant the solid gold suite in the solid goldest hotel in this town. I

"Ain't there no limit, Bloss, to the way you can make a fellow feel like dirt under your feet? My God! ain't

"Therethere's nothing on earth can make a man of you, Hal, nothing on God's earth but War! Every once in

a while there's some little reason seems to spring up for there bein' a war. You're one of them reasons, Hal.

Down in my heart I know it that you'll come back, and when I get a hunch it's a hunch! Down in my heart I

know it, dear, that you'll come back to me. But you'll come back a man, you'll come back with the yellow

streak pure gold, you'llyou'll come back to me pure gold, dear. I know it. I know it."

His head was back as if his throat were open to the stroke of her words, but there was that growing in his face

"And you, Blossom?" he said, not taking his eyes, with their growing lights, off her.

"Why, I'll be waiting, Hal," she said, the pink coming out to flood her face, "I'll be waitingSweetheart."

[This is a comic strip in three panels. I'll do my best to describe each panel and then put the text which comes

[Panel 1: A man and woman sit at a meal with pictures of Washington and Lincoln glowering from the wall

in the man's full view behind the woman. The woman is reading a paper. The man is listening, but not

looking at the woman, rather at his meal in front of him. A maid brings coffee cups on a platter.]

SHE (reading)"At 5:15, the barrage was raised, and the Americans advanced to attack. The long line

moved forward like the steady onsweep of the tideunwavering, irresistible, implacable." Oh, isn't it

perfectly wonderful! I knew our men would fight gloriously! And just listen to this:

[Panel 2: The images of Washington and Lincoln have doubled in size and the eyes clearly glare at the man.

The man now shows beads of sweat around his head and wears an expression of distress. The woman

continues to read the paper. The maid departs the scene having delivered the coffee cups.]

SHE (reading)"The Germans fought desperately but the American lines never wavered in their onward

course. Sometimes the broad stretch of the battlefield was enveloped in great volumes of smoke, but a

moment later, as the air cleared, the same lines were to be seen moving onward. At 6:45, the sound of

cheering was heard amidst the din of the battle and a few moments later, the message was sent back that the

[Panel 3: The images of Washington and Lincoln are now almost fully the size of the wall and marks of

consternation and anger are clear on their brows as they glare at the man. The woman continues to read the

paper without looking up. The man is fleeing the room in great haste with his arms in the air. He has knocked

over his chair in his haste and has bumped into the maid who was returning with a coffee pot and biscuits.

The man's face is obscured by raised hands and his overcoat, but he is clearly fleeing.]

SHE (reading)"The American victory of yesterday may well mark the beginning of the end of the war.

London and Paris are ringing with the praises of the American soldiers. President Wilson has proclaimed a

national holiday in celebration of the triumph, and the American soldier has won imperishable glory as a

Where's the man, in all the earth Man of want or man of worth Who shall now to rank or birth Knee of

homage bend? Though he war with chance or fate, If his heart be free of hate, If his soul with love be great,

Where's the man, of wealth or wage, Dare be traitor to his age, To the people's heritage Won by war and

woe, Counting but as private good All the gain of brotherhood By the base so long withstood? He shall be

Where's the man that does not feel Freedom as the common weal, Duty's sword the only steel Can the battle

end? Comrades, chant in unison Creed the noblest 'neath the sun: "One for all and all for one," Till each foe

It is April, And the snow lingers on the dark sides of evergreens; The grass is brown and soggy With only a

faint, occasional overwash of green. But under the leafless branches The white bells of snowdrops are

nodding and shaking Above their green sheaths. Snow, firtrees, snowdropsstem and flower Nature

Man has unfurled a Nation's flags Above the city streets; He has flung a striped and starry symbol of bright

colors Down every curving way. Blossoms of War, Blossoms of Suffering, Strange beautiful flowers of the

Over door lintels and cornices, Above peaked gables and flat mansardroofs Flutter the flags. The avenues

are arcaded with them, The narrow alleys are bleached with stripes and stars. For War is declared, And the

people gird themselves Silentlysternly Only the flags make arabesques in the sunshine, Twining the red

of blood and the silver of achievement Into a gay, waving pattern Over the awful, unflinching Destiny Of

The flags ripple and jar To the tramp of marching men, to the rumble of caissons over cobblestones. From

seaboard to seaboard And beyond, across the green waves of the sea, They flap and fly. Men plant potatoes

and click typewriters In the shadow of them, And khakiclad soldiers Lift their eyes to the garish red and

America, The clock strikes. The spring is upon us, The seed of our forefathers Quickens again in the soil,

Thru suffering to Peace! Thru sacrifice to Security! Red stripes, Turn us not from our purpose, Lead us up as

Soldiers, sailors, clerks, and office boys, Men, and Womenbut not children, No! Not children! Let these

march With their paper caps and toy rifles And feel only the panoply of War But the others, Welded and

forged, Seared, melted, broken, Molded without flaw, Slowly, faithfully pursuing a Purpose, A Purpose of

Even into the very flame of Death. Over the city, Over all the cities, Flutter flags. Flags of spring, Flags of

It was the evening of our Day; that young April day when in the solemn vastness of St. Paul's were held the

services to mark America's historic entrance into the Great World War. Across the mighty arch of the

From the organ pealed those American songs to which half a century ago, in another war for Freedom, men

marched to battle, and, even if by ways of defeat and death, to ultimate Victory. How many there were that

April day for whom the sight of the Stars and Stripes was blurred with tears. How the familiar airs and simple

words pained us with the memory of our distant homes. Perhaps for the first time we understood the solemn

significance of this dedication to war of what we hardly knew was so unspeakably dear.

In the Crypt of St. Paul's, Mausoleum of England's greatest soldier and sailor heroes, their ashes rest who

once fought and conquered. If it is given to those who have gone before to hear our human appeal, perhaps

the immortal spirits of Nelson, of Wellington, of Kitchener, whose tragic fate is its unfulfilled destiny, may

have rested like an inspiration on that kindred nation offering the sacrifice of all it holds most sacred to the

After the solemn benediction thousands streamed slowly out to mingle with the multitudes gathered before

the great Entrance where Queen Anne in crown and scepter keeps majestic guard, and where in peaceful days

Stern and momentous times have passed over that old, gray Cathedral; times of a Nation's grief and a Nation's

rejoicing. But of all such days, in its centuries of existence, none has been so momentous for the destiny of

the Empire as that sunny April day. And yetand yetperhaps more touching, more solemn, even than the

High Service at St. Paul's, that which stirred Americans even more who love England with only a lesser love,

and made us realize as never before what America stands for, joint defender now of the new Civilization, was

the silent symbol of her dedication to the Cause of Human Freedom, for all London to see and on which,

seeing, to reflect. It was the symbol of that for which Statesmen who were also prophets, have lived and

It rose against the glowing West, never to be forgotten by those who saw it at the close of Our Day, for it

Along Whitehall, down Parliament Street, and where towards the left Westminster Bridge spans its immortal

river, stand the Houses of Parliament, their delicate tracery of stonework etched against the sunset sky.

