ke. No
artillery preparation. There ought to be crosses and medals going for
that charge, for the boys--(_Laughs_.) Why, they're all dead. And
me--I'm dying, in a ditch. Twenty years old. Done out of sixty years
by--by the silly war. What's it for? Mother, what's it about? I'm ill a
bit. I can't think what good it is. Slaughtering boys--all the nations'
boys--honest, hard-working boys mostly. Junk. Fine chaps an hour ago.
What's the good? I'm dying--for the flag. But--what's the good? It'll go
on--wars. Again. Peace sometimes, but nothing gained. And all of
us--dead. Cheated out of our lives. Wouldn't the world have done as well
if this long ditch of good fellows had been let live? Mother?

_The Boy's Dream of His Mother_. (_Seems to speak_.) My very
dearest--no. It takes this great burnt-offering to free the world. The
world will be free. This is the crisis of humanity; you are bending the
lever that lifts the race. Be glad, dearest life of the world, to be
part of that glory. Think back to your school-days, to a sentence you
learned. Lincoln spoke it. "These dead shall not have died in vain, and
government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not
perish from the earth."

_The Boy_. (_Whispers_.) I remember. It's good. "Shall not have died in
vain"--"The people--shall not perish"--where's your hand, mother? It's
taps for me. The lights are going out. Come with me--mother. (_Dies_.)

SECOND ACT

_The scene it the same trench one hundred years later, in the year 2018.
It is ten o'clock of a summer morning. Two French children have come to
the trench to pick flowers. The little girl of seven is gentle and
soft-hearted; her older brother is a man of nearly ten years, and feels
his patriotism and his responsibilities_.

_Angelique_. (_The little French girl_.) Here's where they grow,
Jean-B'tiste.

_Jean-Baptiste_. (_The little French boy_.) I know. They bloom bigger
blooms in the American ditch.

_Angelique_. (_Climbs into the ditch and picks flowers busily_.) Why do
people call it the 'Merican ditch, Jean-B'tiste? What's 'Merican?

_Jean-Baptiste_. (_Ripples laughter_.) One's little sister doesn't know
much! Never mind. One is so young--three years younger than I am. I'm
ten, you know.

_Angelique. Tiens_, Jean-B'tiste. Not ten till next month.

Jean-Baptiste. Oh, but--but--next month!

_Angelique_. What's 'Merican?

_Jean-Baptiste_. Droll _p'tite_. Why, everybody in all France knows