Part 3

Mr. La Follette tells us that we are going to war to protect our investments, and we are. We have entered this war for just that purpose; we have gone to war to protect our investments, but not our stocks and bonds. Do you realize that ever since this war broke out in 1914, not a ship has sailed from any Atlantic port of America or Canada, but that it has carried Americans, men of our flesh and blood, speaking our language to fight this battle against the Beast. Wherever men have fallen, these have fallen; wherever men have died, on the land, in the air, on the sea or in German prison camps, these have died; their ashes lie mingled with those of England's best, their bones rest in the soil of Serbia, Italy, Belgium and France.

"We cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract.... It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced ... that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain."

We all remember the vision of Constantine; that flaming cross gleaming in the sky with the words written over it: "In hoc signo vinces." But there is another vision of crosses that rises before our eyes. Little crosses, white crosses, wooden crosses, that march in serried ranks across the trench-scarred face of Europe from the North Sea to the Black Sea--a veritable forest of crosses, low-lying, yet they throw a longer and a darker shadow than cypress, hemlock or than pine, for beneath them lie the great hearts of the Empire, of Belgium, France, Italy, Serbia, and Roumania; they call to us, they wait for us.

"Who says their day is over, while others carry on The little wooden crosses spell but the dead and gone? Not while they deck a sky line, not while they crown a view, Or a living soldier sees them and sets his teeth anew."

(E. W. HORNUNG.)

Now, listen:

"In Flanders' fields the poppies grow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; While, in the sky, The larks still bravely singing fly Unheard amid the guns. We are the dead; short days ago We lived, saw dawn, felt sunsets glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders' fields.

Take up our battle with the foe; To you, from falling hands we throw The torch, be yours to bear it high. If ye break faith with us who die, We shall not sleep, though poppies blow In Flanders' fields."

(JOHN MCRAE.)

It was before Verdun. All day long the lines in the field-gray uniforms had been assailing a French trench. Late in the afternoon the continual pressure forced the French to yield the ground. Only the dead and dying were left when the Germans filed through to take possession. Then a wondrous thing happened. There was a pile of the dead blocking up the trench, and that pile began to stir, a movement swept through it. Up from that ghastly heap there came first a hand, then an arm, a face, and a dying Frenchman looked his German conquerers in the eye. Then with a strength gathered from God knows where, he sprang to his feet, his voice rang out shrill, insistent, imperative, "Debout les morts,"--"To your feet, ye Dead," and by the Living God of Israel, the Dead heard him and up from the reek and mire of that blood-stained trench dying Frenchmen, men as good as dead, staggered to their feet and drove the living Germans from that trench. So again the Tricolor rose above the parapet, the evening breeze caressed it, the last rays of the setting Sun saluted it!

Is there more of that spirit among dead Frenchmen than there is in living Americans? Thank God, No. Seicheprey gives us the answer. When we see one American boy going through a barrage of fire seven times to bring ammunition up to the front, when we hear another mortally wounded hand over his grenades saying "I can't use these now, take them and use them," when we see the entire line, outnumbered eight to one, give ground slowly, exacting the maximum price for every yard and then at last come back, driving the Germans out of the village, out of every captured trench, until the flag once more covers every foot of ground over which it has flown at the sunrise; we know the soul of America still lives. But that spirit must live in us at home, as well as in the trenches of France. The cry of that dying Frenchman calls to us, insistent and imperative: "Debout les américains." "To your feet, America," and let your very soul make speed!