Hurrying crowds, released from the day's toil, stopped here, as if by a common impulse, to gaze upwards,

and, gazing in silent wonder, they saw such a sight as London has never seen before. On the highest pinnacle

of the Victoria tower where the flag of another nation has never before shared its proud eminence there

They were brothers, Louis and Francois, standing in the presence of the Prussian commander, looking

hopelessly into his cold, unsmiling eyes. For the third time in as many days he was bargaining with them for

that which God had given them and they in turn had promised to France: their lives.

"Do not make the mistake of thinking that we exalt you for what you may call courage, or that your country

will sing your praises," said the general harshly. "Your country will never know how or when you die. You

Francois allowed his hot, dry eyes to sweep slowly around the group. He was pale, his forehead wet.

"You are soldiers," said he, his voice low and steady. "Is there one among you who would do the thing we are

asked to do? If there is one man here who will stand forth in the presence of his comrades and say that he

would betray Germany as you are asking us to betray France,if there is such a man among you, let him

A dozen pairs of hard implacable eyes returned his challenge. No man spoke. No man smiled.

"You do not even pretend," cried the little poilu. "well, I too am a soldier. I am a soldier of France. It is

nothing to me that I day today or tomorrow, or that my country knows when or how. Take me out and

shoot me," he shouted, facing the commander. "I am but one poor soldier. I am one of millions. What is my

"Nothing," said the commander. "Ten such as you would not represent the worth of one German soldier."

"We say not so over there," said Francois boldly, jerking his thumb in the direction of Pontamousson.

"That the worst of the Frenchmen is worth five of your best," said Francois, unafraid. Why should he be

"And one of your frogeating generals is the equal of five of me, I suppose?" The commander's grim face

"So we say, excellency," said Francois simply. "Our Papa Joffreah, he is greater than all of you put in

"He is greater than the Kaiser,though I die for saying it," cried the little poilu recklessly.

The commander turned his eyes from the white, impassioned face of Francois and looked upon the quivering,

ghastly visage of the brother who stood beside him. The fire that glowed in the eyes of Francois was missing

The grizzled Prussian smiled, but imperceptibly. What he saw pleased him. Louis, the big one, the older of

the two, trembled. It was only by the supremest effort that he maintained a pitiable show of defiance. His face

was haggard and blanched with fear; there was a hunted, shifty look in his narrowed eyes. The general's smile

"And you," he said, almost gently, "have not you profited by the reflections of your three days of grace? Are

you as stubborn as this mule of a brother, this foolish lad who spouts even poorer French than I address to

Francois shot a quick, appealing glance at his big brother's face. There were tiny rivulets of slaver at the

Louis lifted his sagging shoulders. "I have nothing to say," he said thickly, and with the set of his jaws

"So!" said the general, shrugging his shoulders. "I am sorry. You are young to die, you two. To die on the

field of battle,ah, that is noble! To die with one's back to a wall, blindfolded, and to be covered with earth

so loosely that starving dogs may scratch away to feastBut, no more. You have decided. You have had

The slight figure of Francois straightened, his chin went up. His thin, dirtcovered hands were tightly

A vast shudder swept over the figure of Louis, a hoarse gasp broke through his lips. The commander leaned

"For France!" cried Francois again, and once more Louis lifted his head to quaver:

"Take them away," said the commander. "But stay! How old are you?" He addressed Francois.

"He has a sweetheart who will grieve bitterly if he does not return for her caresses, eh? I thought so. Oh, you

French! But she will soon recover. She will find another,like that! So!" He snapped his fingers. "She will

Louis's face was livid. His chin trembled, his lips fell apart slackly; he lowered his eyes after an instant's

"You have until sunrise to change your minds," said the Prussian, turning on his heel.

They were led from the walledin garden and across the cobblestones of the little street that terminated in a

cul de sac just above. Over the way stood the shattered remnants of a building that once had been pointed to

with pride by the simple villagers as the finest shop in town. The day was hot. Wornout German troopers

sprawled in the shade of the walls, sound asleep, their mouths ajar,beardless boys, most of them.

They were shoved through the wrecked doorway into the mortarstrewn ruin, and, stumbling over masses of

debris, came to the stone steps that led to the cellar below. Louis drew back with a groan. He had spent

"Not thereagain!" he moaned. He was whimpering feebly as he picked himself up at the bottom of the

"Dogs!" cried Francois, glaring upward and shaking his fist at the heads projecting into the turquoise aperture

above. Far on high, where the roof had been, gleamed the brilliant sky. "Our general will make you pay one

Then he threw his arms about his brother's shoulders andcried a little too,no in fear but in sympathy.

The trap door dropped into place, a heavy object fell upon it with a thud, and they were in inky darkness.

There was no sound save the sobs of the two boys, and later the steady tread of a man who paced the floor

They had not seen, but they knew that a dead man lay over in the corner near a window chocked by a hundred

tons of brick and mortar. He had died some time during the second century of their joint occupance of the

black and must hole. On the 28th he had come in with them, wounded. It was now the 31st, and he was dead,

having lived to the age of nine score years and ten! When they spoke to their guards at the beginning of the

third century, saying that their companion was dead and should be carried away, the Germans replied:

"There is time enough for that," and laughed,for the Germans could count the time by hours out there in

A hidden French battery in the wooded, rocky hills off to the west had for days kept up a deadly, unerring fire

upon the German positions. Shift as he would, the commander could not escape the shells from those unseen,

undiscovered guns. They followed him with uncanny precision. His own batteries had searched in vain, with

thousands of shrieking shells, for the gadfly gunners. They could find him, but he could not find them. For

Three French scouts fell into his hands on the night of the 28th. Two of them were still alive. He had them up

"On one condition will I spare your lives," said he. And that condition had been pounded into their ears with

unceasing violence, day and night, by officers high and low, since the hour of their capture. It was a very

simple condition, declared the Germans. Only a stubborn fool would fail to take advantage of the opportunity

offered. The exact position of that mysterious battery,that was all the general demanded in return for his

goodness in sparing their lives. He asked no more of them than a few, truthful words.

Francois could not see his brother, but now and then he put out a timid hand to touch the shaking figure. He

could not understand. Why was it not the other way about? Who was he to offer consolation to the big and

"Courage," he would say, and then stare hard ahead into the blackness. "You are great and strong," he would

"You have not so much to live for as I," Louis would mutter, over and over again.

