hetic everything that is included in the word hate.' The Pastor
concludes by asserting that 'we, who are fighting for truth and right
with clean hands and a clean conscience, must have Him on our side Who
is stronger than the strongest battalions. Hence our courage and our
confidence in a fortunate outcome of the world conflagration. The dawn
will soon appear that announces that the "Day of Harvest" for Germany
has broken.'"

"The avowal that the love of good Germans for Germany is inseparable
from hatred of other countries shows how deeply the aggressiveness of
German policy has sunk into the nation's mood," says The Times. "Only
by constantly viewing their own country as in a natural state of
challenge to all others can Germans have come to absorb the view that
hatred is the normal manifestation of patriotism. It is a purely
militarist conception.

"Hate is at bottom a slavish passion, and remote from that heroic spirit
of the warrior with which the Germans represent themselves as facing a
world in arms. The hater subjects his mind to the domination of what he
hates; he loses his independence and volition and becomes the prey of
the hated idea. At last he cannot free his mind from the obsession; and
the deliberate cultivation of hate in the conscientious German manner is
a kind of mental suicide."

THE GREAT HOUR.

By HERMANN SUDERMANN.

Whether, O Father in Heaven, we still put our trust in You,
Whether You are but a dream of a sacred past,
See now, we swear to You, Witness of Truth,
Not we have wanted it--
This murder, this world-ending murder--
Which now, with blood-hot sighs,
Stamps o'er the shuddering earth.
True to the earth, the bread-giving earth,
Happy and cheery in business and trade,
Peaceful we sat in the oak tree's shade,
Peaceful,
Though we were born to the sword.

Circled around us, for ever and ever,
Greed, sick with envy, and nets lifted high,
Full of inherited hatred.
Every one saw it, and every one felt
The secret venom, gushing forth,
Year after year,
Heavy and breath-bated years.
But hearts did not quiver
Nor hands draw the sword.

And then it came, the hour
Of sacred need, of pregnant Fate,
And what it brings forth, we will shape,
The brown gun in our mastering hand.

Ye mothers, what ye once have borne,
In honor or in vice,
Bring forth to every sacred shr