h and still grasps at it, as a
drowning man grasps at a wisp of straw. Don Quixote still
remains the "noble knight" for whom--if he appears in the age
of firearms--we still fire three salvos of honor over his
grave.

And then, when we mention the word "France," there arise all
the memories of the imperishable cultural values which its
people have given to us. I believe that there are many, very
many among us, who in their hearts hope that there may once
again be something like a co-operative understanding and
journeying together of Germans and Frenchmen, even if in a
distant future which the youngest among us will probably not
live to see--an agreement which through a union of German and
French elements of culture will promise vast achievements for
the purposes of humanity. In the last analysis--for that has
in these very days been more frequently expressed--these two
nations belong together; they are of equal worth, of equal
spirit, of equal fineness, and yet so different that they can
give each other infinitely much.

Just as has the hate against England, so has this friendship for France
found poetic expression. In the Hamburger Kriegsblatt we read a poem by
Wilhelm Hoehne, the final stanza of which reads:

Ma pauvre France! Wann siehst du es ein
Dass all deine Buendnisse Trug und Schein?
Was meinst du, waerst du mit dem vereint,
Der dich niederringt heute--ein ehrlicher Feind!
Auf "Deutsche Treue" da koenntest du zaehlen!
Mit uns im Bund koennt'st der Welt du befehlen.
Dem Briten, dem Russen, dem Asiaten!
Deutschland hat nie einen Freund verraten!

(Translation.)

Ma pauvre France, when wilt thou see
That all thy allies are cheating thee?
What, though if thou with him wouldst go
Who now overwhelms thee--an honest foe!
On German faith thou couldst reckon sure;
With us, thou couldst rule the world secure,
The Briton, the Russian, the Asian, bend.
Germany has never betrayed a friend!

[Illustration: decoration]

ANSWERING THE "CHANT OF HATE."

By BEATRICE M. BARRY.

French and Russian, they matter not,
For England only your wrath is hot;
But little Belgium is so small
You never mentioned her at all--
Or did her graveyards, yawning deep,
Whisper that silence was discreet?

For Belgium is waste! Ay, Belgium is was