Their hour drew near. "Eat this," persuaded Francois, pressing upon Louis the hunk of bread their captors had

"Let me alone! Keep away from me! God in heaven, why do they leave that Jean Picard down here with

"You have seen hundreds of dead men, Louis. All of them were heroes. All of them were brave. It was

"But they died like men, not like rats. They died smiling. They had no time to think."

And then he fell to moaning. His teeth rattled. He turned upon his face and for many minutes beat upon the

Francois stood. His hot, unblinking eyes tried to pierce the darkness. Tears of shame and pity for this big

brother burnt their way out and ran down his cheeks. He was wondering. He was striving to put away the

The dreary age wore on. Louis slept! The little brother sat with his chin in his hands, his heart cold, his eyes

Then came the sound of the heavy object being dragged away from the door at the top of the steps. They both

sprang to their feet. An oblong patch of drab, gray light appeared overhead. Sunrise!

"Come! It is time," called down a hoarse voice. Three guns hung over the edge of the opening. They were

Louis straightened his gaunt figure. The light from above fell upon his face. It was white,deathly

"Have no fear, little brother," he said gently, caressingly. He clasped his brother's hand. "We die together. I

have dreamed. A vision came to me,came down from heaven. My dream was of our mother. She came to

me and spoke. So! I shall die without fear. Come! Courage, little Francois. We are her soldier boys. She gave

Glorified, rejoicing, almost unbelieving, Francois followed his brother up the steps, there was comfort in the

"This general of yours," began Louis, facing the guard, a sneer on his colorless lips, his teeth showing, "he is

"What has come over this one?" growled one of them. "Last night he was breaking."

"There is still a way to break him," said another, grinning. "Hell will be a relief to him after this hour."

"This Papa Joffre of yours," said the burliest German,"he is worse than a dog. He is a toad." He shoved the

"The smallest sergeant in Germany is greater than your Papa Joffre," said another. "What is it you have said,

"II myself," cried Francois hotly,"I am nobler, braver, greater than this beast you call master."

"Hold your tongue," said a third German, in a kindlier tone than the others had employed. "It can do you no

good to talk like this. Give in, my brave lads. Tell everything. I know what is before you if you refuse

Louis walked ahead, erect, his jaw set. The blood leaped in Francois' veins. Ah, what a brave, strong fellow

"He is the greatest commander in all the German armies," boasted the burly sergeant. "And, young

frogeater, he commands the finest troops in the world. Do you know that there are ten thousand iron crosses

in this Godappointed corps! Have a care how you speak of our general. He is the Emperor's right hand. He

"Bah!" cried Francois, snapping his fingers scornfully. "His is worth no more than that to me!"

"You fool. He is to the Emperor worth more than an entire army corps,yes, two of them. The Emperor

"A hundred thousand men?" cried Francois, incredulously. "That is a great many men,even Germans."

They now entered the little garden. The Prussian commander was eating his breakfast in the shelter of a tent.

The day was young, yet the sun was hot. Papers and maps were strewn over the top of the long table at which

he sat, gorging himself. The guard and the two prisoners halted a few paces away. The general's breakfast

was not to be interrupted by anything so trivial as the affairs of Louis and Francois.

"And that ugly glutton is worth more than a hundred thousand men," mused Francois, eyeing him in wonder.

Staff officers stood outside the tent, awaiting and receiving gruff orders from their superior. Between gulps

he gave out almost unintelligible sounds, and one by one these officers, interpreting them as commands,

Francois gazed as one fascinated. He WAS a great general, after all. Only a very great and powerful general

could enjoy such respect, such servile obedience as he was receiving from these hulking brutes of men.

Directions were punctuated,or rather indicated,by the huge carvingknife with which the general

slashed his meat. He pointed suddenly with the knife, and, as he did so, the officer at whom it was leveled,

sprang into action, to do as he was bidden, as if the shining blade had touched his quivering flesh.

Suddenly the great general pushed his bench back from the table, slammed the knife and fork down among

He was in an evil humor. That battery in the hills had found its mark again when the sun was on the rise.

"So be it!" roared the commander. His gaze was fixed on Louis. There was the one who would weaken. Not

that little devil of a boy beside him. He uttered a short, sharp command to an aide.

"End it!" commanded the Prussian general after a while. "The fool will not speak!"

And the little of life that was left to the shuddering, sightless Louis went out with a sighslipped out with

Turning to Francois, who had been forced to witness the mutilation of his brother,whose arms had been

held and whose eyelids were drawn up by the cruel fingers of a soldier who stood behind him,he said:

"Now YOU! You have seen what happened to him! It is your turn now. I was mistaken. I thought that he was

the coward. Are you prepared to go through even more thanAh! Good! I thought so! The little fireeater

Francois, shaken and near to dying of the horror he had witnessed, sagged to his knees. They dragged him

"I will tell! I will tell!" he screamed. "Let me alone! Keep your hands off of me! I will tell, God help me,

He staggered, whitefaced and pitiful, to the edge of the table, which he grasped with trembling, straining

Like a cat, Francois sprang. He had gauged the distance well. He had figured it all out as he stood by and

Whirling, the French boy threw his arms on high and screamed into the faces of the stupefied soldiers:

"Vive la France! One hundred thousand men! There they lie! Haha! II, Francois Dupre,I have sent

The first words of the "Marseillaise" were bursting from his lips when his uplifted face was blasted

Like him who day by day unto his draught Of delicate poison adds him one drop more Till he may drink

unharmed the death of ten, Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed Each hour more deeply than the hour

The change was not affected without whispering. The spirit both of the troops who were going back of the

lines to rest and of those who had zigzagged up through two miles of communication trenches to take their

"If it had a name, that is all that remains. We are somewhere in Picardy. The English are off there not very

His gray, faded uniform seemed to melt into the night. The New Comer stepped on to the firing platform and

"We are somewhere in Picardy," he said. "I know without being told. It is like going home."

A sergeant approached, his body twisted sideways because the trench was too narrow for his shoulders.

Under his coat, so that the enemy should not perceive the glow, the sergeant flashed his electric torch and

"Yours leads by a minute," he said. "The advance will be at four o'clock. there will be hot coffee at three.

He passed on, and the comrades drew a little closer together. The sergeant's words had made the Idiot very

"If we advanced only three kilometers," said the Idiot, "the village in which I was born would be French

"I feel it," said the Idiot. "Wherever I have been stationed I have felt it. Sometimes I have asked an officer to

look for ChampdeFer on his field map, and when he has done so, I have pointed, and said 'Is it in that

"I don't know. But I think so, for from the hour of the mobilization until now, I have not heard from them."

"Since the hour of the mobilization," said Paul Guitry, "much water has flowed under the bridges. I had just

been married. My wife is in Paris. I have a little son now. I saw them when I had my eight days' leave. And it

"If I had known," said Paul Guitry, "I would not have boasted of my own happiness."

