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yond Compiegne, where Rudyard Kipling with his family and I with my family had passed the Christmas week of 1913 together, as joyous guests of the American chatelaine Mrs. Julia Park. She has given the spacious, lovely house for a military hospital. And there, while the German guns thundered a few kilometres away from us and a German sausage balloon floated in the sky, I watched the skilful ministrations of French and American doctors and nurses to the wounded. One thought haunted me—the memory of Kipling's only son, nineteen years old, who was with us in that happy Christmastide. The lad was reported "missing" after one of the battles between Loos and Hulluch. For six months I sought, through the German Legation at The Hague, to find a trace of the brave boy. But never a word!

The second visit was to the battle-field of the Marne under the escort of Captain the Count de Ganay. We motored slowly through the ruined towns and villages. Those which had been wrecked by shellfire were like mouthfuls of broken teeth— chimneys and fragments of walls still standing. Those which had been vengefully burned by the retreating Germans were mere heaps of ashes. Most of our time was spent around the Marais de St. Gond, where the French General Foch held the Thermopylae of Europe. Four times he advanced across that marsh and was driven back, but not beaten. The fifth time he advanced and stayed, and Paris was forever lost to the Germans. Think of the men who made that last advance and saved Europe from the Potsdam gang.

The third visit was with the same escort to the fighting front at Verdun.

The long, bare, rolling ridges between Bar-le-Duc and the Meuse; the highshouldered hills along the river and around the ruined little city; the open fields, the narrow valleys, the wrecked villages, the shattered woodlands—all were covered with dazzling snow. The sun was bright in a cloudless sky. A bitter, biting wind poured fiercely, steadily out of the north, driving the glittering snow-dust before it. Every man had put on all the clothes he possessed, and more; pads of sheepskin over back and breast; gunny

sacks tied around the shoulders. The troops of cavalry, the teams of mules and horses dragging munition-wagons or travelling kitchens or long "75" guns, clattered along the iron surface of the Via Sacra—that blessed road which made the salvation of Verdun possible after the only railway was destroyed. Endless trains of motor-lorries lumbered by. The narrow trenches were coated with ice. The hillside trails were slippery as glass. In the deep dugouts small sheet-iron stoves were burning, giving out a little heat and a great deal of choking smoke. The soldiers sat around them playing cards or telling stories.

But there! What I saw in that shellpitted, snow-covered, hard-frozen amphitheatre of heroism cannot be described in these brief paragraphs. The serenity, cheerfulness, courtesy, and indomitable courage of the French poilus defending their own land; the scenes in the trenches with the German shells breaking around us and the wounded men being carried past us; the luncheon in the citadel with the commandant and officers in a subterranean room where the motto on the wall, above the world-renowned escutcheon of Verdun, was "On ne passe pas"—"They don't get by"; the dinner with the general and staff of the Verdun army, in a little village "somewhere in France," and their last words to me, "On les aura! Ca pent etre long, mais on les aural"—" It may take long, but we shall get them!"—all these and a thousand more things are vivid in my memory but cannot be told now.

One scene sticks in my mind and asks to be recorded.

The hospital was just back of the Verdun lines. Its roofs were marked with the Red Cross. Twenty-four hundred beds, all clean and quiet. Wards full of German wounded, cared for as tenderly as the French. "Will you see an operation?" said the proud little commandant who was showing me through his domain. "Certainly." A big, husky fellow was on the operation-table, unconscious, under ether. One of the best surgeons in France was performing the operation of trepanning. I could see the patient's brain, bare and beating, while the surgeon did his skilful work. Other doctors stood

around, and three nurses, one an American girl, Miss Cowen, of Pittsburgh. "Will the man get well?" I asked the surgeon. "I hope so," he answered. "At all events, we shall do our best for him. You know, he is a German—c'est un Bochel"

On August 20,1917, that very hospital, marked with the Red Cross, was bombed by German aeroplanes. One wing was set on fire. While the nurses and helpers were trying to rescue the patients, the damned Potsdam vultures flew back and forth three times over the place, raking it with machine guns. More than thirty persons were killed, including doctors, German wounded, and one woman nurse. God grant it was not the American girl! Yet why would not the killing of a French sister under the Red Cross be just as wicked?

Here I break off—uncomplete.d—my narration of the evil choice of war and the crimes in the conduct of war which have made the name of Germany abhorred.

The Allies, from the beginning, have

pleaded for peace and fought for peace. America, obeying her conscience, has joined them in the conflict.

But what do we mean now by peace? We mean more than a mere cessation of hostilities. We mean that the burglar shall give back all that he has grabbed. We mean that the marauder shall make good all the damage that he has done. We mean that there shall be an open league of free democratic states to secure the rights of all peoples, great and small, and to prevent the recurrence of such a bloody calamity as the autocratic, militaristic Potsdam gang precipitated upon the world in 1914.

Restitution, reparation, guarantees— those are the three terms of the real peace for which we have come to fight beside France, Great Britain, Italy, and, we hope, Russia. The German people shall share its blessings when they are willing and able to accept its conditions. Till then our watchword is—Stand fast, ye free!

