aration.

France has suffered in her ravaged fields and in her ruined villages.
The freed provinces have had to submit to intolerable, vexatious, and
odious outrages, but you are not to answer these crimes by the
commission of violences, which, under the spur of your resentment, may
seem to you legitimate.

You are to remain under discipline and to show respect to persons and
property. You will know, after having vanquished your adversary by
force of arms, how to impress him further by the dignity of your
attitude, and the world will not know which to admire more, your
conduct in success or your heroism in fighting.

I address a fond and affectionate greeting to our dead, whose
sacrifices gave us the victory. And I send a message of salutation,
full of sad affection, to the fathers, to the mothers, to the widows
and orphans of France, who, in these days of national joy, dry their
tears for a moment to acclaim the triumph of our arms. I bow my head
before your magnificent flags.

Vive la France!

(Signed) PETAIN.

[1] Translated from the French of Alphonse Daudet.

THE CALL TO ARMS IN OUR STREET

There's a woman sobs her heart out,
With her head against the door,
For the man that's called to leave her,
--God have pity on the poor!
But it's beat, drums, beat,
While the lads march down the street,
And it's blow, trumpets, blow,
Keep your tears until they go.

There's a crowd of little children
That march along and shout,
For it's fine to play at soldiers
Now their fathers are called out.
So it's beat, drums, beat;
And who will find them food to eat?
And it's blow, trumpets, blow,
Oh, it's little children know.

* * * * *

There's a young girl who stands laughing,
For she thinks a war is grand,
And it's fine to see the lads pass,
And it's fine to hear the band.
So it's beat, drums, beat,
To the fall of many feet;
And it's blow, trumpets, blow,
God go with you where you go.

W. M. LETTS.

THE KAISER'S CROWN

(VERSAILLES, JANUARY 18, 1871)

The wind on the Thames blew icy breath,
The wind on the Seine blew fiery death,
The snow lay thick on tower and tree,
The streams ran black through wold and lea;
As I sat alone in London town
And dreamed a dream of the Kaiser's crown.

Holy William, that conqueror dread,
Placed it himself on