"I am not the only French soldier who has not heard from his sweetheart since the mobilization," said the

Idiot. "It has been hard," he said, "but by thinking of all the others, I have been able to endure."

"Soon," said the Idiot, "we shall be in ChampdeFer, and they will tell me what has become of her."

"She will tell you herself," said Paul Guitry with a heartiness which he did not feel. The Idiot shrugged his

"We have loved each other," he said, "even since we were little children. Do you know why I am called the

Idiot? It is because I do not go with women, when I have the chance. But I don't mind. They cannot say that I

am not a real man, for I have the military medal and I have been mentioned twice in the orders of the day."

To Paul Guitry, a confirmed sinner as opportunity offered, the Idiot's statement contained much psychic meat.

"It must be," he said, "that purity tempts some men, just as impurity tempts others."

"It is even simpler," said the Idiot; but he did not explain. And there was a long silence.

Now and then Paul Guitry glanced at his companion's profile, for the night was no longer inky black. It was a

simple direct young face, not handsome, but full of dignity and kindness; the line of the jaw had a certain

sternness, and the wide and delicately molded nostril indicated courage and daring.

Paul Guitry thought of his wife and of his little son, of his eight days' leave, and of its consequences. He tried

to imagine how he would feel, if for two years his wife had been in the hands of the Germans. Without

"They say," he said, "that in fifty years all this will be forgotten; and that we French will feel friendly toward

He laughed softly, a laugh so cold, that Paul Guitry felt as if ice water had suddenly been spilled on his spine.

"Hell," he went on, "has no tortures which French men, and women, and little children have not suffered. You

say that if you had been in my boots you must long since have gone mad? well, it is because I have been able

to think of all the others who are in my boots that I have kept my sanity. It has not been easy. It is not as if

my imagination alone had been tortured. Just as I have the sense that my village is there" he pointed with

his sensitive hand, "so I have the sense of what has happened there. I KNOW that she is alive," he concluded,

There was another silence. The Idiot's nostrils dilated and he sniffed once or twice.

"The coffee is coming," he said. "Listen. If I am killed in the advance, find her, will youJeanne Bergere?

And say what you can to comfort her. It doesn't matter what has happened, her love for me is like the North

Starfixed. When she knows that I am dead she will wish to kill herself. You must prevent that. You must

From several miles in the rear there rose suddenly a thudding percussive cataract of sound. The earth

If indeed it was the voice of God, that other great voice which is of Hell, made no answer. The German guns

On the stroke of four, the earth still trembling with the incessant concussions of the guns, the French

scrambled out of their trenches and went forward. But no sudden blast of lead and iron challenged their

temerity. A few shells, but all from field pieces, fired perfunctorily as it were, fell near them and occasionally

The wire guarding the first line of German trenches had been so torn and disrupted by the French cannon, that

Rumor spread swiftly through the lines. "We are not to be opposed. Fritz has been withdrawn in the night.

His lines are too long. He is straightening out his salients. It is the beginning of the end."

There was good humor and elation. There was also a feeling of admiration for the way in which Fritz had

The country over which the troops advanced was a rolling desert, blasted, twisted, swept clear of all

vegetation. What the Germans could not destroy they had carried away with them. There remained only

Paul Guitry and the Idiot came at last to the summit of a little hill. Beyond and below at the end of a long

sweep of tortured and ruined fields could be seen picturesquely grouped a few walls of houses and one bold

"I had counted on seeing the church steeple. But of course they would have destroyed that."

At that moment a dark and sudden smoke, as from ignited chemicals began to pour upward from the ruined

They did not know what was going on in the world. They had been ordered into the cellars of the village, and

Into the same cellar with Jeanne Bergere had been herded four old women, two old men, and a little boy

whom a German surgeon (the day the champagne had been discovered buried in the Notary's garden) had

Twentythree of the twentyfour hours had passed (one of the old men had a Waterbury watch) but only the

little boy complained of hunger and thirst. He wanted to drink from the well in the corner of the cellar; but

they would not let him. The well had supplied good drinking water since the days of Julius Caesar, but

shortly after entering the cellar one of the old women had drunk from it, and shortly afterward had died in

"But maybe it wasn't the water which killed Madame Pigeon. Only let me try it and then we shall know for

"It is not agreeable to live," said one of the old men, "but it is necessary. We are of those who will be called

upon to testify. The terms of peace will be written by softhearted statesmen; we who have suffered must be

"I do not know," said the old man. "For I have experience only of those things which give them pleasure.

Those who delight in peculiar pleasures are perhaps immune to ordinary pains...."

"Surely," interrupted the little boy, "it was not the water that killed Madame Pigeon."

"How peaceful she looks," said the old man. "You would say the stone face of a saint from the facade of a

"It may be," said Jeanne Bergere, "that already God has opened His mind to her, and that she knows of that

"I can only think of what they have done to us," said the old man. "It does not seem as if there was anything

left for us to do to them. Vengeance which does not give the Avenger pleasure is a poor sort of vengeance.

"Would it give you any particular pleasure to cut the breasts off an old German woman?"

With a trembling hand Madame Simon flattened the bosom of her dress to show that there was nothing

"It would give me no pleasure," she said, "but I shall show my scars to the President."

"An eye for an eyea tooth for a tooth," said the old man. "That is the ancient law. But it does not work.

There is no justice in exchanging a German eye and a French. French eyes see beauty in everything. To the

German eye the sense of beauty has been denied. You cannot compare a beast and a man. In the old days,

when there were wolves, it was the custom of the naive people of those days to torture a wolf if they caught

one. They put him to death with the same refinements which were requisitioned for human criminals. This

meant nothing to the wolf. The mere fact that he had been caught was what tortured him. And so I think it

will be with the Germans when they find that they have failed. They have built up their power on the absurd

hypothesis that they are men. Their punishment will be in discovering that they never were anything but low

"That is too deep for me," said the other man. "They tied my daughter to her bed, and afterward they set fire

A violent concussion shook the cellar to its foundations. Even the face of the thirsty little boy brightened.

"To eradicate the lice which feed upon the Germans and the foul smells which emanate from their bodies

there is nothing so effective as high explosives," said the old man. He looked at his watch and said:

At the end of that time, he climbed the cellar stair, pushed open the door, and looked out. Partly in the bright

His eyes became suddenly wide open, fixed, round with a kind of celestial astonishment. This his old French

heart stopped beating, and he fell to the foot of the stair. His companions thought that he must have been

But it was no bullet or fragment of farblown shell that had laid the old man low. He had seen in the smoke

that whirled down the village street, a little soldier in the uniform of France. Pure unadulterated joy had

Five minutes passed, and no one had moved except the little boy. With furtive glances and trembling hands

he had crept to the old well in the corner and drunk a cup of the poisoned water. Then he crept back to his

The second old man now rose, drew a deep breath and climbed the cellar stair. For a time he stood blinking,

He did not answer. He made inarticulate sounds, and suddenly with incredible speed, darted forward into the

A little hand cold and wet crept into Jeanne Bergere's. She was vexed. She wished to go out of the cellar with

the others; but the little hand clung to her so tightly that she could not free herself.

