Let there be one thought in every head. If you sow distrust, discontent, disunion in the nation we shall reap defeat. If, on the other hand, we sow the seeds of patience, confidence, and unity, we shall garner in victory and its fruits. The last ridges of a climb are always the most trying to the nerves and to the heart, but the real test of great endurance and courage is the last few hundreds or scores of feet in a climb upwards. The climber who turns back when he is almost there never becomes a great mountaineer, and the nation that turns back and falters before it reaches its purpose never becomes a great people. You have all had experience in climbing, no doubt--perhaps in Wales. Any mountaineer can start; any sort of mountaineer can go part of the way; and very often the poorer the mountaineer, the greater is his ardour when he does start; but fatigue and danger wear out all but the stoutest hearts, and even the most stout-hearted sometimes fail when they come to the last slippery precipice. But if they do turn back and afterwards look up and see how near they had got to the top, how they curse the faint-heartedness which bade them give up when they were so near the goal! WHAT HAS ENGLAND DONE? (This is the reply of an American poet to a question often heard in the United States.) Strange, that in this great hour, when Righteousness Has won her war upon Hypocrisy, That some there be who, lost in littleness, And mindful of an ancient grudge, can ask: "Now, what has England done to win this war?" We think we see her smile that English smile, And shrug a lazy shoulder and--just smile. It were so little worth her while to pause In her stupendous task to make reply. What has she done? When with her great, gray ships, Lithe, lean destroyers, grim, invincible, She swept the prowling Prussian from the seas; And, heedless of the slinking submarine, The hidden mine, the Hun-made treacheries, Her transports plied the waters ceaselessly! You ask what she has done? Have you forgot That 'neath the burning suns of Palestine She fought and bled, nor wearied of the fight Till from that land where walked the Nazarene She drove the foul and pestilential Turk? Ah, what has England done? No need to ask! Upon the fields of Flanders and of France A million crosses mark a million graves; Upon each cross a well-loved English name. And, ah, her women! On that peaceful isle, Where in the hawthorn hedges thrushes sang, And meadow-larks made gay the scented air, Now blackened chimneys rear their grimy heads, Smoke-belching, and the frightened birds have fled Before the thunder of the whirring wheels. Behind unlovely walls, amid the din, Seven times a million noble women toil-- With tender, unaccustomed fingers toil, Nor dream that they have played a hero's part.