Only a short distance separates us from the battlefields, where the manhood of France and England are daily laying down their lives in defense of their countries. God grant that no such sacrifice may ever be demanded of America. To us who have remained in France, life has become a very solemn reality; as we go forth in sober garb and spirit to do what we can for these suffering hundreds, wounded men and boys, lonely young widows, stricken parents, we realize intensely that life in Europe has utterly changed. The old order of things has passed away. What will replace it? Who can tell? Letter Written to Dr. Livingston Seaman, British War Relief in New York, July, 1915. TO A DYING BOY Poor little soldier, lying there weak and wounded, Why were you horn to live so brief a day? Is your young manhood hut to serve as target For the grim guns of war to injure or to slay? So young to die. On lip and cheek and forehead Still flame youth's brilliant colors, white and red, And your clear eyes so full of hope and courage, Must we tomorrow count you with the dead? All life before you; glad and useful hours Lay shining in your path unsullied, clear, Youth's dreams fulfilled in manhood's ampler duties, A wife, a home, and all that we hold dear Vanished. In one short hour's tragic action, Swept from the world of man and manly ways. Naught but a memory in your mother's bosom, Shall soon recall your transient, earthly days. In vain our aid. Our utmost skill and patience Cannot re-string the loosened silver cord. The golden bowl is broken at the fountain, And your lone soul must hence to meet it's God, Lonely, yet clad in beauty pure and holy, For of your best you gave, unstinted, glad, That at your country's call all selfish thought and purpose Faded away—you gave your life, dear lad! Dinard, 1915 THE SUBSTITUTE MOTHER (A Story of France) In the old house, heavily garlanded with ivy and climbing roses, at the end of the village, lived the old maid. Through vistas of thick foliage, the broken sky-line of tiled roofs appeared. In the west, the church tower showed dark against the sunset skies. Here she had lived in seclusion these many years. Her pigeons feeding on the green lawn. Her rose garden, fragrant and sunny, facing the Eastern hills. Her peulailler (poultry yard), her dogs, her cats, filled the long hours of her austere life.