Except for the old woman who had drunk from the well, and the old man, all in a heap at the foot of the cellar

"It is true," said the little boy, "at least I think it is true about the water...when...nobody was looking.... Please,

"You drank when it was forbidden? That was very naughty, Charlie.... Good God, what am I sayingyou

poor babyyou poor baby." She snatched him into her arms, and held him with a kind of tigerish ferocity.

"It hurts," said Charlie. "It hurts. It hurts me all over. It hurts worse all the time."

"If I grow up, I should not be a man," he said. "You know what the doctor did to me?"

She could not help it. A few minutes after she had gone, his back strongly arched became rigid. His jaws

The village street was full of smoke and Frenchmen. These were methodically fighting the fires and hunting

the ruins for Germans. Jeanne Bergere seized one of the little soldiers by the elbow.

The Idiot turned, and she would have fallen if he had not caught her. She tore herself loose from his arms

"Come! Come!" she cried, and she ran like a frightened animal back to the cellar door, the Idiot close behind

The Idiot knelt by the dead child, and after feeling in vain for any pulsation, straightened up and said:

"He drank from the well," said Jeanne. "We told him that it was poisoned. But he was so thirsty."

They tried to straighten the little boy, but could not. The Idiot rose to his feet, and looked at her for the first

"Listen," she said. "The old people would not leave the village,your father and mother...so I stayed. At that

"Some of the people went into the street to see the Germans enter the village. But we watched from a window

in your father's house.... They were Uhlans, who came first. They were so drunk that they could hardly sit on

their horses. Their lieutenant took a sudden fancy to Marie Lebrun, but when he tried to kiss her, she slapped

his face.... That seemed to sober him.... Old man Lebrun had leapt forward to protect his daughter.

"'Bind him,'" said the lieutenant, and then he gave an order and some men went into the house and came out

dragging a mattress.... They dragged it into the middle of the street.... They held old man Lebrun so that he

had to see everything...for some hours, as many as wanted to.... Then the lieutenant stepped forward and shot

her through the head, and then he shot her father.... Your father and mother hid me in the cellar of their house,

as well as they could.... But from the Germans nothing remains long hidden.... Your father and mother tried

"What you cannot imagine," she said. "I have forgotten.... There have been so many.... No streetwalker has

ever been through what I have been through.... There's nothing more to say...I wanted to live...to bear witness

The granitegray of his face had softened into the ruddy, sunburned coloring of a healthy young soldier,

long in the field, and she could not resist the strong arms that he opened to her.

Lilacs shall bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln. Spring hangs in the dew of the

dooryards These memoriesthese memories They hang in the dew for the bard who fetched A sprig of

them once for his brother When he lay cold and dead.... And forever now when America leans in the

dooryard And over the hills Spring dances, Smell of lilacs and sight of lilacs shall bring to her heart these

brothers.... Lilacs shall bloom for Walt Whitman And lilacs for Abraham Lincoln.

Who are the shadowforms crowding the night? What shadows of men? The stilled starnight is high with

these brooding spirits Their shoulders rise on the Earthrim, and they are great presences in heaven

They move through the stars like outlined winds in youngleaved maples. Lilacs bloom for Walt Whitman

Deeply the nation throbs with a world's anguish But it sleeps, and I on the housetops Commune with souls

long dead who guard our land at midnight, A strength in each hushed heart I seem to hear the Atlantic

moaning on our shores with the plaint of the dying And rolling on our shores with the rumble of battle.... I

seem to see my country growing golden toward California, And, as fields of daisies, a people, with

slumbering upturned faces Leaned over by Two Brothers, And the greatness that is gone.

Spring runs over the land, A young girl, lightfooted, eager... For I hear a song that is faint and sweet with

first love, Out of the West, fresh with the grass and the timber, But dreamily soothing the sleepers... I listen: I

Softly the Spring sings, Softly and clearly: "I open lilacs for the beloved, Lilacs for the lost, the dead. And,

see, for the living, I bring sweet strawberry blossoms, And I bring buttercups, and I bring to the woods

anemones and blue bells... I open lilacs for the beloved, And when my fluttering garment drifts through dusty

cities, And blows on hills, and brushes the inland sea, Over you, sleepers, over you, tired sleepers, A fragrant

Was that the Spring that sang, opening locked hearts, And is remembrance mine? For I know these two great

shadows in the spacious night, Shadows folding America close between them, Close to the heart... And I

know how my own lost youth grew up blessedly in their spirit, And how the morning song of the might bard

Sent me out from my dreams to the living America, To the chanting seas, to the piney hills, down the railroad

vistas, Out into the streets of Manhattan when the whistles blew at seven, Down to the mills of Pittsburgh and

the rude faces of labor... And I know how the grave great music of that other, Music in which lost armies

sang requiems, And the vision of that gaunt, that great and solemn figure, And the graven face, the deep eyes,

the mouth, O humanhearted brother, Dedicated anew my undevoted heart to America, my land.

Now in this hour I was suppliant for these two brothers, And I said: Your land has need: Halfawakened and

blindly we grope in the great world.... What strength may we take from our Past, What promise hold for our

And the one brother leaned and whispered: "I put my strength in a book, And in that book my love... This,

with my love, I give to America..." And the other brother leaned and murmured: "I put my strength in a life,

Then my heart sang out: This strength shall be our strength: Yea, when the great hour comes, and the sleepers

wake and are hurled back, And creep down into themselves There shall they find Walt Whitman And there,

O Spring, go over this land with much singing And open the lilacs everywhere, Open them out with the

oldtime fragrance Making a people remember that something has been forgotten, Something is hidden

deepstrange memoriesstrange memories Of him that brought a sprig of the purple cluster To him that

was mourned of all... And so they are linked together While yet America lives... While yet America lives, my

Where is that sea law writ for mariners and for captains, That they may know the law by which they sail the

sea? We never saw it writ for sailormen or for masters; But 'tis laid with the keel of the ship. What would you

Ye who went down tot he sea in ships and perished aforetime, In what faith did ye sail? In what creed did ye

die? What is that law to which your lives were forfeit? What do ye teach your sons that they may not deny?

We kept the faith of our breed. We died in the creed of seamen, As our sons, too, shall die: the sea will have

its way. The law which bade us sail with death in smack and whaler, In tall ship and in open boat, is the

The master shall rule his crew. The crew shall obey the master. Ye shall work your ship while she fleets and

ye can stand. Though ye starve, and freeze, and drown, shipmate shall stand by shipmate. Ye shall 'bide by

Ye shall hold your lives in trust for those who need your succor: A flash of fire by night, a loom of smoke by

day, A rag to an oar shall be to you the symbol Of your faith, of your creed, of the law which sailormen obey.

