There's no grist for the mill or siller for the till, But I've kept the mill-wheel turning To the rumble and the beat of a million marching feet, And my sad heart's muffled yearning. Oh, the road his brave feet trod, lit with glory up to God, Oh, the courage of his call shames my sorrow; "I'll be back some day-- Mind the mill while I'm away," And I caught one last kiss for tomorrow. Gone is the miller boy, Gone from the mill; Gone up the winding road, Gone o'er the hill; Gone with the drum-beat up over the hill, Where he heard the bugles calling. German Soldiers Write Home Letter of Prince Joachim The following letter was written by Prince Joachim of Prussia, son of the Kaiser, to Sergt. Karl Kummer of a Prussian Regiment of Guards, who had been sent, badly wounded, to his sister at Teplitz, and whom the Prince had known for years. My Dear Kummer: How sincerely I rejoiced to receive your very solicitous letter. I was sure of Kummer for that--that no one could hold him back when the time came to do some thrashing! God grant that you may speedily recover, so that you can enter Potsdam, crowned with glory, admired and envied. Who is nursing you? The old proud First Guard Regiment has proved that it was ready to conquer and to die. Kummer, if I can in any way help you I shall gladly do so by providing anything that will make you comfortable. You know how happy I have always been for your devotion to the service, and how we two always were for action (Schwung.) I, too, am proud to have been wounded for our beloved Fatherland, and I regret only that I am not permitted to be with the regiment. Well, may God take care of you. Your devoted, JOACHIM OF PRUSSIA. Letter of Rudolf Herzog The following letter, written from the field by Rudolf Herzog, one of the leading German novelists and poets, was published in rhymed verse in No. 41 of Die Woche. It had been a wild week. The storm wind swept with its broom of rain; it lashed us and splashed us, thrashed noses and ears, whistled through our clothing, penetrated the pores of our skin. And in the deluge--sights that made us shudder--gaunt skeleton churches, cracked walls, smoking ruins, piled hillock high; cities and villages--judged, annihilated. Over there a stone pit; faces grown like the faces of beasts, a picked-up rabble of assassins. A short command. A howling of death. Squarely across the road we surge. A bloody grappling coil; batteries broken and shattered; iron and wood and bits of clothing and bones. And upon the just and the unjust alike, the lashing rain for days and nights. We rushed through the gray Ardennes woods, the Chief Lieutenant and I, racing along day after day, wrapped up tightly, our rifles ready, through wood and marsh. No time to lose! No time to lose! Down into the valley of the Meuse!