e killed by beating their brains out against
the rocks. Other children were thrown into rivers and those who could
swim were shot down as they struggled in the water. Crimes that have
been, and are being, practiced upon Armenian women are too cruel and
horrible for words. The mutilated corpses of hundreds bear testimony
to this inhuman reign." [3]

Who was responsible for these outrages, and how long will the world
permit them to continue?

Whichever way we turn, whether we survey the number of killed, wounded,
or prisoners, the cost of the conflict, or the suffering of the
devastated nations, we realize that _the war means sacrifice_. It is
difficult for us at home in America to appreciate the spirit in which
the men in this great struggle in Europe are fighting, and the
sacrifices they are making. In all these months in many lands, the
writer has not heard from the lips of a single soldier who had actually
seen service at the front, words of hatred or of boasting. Quietly and
often with sadness most of these men are going forward to face death.

Here is a letter from a young officer who fell on that fatal first day
of July on the Somme.

"I never felt more confident or cheerful in my life before, and would
not miss the attack for anything on earth. Every officer and man is
more happy and cheerful than I have ever seen them. My idea in writing
this letter is in case I am one of the 'costs' and get killed. I have
been looking at the stars, and thinking what an immense distance they
are away. What an insignificant thing the loss of, say, forty years of
life is compared with them! It seems scarcely worth talking about.
Well, good-bye, you darlings. Try not to worry about it, and remember
that we shall meet again really quite soon. This letter is going to be
posted if . . ."

A friend of the writer, a young chaplain whom he met recently at the
front, went out to find his brother's mangled body on the battlefield.
The boy who fell was the son of the Bishop of Winchester, and one of
the finest spirits in Oxford. Canon Scott Holland writes:

"The attack had failed. There was never any hope of its succeeding,
for the machine guns of the Germans were still in full play, with their
fire unimpaired. The body had to lie where it had fallen. Only, his
brother could not endure to let it lie unhonoured. He found some
shattered Somersets, who begged him to go no further. But he heard a
voice within him