nger! O faces pale and wan!
There's somewhere--somewhere--peace on earth, somewhere good will to man,
Across the waste of waters, a thousand leagues away,
There's some one still remembers that here it's Christmas day.

0 God of Peace, remember, and in thy mercy keep
The hearts that still can pity, the eyes that still can weep,
Amid the shame and torment, the ruins and the graves,
To theirs, the land of freedom, from ours, the land of slaves,
What answer can we send them? We can but kneel and pray:
God grant--God grant to them, at least, a happy Christmas day.
GRIM REALITIES OF THE WAR

A vivid picture of the horrible realities of the war, as seen in a
field hospital near the firing line, was given in "The New Republic" of
November 28 by Mr. Henry W. Nevinson, who described his experiences at
Dixmude in Belgium as follows:

"When I entered Dixmude one night in the middle of October the first
bombardment was over, but from both sides the heavy shells flew across
the town. From the end of the main street came an incessant noise of
rifles and machine guns. Unaimed bullets wailed through the air, and
pattered as they struck the walls. Flaming houses shed a light upon the
ruined streets, but only one house looked inhabited, and all the others
which were not burning stood silent and empty, expecting destruction.

"That one house was used as an outlying hospital or dressing-place
nearest the firing line, and the wounded had to be led or carried only
two or three hundred yards to reach it. They sat on the dining-room
chairs or lay helpless on the floor. A few surgeons were at work upon
them, cutting off loose fingers and throwing them into basins, plugging
black holes that welled up instantly through the plug, straining
bandages, which in a minute ceased to be white, round legs and heads.
The smell of fresh, warm blood was thick on the air. One man lay deep in
his blood. You could not have supposed that anyone had so much in him.
Another's head had lost on one side all human semblance, and was a
hideous pulp of eye and ear and jaw. Another, with chest torn open,
lay gasping for the few minutes left of life. And as I waited for the
ambulance more were brought in, and always more.

"In a complacent and comfortable account of hospital work I lately read
that 'deaths from wounds are happily rare; one surgeon put the number as
low as 2 per cent.' Happy hospital, far away in Paris or some Isle of
the Blest! The