Ye shall not count the odds, ye shall not weigh the danger, When life is to be saved from storm, from fire,

from thirst. Ye shall not leave your foe adrift and helpless; And when the boats go overside, 't is, "Women

We kept this faith of our breed. We died in this creed of seamen. We sealed our creed with our lives. It shall

endure alway. The law which bade us sail with death in smack and whaler, In tall ship and in open boat, is the

The robinredbreast and the wren, We cannot harken these For dreadful thunder of the guns That echoes

overseas; And evermore our vision turns To those who follow far The bright white light of Liberty Through

Our thoughts are with the hero souls And hero hearts of gold Who keep Old Glory's hallowed stars

Untarnished as of old; Who join their hands with hero hands In hero lands to save The fearless forehead of

And through these days of strife and death, We know they shall not fail, That Freedom shall not pass from

earth Nor tyranny prevail; Yea, those that now in anguish bow, We know that soon or late They shall be lifted

O brave defenders of the free, For you our tears of pride! Lo, every drop of blood you shed Our hearts have

sanctified! And through these days of strife and death, These weary nighttimes through, Our spirits watch

"All babies cry, big or little, now and then. The nurse is with Billy. I" Nellie Cameron paused to smooth a

"You are not?" Joseph Cameron, bewildered, laid his paper upon his knees and squinted up at his wife.

"No, Joe, I am not." As if it absorbed her, and no one could have said that it did not, for she kept house

beautifully, Nellie straightened an etching; the quietly she walked out of the room.

She went into their bedroom and closed the door. After a while Cameron, watching warily, saw her come into

the hall again in a peachcolored dress that he particularly liked her in; saw her go down the hall, away from

himand she had a very good backto the nursery door, the warm, cheerful firelight falling full upon her

face, her hands, her softly glowing dress. Billy, their only son, just learning to walk, toddled to meet her.

Cameron saw the chubby hands rumple her skirts, saw Nellie stoop and swing him high with her firm arms,

the drop him to his place upon her breast. The door close, the hall was shadowy again, the apartment as still

The dinner was on time and excellent; Nellie, decorative and chatty, was promptly in her place. Dinner over,

they went to the sittingroom for their coffee. The apartment was very high up, the windows looking over the

treetops of the Drive, across the Hudson tot he Jersey shore. It was March, and the shore lights wavered in

gusts of rain that threatened to turn to snow. The room was warm; Cameron was suffocating; Nellie was

serenely unaware. She had eaten well, from her soup through her cheese. There are times when, to a man, a

woman's appetite is the last straw. She was tired, she said, but at her ease, and never prettier.

"Yes. Bridge hand around at Gordon's. Want a talk with Gordon about a matter of business."

"I like to have things to do in the afternoon, but when night comes"Nellie smothered a contented

"I must own that I have never found afternoon diversions to be diverting." To save him he could not keep his

voice goodnatured. He had had a grind of a day, and was dogtired; it seemed to him she ought to know it

"Yes?" Nellie mused. "It was amusing at the club todaythe Nondescripts." She laughed softly. "It wasn't

"Some old maid telling you to bring your children up on the country, and throw your husbands out of their

"What, Joey?" Nellie seemed to bring her thoughts back from a long way off. "Old maid? I should say not!

We had a man. We nearly always do. Then everybody comes, and there's more glow. He was an English

socialistI guess he was a socialist. BurneJones hair, and a homespun jacket,loose, and all that,and a

"You were, Joey dear; that is just what you were. You were damned all the way there and back again."

"You're the very image of him, Joey dear." And she smiled upon him as if he were some new moth, in at their

"I do wonder if I can make you see him? Tall and dark, and with goodlooking, thinnish hands and almost

amusing way of playing with his eyeglasses. You know, Joey: the sort of distinguished talkitallout sort

of man that just makes men rage. Of course," she went on, largely wise, "he's the sort of socialist to make a

"Of course," she laughed. "You see, we don't see much of men at home any more. It keeps us from forgetting

"He finished off with a perfect bomb, Joey. It was funny! Of course the new man's a city product, and he

drew him to the life: rushed and tortured by ambition, tired out at the end of the day, too tired to be possibly

amusing, his nerves excited till anything quieter than lower Broadway hurts his ears, all passion and

brilliance spent on business, dinners here and there, with people who all have their ax to grind, too, and are

keyed up to it by rows and rows of cocktails. He drew him without mercy, and he had every wife there either

wincing or laughing, with the truth of what he said. He was quite eloquent." She paused, she laughed softly,

"He said that any intelligent modern woman would require at least one husband and three lovers to arrive at

"But, Joey dear, you see so little of us respectable women now, you don't really know us"

Cameron swallowed two or three retorts; then with a laugh that seemed to break to pieces in the air, he went

"Poor dear old landlubber!" she sighed. "But it had to come sooner or later!" Then she went to the

When Cameron came in at midnight he found his wife and his old friend Willoughby Crane playing chess in

"Almost forgot what you looked like," Crane rambled pleasantly. "Dropped in for a reminder."

"Well, you haven't altogether missed me, you know: so cheer up, old man. If Nell's good for a rubber, you

may have the joy of my presence for an hour or two longer. You're lucky, having a wife who can play chess!"

"Get yourself a drink, Joey," suggested Nellie. "The whisky's in the sideboard, down on he left."

Cameron, his thought babbling over the good old days of the duckingstool, poured himself carefully a

highball that was brown. Silence reigned. The light fell upon the head and shoulders of Crane and his long,

"After a man has slaved his soul out," Cameron moaned, "these are the things a woman cares about!"

Crane won the rubber, and spent considerable gallantry upon Nellie in compensation. Cameron had yawned

all through, but no one had noticed. Crane lighted a cigarette and perched upon the corner of the

"You certainly are a victim of the powerpassion," he sighed, considering Cameron. "I don't know how you

stand it. I'd have more money, no doubt, if I weren't so apathetic, but, by Jinks, it doesn't look worth it to

"Taste? If that were all!" He smoked, looking at Nellie through the haze. "I say, Nell, I've got tickets for

Kreisler tomorrow night. Come with me, there's a good girl! Lend me your wife, will you, Joe?"

"Lend?" echoed Nellie. "I like that! Anybody'd take me for goods and chattels. Of course I'll come. I'd love

"You know, Joey," Crane went on simply, "Nellie's the only woman I know that it's real joy to hear music

with. She knows what she's listening to. A fellow can sort of forget that he's got her along, an still be glad he

has. As for you, you old moneyhunting blunderbuss, the way you squirm in the presence of music ought to

be a penitentiary offense. I'm almost glad you can't go." He gave a laugh that was dangerously genuine, and

Joe did not look it, but Willoughby got out solicitously, and he sat upon a damp bench opposite Cameron's

glowing windows, and he laughed and laughed till a policeman sternly ordered him to move on.

