een wrought in them of late years by motor traffic.
He recalled a great storm, during which the sea wall around a certain
harbor was washed away and the highway rendered impassable. Then,
rather diffidently, he confessed that he had lost a foot and would be
handicapped in his work--"at Ypres."

At the far end of the ward there was a German who spoke a little
English. He was a married man and came from Saxony. His wife and
children, he said, would miss him at Christmas. We spoke a long time
on the subject of Christmas. I suppose by all the orthodox canons that
this German should have told me that he was glad to be a prisoner or
else should have declared his conviction that the German Army would
speedily carry everything before it to victory. But somehow he forgot
to say these things and I forgot to ask him about them. These things
seemed far away in the quiet ward, even--and for this I beg
forgiveness--grotesque and uninteresting.

I had the curiosity to return to the young Scot and to ask him if he
regretted the decision which had led to his being maimed for life. He
shook his head. "No, because I've had a good home. A man with a good
home should fight for it." He added that his father had advised him
very strongly to enlist.

By the touchstone of the men it has broken this war is judged, and the
makers of this war. And more than ruined villages and desecrated
churches these soldiers pronounce condemnation. They, who have given
so much, are, in a sense, without joy and without enthusiasm; rather
they shun recollection. There is no zest in the killing of men. Their
thoughts, especially at this season, are directed away from the dull,
mechanic force which labors against its bonds across Europe, and dwell
in the homes it has threatened. The war is revealed as a thing gross
and dull-witted, a crime even against the ancient, chivalrous spirit
of war.

Three Dying Foes Made Friends

[From The Hartford Courant, Jan. 14, 1915.]

_To the Editor of The Courant:_

_I have read nothing more tender and moving than the subjoined letter
found by a Red Cross agent at the side of a dead officer and forwarded
to the person to whom it was addressed. The writer was a French
cavalry officer engaged to a young American girl in Paris. It was
written as he lay dying from wounds received in a cavalry charge. Let
it speak for itself._

_E.P.P._

There are two other men lying near me, and I do not think there is
much hope for