One day, when the sun broke forth heralding the Spring, the promise of green on a clump of tangled rose bushes tempted me to turn into the garden of a shattered villa. It was as thousands of others: the hearthstones looked upward to the clouds, and the household goods lay piled tier on tier of rotting lumber as floor fell on floor. In the centre of the green a shell hole took my eye, and I picked my way toward it. Out of the earth at the bottom of the hole there obtruded the bones of a man's arm. In haste, the dead had been thrown into the shell hole and lightly covered. And the rains had washed so much of the earth away. And that bone brought the realization that I stood in the midst of one vast cemetery. Everywhere and all around under the feet are the nameless dead--men, women, and little children. These last are the nightmare of this horror. Formerly nations recovered from war swiftly; the cradles filled up the gaps. But here the children are dead. To the eye of faith the Star of the East shines still with splendor over every spot where a babe lies. But that Star has been extinguished in this region of doom. The altar is buried, the hearthstone is in the rain, and amid the welter of rubbish you can see the children's cots twisted and rusting and woeful. A woman breaking into sobs inside a ruined church door; a body in a shell hole in a garden, a child's cot rusting on a rubbish heap--these open the eyes and make them see. These things did not come by the arbitrament of war. It wasn't shrapnel and high explosives that wrought the desolation. From the battlements of the old citadel one can see the dead town lie spread, and the houses hit by shells are few and far between. The houses destroyed wantonly by the enemy ere they retreated are easily recognized, for the walls fell outward by the internal explosions. Ninety-five per cent. have fallen outward, and the wall of the church is likewise. This ancient sanctuary was wantonly destroyed by the retreating enemy. What amazes one is the appalling stupidity of such a crime. If the Germans destroyed the town, that was their right, the might of the sword, and their act could perhaps be justified. But to destroy the church is to destroy what even Attila spared, and so outrage the conscience and instinct of the world. There is never an excuse to seek when an outrage is perpetrated by the enemy. A hospital ship is sunk--but, of course, it is carrying munitions! A church is turned into a ruin, but its towers are used as observation posts! Poor little towers in a land of airplanes and captive balloons! If the churches had been spared, as they were spared in the world's darkest ages, humanity would know that the German soul was still alive. But now the world knows that it is up against an enemy that threatens body and soul alike--an enemy that not only kills the body, but destroys the soul! What an amazing stupidity!--but it is through such stupidity that God lays up judgment against the day of wrath.