Gone is the spire that slept for centuries, Whose image in the water, calm and low, Was mingled with the lilies green and snow, And lost itself in river mysteries. The church lies broken near the fallen spire; For here, among these old and human things Death swept along the street with feet of fire, And went upon his way with moaning wings. Above the cluster of these homes forlorn, Where giant fleeces of the shells are rolled, O’er pavements by the kneeling herdsmen worn, The wounded saints look out to see their fold. And silence follows fast, no evening peace, But leaden stillness, when the thunder wanes, Haunting the slender branches of the trees, And settling low upon the listless plains. FRANCE CAPT. JOSEPH MEDILL PATTERSON IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE From the French of Armentier Ohanian Permission to reproduce in this book I was an exile from my own country and wandered over the breast of the world seeking another country. And I came into a land where there was only a long spring and a long autumn, where they did not know the deadly heats of our summers or the mortal colds of our mountains. Among the vines and sunny fields I saw the people of this land at work, ever young of soul, smiling, loving, and kindly. I asked, “What is the name of this happy place?” And the answer was, “France the voluptuous.” I came to towns of splendid monuments, of harmonious buildings, of proud triumphal arches of the past, and above always I saw the spires of great cathedrals stretching toward the sky, as if to seize upon the feet of God. I asked, “What is the name of this marvelous land?” And the answer was, “France the glorious.” I advanced again, when I was struck by the red color of a large river.... It was a river of warm blood that rolled down from afar in thick and heavy waves. I advanced again. Before me dark clouds of smoke hid the endless sky above huge fields of warriors in battle; when these died smiling at death others took their places, singing. I asked, “What is the name of this chivalrous land?” And the answer was, “France the courageous.” At last I came to an immense city, of which I saw neither the beginning nor the end, a city full of sumptuous palaces, of parks, and fountains. The sun glistened on the marble of the streets and kissed the serene, resigned faces of women clothed in black. The chimes of churches filled the air with solemn sounds, and words, until then unknown to me, “Te Deum,” came from the throats of thousands of thousands. With respect I asked, “What is the name of this land that mourns?” And the answer was, “France the victorious.” I kissed the earth of this land and said, “I have found my country, who was an exile.” THE CLERK B. H. M. HETHERINGTON IN THE LONDON BOOKMAN