While Georges Guynemer received nearly every honor that the French Government had in its power to bestow for the services rendered his country, the fifty-three airplanes he officially destroyed meant more in the period between 1915 and 1917 than the downing of many more planes thereafter; for it was Guynemer who led French warfare in the air from defeat to victory, and who was supremely successful despite the mechanical shortcomings of the airplanes that were in use when he entered the service. * * * * * The story of Guynemer and his wondrous exploits forms one of the great dramatic chapters of the World War, and it will go down the years as a record of poetic heroism to be read for the inspiration of future generations of youth. There are many brilliant airmen. Guynemer was more than that; he was a dedicated soul. W. D. Moffat EDITOR In the Pantheon That classic mausoleum for famous Frenchmen in Paris, the following inscription has been set up to perpetuate the memory of Guynemer: “=Captain Guynemer, commander of Squadron No. 3, died on the field of honor September 11, 1917. A hero of legendary power, he fell in the wide heaven of glory, after three years of hard fighting. He will long remain the purest symbol of the qualities of the race: indomitable in tenacity, enthusiastic in energy, sublime in courage. Animated with inextinguishable faith in victory, he bequeathes to the French soldier the imperishable remembrance which will exalt the spirit of sacrifice and the most noble emulation.=” THE ONGOING _“Loose me from fear and make me see aright_ _How each has back what once he stayed to weep--_ _Homer his sight, David his little lad.”_ He will not come, the gallant flying boy, Back to his field. Somewhere he wings his way Where the Immortals keep; where Homer now Has back his sight, David his little lad; Where all those are we dully call the dead, Who have gone greatly on some shining quest, He takes his way. That which he quested for, That larger freedom of a larger birth, Captains him, flying into fields of dawn. He has gone on where now the soldier-slain Arise in light. Somewhere he takes his place And leads his comrades in untrodden fields. For never can these rest until our earth Has ceased from travail--never can these take Their fill of sleep until the Scourge is slain. And so they keep them sometimes near old ways In the accustomed fields--now flying low, Invisible, they cheer the gallant hosts, Bidding them be, as they, invincible. * * * * *