I have seen the soixante-quinze at work and have heard the rafale des tambours de la mort--the ruffle of the drums of death--as the sound of their fire is described by all soldier writers of France. It was that fire, that slashing and sweeping fire, which helped to break up any big plan of attack against the French troops yesterday morning, and from those assembly places a great part of the German infantry never moved all day, but spent their time, it seems, in carrying back their wounded. Tragic Desolation of Arras _Mr. Gibbs on May 11 described a visit to Arras, as follows:_ Since the beginning of these great battles in bleak, cold weather Spring has come, and almost Summer, changing all the aspect of the old battlefields and of the woods behind craterland and of the cities under fire. I went into one of those cities the other day, Arras, which to me and to many of us out here is a queerly enchanted place because of its beauty, which survives even three years of bombardment, and because of the many great memories which it holds in its old houses and streets and the sense of romance which lurks in its courtyards and squares, reaching back to ancient history before its death. For Arras is dead and but the beautiful corpse of the city that was once very fair and noble. During the recent weeks the enemy has flung many big explosive shells into it, so that its ruins have become more ruined and many houses hardly touched before have now been destroyed. It was sad to see this change, the fresh mangling of stones that had already been scarred, the heaps of masonry that lay piled about these streets that were utterly deserted. I walked down many of them and saw no living soul, only a few lean cats which prowled about, slinking close to the walls and crouching when a German shell came over with a rending noise. Bright sunlight shone down these streets, putting a lazy glamour upon their broken frontages and flinging back shadows from high walls, except where shell holes let in the light. The cathedral and the great Palace of the Bishops were unroofed, with tall pillars broken off below the vaulting and an avalanche of white masonry about them. They were clear-cut and dazzling under the blue sky, and one was hushed by the tragic grandeur of these ruins. One of the British airplanes flew low over the city, and its engine sang loudly with a vibrant humming, and now and again the crash of a gun or a shell loosened some stones or plaster below its wings. Other birds were singing. Spring birds, who are not out for war but sweethearting in the gardens of Arras. America's Sacrifice By Harold Begbie [By arrangement with The London Chronicle.] One of the finest moral actions in this war has been done by America. It is action on a gigantic scale, and yet of a directly personal character. Insufficient publicity, I think, has been given to this action.