hant,
hope in its supreme ascension."

One could not see this Silhouette of Silence, this "Calvaire" of the
French nation, and not come away knowing the full meaning of the war.
It is "The New Calvary" of the world.

VII

SILHOUETTES OF SERVICE

A newspaper paragraph in a Paris paper said: "Dale was last seen in a
village just before the Germans entered it, gathering together a crowd
of little French children, trying to get them to a place of safety."

Dale has never been seen since, and that was two months ago. Whether
he is dead or alive we do not know, but those who knew this manly
American lad best, say unanimously: "That was just like Dale; he loved
kids, and he was always talking about his own and showing us their
pictures."

No monument will ever be erected to Dale, for he was just a common
soldier; but I for one would rather have had the monument of that
simple paragraph in the press despatches; I for one would rather have
it said of me, "The last seen of Dale he was gathering together a crowd
of little children"; I would rather have died in such a service than to
have lived to be a part of the marching army that is one day to enter
the streets of Berlin. That was a man's way to die; dying while trying
to save a crowd of little children from the cowardly Hun.

[Illustration: "The last seen of Dale he was gathering together a crowd
of little children."]

If I had died in that kind of service, in my dying moments I could have
heard the words of John Masefield from "The Everlasting Mercy" singing
in my heart:

"Whoever gives a child a treat
Makes joybells ring in Heaven's street;
Whoever gives a child a home,
Builds palaces in Kingdom Come;
Whoever brings a child to birth,
Brings Saviour Christ again to earth."

Or, better, I would have seen the Master blessing little children,
taking them up in His arms and saying to the Hebrew mothers that stood
about with wondering eyes: "Suffer the little children to come unto me,
and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven."

And perhaps I should have heard the echo of Joaquin Miller's sweet
interpretation of that scene, for when men die, strange, sweet
memories, old hymns and verses, old faces, all come back:

"Then lifting His hands He said lowly,
Of such is my Kingdom, and then
Took the little brown babes in the holy
White hands of the Savior of men;
Held them close to His breast and caressed them;
Put His