As we gazed at the many fine monuments on this, the best marked and most beautiful of ail battlegrounds in the world, we thought of the terrible waste of life. But then had it been wasted, after all? As we passed down by the peach orchard, we saw a battle between two robins being waged. Then we thought how each spring, from remotest times this same battle-ground has been used by Nature's children to settle questions of gravest import to their race. Each season brings renewed conflicts. Down by the Devil's Den ground squirrels wage their battles again and again. Aerial battles, too, are fought by hawks above the tree tops. In Nature, to the strongest usually comes the victory. For her children cruel, relentless, bloody war seems inevitable. But is it necessary that human life be sacrificed? What could be the plan, the purpose of it all? Perhaps there was no plan, no purpose; we do not know. But as we look across the changing scenes that come and go with the changeless years, we seem to see a plan, a purpose, and there are wars and bloodshed in them, yet, they appear Divine. It seems that only the great principle of the Universe is being fulfilled; that from the sacrifice of life a richer, fuller life is gained. Here the birds still come to bathe and drink and their songs float to you from far and near. Among the branches of an oak top, a red-eyed vireo is saying, "brigade, brigadier," and we well know that he is not military and do not know where he learned those military terms. But, he is destroying whole battalions and even armies of caterpillars, those green coated Boches and striped convicts of our forest trees; and we think "brigadier" none too noble a title for the bravery he shows in carolling all through the hot summer day. Someone has called him a preacher, but we confess, we have listened to many a lengthy discourse whose effect was slight in comparison to his wild ringing text, so redolent of rustling leaves and murmuring brooks--one of the sermons of God's great out-of-doors. Across the "peach orchard" a cardinal, like a swiftly hurled firebrand, comes toward us and utters his clear metallic Chip, then alighting among some wild grape vines, plays several variations on his clear, ringing flute. From an elm tree, an oriole answers his bold challenge in his rich voice, while a band of chickadees indulge in their querulous calls as they inspect each leaf and twig for larva and eggs. Up in a linden tree, a blue jay is crying "Salute me, salute me." Like a second lieutenant just commissioned. He wears his close-fitting uniform and overseas cap with a dignity that becomes one of that most enviable rank. The bold bugle of the Carolina wren sounds through the leafy encampment and like the colors ascending for retreat, the red, white and blue of the red-headed woodpecker is seen rising diagonally to a dead oak stub. Like a fine accompaniment the music of the fluttering leaves blends with that of the rippling