Seven millions stand Emaciate, in that ancient Delta-land: We here, full charged with our own maimed and dead, And coiled in throbbing conflicts slow and sore, Can soothe how slight these ails unmerited Of souls forlorn upon the facing shore! Where naked, gaunt, in endless band on band Seven millions stand. No man can say To your great country that, with scant delay, You must, perforce, ease them in their sore need: We know that nearer first your duty lies; But--is it much to ask that you let plead Your loving kindness with you--wooing wise-- Albeit that aught you owe and must repay No man can say? With the German Army By Cyril Brown. [Staff Correspondent of THE NEW YORK TIMES.] I. GERMAN GREAT HEADQUARTERS IN FRANCE, Dec. 1.--There is a certain monotony about the "scientific murder" of the firing line--a routine repetition of artillery duels, alarums, and excursions which can be (and are being) vividly described by "war correspondents" from the safe vantage ground of comfortable cafes miles away. The real human interest end of this ultra-modern war is to be gleaned from rambling around the operating zone in a thoroughly irresponsible American manner, trusting in Providence and the red American eagle sealed on your emergency passport and a letter from Charles Lesimple, the genial Consul at Cologne, to keep you from being shot. For instance, you get some interesting first-hand knowledge as to how spies can "get away with it," in spite of the perfect German military system of controls and passes. There is no "spy hysteria" in Germany as there apparently is in England, judging from the London papers, but none the less the German authorities know perfectly well that there are swarms of spies in their midst and are hunting them down with quiet, typically Teutonic thoroughness. But the very perfection of the German military machine is its weak spot, and on this, my second visit to the German Great Headquarters, I was able to give the astonished authorities a personal demonstration as to how any smooth-tongued stranger could turn up at even this "holy of holies." The nocturnal trail led in a military train from Luxemburg over Longwy to Longuyon, where at 3 o'clock in the morning I met an old reader of THE NEW YORK TIMES, Herman Herzberger, a wealthy glove leather manufacturer of Berlin, well known to the trade in New York and Gloversville. "What a coincidence," Mr. Herzberger remarked in good American. "I am going to the front with my wife to see my 18-year-old son, who is in a hospital at Vonziers. My son, who was in the high school, enlisted as a volunteer, with practically the whole school, at the outbreak of the war."