Breaking through the Fifth British Army, in five days the Germans have advanced twenty-five miles, to within artillery range of Amiens and the main lateral railway behind the British lines. Bapaume and Péronne have fallen. The Americans have entered the war in the firing line. It is the beginning of the end, the supreme test of the soul of the nation: The little things of which we lately chattered-- The dearth of taxis or the dawn of Spring; Themes we discussed as though they really mattered, Like rationed meat or raiders on the wing;-- How thin it seems to-day, this vacant prattle, Drowned by the thunder rolling in the West, Voice of the great arbitrament of battle That puts our temper to the final test. Thither our eyes are turned, our hearts are straining, Where those we love, whose courage laughs at fear, Amid the storm of steel around them raining, Go to their death for all we hold most dear. New-born of this supremest hour of trial, In quiet confidence shall be our strength, Fixed on a faith that will not take denial Nor doubt that we have found our soul at length. O England, staunch of nerve and strong of sinew, Best when you face the odds and stand at bay; Now show a watching world what stuff is in you! Now make your soldiers proud of you to-day! Of our soldiers we at home cannot be too proud, from Field-Marshal to officer's servant. As one of Mr. Punch's correspondents at the front writes: "Dawn to me hereafter will not be personified as a rosy-fingered damsel or a lovely swift-footed deity, but as a sturdy little man in khaki, crimson-eared with cold, heralded and escorted by frozen wafts of outer air, bearing in one knobby fist a pair of boots, and in the other a tin mug of black and smoking tea." As for the charities and courtesies of war, as interpreted by our soldiers, Mr. Punch can wish for no better illustration than in these lines on "The German graves": I wonder are there roses still In Ablain St. Nazaire, And crosses girt with daffodil In that old garden there. I wonder if the long grass waves With wild-flowers just the same, Where Germans made their soldiers' graves Before the English came? The English set those crosses straight And kept the legends clean; The English made the wicket-gate And left the garden green; And now who knows what regiments dwell In Ablain St. Nazaire? But I would have them guard as well The graves we guarded there. And when at last the Prussians pass Among those mounds and see The reverent cornflowers crowd the grass Because of you and me, They'll give, perhaps, one humble thought To all the "English fools" Who fought as never men have fought But somehow kept the rules. [Illustration: MADE IN GERMANY CIVILISATION: "What's that supposed to represent?" IMPERIAL ARTIST: "Why, 'Peace,' of course." CIVILISATION: "Well, I don't recognise it--and I never shall."]