He staggered, white-faced and pitiful, to the edge of the table, which he grasped with trembling, straining hands. "Be quick about it," snarled the general, leaning forward eagerly. Like a cat, François sprang. He had gauged the distance well. He had figured it all out as he stood by and watched his brother die. His fingers clutched the knife. "I will!" he cried out in an ecstasy of joy. To the hasp sank the long blade into the heart of the Prussian commander. Whirling, the French boy threw his arms on high and screamed into the faces of the stupefied soldiers: "Vive la France! One hundred thousand men! There they lie! Ha-ha! I--I, François Dupré,--I have sent them all to hell! Wait for me, Louis! I am coming!" The first words of the "Marseillaise" were bursting from his lips when his uplifted face was blasted-- He crumpled up and fell. [signed] George Barr McCutcheon Sonnet Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,--no, Nor honeysuckle,--thou art not more fair Than small white single poppies,--I can bear Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though From left to right, not knowing where to go, I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear So has it been with mist,--with moonlight so. Like him who day by day unto his draught Of delicate poison adds him one drop more Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten, Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed Each hour more deeply than the hour before, I drink,--and live--what has destroyed some men. [signed] Edna St. Vincent Millay The Idiot I The change was not affected without whispering. The spirit both of the troops who were going back of the lines to rest and of those who had zigzagged up through two miles of communication trenches to take their places was excellent. "What is the name of this country?" asked one of the new comers. "If it had a name, that is all that remains. We are somewhere in Picardy. The English are off there not very far. Their cannon have different voices from ours. Good Luck!" His gray, faded uniform seemed to melt into the night. The New Comer stepped on to the firing platform and poked his head over the parapet. A comrade pulled at his trousers leg. "Come down, Idiot," he said, "Fritz is only twelve yards away." The Idiot came down, sniffing the night air luxuriously. "We are somewhere in Picardy," he said. "I know without being told. It is like going home." A sergeant approached, his body twisted sideways because the trench was too narrow for his shoulders. "Have you a watch?" The Idiot had. Under his coat, so that the enemy should not perceive the glow, the sergeant flashed his electric torch and compared the watches. "Yours leads by a minute," he said. "The advance will be at four o'clock. there will be hot coffee at three. Good luck." He passed on, and the comrades drew a little closer together. The sergeant's words had made the Idiot very happy.