September 26, 1917.

By Olive Tilford Dargan

"O Proudly shall my lady tread!

These golden shoes I'll give her,
My silver harp, my ruby red,

My castles by the river!"

But when he met her on the hills,
Down coming like a lily-flame,

Her bare feet mid the daffodils,
His golden shoes he hid for shame.

How could he sing of castles drear
Who with the wild bee found her?

His silver harp how could she hear
With al'. God's birds around her?

And when he trembling touched her heart,
And knew how it could start and bleed,

He threw his ruby far apart
To lie forgot with clod and weed.

Then sought with fasting eyes to share

The empire in her own.
Not yet she spake; but, passing there,

I heard a beggar moan.


By Archibald Douglas Turnbull

Author of "Franfois' Journey"

Illustrations By Gkokge Wricht


OTHING could have been more natural than that Jbhnny Campbell, even though he felt himself an American, should come forward as a soldier of France. His very name bespoke the martial Scot, and it reached back through grandfathers in the Civil War to the very earliest hours of the American Republic. His father had volunteered in '98, only to be one of the many who went as far as the Florida camps and never returned.

Johnny had been five years old then, and he had but the vaguest memories of a stalwart man who had tossed him in the air and then surrendered him so gently to his mother. His mother? She alone would have been enough to turn his steps toward the nearest recruitingstation; that brave little mother who always called him "Jacques," and whom he had known for years as " Tite Maman." Always they had been the most intimate of companions, these two, since the black hour when she had suddenly swept him to her heart, sobbing out upon his curly head her first uncontrolled agony, and thanked heaven that he, at least, was spared to her, as the living proof of a love that had filled her life. Thenceforth they had been inseparable. A woman's perception, a woman's understanding, a woman's heart, had gone to the making of a man. Story after story she had told him, as he stood at her knee, within the hollow of the arm that had been the surest refuge for a hurt soul, the quickest cure for a bumped head. First had come the wonderful child-lore of the fairies and the animals. But as he grew older, and had to fold his everincreasing length of leg upon a rug at her feet, the stories had been nearly always of soldiers. Some of these soldiers had been Campbells, others had French names and were of "Tite Haitian's " own race. Vol. LXII.—ss

For the dainty, lovely little creature had her own traditions, handed down through the years. Such tales as she spun for Johnny of the dashing Chevalier de Piessis, who had led a charge at Friedland. and had been publicly decorated by the Great Emperor himself! The fame of this mighty forebear had rung through the annals of "Tite Maman's" family ever since. She herself had been a tiny baby, she often told Johnny, in the dreadful days when her beloved Paris had fallen into alien hands. She never allowed Johnny to forget his French side. As a youngster he had been taught the beautiful language, and for years his mother had spoken no other to him.

When Johnny was twelve "Tite Maman" had brought him back to Paris. It had been a question of a legacy, with conditions, from some crusty old French uncle. "Tite Maman " had not dared refuse the addition to an income all too slender for her ambitions. It all fitted neatly into the picture of Johnny's future she had been so carefully making. He was to follow directly in his father's path, and to be the world-famous architect that surely nothing but his untimely end had prevented Donald Campbell from becoming. And what, then, more proper than that Johnny should be brought up in Paris; that he should grow, and study, and play almost under the very shadow of the Beaux Arts, toward which his earliest, most faltering steps had been directed?

To Johnny it had seemed right enough. "Tite Maman" always knew best. Her judgment always pulled a fellow out of trouble, always showed him just how he must play the game; her hand upon his shoulder always sent him back to his books or out to his play with the same high spirit.

Still Johnny remained an American at heart. Perhaps the influences of the


newer, younger country had taken deep root within him. Perhaps it was the policeman that to early youth had seemed at the summit of man's greatness. The great red-haired roundsman had never failed to stop for a chat with Johnny's nurse in her smart little cap. And he had kept a good word for Johnny, even in that awful moment when a plate-glass window in the big house on the corner had been broken by a stray baseball. Baseball? Perhaps that too had its part in Johnny's nationalism. He had just acquired a wonderful first-baseman's mitt when destiny lifted him across the ocean and set him down among strange faces and new customs. Whatever was the real cause, the existing fact was that Johnny talked often of going back. Indeed, he had "Tite Maman's" promise that, once his course had been completed, once he had done his best to win the honors of his father at the famous school, they two would have a summer together "in the States." Every friend he made—and as he grew into youth they were many— knew that Johnny, for all his deep acquired love and admiration for France, could never see even the tiniest of American colors in a shop-window without an outward and visible thrill of pride. Whoever might happen to be his companion of the moment, Johnny would always point out those colors and say: "There's the old flag—see her?"

It was Le Matin that lay each morning upon the tiny table where "Tite Maman" always came to take her chocolate with Johnny. But just as regularly he received the Paris edition of a great American daily from the hands of the little marchande at his corner. Every day "Tite Maman " removed that same paper, much crushed, from his coat-pocket, and laid it, carefully smoothed, upon a file of its fellows.

