on Australian soil. There are more Australian dead buried
in Egypt than in any cemetery in our own country. On Gallipoli, in
enemy hands, are the graves of thousands of our sacred dead. There are
more of our unburied dead whitening in No Man's Land in France than
have ever been laid to rest by reverent hands in a God's acre at home.
Think of all that we have paid in blood and tears and heartache. But,
perhaps, more than this has been paid in pain and sweat. Many have
been in those trenches more than three years. Consider their
sufferings! The unnatural life, like rats in a hole, the nerve-strain,
the insufficient food, the scanty clothing. What we have paid, Canada
has paid, South Africa has paid, but Britain and France, how much more!
And Belgium, and Serbia, and Poland, and Rumania, and Italy. What a
price to pay for an insecure peace, an enemy still with power to harm.

We might erect to our fallen dead the most magnificent monument that
this world has ever seen, we might built it in marble, and stud it with
gems, and have the greatest poets and artists decorate it, but it would
be a mockery and a sham.

The only monument that we dare erect to our fallen dead, the only
monument that would not be a dishonor to them and a shame and eternal
disgrace to us is THE MONUMENT OF VICTORY.

And the army will never quit until we have sure victory, for we dare
not break faith with our dead.

These lines of a Canadian soldier, Colonel McCrae, who has made the
last sacrifice are an epitome of the army's spirit:

"In Flanders' fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place,
While in the sky the larks,
Still bravely singing,
Fly unheard amid the guns.
We are the Dead--
Short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunsets glow,
Loved and were loved--and now we lie
In Flanders' fields----

Take up our quarrel with the foe.
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch--be yours to bear it high--
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep though poppies grow
In Flanders' fields."

BUT A SHORT TIME TO LIVE

_By Leslie Coulson, killed in action_

Our little hour--how swift it flies
When poppies flare and lilies smile;
How soon the fleeting minute dies,
Leaving us but a little while
To dream our dream, to sing our song
To pick the fruit, to pluck the flower,
The Gods--they do not give us long--
One little