eyes of boys.
But the older man lives with second thoughts, with a subdued philosophy,
a love of security. He is married, with a child or two; his garden is
warm in the afternoon sun. He turns wistfully to the young, who are so
sure, to cheer him. With him it is bloodshed, the moaning of shell-fire,
and harsh command.

One afternoon at Coxyde, in the camp of the middle-aged--the
territorials--an open-air entertainment was given. Massed up the side of
a sand-dune, row on row, were the bearded men, two thousand of them.
There were flashes of youth, of course--marines in dark blue, with
jaunty round hat with fluffy red centerpiece; Zouaves with dusky
Algerian skin, yellow-sorrel jacket, and baggy harem trousers; Belgians
in fresh khaki uniform; and Red Cross British Quakers. But the mass of
the men were middle-aged--territorials, with the light-blue long-coat,
good for all weathers and the sharp night, and the peaked cap. Over the
top of the dune where the soldiers sat an observation balloon was
suspended in a cloudless blue sky, like a huge yellow caterpillar.
Beyond the pasteboard stage, high on a western dune, two sentries stood
with their bayonets touched by sunlight. To the south rose a monument to
the territorial dead. To the north an aeroplane flashed along the line,
full speed, while gun after gun threw shrapnel at it.

As I looked on the people, suddenly I thought of the Sermon on the
Mount, with the multitude spread about, tier on tier, hungry for more
than bread. It was a scene of summer beauty, with the glory of the sky
thrown in, and every now and then the music of the heart. Half the songs
of the afternoon were gay, and half were sad with long enduring, and the
memory of the dear ones distant and of the many dead. Not in lightness
or ignorance were these men making war. When I saw the multitude and how
they hungered, I wished that Bernhardt could come to them in the dunes
and express in power what is only hinted at by humble voices. I thought
how everywhere we wait for some supreme one to gather up the hope of the
nations and the anguish of the individual, and make a music that will
send us forward to the Rhine.

But a better thing than that took place. One of their own came and
shaped their suffering into song. And together, he and they, they made a
song that is close to the great experience of war. A Belgian, one of the
boy soldiers, came forward to sing to the bearded men. And the song that
he sang was