Johnny was on intimate terms with all of his class who came from America to complete their courses. Through them he met many of the thousands who came each year to worship the glories—or the fashions—of Paris. Such chance acquaintances told him much about the land of his birth, and every scrap of news he treasured.

Still, it must be remembered that the

French half of Johnny was a very strong half. All that he had absorbed from "Tite Maman" in the beginning had broadened and deepened as he grew to know the beautiful city that was his home and the people who had made it.

How vivid seemed all his mother's tales as he gazed down at the simple, majestic tomb of history's first soldier! The blood of the chevalier mounted in Johnny's cheek at the solemn moment when the afternoon sun sent ks rays through those vaulted windows, to touch the torn banners of a hundred victories. And in a different way his appreciation and love were fostered by looking with the eyes of growing understanding upon the architectural feast spread before them throughout the city.

To Johnny, then, in the late summer of 1914, it had seemed only good that, like almost all of his classmates, he should enroll at once beneath the tricolor. His debt to France was large, and for her sake he must give himself to beat off the invader already almost within reach of the city, already dreaded and cursed by driven thousands.

As for the mother? It could not have been in her to hold him back. By every pang her boy had cost her, by every sacrifice, great and small, that she had made, by every triumph in his least success, was measured her love for the son of his fa ther. But she was French, and th rough France the cry for help had rung. Quietly, simply, and, for that, all the more gloriously, she took up the part that is woman's—to give all, and to ask nothing—to stay behind, waiting in patient agony for news of loved ones.

When he stood before her, a uniformed, caparisoned soldier, a poilu among the rest, her heart fairly choked her with a mixture of the deepest suffering and the highest pride. Her Jacques, going as his father before him had gone; going in the very look of her own lost Donald, at the first call of the nation. Her memory leaped back to a little boy standing beside her chair, reading over her shoulder. Again she felt his head, buried in her lap, as he confided to her a childish sorrow. And now he could lift her frail body in his arms and set her down in mischievous will upon the tall dresser between the windows. Yes, he was a man grown, and he stood ready to do his man's duty. Days later, when she saw his train pulling out from the station, bound for that all too indefinite "front," she stifled the misery within her and managed a plucky wave of a tiny crumpled handkerchief. Then she turned back to the city and took up her registration already made at a base-hospital unit.

It was there that Johnny used to find her, in the blessed intervals of the long, long months, when he came "en permission" to Paris. Simple little reunion parties they had, while he poured out anecdotes of the fighting, of friends quickly made and as quickly lost, of private and public heroisms. And at last had come the day, even greater for her than for him, When he told her how his own company had been read out in the Order of the Day and showed her the long-coveted Croix-de-Guerre that had been placed upon his breast by a highranking general. "Too much honor," said Johnny; "it was an affair of nothing." In point of fact it had been the holding of a machine gun, on a hillock of particular importance, after all of the crew but Johnny had been killed, and until the tide of battle swept the French lines back to him.

In the glow of that moment Johnny was all French; as much so as "Tite Maman" herself. He was thinking only of themselves, of his company, his army, and the final victory that was so sure to come.

But there were other moments when Johnny was not so utterly satisfied with the situation. These came as the months dragged by, as the service chevrons on his left arm grew in number, and as the stripes of a lieutenant were given him. Victory seemed so slow in coming. So many, many lives had already been sacrificed. Would there be no end to it? The reports from the English grew disquieting. Not reports of any breach of faith, not of any inclination to abandon the struggle—never those. But even to the front crept the rumors of England's difficulties; of the ever-increasing menace of unrestricted U-boats; of ship upon ship that failed to deliver in an English port her cargo of foodstuffs or munitions. If

England were really in danger of starving, where then should France turn? To Johnny there seemed but one answer: America must help. The huge, fabulously wealthy country must step in beside the France that would not crumble, but might wear away. Many times the thought had come to him; always he reached the same point. France had no other refuge. Nor was it France alone, but democracy against autocracy, right against might. Only the lives and the gold of the young western nation could save the world. Often he had talked it all over with his fellow soldiers. Men of his own regiment, knowing his birth, asked him point-blank: "When will the United States you speak of come out to help?" He found it hard to answer that question convincingly, though his own faith never faltered.

"She is coming," he would say; "surely she is coming. But you must understand that she has many millions to whom this war is but a story; something vague and shadowy, which touches them not at all. The people over there, they do not realize yet upon what foundation their own greatness is founded. When they do—ah—then you will see them come— with food and guns and men. Just wait."

"But yes—you say wait, always wait, and we have been waiting more than two years already. Soon there will be none of us left to wait."

Thus they assailed him sometimes, though often they kept silent out of respect to him as a comrade in arms. But through it all Johnny stuck to his position. "Only wait," he said, even when he saw Americans in Paris, agents for this one and for that one; even when he knew that vast sums were being made out of the struggle by the very people upon whose aid he was counting so steadfastly.

He woula point to the long roster of Americans, living and dead, who had won fame for themselves, and victories for France, on the fields and in the air; or to those quieter, but not less wellearned victories of nerve and coolness beneath a tent-flap or between long rows of white iron cots.

"Look up—there—those three specks are part of 1'Escadrille Lafayette. And

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