A
wonderful map to be studied by the mothers of the Fatherland who have
suckled their children to manure the crops of the future, to feed the
crematoriums and blast furnaces of Belgium, to fill the mad houses,
blind asylums, and homes for incurables, when the frosts of Russia and
the guns of the Allies have done with them.
And every cross marks the grave of a hope.
Paris
Regrets eternels.
That wonderful inscription was the first to be cut. Galliene was the
mason. Verdun was the last and will not be the least. But, whatever may
come to be written on stone, on the heart of the mourner when he comes
to die only one inscription will be found: "Calais." If he has a heart
large enough to have even these six letters.
H. DE VERE STACPOOLE.
[Illustration: THE GRAVES OF ALL HIS HOPES]
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"MY SIXTH SON IS NOW LYING HERE--WHERE ARE YOURS?"
There is a picture in Brussels that the Kaiser ought to study on one of
his visits to the Belgian capital. It is Wertz's picture of Napoleon in
Hades.
Wertz was a madman, he knew something of the horrors of war, but he
knew, also, something of the grandeur and nobility of Napoleon.
Napoleon is surrounded by women holding up the mutilated remains of
sons, lovers, and fathers, and still he remains Napoleon, the child of
Destiny, the Inscrutable, the Calm, and, if one may say so, the
Gentleman.
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