Defenders of Democracy Part 39

The spring is upon us, The seed of our forefathers Quickens again in the soil, And these flags are the small, early flowers Of the solstice of our Hope!

Thru suffering to Peace!

Thru sacrifice to Security!

Red stripes, Turn us not from our purpose, Lead us up as by a ladder To the deep blue quiet Wherein are s.h.i.+ning The silver stars.

Soldiers, sailors, clerks, and office boys, Men, and Women--but 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 Peace,

Even into the very flame of Death.

Over the city, Over all the cities, Flutter flags.

Flags of spring, Flags of burgeoning, Flags of fulfillment.

[signed] Amy Lowell

Our Day

London, April 20, 1917

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 Chancel on either side hung the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack.

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 cause of Divine Justice.

After the solemn benediction thousands streamed slowly out to mingle with the mult.i.tudes gathered before the great Entrance where Queen Anne in crown and scepter keeps majestic guard, and where in peaceful days doves flit and flutter down to peck at the grain strewn about her royal feet.

Stern and momentous times have pa.s.sed 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 yet--and yet--perhaps 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 toiled.

It rose against the glowing West, never to be forgotten by those who saw it at the close of Our Day, for it marked the new Epoch.

Now at last "Let the dead Past bury its Dead."

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 floated together from one flagstaff Old Glory and the Union Jack.

That was America's supreme consecration.

[signed] Annie E. Lane (Mrs. John Lane)

Pour La Patrie

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 G.o.d 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 have nothing to gain by dying, not even the credit of dying."

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 speak, and the,--then I will do what you ask of me."

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 to-day or to-morrow, 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 little life worth to you?"

"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 Pont-a-mousson.

And now for the first time the Prussians about him smiled.

"What is it, pray, that you do say over there?" inquired the general mockingly.

"That the worst of the Frenchmen is worth five of your best," said Francois, unafraid. Why should he be afraid to speak the truth?

He was going to die.

"And one of your frog-eating generals is the equal of five of me, I suppose?" The commander's grim face relaxed into a smile. "That is good! Ha-ha! That is good!"

"So we say, excellency," said Francois simply. "Our Papa Joffre--ah, he is greater than all of you put in one."

The Prussian flushed. His piggish eyes glittered.

"Your Papa Joffre!" he scoffed.

"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, impa.s.sioned 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 in those of Louis.

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, s.h.i.+fty look in his narrowed eyes. The general's smile developed. It proffered comfort, consolation, encouragement.