Women knew, at least, that their dead had fallen before the armies or at
the will of a great man in those Napoleonic days; there was something of
Fate in the business.
But to-day the widow or the mourning mother, whilst knowing that her son
or her husband has fallen in defending Humanity from the Beast can find
no quarter in their hearts for the form or the shape of manhood that
stands, in the words of Swinburne:
"Curse consecrated, crowned with crime and flame!"
No taunt could be too bitter for their lips and none more bitter than
the words of Raemaekers:
"My sons are lying here--where are yours?"
H. DE VERE STACPOOLE.
[Illustration: "MY SIXTH SON IS NOW LYING HERE--WHERE ARE YOURS?"]
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BUNKERED
The Crown Prince is in a very awkward predicament. He has driven his
ball into a deep sand-pit from which a very clever professional golfer
might perhaps extricate himself by a powerful stroke with a niblick. But
young William is not a professional, and indeed knows nothing about the
game. So he takes his driver and his other wooden clubs, and smashes
them all, with much bad language, while he whacks at the ball, which
only buries itself deeper in the sand. He is pondering what to do next.
There is, however, only one thing to do. He must take up his ball and
lose the hole. The real players on his side must be disgusted at being
saddled with such a partner.
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