'But after the War, when the fighting was finished, the enemy was disarmed, his submarines surrendered, his aeroplanes destroyed, his soldiers dispersed; months afterwards, we kept a weapon which was for use first and mainly against the children, the weak, the sick, the old, the women, the mothers, the decrepit: starvation and disease. Our papers told us--our patriotic papers--how well it was succeeding. Correspondents wrote complacently, sometimes exultingly, of how thin and pinched were all the children, even those well into teens; how stunted, how defective, the next generation would be; and how the younger children, those of seven and eight, looked like children of three and four; and how those beneath this age simply did not live. Either they were born dead, or if they were born alive--what was there to give them? Milk? An unheard-of luxury. And nothing to wrap them in; even in hospitals the new-born children were wrapped in newspapers, the lucky ones in bits of sacking. The mothers were most fortunate when the children were born dead. In an insane asylum a mother wails: "If only I did not hear the cry of the children for food all day long, all day long!" To "bring Germany to reason" we had, you see, to drive mothers out of their reason. '"It would have been more merciful," said Bob Smillie, "to turn the machine-guns on those children." Put this question to yourself, patriot Englishmen: "Was the sinking of the _Lusitania_ as cruel, as prolonged, as mean, as merciless a death as this?" And we--you and I--do it every day, every night. 'Here is the _Times_ of May 21, half a year after the cessation of war, telling the Germans that they do not know how much more severe we can still make the "domestic results" of starvation, if we really put our mind to it. To the blockade we shall add the "horrors of invasion." The invasion of a country already disarmed is to be marked--when we do it--by horror.