an, and English tribunals are unanimous. They
all agree that Germany has been caught redhanded in her work of dyeing
the map of Europe red with innocent blood.

When you bend your eyes to the pathetic cartoon standing opposite this
letterpress, is there not brought home to you in a way, touching even to
tears, the "frightful" consequences of the misuse of human powers, more
especially of the attribute of freedom? If Germany had chosen to use,
instead of brute force, moral force, what a great, grand, and glorious
mission might have been hers to-day. If, instead of trying the
impossible task of dominating the whole world with her iron hand upon
its throat and her iron heel upon its foot, she had been satisfied with
the portion of the map already belonging to her, and had not by
processes of bureaucratic tyranny driven away millions of her subjects
who preferred liberty to slavery, America to Germany, by this date she
might have consolidated an Empire second in the world to none but one.
Alas! in her over-reaching arrogance she has, on the contrary, set out
to de-Christianize, de-civilize, and even de-humanize the race for which
Christ lived and died.

Our high mission it is to try to save her from herself. Already I can
read written in letters of blood carved into the gravestone of her
corrupted greatness,

"Ill-weaved ambition,
How much art thou shrunk!"

BERNARD VAUGHAN.

[Illustration: LES BEAUTES DE LA GUERRE

Folk who do not understand them.]

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ON THE WAY TO CALAIS

They are coming, like a tempest, in their endless ranks of gray,
While the world throws up a cloud of dust upon their awful way;
They're the glorious cannon fodder of the mighty Fatherland,
Born to make the kingdoms tremble and the nations understand.

Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! the cannon fodder come
Along their way to Calais, (God help the hearth and home)
They'll do his will who taught them, on the earth and on the waves,
Till land and sea are festering with their unnumbered graves.

The garrison and barrack and the fortress give them vent;
They sweep, a herd of winter wolves, upon the flying scent;
For all their deeds of horror they are told that death atones,
And their master's harvest cannot spring till he has sowed their bones.

Into beasts of prey he's turned them; when they show their teeth and