What becomes of our soldier boys who died on the threshold of life? This
is life's hardest problem. Where is that young Tullia so dear to that
gifted Roman orator? Where is that young musician Mozart? Where is young
Keats? And where is Shelley? And where are young McConnell and Rupert
Brooke and young Asquith? And ten thousand more of those young men with
genius. Where also is that young Carpenter of Nazareth, dead at thirty
years of age?

The answer is in this: They have passed through the black waters and
have come into the summer land. There they have been met by the heroes
coming out with trumpets and banners to bring them into a world
unstained by the smoke and din of battle. There they will write their
books, invent their tools, complete their songs and guide the darkling
multitudes who come in out of Africa, out of the islands of the sea,
into the realm of perfect knowledge, love and peace.

10. "These Flowers, Sir, I Will Lay Them Upon My Son's Grave"

Last August, at an assembly in Paris, Ambassador Sharp held a little
company spellbound, while he related several incidents of his
investigations in the devastated region near Roye. One afternoon the
captain stopped his military automobile upon the edge of what had once
been a village. Surveyors were tracing the road and making measurements
in the hope of establishing the former location of the cellar and the
house that stood above it. An old gray-haired Frenchman had the matter
in charge. He had lost the cellar of his house. Also, the trees that had
stood upon his front sidewalk, also his vines and fruit trees. His story
as stated by Ambassador Sharp was most pathetic. The old man had retired
from business to the little town of his childhood. When it became
certain that the Germans would take the village, the man pried up a
stone slab in the sidewalk and buried his money, far out of sight. A
long time passed by. When the Hindenburg plans were completed, the
Germans made their retreat. Among other refugees who returned was the
aged Frenchman. To his unbounded amazement the old man could not locate
the site of his old home. In bombarding the little village, the Germans
dropped huge shells. These shells fell into the cellar, and blew the
brick walls away. Other shells fell in the front yard, and blew the
trees out by the roots. Later other shells exploding blew dirt back into
the other excavations. Little by little, the ground was turned into a
mass of mud. Not