“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword, His truth is marching on.” Yes, Julia Ward Howe’s hymn is quite right. It sounds the keynote of America’s part in this world’s greatest tragedy of all history. They returned a month later, boys no longer, but men who had been through the fire, and stood up to the grief. Tired, weary, chins pressed forward; hands on the straps to permit free heart action, dust swirled about the moving feet, and climbed up and settled on the stubby, unshaven face, streaked with perspiration, which in turn rose and formed an aura about the knapsack, as it bobbed up and down like a buoy on the sea. From behind the dust-topped bristles flash the steely eyes of the Soldier. Such eyes! Not the calm, contemplative eyes of the sissy, but the strong, fierce, exaltant eyes of the man who has fought, and won. One month had changed him; the longer he is in the Army the greater the change. Already he has seen there are things greater than fear, found something greater than Life. He has realized that in union there is strength, that soldiers by acting together as a unit gain the objective, which brings the victory. He wondered at the confidence of the French Poilu, and discovered that behind that soldier is every man, woman and child, every ounce of energy, every cent of money in France. His mind wanders to his native land across the sea. True the Government is behind him—but all the people are not behind the Government. The International Socialist is still bent on destruction, and working for Germany; the pro-German is hiding his galvanized Americanism behind Red Cross and Liberty Loan buttons; the chatauquaized pacifist bemoaning this “terrible bloodshed” is trying to dig himself into a hole, where he can escape the U. S. draft. The foreign-language minister—exempted from military service, the only privileged class in America—is still talking denominationalism instead of patriotism; the Big Business banker, a deacon in church, prays with the Methodist sisters, works hand in glove with monopolists who have preyed upon the people, then offers 5 per cent in competition with the Government 4-1/4 per cent. He wants to make a profit for himself, rather than have the Government use the money to feed and clothe the soldiers on the front. The prohibitionists, not satisfied with war-time prohibition, with the control of liquor by the Government, through the Food Administration, wants to further embarrass the Government by agitating minor issues when every ounce of energy is needed to win the war. They know the soldier will come back a broader and wiser man, and they want to slip this legislation over in his absence. Then there is the political lawyer who thrives on trouble, gets fat on disaster, whose capital is wind, surplus hot air, whose services are for sale for cash.