They brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand; They stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand. “Make haste!” said they; “the time is short, and you must kill or die.” The Major puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye. And then the dying Zouave heard, and raised his weary head: “Shoot, son, ’twill be the best for both; shoot swift and straight,” he said. “Fire first and last, and do not flinch; for lost to hope am I; And I will murmur: Vive la France! and bless you ere I die.” Half-blind with blows the boy stood there; he seemed to swoon and sway; Then in that moment woke the soul of little Jean Desprez. He saw the woods go sheening down; the larks were singing clear; And oh! the scents and sounds of spring, how sweet they were! how dear! He felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft breeze fanned his brow; O God! the paths of peace and toil! How precious were they now! The summer days and summer ways, how bright with hope and bliss! The autumn such a dream of gold; and all must end in this: This shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around; The Zouave there with dying glare; the blood upon the ground; The brutal faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame; That Prussian bully standing by as if he watched a game. “Make haste and shoot,” the Major sneered; a minute more I give; A minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself would live.” They only saw a barefoot boy, with blanched and twitching face; They did not see within his eyes the glory of his race; The glory of a million men who for fair France have died, The splendor of self-sacrifice that will not be denied. Yet he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but life was sweet. “Your minute’s nearly gone, my lad,” he heard a voice repeat. “Shoot! Shoot!” the dying Zouave moaned; “Shoot! Shoot!” the soldier said. Then Jean Desprez reached out and shot ... _the Prussian Major dead_! SUDDENLY ONE DAY AUTHOR UNKNOWN FROM THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE Found in the pocket of Capt. T. P. C. Wilson, a British officer, killed in action. Suddenly one day The last ill shall fall away. The last little beastliness that is in our blood Shall drop from us as the sheath drops from the bud, And the great spirit of man shall struggle through And spread huge branches underneath the blue. In any mirror, be it bright or dim, Man will see God, staring back at him. WE’RE MARCHIN’ WITH THE COUNTRY FRANK L. STANTON IN JOURNAL OF EDUCATION The old flag is a-doin’ her very level best, She’s a rainbow roun’ the country from the rosy east to the west; An’ the eagle’s in the elements with sunshine on his breast, An’ we’re marchin’ with the country in the mornin’!