And then, when we mention the word "France," there arise all the memories of the imperishable cultural values which its people have given to us. I believe that there are many, very many among us, who in their hearts hope that there may once again be something like a co-operative understanding and journeying together of Germans and Frenchmen, even if in a distant future which the youngest among us will probably not live to see--an agreement which through a union of German and French elements of culture will promise vast achievements for the purposes of humanity. In the last analysis--for that has in these very days been more frequently expressed--these two nations belong together; they are of equal worth, of equal spirit, of equal fineness, and yet so different that they can give each other infinitely much. Just as has the hate against England, so has this friendship for France found poetic expression. In the Hamburger Kriegsblatt we read a poem by Wilhelm Hoehne, the final stanza of which reads: Ma pauvre France! Wann siehst du es ein Dass all deine Buendnisse Trug und Schein? Was meinst du, waerst du mit dem vereint, Der dich niederringt heute--ein ehrlicher Feind! Auf "Deutsche Treue" da koenntest du zaehlen! Mit uns im Bund koennt'st der Welt du befehlen. Dem Briten, dem Russen, dem Asiaten! Deutschland hat nie einen Freund verraten! (Translation.) Ma pauvre France, when wilt thou see That all thy allies are cheating thee? What, though if thou with him wouldst go Who now overwhelms thee--an honest foe! On German faith thou couldst reckon sure; With us, thou couldst rule the world secure, The Briton, the Russian, the Asian, bend. Germany has never betrayed a friend! [Illustration: decoration] ANSWERING THE "CHANT OF HATE." By BEATRICE M. BARRY. French and Russian, they matter not, For England only your wrath is hot; But little Belgium is so small You never mentioned her at all-- Or did her graveyards, yawning deep, Whisper that silence was discreet? For Belgium is waste! Ay, Belgium is waste! She welters in the blood of her sons, And the ruins that fill the little place Speak of the vengeance of the Huns. "Come, let us stand at the Judgment place," German and Belgian, face to face. What can you say? What can you do? What will history say of you? For even the Hun can only say That little Belgium lay in his way. Is there no reckoning you must pay? What of the Justice of that "Day"? Belgium one voice--Belgium one cry Shrieking her wrongs, inflicted by _GERMANY!_