ts rugged side was about to be
staged a tragedy in which every soldier knew he was to take part. The
training of months past was but rehearsal. The leaving home, the oath of
military service, the weary grind of march, and weapon drill, the rigid
discipline, all these were but evolving phases, making for the formation
of the seasoned soldier. And now they had reached the high altar of
National service on which they were prepared to sacrifice their young
lives.

"Morituri salutemus!" Look closely into the faces of those heroic boys:
approach with reverence the sanctuary of their thoughts.

In long, regular lines they lie, immediately at the base of the hill.
Most are still and motionless, helmeted, and with bayoneted rifles, like
figures some Bartholdi or Rodin might have chiseled from bronze. Some,
with free hand, are molding from the yellow, slimy clay, quaint little
images, suggested, possibly, by thought of the little tin soldiers of
boyhood days. Some, lying prone, are dreamily observing the blue sky
showing here and there through billowy clouds. Some have made of their
helmet a pillow and appear to sleep. Some with jest and story are
radiating a subdued merriment. Some, with eyes staring straight ahead,
seem as in a trance.

In that tragic hour I looked with their eyes and saw with the vision of
their soul. The picture we all in common saw was painted on the
canvas of memory.

[Illustration: WHERE ST. JOAN OF ARC MADE HER FIRST COMMUNION.]

It represented any American town; preferably one bowered with maple and
elm, and cast in a setting of emerald landscape. Just back from the
winding road, a cottage, trellised with moss roses and forget-me-nots.
Framed in the doorway, a sweet-faced mother, silver threads amid her
gold of hair, is looking across distant fields. A path leads over the
hill, and it would seem she watched and waited for someone!

Last night she knelt beside a vacant chair, and, in the lonely vigil of
her tears, prayed that God would bless and spare her boy. In the window
hangs a service flag. Tomorrow, My God! there shall a message come from
overseas changing its silver into gold!

Who is it can smile with heart breaking the while
When the soldier bids loved ones "Farewell"?
Whose heart is it grieves, when the patriot leaves,
With an anguish that no tongue can tell?
It's only the mother! For man knows no other
Whose soul feels the weight of such woe;
Who can