"Isn't Willoughby a dear!" Nellie commented as she moved about, putting things in their places for the night.

All that long night Cameron lay stretched upon the edge of their bed, staring into the lumpy darkness. Nellie

slept like a baby. But once, soon after the lights were turned off, Cameron's blood froze by inches from his

head to his feet. It seemed to him that Nellie was laughing, was fairly biting her pillow to keep from laughing

aloud! Gravely, of the darkness, he asked how all this had come about. He asked it of the familiar, shadowy

heap of Nellie's clothes upon the chair by the window, asked if he had deserved it. Toward dawn he slept.

Cameron, after the way of the new man, kept some evening clothes down town. It saved traveling. The next

afternoon, about four o'clock, there came, somewhere between the pit of his stomach and his brain, an aching

weight. Conscience! At sixthirty he hung his dinnerjacket back in the closet and sent the directors word

that he had a headache. Then, as blind as a moth, he started for home, for that lamp about which Nellie

He let himself into the apartment, chuckling to think of Nellie's surprise, at just the hour at which they were

used to dining. The place was shadowy, the table in its betweenmeals garb. The aching weight came back.

Miss Merritt, the nurse, was dining by the nursery window, Billy's high chair drawn near by. Billy, drowsy

and rosy, was waving a soupspoon about his head, dabbing at the lights upon the silver with fat fingers that

"Good evening, Miss Merritt," said Cameron. "Hello, Bill! Where's your mother?" His tone struck false, for

through his mind was booming the horrible question, "Can Nellie have gone out with that ass Crane to dine?"

"Why, sir, Mrs. Cameron has gone out to dinner, and after to a concert. I guess you forgot, sir."

"Oh, yes," said Cameron, easily. "This is the night of the concert. I had absolutely forgotten. I'd have got a

She left Cameron alone with Billy, who, cannibalwise, was chewing his father's hand and crowing over the

"If you'd jest 'ave 'phoned, sir," panted the cook, who was a large, purplefaced person.

"Just anything, Katy. I have a headache. Some eggs and toastpoached eggs, I think."

In another moment the maid passed the nursery door, with white things over her arm, on her way to set the

Cameron, dazed as never in his life before, lifted Billy to his shoulder and trotted up and down the room.

"Nice little boy!" he laughed, Billy's damp fists hitting at him in ecstasy. "I'll just take him to the

sittingroom while you finish your dinner." He did his best to pretend that the situation was not unusual, to

act as if, in his own home, a man could be nothing but at home. All these confounded hirelings, acting as if

"Here!" said Miss Merritt, holding out a pinkedged blanket. "Jest put in on your lap, sir." There was about

her that utter peculiar lack of decorum that is common to nurses and mothers and Cameron, blushing

"Boys should know their father, hey?" Cameron was enraged. "We'll see about that pretty quick!" Billy

crowed with joy as the blanket flapped about them, and, above the chasm of his doubts and his conscience

Cameron heard himself laugh, too. He got into his armchair. Billy, so warm and solid and gay, so evidently

liking him, gave him, parent that he was, the thrill of adventure as his hands held him and knew him for his

own. The blanket spread upon his knees, the door closed, Cameron expanded with the desire to know his son,

even as it was desirable that his son should know him. He turned him over and around, he studied the

vagaries of scallops and pearl buttons; profoundly he pitied his small image for all of his discomforts, and

advised him to grow out of safetypins as fast as possible. He fell into a philosophical mood, spouting away

at Bill, and Bill responded with fists and delicious gurgles and an imitative sense of investigation. Cameron

reflected, with illumination, upon the amusing sounds a baby makes when the world is well. They were really

Billy was fuzzy and blond, one of those moist, very blueeyed babies that women appreciate. Cameron all at

once saw why. Warmth expanded his aching heart, and his arms circled his own mite of boy. Billy yawned,

agreed instantly with Cameron that a yawn from a baby was funny, and with a chuckle pitched against

Cameron, bumped his nose on a waistcoat button, considered the button solemnly, with his small mouth stuck

out ridiculously, and then snuggled into the hollow of his father's arms, and, closing his big eyes with a

confidence that made thrills creep over him, the man, and brought something stinging to his eyes, Bill went to

After an unmeasured lapse of time, Miss Merritt came for the baby. "Oh, the lambkin! Ain't he sweet, sir?"

"Take care how you handle him!" he whispered. "It's awful to be awakened out of one's first sleep!"

"I know better than to wake a sleepin' baby, believe me," said Miss Merritt with a touch of spice.

The door closed. Cameron sat stretching his stiff arms and legs and staring before him, and upon his usually

Then came dinner, a lonely, silent mockery of a meal. And back the question came, booming over the soft

tinkling of glass and silver. He realized, with his salad, that four nights out of seven, Nellie dined like this,

alone. His lower lip protruded, and lines of conscience fell in a curtain on his face.

"Mrs. Cameron hates eatin' 'lone, too," said the maid. "She generally eats early, so 's t' have Billy in his high

He was alone in the sittingroom with his coffee, and the place had sunk into fathomless silence. It was only

half after eight! He stuck his head out of the window. Soft flakes touched and soothed his feverish head.

"Damn money!" he whispered suddenly, then stood back in the room, startled, staring his blasphemy in the

Bundled in a greatcoat, collar high, trousers rolled up, he ducked out of the great marble and iron vestibule

into the night. There was no wind, and the snow was falling softly, steadily. The drive was deserted, and he

made his way across to the walk along the wall. By the light of the lamp, blurred by the flakes till it looked

like a tallstemmed thistleball, he looked at his watch. No matter where Nellie had dined, she was a the

concert by now, and a great sigh of relief fluttered the flakes about his mouth.

He turned north, glad of the rise in the ground to walk against. "By jinks!" he smiled grudgingly, "it's not so

bad out here. We city idiots, weNEW MEN, with all our motors and subways, we are forgetting how to

The world fell of to shadow a little beyond the shoreline, a mere space of air and flakes. Ice swirled by its

way to the sea, for the tide was going out. He peered; he began to hear all sorts of fine snowmuffled sounds;

and suddenly, away out on the river, something was going onboats whistling and signaling, chatting in

their scientific persiflage, out in the dark and cold of the night. "Lonesome, too!" Cameron laughed, and,

boyishly, he tossed a snowball into the space, as if he'd have something to say out there, too! "I'm soft!" he

groaned, clutching his arm. And suddenly he smiled to think how one of these days he and Bill would come

out here and play together. He looked about, and a sudden pride filled him. He was actually the only creature

enjoying this splendid snow! He had passed one old gentleman in a furlined coat, with a cap upon his white

hair, walking slowly, a white bulldog playing after him in the scarcely trodden snow.

