. But when they are paid, fed, and armed, and have
leaders who will go to the front with them, instead of saying, "There is
the enemy. Charge! I will go back to the hills and await your hour of
glory," they are found to be courageous to the verge of fanaticism.
Under trusted leaders there is no forlorn hope or desperate service for
which they would not volunteer. Let them have confidence in their new
generals, and, even though not understanding the cause, they will
make the best soldiers in the world.

But I must not talk to thee of war; we want not more bloodshed and
the fatherless homes and lean years that follow in the track of great
armies. Yet, if we cannot be without it, let it serve war's ends-- the
ultimate safety of our people, and bring them peace and tranquillity,
their heart's desire.

I visited the ruined homes of friends of mine, who are no more. It made
me feel that life is nothing but a mirage, a phantom, or as foam, and
"even as all earthly vessels made on the potter's wheel must end by
being broken, so end the lives of men." I went out to the home of
Yuan Tai-tai, who, to my childish mind was the great lady of my
dreams. I can close my eyes and see her still, like a brilliant
butter-fly, dressed in her gay brocades, her hair twined with jewels of
pearl and jade; with hand in mine she wandered o'er her garden,
bending over goldfish ponds, or clipping fading flowers from off their
stems. There reigned a heavy silence in her palace, with its
memories, that seemed full of sadness and a vague regret, reminding
me of an old blue China bowl which a hand of other days had filled
with roses. The flowers trying to struggle from beneath the thorns and
brambles that always come where troops are quartered, seemed to
say, "Behold, they are not here who once have cared for us and
cherished us, but the gardens breathe of them and we are fragrant for
their sakes." I picked a branch of cherry-blossoms, and swiftly fell the
perfumed petals to the ground-- symbols of the dainty lives that
bloomed so short a time in this fair garden of my lady. Liu Che, the
poet of the olden time, seems to have been speaking of this, my
friend, when he says:

[Illustration: Mylady22.]

"The sound of rustling silk is stilled,
With dust the marble courtyard filled;
No footfalls echo on the floor,
Fallen leaves in heaps block up the door...
For she, my pride, my lovely one is lost."

We went from Yuan's palace to the Temple of Kwan-yi