Shakespeare, who "has always been there
before," wrote the epitaph of those who fell in France when he spoke of one
who gave
His body to that pleasant country's earth,
And his pure soul unto his captain, Christ,
Under whose colours he had fought so long.
[Illustration: ARMISTICE DAY
SMALL CHILD (excitedly): "Oh, Mother, what _do_ you think? They've
given us a whole holiday to-day in aid of the war."]
And it is a source of unspeakable joy that our children are safe. For
though to most of them their ignorance has been bliss, they have not
escaped the horrors of a war in which non-combatants have suffered worse
than ever before. Only the healing hand of time can allay the grief of
those for whom there can be no reunion on earth with their nearest and
dearest:
At last the dawn creeps in with golden fingers
Seeking my eyes, to bid them open wide
Upon a world at peace, where Sweetness lingers,
Where Terror is at rest and Hate has died.
Loud soon shall sound a paean of thanksgiving
From happy women, welcoming their men,
Life born anew of joy to see them living.
Mother of Pity, what shall I do then?
Of the people at large Mr. Punch cannot better the praise of one, the late
Mr. Henry James, who was nothing if not critical, and who proved his love
of England by adopting her citizenship in the darkest hour of her need:
"They were about as good, above all, when it came to the stress, as could
well be expected of people.
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