Cameron turned home, a new and inexplicable glow upon him, cares dropped away. He marched; he laughed

aloud once with a sudden thought of Bill. "Little corker!" He let himself in, and went straight to the bedroom

to change his shoes. "I must get some watertight things to prowl in," he thought, and he whistled a line of

"Tipperary." Blurred in a pleasant fatigue he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his wet socks, when the

"Yep, this is Cameron. Oh, hello, old girl! Thought I'd just come up for a quiet home dinner, you know." A

grin like the setting sun for warmth spread over his face as he listened, as he felt the tables turning under his

"Nope. Just bored downtown. Felt like bein' cozy andbuzzin' round the lamp in something comfy. Fine!

Had a regular banquet! Bill's all right, little devil! I tucked him in so he shouldn't be lonesome.

"Me? I've been out walkin'. Been throwin' snowballs at the streetlamps. My feet are soakin', but I don't

care, I don't care. Heard a concert myself, thanks. Whistles and things tootin' out in the snow on the river to

beat the band! Don't think of it! I'm fine. Enjoy yourself. What's life for? Good night, old girl. Don't lose your

Cameron got as far as the cedar chest in the hall, but there, in his wet socks, he sat down and he laughed until

he ached all over. Suddenly he stiffened, and his heels banged against the chest.

Miss Merritt, mouth and eyes wide open, stood absorbing him, as crimson as was Cameron himself.

"I heard the 'phone," she faltered. "Miss. Cameron always calls up to know if Billy's all right"

"I know that she does," said Cameron, stiffly, and, rising, he stockingfooted it past her and shut himself in

"yes, sir; good night, sir." Miss Merritt stared at his door. "Good Lord!" she whispered in the nursery, "how

Nellie came out of the telephone booth, her face white with horror. "Willoughby," she gasped, "get me a taxi

"Don't look like that, Nell! Don't! What of it? Just what we've been up to, isn't it?"

Gaily Crane waved his whitegloved hand to her, her face gleaming back pearllike for an instant in the

shadowy taxi; then she was whirled northward and lost in the snowy night. Back in his place next to Nellie's

empty chair, he mused tenderly over the vagaries of a mere bachelor till the incomparable Austrian carried

his mind off to where tone is reality, where there is neither marriage nor giving in marriage.

Nellie fitted the key into the lock. Her fingers shook. The apartment was dark except for a light in the hall,

and as still as if it were empty. If only Joe would STAY asleep till he'd had time to sleep this horrible state of

She switched off the light and carefully let herself into their room, and stood a moment, huddled, breathless,

against the door. The room was ghostly. The vague, snowveiled light filtered in from the streetlamp below,

making of Cameron an incoherent lump, wrapped to his eyes in the covers of their chintzhung bed.

Her hands clasped tight, she peered at him through the shadows. He did not move. He was sleeping heavily,

curiously, irregularly, his breath coming in jerky little snorts. "Oh," she wailed in her guilt heart, "he is, he is!

Poor dear old Joey, drunk! And it's all, all my fault!" Swiftly she undressed in the dark. If he were to awaken,

Her heart pounding, she lifted the covers and crept into martyrdom on the hard edge of the bed. Cameron

slept on. Once he seemed to be strangling in a bad dream, and she fought with her sense of duty to awaken

Gravely Nellie's tired eyes traveled from familiar shadow to shadow, to rest at last upon the dangling heap of

clothes upon a chair by the window that symbolized Joe Cameron by the sane light of day. Fatigue tossed her

off to sleep now and then; terror snatched her back and made her cry. In the first faint dawn she awakened

with a start to find that in her sleep her tired body had slipped back to its place, and her head was resting

deliciously upon her pillow. And, with the growing dawn, humor came creeping back, and try as she would,

her mouth twitched. Of all people, dear old Joey! Carefully she turned her head and peered at him. His face

was turned toward her, what light there was fell full upon him. Wonder took away her smile. His face was

fresh, the lines of care and worry softened away as if he were at the end of a two weeks' vacation. She rested

her chin on her arm, amazed, puzzled. And suddenly a grin like the sunrise spread over Joe's face, and he

In a sense the hundreds of thousands of American soldiers who go to France are modern crusaders. Like the

valiant men of the Middle Ages who traveled far to fight in strange lands for the ideal that possessed their

souls, these twentiethcentury knightserrant go to defend the ideals of liberty and right and honor which are

the issues of this war and which our Allies have successfully upheld for more than three years.

In that chivalric spirit General Pershing stood at the tomb of LaFayette and said, "LaFayette, we are here." As

a young man only twenty years old LaFayette went out to a new land to fight for liberty, and now after nearly

a century and a half the same inspiration that sent him forth is taking our young men back to fight in the land

o his birth the old fight for right. The great romance of international history which the relations of France and

America have afforded from the birth of this republic has entered a new chapter with the pilgrimage of our

fighting men to Europe, and the inestimable service of LaFayette and his comrades to our infant republic is

But though it is a chivalric mission on which our soldiers go, they should not enter France in the attitude of

saviors. It must be remembered that the United States came very late into this war, and while our troops and

even more our money and material resources may have decisive weight toward victory, yet it is France,

England, Italy, Russia against whom the enemy has spent his strength. Our Allies have brought the war

already to its turning point, and we can at best only add completeness to their achievement. Furthermore,

while we aid France and her Allies, we are defending ourselves also. We went to war because Germany was

killing our citizens, was plotting against the peace and security of our nation, because her restless ambition

Our American soldiers will find in France a people who have endured with wonderful courage and devotion

through more than three years of terrific strain against odds which must often have seemed hopeless. The

French are the heroes of this war. They have been in the fight from the beginning and will be there until the

end. Their armies were fully engaged when England had not a hundred thousand men under arms and Italy

was a neutral; they fought on when Russia lost her grip; and they will not quit until their land is cleared of

invaders and the Prussian shadow that has darkened France for more than forty years is lifted. More than any

other country except Belgium, France has felt the horror and hardships of the war which we are spared

American soldiers who go to France are to be envied because they are getting what comes to few

men,opportunity to be of direct, vital service to that country. To be young, to be fit, to have a part however

small in the great events that are making the world over into a safer and happier place for our children to live

in, is something for a man to be proud of now and to remember with satisfaction to his last day.

The war may last much longer than we now anticipate, but there can be no doubt of the ultimate victory of

the cause to which we are committed. The world never turns back, it moves always forward, always upward.

Our soldiers may go out, as the Crusaders went of old, with absolute faith that their service will not be given

Immutable and immortal it is born Within the spirit that has looked on fear Till fear has looked askance; on

death has gazed As on an equal, and with noble scorn, Spurning the self that held the self too dear, To the