A girl who, with others, was attending to the enemy wounded, writes:
"Doubtless we should have more consolation among our little soldiers,
since here _we are forbidden to give little kindnesses and attention;_
but I believe that before the end we shall disobey the order, because we
put our hearts into our devotion and our pity." (_La Guerre vue d'une
Ambulance_, p. 116.) It is a little startling to learn of orders against
kindness to enemy wounded. In a country one of whose chief newspapers
advocated slaughter of the enemy like swine, such orders seem unwise.
They can surely scarcely be made except when we wilfully blind ourselves
and imagine that our enemies do not share our humanity.

OUR COMMON HUMANITY.

Here is a letter found on one of the German dead, a man with "a good
face, strong and kindly," so wrote the _Daily Mail_ correspondent. "My
dearest Heart," runs the letter, "when the little ones have said their
prayers and prayed for their dear father, and have gone to bed, I sit
and think of thee, my love. I think of all the old days when we were
betrothed, and I think of all our happy married life. Oh! Ludwig,
beloved of my soul, why should people fight each other? I cannot think
that God would wish it...."

Here in this leafy place
Quiet he lies;
Cold, with his sightless face
Turned to the skies;
'Tis but another dead:
All you can say is said.

Carry the body hence;
Kings must have slaves;
Kings rise to eminence
Over men's graves;
So this man's eyes are dim.
Cast the earth over him.

What was that white you touched,
There by his side?
Paper his hand had clutched
Tight ere he died?
Message or wish, maybe?
Smooth out its folds and see.

* * *

Ah! That beside the dead
Slumbered the pain!
Ah! That the hearts that bled
Slept with the slain!
That the grief died. But no!
Death will not have it so.

These words of Austin Dobson were written of a French sergeant in an
earlier war, yet they serve equally well for the German soldier in this.
Strange that we leave it to the dead to prove their brotherhood and
ours.

Philip Gibbs tells us how in a German dug-out he picked up some letters.
"They were all written to 'dear brother Wilhelm,' from sisters and
brothers, sending him their loving greetings, praying that his health
might be good, promising to send him gifts of food and yearning