a fellow gone!
I know too well that heavy, sickening thud;
It's bitter hard that we must keep right on
And leave our wounded helpless in the mud.
My foot hurts so that I can hardly see--
I'll have to stop for just a breathing space.
What's that? It's blood!--those fiends have got me now!
It's double time and I can't stand the pace!
I'll use my rifle as a crutch. But, no!
I'll stand and fight; they have me sure as day!
It's death for death--then I will meet it so
And make a Uhlan pay the price I pay.
And here they come! Great God, they're coming fast--
Are almost on me! Ah, I got that one!
Just one more shot--a good one for the last!
Those iron hoofs have crushed me--I am done!

War a Game for Love and Honor

By Jerome K. Jerome

The chivalrous spirit of the present conflict informs this
article, which appeared originally in The London Daily News
under the title "The Greatest Game of All: The True Spirit
of War," and is here reproduced by special permission of Mr.
Jerome.

War has been described as the greatest of games. I am not going to
quarrel with the definition. I am going to accept it. From that point
of view there is something to be said for it. As a game it can be
respectable; as a business it is contemptible. Wars for profit--for
gold mines, for mere extension of territory, for markets--degrade a
people. It is like playing cricket for money. A gentleman--man or
nation--does not do such things. But war for love--for love of the
barren hillside, for love of the tattered flag, for love of the
far-off dream--played for a hope, a vision, a faith, with life and
death as the stakes! Yes, there is something to be said for it.

Looked at practically, what, after all, does it matter whether Germany
or Britannia rules the waves? Our tea and our 'baccy, one takes it,
would still be obtainable; one would pay for it in marks instead of
shillings. Our sailor men, instead of answering "Aye, aye, Sir," in
response to Captain's orders, would learn to grunt "Jawohl." Their
wages, their rations would be much the same.

These peaceful Old World villages through which I love to wander with
my dogs; these old gray churches round which our dead have crept to
rest; these lonely farmsteads in quiet valleys musical with the sound
of mother creatures calling to their young; these old men with ruddy
faces;